CHAPTER X.

CHARLES VIII.

The Italian States confront the Great Nations of Europe--Policy of Louis

XI. of France--Character of Charles VIII.--Preparations for the Invasion

of Italy--Position of Lodovico Sforza--Diplomatic Difficulties in Italy

after the Death of Lorenzo de' Medici--Weakness of the Republics--II

Moro--The year 1494--Alfonso of Naples--Inefficiency of the Allies to

cope with France--Charles at Lyons is stirred up to the Invasion of

Italy by Giuliano della Rovere--Charles at Asti and Pavia--Murder of

Gian Galeazzo Sforza--Mistrust in the French Army--Rapallo and

Fivizzano--The Entrance into Tuscany--Part played by Piero de'

Medici--Charles at Pisa--His Entrance into Florence--Piero Capponi--The

March on Rome--Entry into Rome--Panic of Alexander VI.--The March on

Naples--The Spanish Dynasty: Alfonso and Ferdinand--Alfonso II. escapes

to Sicily--Ferdinand II. takes Refuge in Ischia--Charles at Naples--The

League against the French--De Comines at Venice--Charles makes his

Retreat by Rome, Siena, Pisa, and Pontremoli--The Battle of

Fornovo--Charles reaches Asti and returns to France--Italy becomes the

Prize to be fought for by France, Spain, and Germany--Importance of the

Expedition of Charles VIII.

One of the chief features of the Renaissance was the appearance for the

first time on the stage of history of full-formed and colossal nations.

France, Spain, Austria, and England are now to measure their strength.

Venice, Florence, Milan, Naples, even Rome, are destined in the period

that is opening for Europe to play but secondary parts. Italy, incapable

of coping with these great powers, will become the mere arena of their

contests, the object of their spoliations. Yet the Italians themselves

were far from being conscious of this change. Accustomed through three

centuries to a system of diplomacy and intrigue among their own small

states, they still thought more of the balance of power within the

peninsula than of the means to be adopted for repelling foreign force.

Their petty jealousies kept them disunited at an epoch when the best

chance of national freedom lay in a federation. Firmly linked together

in one league, or subject to a single prince, the Italians might not

only have met their foes on equal ground, but even have taken a foremost

place among the modern nations.[1] Instead of that, their princes were

foolish enough to think that they could set France, Germany, or Spain in

motion for the attainment of selfish objects within the narrow sphere of

Italian politics, forgetting the disproportion between these huge

monarchies and a single city like Florence, a mere province like the

Milanese. It was just possible for Lorenzo de' Medici to secure the

tranquillity of Italy by combining the Houses of Sforza and of Aragon

with the Papal See in the chains of the same interested policy with the

Commonwealth of Florence. It was ridiculous of Lodovico Sforza to fancy

that he could bring the French into the game of peninsular intrigue

without irrevocably ruining its artificial equilibrium. The first

sign of the alteration about to take place in European history was the

invasion of Italy by Charles VIII. This holiday excursion of a

hairbrained youth was as transient as a border-foray on a large scale.

The so-called conquest was only less sudden than the subsequent loss of

Italy by the French. Yet the tornado which swept the peninsula from

north to south, and returned upon its path from south to north within

the space of a few months, left ineffaceable traces on the country which

it traversed, and changed the whole complexion of the politics of

Europe.

[1] Read, however, Sismondi's able argument against the view

that Italy, united as a single nation under a sovereign, would

have been better off, vol. vii. p. 298 et seq. He is of opinion

that her only chance lay in a Confederation. See chapter ii.

above, for a discussion of this chance.

The invasion of Italy had been long prepared in the counsels of Louis

XI. After spending his lifetime in the consolidation of the French

monarchy, he constructed an inheritance of further empire for his

successors by dictating to the old King Réné of Anjou (1474) and to the

Count of Maine (1481) the two wills by which the pretensions of the

House of Anjou to the Crown of Naples were transmitted to the royal

family of France.[1] On the death of Louis, Charles VIII. became King in

1483. He was then aged only thirteen, and was still governed by his

elder sister, Anne de Beaujeu.[2] It was not until 1492 that he

actually took the reins of the kingdom into his own hands. This year, we

may remark, is one of the most memorable dates in history. In 1492

Columbus discovered America: in 1492 Roderigo Borgia was made Pope: in

1492 Spain became a nation by the conquest of Granada. Each of these

events was no less fruitful of consequences to Italy than was the

accession of Charles VIII. The discovery of America, followed in another

six years by Vasco de' Gama's exploration of the Indian seas, diverted

the commerce of the world into new channels; Alexander VI. made the

Reformation and the Northern Schism certainties; the consolidation of

Spain prepared a way for the autocracy of Charles V. Thus the

commercial, the spiritual, and the political scepter fell in this one

year from the grasp of the Italians.

[1] Sismondi, vol. vi. p. 285. The Appendix of Pièces

Justificatives to Philip de Comines' _Memoirs_ contains the

will of Réné King of Sicily, Count of Provence, dated July 22,

1474, by which he constitutes his nephew, Charles of Anjou,

Duke of Calabria, Count of Maine, his heir-in-chief; as well as

the will of Charles of Anjou, King of Sicily, Count of

Provence, dated December 10, 1481, by which he makes Louis XI.

his heir, naming Charles the Dauphin next in succession.

[2] Her husband was a cadet of the House of Bourbon.

Both Philip de Comines and Guicciardini have described the appearance

and the character of the prince who was destined to play a part so

prominent, so pregnant of results, and yet so trivial in the affairs of

Europe. Providence, it would seem, deigns frequently to use for the most

momentous purposes some pantaloon or puppet, environing with special

protection and with the prayers and aspirations of whole peoples a mere

manikin. Such a puppet was Charles. 'From infancy he had been weak in

constitution and subject to illness. His stature was short, and his face

very ugly, if you except the dignity and vigor of his glance. His limbs

were so disproportioned that he had less the appearance of a man than

of a monster. Not only was he ignorant of liberal arts, but he hardly

knew his letters. Though eager to rule, he was in truth made for

anything but that; for while surrounded by dependents, he exercised no

authority over them and preserved no kind of majesty. Hating business

and fatigue, he displayed in such matters as he took in hand a want of

prudence and of judgment. His desire for glory sprang rather from

impulse than from reason. His liberality was inconsiderate, immoderate,

promiscuous. When he displayed inflexibility of purpose, it was more

often an ill-founded obstinacy than firmness, and that which many people

called his goodness of nature rather deserved the name of coldness and

feebleness of spirit.' This is Guicciardini's portrait. De Comines is

more brief: 'The king was young, a fledgling from the nest; provided

neither with money nor with good sense; weak, willful, and surrounded by

foolish counselors.'

These foolish counselors, or, as Guicciardini calls them, 'men of low

estate, body-servants for the most part of the king,' were headed by

Stephen de Vesc, who had been raised from the post of the king's valet

de chambre to be the Seneschal de Beaucaire, and by William Briçonnet,

formerly a merchant, now Bishop of S. Malo. These men had everything to

gain by an undertaking which would flatter the vanity of their master,

and draw him into still closer relations with themselves. Consequently,

when the Count of Belgioioso arrived at the French Court from Milan,

urging the king to press his claims on Naples, and promising him a free

entrance into Italy through the province of Lombardy and the port of

Genoa, he found ready listeners. Anne de Beaujeu in vain opposed the

scheme. The splendor and novelty of the proposal to conquer such a realm

as Italy inflamed the imagination of Charles, the cupidity of his

courtiers, the ambition of de Vesc and Briçonnet. In order to assure his

situation at home, Charles concluded treaties with the neighboring great

powers. He bought peace with Henry VII. of England by the payment of

large sums of money. The Emperor Maximilian, whose resentment he had

aroused by sending back his daughter Margaret after breaking his promise

to marry her, and by taking to wife Anne of Brittany, who was already

engaged to the Austrian, had to be appeased by the cession of provinces.

Ferdinand of Spain received as the price of his neutrality the strong

places of the Pyrenees which formed the key to France upon that side.

Having thus secured tranquillity at home by ruinous concessions, Charles

was free to turn his attention to Italy. He began by concentrating

stores and ships on the southern ports of Marseilles and Genoa; then he

moved downward with his army, to Lyons, in 1494.

At this point we are called to consider the affairs of Italy, which led

the Sforza to invite his dangerous ally. Lorenzo de' Medici during his

lifetime had maintained a balance of power between the several states

by his treaties with the Courts of Milan, Naples, and Ferrara. When he

died, Piero at once showed signs of departure from his father's policy.

The son and husband of Orsini,[1] he embraced the feudal pride and

traditional partialities of the great Roman house who had always been

devoted to the cause of Naples. The suspicions of Lodovico Sforza were

not unreasonably aroused by noticing that the tyrant of Florence

inclined to the alliance of King Ferdinand rather than to his own

friendship. At this same time Alfonso, the Duke of Calabria, heir to the

throne of Naples, was pressing the rights of his son-in-law, Gian

Galeazzo Sforza, on the attention of Italy, complaining loudly that his

uncle Lodovico ought no longer to withhold from him the reins of

government.[2] Gian Galcazzo was in fact the legitimate successor of

Galeazzo Maria Sforza, who had been murdered in Santo Stefano in 1476.

After this assassination Madonna Bona of Savoy and Cecco Simonetta, who

had administered the Duchy as grand vizier during three reigns extending

over a period of half a century, governed Milan as regents for the young

Duke. But Lodovico, feeling himself powerful enough to assume the

tyranny, beheaded Simonetta at Pavia in 1480, and caused Madonna Bona,

the Duke's mother, on the pretext of her immorality, to quit the

regency. Thus he took the affairs of Milan into his own hands, confined

his nephew in an honorable prison, and acted in a way to make it clear

that he intended thenceforth to be Duke in fact.[3] It was the bad

conscience inseparable from this usurpation which made him mistrust the

princes of the house of Aragon, whose rights in Isabella, wife of the

young Duke, were set at nought by him. The same uneasy sense of wrong

inclined him to look with dread upon the friendship of the Medici for

the ruling family of Naples.

[1] His mother Clarice and his wife Alfonsina were both of them

Orsini. Guicciardini, in his 'Dialogo del Reggimento di

Firenze' (_Op. Ined._ vol. ii. p. 46), says of him: 'sendo nato

di madre forestiera, era imbastardito in lui il sangue

Fiorentino, e degenerato in costumi esterni, e troppo insolenti

e altieri al nostro vivere.' Piero, nevertheless, refused to

accept estates from King Alfonso which would have made him a

Baron and feudatory of Naples. See _Arch. Stor._ vol. i. p. 347.

[2] The young Duke was aged twenty-four in 1493.

[3] Lodovico had taken measures for cloaking his usurpation

with the show of legitimate right. He betrothed his niece

Bianca Maria, in 1494, to the Emperor Maximilian, with a dower

of 400,000 ducats, receiving in return an investiture of the

Duchy, which, however, he kept secret.

While affairs were in this state, and as yet no open disturbance in

Lorenzo's balance of power had taken place, Alexander VI. was elected to

the Papacy. It was usual for the princes and cities of Italy to

compliment the Pope with embassies on his assumption of the tiara; and

Lodovico suggested that the representatives of Milan, Florence, Ferrara,

and Naples should enter Rome together in a body. The foolish vanity of

Piero, who wanted to display the splendor of his own equipage without

rivals, induced him to refuse this proposal, and led to a similar

refusal on the part of Ferdinand. This trivial circumstance confirmed

the suspicions of Lodovico, who, naturally subtle and intriguing,

thought that he discerned a deep political design in what was really

little more than the personal conceit of a broad-shouldered

simpleton.[1] He already foresaw that the old system of alliances

established by Lorenzo must be abandoned. Another slight incident

contributed to throw the affairs of Italy into confusion by causing a

rupture between Rome and Naples. Lorenzo, by the marriage of his

daughter to Franceschetto Cibo, had contrived to engage Innocent VIII.

in the scheme of policy which he framed for Florence, Naples, Milan, and

Ferrara. But on the accession of Alexander, Franceschetto Cibo

determined to get rid of Anguillara, Cervetri, and other fiefs, which he

had taken with his father's connivance from the Church. He found a

purchaser in Virginio Orsini. Alexander complained that the sale was an

infringement of his rights. Ferdinand supported the title of the Orsini

to his new acquisitions. This alienated the Pope from the King of

Naples, and made him willing to join with Milan and Venice in a new

league formed in 1493.

[1] Piero de' Medici was what the French call a _bel homme_,

and little more. He was tall, muscular, and well-made, the best

player at _pallone_ in Italy, a good horseman, fluent and

agreeable in conversation, and excessively vain of these

advantages.

Thus the old equilibrium was destroyed, and fresh combinations between

the disunited powers of Italy took place. Lodovico, however, dared not

trust his new friends. Venice had too long hankered after Milan to be

depended upon for real support; and Alexander was known to be in treaty

for a matrimonial alliance between his son Geoffrey and Donna Sancia of

Aragon. Lodovico was therefore alone, without a firm ally in Italy, and

with a manifestly fraudulent title to maintain. At this juncture he

turned his eyes towards France; while his father-in-law, the Duke of

Ferrara, who secretly hated him, and who selfishly hoped to secure his

own advantage in the general confusion which he anticipated, urged him

to this fatal course. Alexander at the same time, wishing to frighten

the princes of Naples into a conclusion of the projected marriage,

followed the lead of Lodovico, and showed himself at this moment not

averse to a French invasion.

It was in this way that the private cupidities and spites of princes

brought woe on Italy: Lodovico's determination to secure himself in the

usurped Duchy of Milan, Ercole d' Este's concealed hatred, and

Alexander's unholy eagerness to aggrandize his bastards, were the vile

and trivial causes of an event which, however inevitable, ought to have

been as long as possible deferred by all true patriots in Italy. But in

Italy there was no zeal for freedom left, no honor among princes, no

virtue in the Church. Italy, which in the thirteenth century numbered

1,800,000 citizens--that is, members of free cities, exercising the

franchise in the government of their own states--could show in the

fifteenth only about 18,000 such burghers:[1] and these in Venice were

subject to the tyranny of the Council of Ten, in Florence had been

enervated by the Medici, in Siena were reduced by party feuds and vulgar

despotism to political imbecility. Amid all the splendors of revived

literature and art, of gorgeous courts and refined societies, this

indeed was the right moment for the Dominican visionary to publish his

prophecies, and for the hunchback puppet of destiny to fulfill them.

Guicciardini deplores, not without reason, the bitter sarcasm of fate

which imposed upon his country the insult of such a conqueror as

Charles. He might with equal justice have pointed out in Lodovico Sforza

the actor of a tragi-comic part upon the stage of Italy. Lodovico,

called II Moro, not, as the great historian asserts, because he was of

dark complexion, but because he had adopted the mulberry-tree for his

device,[2] was in himself an epitome of all the qualities which for the

last two centuries had contributed to the degradation of Italy in the

persons of the despots. Gifted originally with good abilities, he had

so accustomed himself to petty intrigues that he was now incapable of

taking a straightforward step in any direction. While he boasted himself

the Son of Fortune and listened with complacency to a foolish rhyme that

ran: _God only and the Moor foreknow the future safe and sure_, he never

acted without blundering, and lived to end his days in the intolerable

tedium of imprisonment at Loches. He was a thoughtful and painstaking

ruler; yet he so far failed to win the affection of his subjects that

they tossed up their caps for joy at the first chance of getting rid of

him. He disliked bloodshed; but the judicial murder of Simonetta, and

the arts by which he forced his nephew into an early grave, have left an

ineffaceable stain upon his memory. His court was adorned by the

presence of Lionardo da Vinci; but at the same time it was so corrupt

that, as Corio tells us,[3] fathers sold their daughters, brothers their

sisters, and husbands their wives there. In a word Lodovico, in spite of

his boasted prudence, wrought the ruin of Italy and himself by his

tortuous policy, and contributed by his private crimes and dissolute

style of living no little to the general depravity of his country.[4]

[1] This is Sismondi's calculation (vol. vii. p. 305). It must

be taken as a rough one. Still students who have weighed the

facts presented in Ferrari's _Rivoluzioni d' Italia_ will not

think the estimate exaggerated. In the municipal and civil

wars, free burghs were extinguished by the score.

[2] See Varchi, vol. i. p. 49. Also the _Elogia_ of Paulus

Jovius, who remarks that the complexion of Lodovico was fair.

His surname, however, provoked puns. Me had, for example, a

picture painted, in which Italy, dressed like a queen, is

having her robe brushed by a Moorish page. A motto ran beneath,

_Per Italia nettar d' ogni bruttura_. He adopted the mulberry

because Pliny called it the most prudent of all trees, inasmuch

as it waits till winter is well over to put forth its leaves,

and Lodovico piqued himself on his sagacity in choosing the

right moment for action.

[3] _L' Historia di Milano_, Vinegia, 1554, p. 448: 'A quella

(scola di Venere) per ogni canto vi si convenivan bellissimi

giovani. I padri vi concedevano le figliuole, i mariti le

mogliere, i fratelli le sorelle; e per sifatto modo senz' alcun

riguardo molti concorreano all' amoroso ballo, che cosa

stupendissima era riputata per qualunque l' intendeva.'

[4] Guicciardini, _Storia d' Italia_, lib. iii. p. 35, sums up

the character of Lodovico with masterly completeness.

Amid this general perturbation of the old political order the year

1494, marked in its first month by the death of King Ferdinand,

began--'a year,' to quote from Guicciardini, 'the most unfortunate for

Italy, the very first in truth of our disastrous years, since it opened

the door to numberless and horrible calamities, in which it may be said

that a great portion of the world has subsequently shared.' The

expectation and uneasiness of the whole nation were proportioned to the

magnitude of the coming change. On every side the invasion of the

French was regarded with that sort of fascination which a very new and

exciting event is wont to inspire. In one mood the Italians were

inclined to hail Charles as a general pacificator and restorer of old

liberties.[1] Savonarola had preached of him as the _flagellum Dei_,

the minister appointed to regenerate the Church and purify the font of

spiritual life in the peninsula. In another frame of mind they

shuddered to think what the advent of the barbarians--so the French

were called--might bring upon them. It was universally agreed that

Lodovico by his invitation had done no more than bring down, as it

were, by a breath the avalanche which had been long impending. 'Not

only the preparations made by land and sea, but also the consent of the

heavens and of men, announced the woes in store for Italy. Those who

pretend either by art or divine inspiration to the knowledge of the

future, proclaimed unanimously that greater and more frequent changes,

occurrences more strange and awful than had for many centuries been

seen in any part of the world, were at hand.' After enumerating divers

signs and portents, such as the passing day after day in the region

round Arezzo of innumerable armed men mounted on gigantic horses with a

hideous din of drums and trumpets, the great historian resumes: 'These

things filled the people with incredible fear; for, long before, they

had been terrified by the reputation of the power of the French and of

their fierceness, seeing that histories are full of their deeds--how

they had already overrun the whole of Italy, sacked the city of Rome

with fire and sword, subdued many provinces of Asia, and at one time or

another smitten with their arms all quarters of the world.'

[1] This was the strictly popular as opposed to the

aristocratic feeling. The common folk, eager for novelty and

smarting under the bad rule of monsters like the Aragonese

princes, expected in Charles VIII. a Messiah, and cried

'Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.' See passages quoted in

a note below.

Among all the potentates of Italy, Alfonso of Naples had the most to

dread; for against him the invasion was specially directed. No time was

to be lost. He assembled his allies at Vicovaro near Tivoli in July and

explained to them his theory of resistance. The allies were Florence,

Rome, Bologna, and all the minor powers of Romagna.[1] For once the

southern and the middle states of Italy were united against a common

foe. After Alfonso, Alexander felt himself in greatest peril, for he

dreaded the assembly of a Council which might depose him from the throne

he had bought by simony. So strong was his terror that he had already

sent ambassadors to the Sultan imploring him for aid against the Most

Christian King, and had entreated Ferdinand the Catholic, instead of

undertaking a crusade against the Turk, to employ his arms in opposition

to the French. But Bajazet was too far off to be of use; and Ferdinand

was prudent. It remained for the allies to repel the invader by their

unassisted force. This might have been done if Alfonso's plan had been

adhered to. He designed sending a fleet, under his brother Don Federigo,

to Genoa, and holding with his own troops the passes of the Apennines to

the North, while Piero de' Medici undertook to guard the entrances to

Tuscany on the side of Lunigiana. The Duke of Calabria meanwhile was to

raise Gian Galeazzo's standard in Lombardy. But that absolute agreement

which is necessary in the execution of a scheme so bold and

comprehensive was impossible in Italy. The Pope insisted that attention

should first be paid to the Colonnesi--Prospero and Fabrizio being

secret friends of France, and their castles offering a desirable booty.

Alfonso, therefore, determined to occupy the confines of the Roman

territory on the side of the Abruzzi, while he sent his son, with the

generals Giovan Jacopo da Trivulzi and the Count of Pitigliano, into

Lombardy. They never advanced beyond Cesena, where the troops of the

Sforza, in conjunction with the French, held them at bay. The fleet

under Don Federigo sailed too late to effect the desired rising in

Genoa. The French, forewarned, had thrown 2,000 Swiss under the Baily of

Dijon and the Duke of Orleans into the city, and the Neapolitan admiral

fell back upon Leghorn. The forces of the league were further enfeebled

and divided by the necessity of leaving Virginio Orsini to check the

Colonnesi in the neighborhood of Rome. How utterly Piero de' Medici by

his folly and defection ruined what remained of the plan will be seen in

the sequel. This sluggishness in action and dismemberment of

forces--this total inability to strike a sudden blow--sealed beforehand

the success of Charles. Alfonso, a tyrant afraid of his own subjects,

Alexander, a Pope who had bought the tiara to the disgust of

Christendom, Piero, conscious that his policy was disapproved by the

Florentines, together with a parcel of egotistical petty despots, were

not the men to save a nation. Italy was conquered, not by the French

king, but by the vices of her own leaders. The whole history of

Charles's expedition is one narrative of headlong rashness triumphing

over difficulties and dangers which only the discord of tyrants and the

disorganization of peoples rendered harmless. The Atè of the gods had

descended upon Italy, as though to justify the common belief that the

expedition of Charles was divinely sustained and guided.[2]

[1] Venice remained neutral. She had refused to side with

Charles, on the pretext that the fear of the Turk kept her

engaged. She declined to join the league of Alfonso by saying

it was mad to save others at the risk of drawing the war into

your own territory. Nothing is more striking than the want of

patriotic sentiment or generous concurrence to a common end in

Italy at this time. Florence, by temper and tradition favorable

to France, had been drawn into the league by Piero de' Medici,

whose sympathies were firm for the Aragonese princes.

[2] This, of course, was Savonarola's prophecy. But both

Guicciardini and De Comities use invariably the same language.

The phrase _Dieu monstroit conduire l'entreprise_ frequently

recurs in the _Memoirs_ of De Comines.

While Alfonso and Alexander were providing for their safety in the

South, Charles remained at Lyons, still uncertain whether he should

enter Italy by sea or land, or indeed whether he should enter it at all.

Having advanced so far as the Rhone valley, he felt satisfied with his

achievement and indulged himself in a long bout of tournaments and

pastimes. Besides, the want of money, which was to be his chief

embarrassment throughout the expedition, had already made itself

felt.[1] It was an Italian who at length roused him to make good his

purpose against Italy--Giuliano della Rovere,[2] the haughty nephew of

Sixtus, the implacable foe of Alexander, whom he was destined to succeed

in course of time upon the Papal throne. Burning to punish the Marrano,

or apostate Moor, as he called Alexander, Giuliano stirred the king with

taunts and menaces until Charles felt he could delay his march no

longer. When once the French army got under weigh, it moved rapidly.

Leaving Vienne on August 23, 1494, 3,600 men at arms, the flower of the

French chivalry, 6,000 Breton archers, 6,000 crossbowmen, 8,000 Gascon

infantry, 8,000 Swiss and German lances, crossed the Mont Genevre,

debouched on Susa, passed through Turin, and entered Asti on September

19.[3] Neither Piedmont nor Montferrat stirred to resist them. Yet at

almost any point upon the route they might have been at least delayed by

hardy mountaineers until the commissariat of so large a force had proved

an insurmountable difficulty. But before this hunchback conqueror with

the big head and little legs, the valleys had been exalted and the rough

places had been made plain. The princes whose interest it might have

been to throw obstacles in the way of Charles were but children. The

Duke of Savoy was only twelve years old, the Marquis of Montferrat

fourteen; their mothers and guardians made terms with the French king,

and opened their territories to his armies.

[1] 'La despense de ces navires estoit fort grande, et suis

d'advis qu'elle cousta trois cens mille francs, et si ne servit

de rien, et y alla tout l'argent contant que le Roy peut finer

de ses finances: car comme j'ay dit, il n'estoit point pourveu

ne de sens, ne d'argent, oy d'autre chose nécessaire à telle

entreprise, et si en vint bien à bout, moyennant la grâce de

Dieu, qui clairement le donna ainsi à cognoistre.' De Comines,

lib. vii.

[2] Guicciardini calls him on this occasion 'fatale instrumento

e allora e prima e poi de' mali d' Italia.' Lib. i. cap. 3.

[3] I have followed the calculation of Sismondi (vol. vii. p.

383), to which should be added perhaps another 10,000 in all

attached to the artillery, and 2,000 for sappers, miners,

carpenters, etc. See Dennistoun, _Dukes of Urbino_, vol. i. p.

433, for a detailed list of Charles's armaments by land and

sea.

At Asti Charles was met by Lodovico Sforza and his father-in-law, Ercole

d' Este. The whole of that Milanese Court which Corio describes[1]

followed in their train. It was the policy of the Italian princes to

entrap their conqueror with courtesies, and to entangle in silken

meshes the barbarian they dreaded. What had happened already at Lyons,

what was going to repeat itself at Naples, took place at Asti. The

French king lost his heart to ladies, and confused his policy by

promises made to Delilahs in the ballroom. At Asti he fell ill of the

small-pox, but after a short time he recovered his health, and proceeded

to Pavia. Here a serious entanglement of interests arose. Charles was

bound by treaties and engagements to Lodovico and his proud wife

Beatrice d' Este; the very object of his expedition was to dethrone

Alfonso and to assume the crown of Naples; yet at Pavia he had to endure

the pathetic spectacle of his forlorn cousin[2] the young Giovanni

Galeazzo Sforza in prison, and to hear the piteous pleadings of the

beautiful Isabella of Aragon. Nursed in chivalrous traditions, incapable

of resisting a woman's tears, what was Charles to do, when this princess

in distress, the wife of his first cousin, the victim of his friend

Lodovico, the sister of his foe Alfonso, fell at his feet and besought

him to have mercy on her husband, on her brother, on herself? The

situation was indeed enough to move a stouter heart than that of the

feeble young king. For the moment Charles returned evasive answers to

his petitioners; but the trouble of his soul was manifest, and no sooner

had he set forth on his way to Piacenza than the Moor resolved to

remove the cause of further vacillation. Sending to Pavia, Lodovico had

his nephew poisoned.[3] When the news of Gian Galeazzo's death reached

the French camp, it spread terror and imbittered the mistrust which was

already springing up between the frank cavaliers and the plausible

Italians with whom they had to deal.

[1] See above, p. 548.

[2] The mothers of Charles VIII. and Gian Galeazzo were

sisters, princesses of Savoy.

[3] Sismondi does not discuss the fact minutely, but he

inclines to believe that Gian Galeazzo was murdered. Michelet

raises a doubt about it, though the evidence is such as he

would have accepted without question in the case of a Borgia.

Guicciardini, who recounts the whole matter at length, says

that all Italy believed the Duke had been murdered, and quotes

Teodoro da Pavia, one of the royal physicians, who attested to

having seen clear signs of a slow poison in the young man.

Pontano, _de Prudentiâ_, lib. 4, repeats the accusation.

Guicciardini only doubts Lodovico's motives. He inclines to

think the murder had been planned long before, and that Charles

was invited into Italy in order that Lodovico might have a good

opportunity for effecting it, while at the same time he had

taken care to get the investiture of the Duchy from the Emperor

ready against the event.

What was this beautiful land in the midst of which they found

themselves, a land whose marble palaces were thronged with cut-throats

in disguise, whose princes poisoned while they smiled, whose luxuriant

meadows concealed fever, whose ladies carried disease upon their lips?

To the captains and the soldiery of France, Italy already appeared a

splendid and fascinating Circe, arrayed with charms, surrounded with

illusions, hiding behind perfumed thickets her victims changed to

brutes, and building the couch of her seduction on the bones of murdered

men. Yet she was so beautiful that, halt as they might for a moment and

gaze back with yearning on the Alps that they had crossed, they found

themselves unable to resist her smile. Forward they must march through

the garden of enchantment, henceforth taking the precaution to walk with

drawn sword, and, like Orlando in Morgana's park, to stuff their casques

with roses that they might not hear the siren's voice too clearly. It

was thus that Italy began the part she played through the Renaissance

for the people of the North. _The White Devil of Italy_ is the title of

one of Webster's best tragedies. A white Devil, a radiant daughter of

sin and death, holding in her hands the fruit of the knowledge of good

and evil, and tempting the nations to eat: this is how Italy struck the

fancy of the men of the sixteenth century. She was feminine, and they

were virile; but she could teach and they must learn. She gave them

pleasure; they brought force. The fruit of her embraces with the nations

was the spirit of modern culture, the genius of the age in which we

live.

Two terrible calamities warned the Italians with what new enemies they

had to deal. Twice at the commencement of the invasion did the French

use the sword which they had drawn to intimidate the sorceress. These

terror-striking examples were the massacres of the inhabitants of

Rapallo on the Genoese Riviera, and of Fivizzano in Lunigiana. Soldiers

and burghers, even prisoners and wounded men in the hospitals, were

butchered, first by the Swiss and German guards, and afterwards by the

French, who would not be outdone by them in energy. It was thus that the

Italians, after a century of bloodless battles and parade campaigning,

learned a new art of war, and witnessed the first act of those

Apocalyptic tragedies which were destined to drown the peninsula with

French, Spanish, German, Swiss, and native blood.

Meanwhile the French host had reached Parma, traversing, all through the

golden autumn weather, those plains where mulberry and elm are married

by festoons of vines above a billowy expanse of maize and corn. From

Parma, placed beneath the northern spurs of the Apennines, to Sarzana,

on the western coast of Italy, where the marbles of Carrara build their

barrier against the Tyrrhene Sea, there leads a winding barren mountain

pass. Charles took this route with his army, and arrived in the

beginning of November before the walls of Sarzana. Meanwhile we may well

ask what Piero de' Medici had been doing, and how he had fulfilled his

engagement with Alfonso. He had undertaken, it will be remembered, to

hold the passes of the Apennines upon this side. To have embarrassed the

French troops among those limestone mountains, thinly forested with pine

and chestnut-trees, and guarded here and there with ancient fortresses,

would have been a matter of no difficulty. With like advantages 2,000

Swiss troops during their wars of independence would have laughed to

scorn the whole forces of Burgundy and Austria. But Piero, a feeble and

false tyrant, preoccupied with Florentine factions, afraid of Lucca, and

disinclined to push forward into the territory of the Sforza, had as yet

done nothing when the news arrived that Sarzana was on the point of

capitulation. In this moment of peril he rode as fast as horses could

carry him to the French camp, besought an interview with Charles, and

then and there delivered up to him the keys of Sarzana and its citadel,

together with those of Pietra Santa, Librafratta, Pisa, and Leghorn. Any

one who has followed the sea-coast between Pisa and Sarzana can

appreciate the enormous value of these concessions to the invader. They

relieved him of the difficulty of forcing his way along a narrow belt of

land, which is hemmed in on one side by the sea and on the other by the

highest and most abrupt mountain range in Italy. To have done this in

the teeth of a resisting army and beneath the walls of hostile castles

would have been all but impossible. As it was, Piero cut the Gordian

knot by his incredible cowardice, and for himself gained only ruin and

dishonor. Charles, the foe against whom he had plotted with Alfonso and

Alexander, laughed in his face and marched at once into Pisa. The

Florentines, whom he had hitherto engaged in ah unpopular policy, now

rose in fury, expelled him from the city, sacked his palace, and erased

from their memory the name of Medici except for execration. The

unsuccessful tyrant, who had proved a traitor to his allies, to his

country, and to himself, saved his life by flying first to Bologna and

thence to Venice, where he remained in a sort of polite captivity--safe,

but a slave, until the Doge and his council saw which way affairs would

tend.

On the 9th of November Florence after a tyranny of fifty years, and Pisa

after the servitude of a century, recovered their liberties and were

able to reconstitute republican governments. But the situation of the

two states was very different. The Florentines had never lost the name

of liberty, which in Italy at that period meant less the freedom of the

inhabitants to exercise self-government than the independence of the

city in relation to its neighbors. The Pisans on the other hand had been

reduced to subjection by Florence: their civic life had been stifled,

their pride wounded in the tenderest point of honor, their population

decimated by proscription and exile. The great sin of Florence was the

enslavement of Pisa: and Pisa in this moment of anarchy burned to

obliterate her shame with bloodshed. The French, understanding none of

the niceties of Italian politics, and ignorant that in giving freedom to

Pisa they were robbing Florence of her rights, looked on with wonder at

the citizens who tossed the lion of the tyrant town into the Arno and

took up arms against its officers. It is sad to witness this last spasm

of the long-suppressed passion for liberty in the Pisans, while we know

how soon they were reduced again to slavery by the selfish sister state,

herself too thoroughly corrupt for liberty. The part of Charles, who

espoused the cause of the Pisans with blundering carelessness,

pretended to protect the new republic, and then abandoned it a few

months later to its fate, provokes nothing but the languid contempt

which all his acts inspire.

After the flight of Piero and the proclamation of Pisan liberty the King

of France was hailed as saviour of the free Italian towns. Charles

received a magnificent address from Savonarola, who proceeded to Pisa,

and harangued him as the chosen vessel of the Lord and the deliverer of

the Church from anarchy. At the same time the friar conveyed to the

French king a courteous invitation from the Florentine republic to enter

their city and enjoy their hospitality. Charles, after upsetting Piero

de' Medici with the nonchalance of a horseman in the tilting yard, and

restoring the freedom of Pisa for a caprice, remained as devoid of

policy and indifferent to the part assigned him by the prophet as he was

before. He rode, armed at all points, into Florence on November 17, and

took up his residence in the palace of the Medici. Then he informed the

elders of the city that he had come as conqueror and not as guest, and

that he intended to reserve to himself the disposition of the state.

It was a dramatic moment. Florence, with the Arno flowing through her

midst, and the hills around her gray with olive-trees, was then even

more lovely than we see her now. The whole circuit of her walls

remained, nor had their crown of towers been leveled yet to make

resistance of invading force more easy Brunelleschi's dome and Giotto's

tower and Arnolfo's Palazzo and the Loggie of Orcagna gave distinction

to her streets and squares. Her churches were splendid with frescoes in

their bloom, and with painted glass, over which as yet the injury of but

a few brief years had passed. Her palaces, that are as strong as

castles, overflowed with a population cultivated, polished, elegant,

refined, and haughty. This Florence, the city of scholars, artists,

intellectual sybarites, and citizens in whom the blood of the old

factions beat, found herself suddenly possessed as a prey of war by

flaunting Gauls in their outlandish finery, plumed Germans, kilted

Celts, and particolored Swiss. On the other hand these barbarians awoke

in a terrestrial paradise of natural and æsthetic beauty. Which of us

who has enjoyed the late gleams of autumn in Valdarno, but can picture

to himself the revelation of the inner meaning of the world,

incomprehensible yet soul-subduing, which then first dawned upon the

Breton bowmen and the bulls of Uri? Their impulse no doubt was to

pillage and possess the wealth before them, as a child pulls to pieces

the wonderful flower that has surprised it on some mountain meadow. But

in the very rudeness of desire they paid a homage to the new-found

loveliness of which they had not dreamed before.

Charles here as elsewhere showed his imbecility. He had entered and laid

hands on hospitable Florence like a foe. What would he now do with

her--reform the republic--legislate--impose a levy on the citizens, and

lead them forth to battle? No. He asked for a huge sum of money, and

began to bargain. The Florentine secretaries refused his terms. He

insisted. Then Piero Capponi snatched the paper on which they were

written, and tore it in pieces before his eyes. Charles cried: 'I shall

sound my trumpets.' Capponi answered: 'We will ring our bells.'

Beautiful as a dream is Florence; but her somber streets, overshadowed

by gigantic belfries and masked by grim brown palace-fronts, contained a

menace that the French king could not face. Let Capponi sound the

tocsin, and each house would become a fortress, the streets would be

barricaded with iron chains, every quarter would pour forth men by

hundreds well versed in the arts of civic warfare. Charles gave way,

covering with a bad joke the discomfiture he felt: _Ah, Ciappon,

Ciappon, voi siete un mal Ciappon!_ The secretaries beat down his terms.

All he cared for was to get money.[1] He agreed to content himself with

120,000 florins. A treaty was signed, and in two days he quitted

Florence.

Hitherto Charles had met with no serious obstacle. His invasion had

fallen like the rain from heaven, and like rain, as far as he was

concerned, it ran away to waste. Lombardy and Tuscany, the two first

scenes in the pageant displayed by Italy before the French army, had

been left behind. Rome now lay before them, magnificent in desolation;

not the Rome which the Farnesi and Chigi and Barberini have built up

from the quarried ruins of amphitheaters and baths, but the Rome of the

Middle Ages, the city crowned with relics of a pagan past, herself still

pagan, and holding in her midst the modern Antichrist. The progress of

the French was a continued triumph. They reached Siena on the second of

December. The Duke of Urbino and the lords of Pesaro and Bologna laid

down their arms at their approach. The Orsini opened their castles:

Virginio, the captain-general of the Aragonese army and grand constable

of the kingdom of Naples, hastened to win for himself favorable terms

from the French sovereign. The Baglioni betook themselves to their own

rancors in Perugia. The Duke of Calabria retreated. Italy seemed bent on

proving that cowardice and selfishness and incapacity had conquered her.

Viterbo was gained: the Ciminian heights were traversed: the Campagna,

bounded by the Alban and the Sabine hills, with Rome, a bluish cloud

upon the lowlands of the Tiber, spread its solemn breadth of beauty at

the invader's feet. Not a blow had been struck, when he reached the

Porta del Popolo upon the 31st of December 1494. At three o'clock in the

afternoon began the entry of the French army. It was nine at night

before the last soldiers, under the flaring light of torches and

flambeaux, defiled through the gates, and took their quarters in the

streets of the Eternal City. The gigantic barbarians of the cantons,

flaunting with plumes and emblazoned surcoats, the chivalry of France,

splendid with silk mantles and gilded corselets, the Scotch guard in

their wild costume of kilt and philibeg, the scythe-like halberds of the

German lanz-knechts, the tangled elf-locks of stern-featured Bretons,

stamped an ineffaceable impression on the people of the South. On this

memorable occasion, as in a show upon some holiday, marched past before

them specimens and vanguards of all those legioned races which were soon

to be too well at home in every fair Italian dwelling-place. Nothing was

wanting to complete the symbol of the coming doom but a representative

of the grim, black, wiry infantry of Spain.

[1] The want of money determined all Charles's operations in

this expedition. Borrowing from Lodovico, laying requisitions

on Piero and the Florentines, pawning the jewels of the Savoy

princesses, he passed from place to place, bargaining and

contracting debts instead of dictating laws and founding

constitutions. _La carestia dei danari_ is a phrase continually

recurring in Guicciardini. Speaking of the jewels lent to

Charles by the royal families of Savoy and Montferrat at Turin,

de Comines exclaims: 'Et pouvez voir quel commencement de

guerre c'estoit, si Dieu n'eut guidé l'oeuvre.'

The Borgia meanwhile crouched within the Castle of S. Angelo. How would

the Conqueror, now styled Flagellum Dei, deal with the abomination of

desolation seated in the holy place of Christendom? At the side of

Charles were the Cardinals Ascanio Sforza and Giuliano della Rovere,

urging him to summon a council and depose the Pope. But still closer to

his ear was Briçonnet, the _ci-devant_ tradesman, who thought it would

become his dignity to wear a cardinal's hat. On this trifle turned the

destinies of Rome, the doom of Alexander, the fate of the Church.

Charles determined to compromise matters. He demanded a few fortresses,

a red hat for Briçonnet, Cesare Borgia as a hostage for four months, and

Djem, the brother of the Sultan.[1] After these agreements had been made

and ratified, Alexander ventured to leave his castle and receive the

homage of the faithful.

Charles staid* a month in Rome, and then set out for Naples. The fourth

and last scene in the Italian pageant was now to be displayed. After the

rich plain and proud cities of Lombardy, beneath their rampart of

perpetual snow; after the olive gardens and fair towns of Tuscany; after

the great name of Rome; Naples, at length, between Vesuvius and the sea,

that first station of the Greeks in Italy, world-famed for its legends

of the Sibyl and the sirens and the sorcerer Virgil, received her king.

The very names of Parthenope, Posilippo, Inarime, Sorrento, Capri, have

their fascination. There too the orange and lemon groves are more

luxuriant; the grapes yield sweeter and more intoxicating wine; the

villagers are more classically graceful; the volcanic soil is more

fertile; the waves are bluer and the sun is brighter than elsewhere in

the land. None of the conquerors of Italy have had the force to resist

the allurements of the bay of Naples. The Greeks lost their native

energy upon these shores and realized in the history of their colonies

the myth of Ulysses' comrades in the gardens of Circe. Hannibal was

tamed by Capua. The Romans in their turn dreamed away their vigor at

Baiæ, at Pompeii at Capreæ, until the whole region became a byword for

voluptuous living. Here the Saracens were subdued to mildness, and

became physicians instead of pirates. Lombards and Normans alike were

softened down, and lost their barbarous fierceness amid the enchantments

of the southern sorceress.

[1] See above, p. 416, for the history of this unfortunate

prince. When Alexander ceded Djem, whom he held as a captive

for the Sultan at a yearly revenue of 40,000 ducats, he was

under engagements with Bajazet to murder him. Accordingly Djem

died of slow poison soon after he became the guest of Charles.

The Borgia preferred to keep faith with the Turk.

Naples was now destined to ruin for Charles whatever nerve yet remained

to his festival army. The witch too, while brewing for the French her

most attractive potions, mixed with them a deadly poison--the virus of a

fell disease, memorable in the annals of the modern world, which was

destined to infect the nations of Europe from this center, and to prove

more formidable to our cities than even the leprosy of the Middle

Ages.[1]

[1] Those who are curious to trace the history of the origin of

syphilis, should study the article upon the subject in Von

Hirsch, _Historisch-geographische Pathologie_ (Erlangen, 1860),

and in Rosenbaum _Geschichte der Lustseuche im Alterthum_

(Halle, 1845). Some curious contemporary observations

concerning the rapid diffusion of the disease in Italy, its

symptoms, and its cure, are contained in Matarazzo's _Cronaca

di Perugia_ (_Arch. Stor. It._ vol. xvi. part ii. pp. 32-36),

and in Portovenere (_Arch. St._ vol. vi. pt. ii. p. 338). The

celebrated poem of Fracastorius deserves to be read both for

its fine Latinity and for its information. One of the earliest

works issued from the Aldine press in 1497 was the _Libellus de

Epidemiâ quam vulgo morbum Gallicum vocant_. It was written by

Nicolas Leoniceno, and dedicated to the Count Francesco de la

Mirandola.

The kingdom of Naples, through the frequent uncertainty which attended

the succession to the throne, as well as the suzerainty assumed and

misused by the Popes, had been for centuries a standing cause of discord

in Italy. The dynasty which Charles now hoped to dispossess was Spanish.

After the death of Joanna II. in 1435, Alfonso, King of Aragon and

Sicily, who had no claim to the crown beyond what he derived through a

bastard branch of the old Norman dynasty, conquered Naples, expelled

Count Réné of Anjou, and established himself in this new kingdom, which

he preferred to those he had inherited by right. Alfonso, surnamed the

Magnanimous, was one of the most brilliant and romantic personages of

the fifteenth century. Historians are never weary of relating his

victories over Caldora and Francesco Sforza, the coup-de-main by which

he expelled his rival Réné, and the fascination which he exercised in

Milan, while a captive, over the jealous spirit of Filippo Maria

Visconti.[1] Scholars are no less profuse in their praises of his

virtues, the justice, humanity, religion, generosity, and culture which

rendered him pre-eminent among the princes of that splendid period.[2]

His love of learning was a passion. Whether at home in the retirement of

his palace, or in his tent during war, he was always attended by

students, who read aloud and commented on Livy, Seneca, or the Bible. No

prince was more profuse in his presents to learned men. Bartolommeo

Fazio received 500 ducats a year for the composition of his histories,

and when, at their conclusion, the scholar asked for a further gift of

200 or 300 florins, the prince bestowed upon him 1,500. The year he

died, Alfonso distributed 20,000 ducats to men of letters alone. This

immoderate liberality is the only vice of which he is accused. It bore

its usual fruits in the disorganization of finance.

[1] Mach. _Ist. Fior._ lib. v. cap. 5. Corio, pp. 332, 333, may

be consulted upon the difficulties which Alfonso overcame at

the commencement of his conquest. Defeated by the Genoese near

the Isle of Ponza, and carried a prisoner to Milan, he

succeeded in proving to Filippo Visconti that it was more to

his interest to have him king of Naples than to keep the French

there. Upon, this the Duke of Milan restored him with honor to

his throne, and confirmed him in the conquest which before he

had successfully opposed. It is a singular instance of the

extent to which Italian princes were controlled by policy and

reason.

[2] Vespasiano's _Life of Alfonso_ (_Vite di Uomini Illustri_,

pp. 48-72) is a model of agreeable composition and vivid

delineation. It is written of course from the scholar's more

than the politician's point of view. Compare with it Giovio,

_Elogia_, and Pontanus, _de Liberalitate_.

The generous humanity of Alfonso endeared him greatly to the

Neapolitans. During the half-century in which so many Italian princes

succumbed to the dagger of their subjects, he, in Naples, where,

according to Pontano, 'nothing was cheaper than the life of a man,'

walked up and down unarmed and unattended. 'Why should a father fear

among his children?' he was wont to say in answer to suggestions of the

danger of this want of caution. The many splendid qualities by which he

was distinguished were enhanced rather than obscured by the romance of

his private life. Married to Margaret of Castile, he had no legitimate

children; Ferdinand, with whom he shared the government of Naples in

1443, and whom he designated as his successor in 1458, was supposed to

be his son by Margaret de Hijar. It was even whispered that this

Ferdinand was the child of Catherine the wife of Alfonso's brother

Henry, whom Margaret, to save the honor of the king, acknowledged as her

own. Whatever may have been the truth of this dark history, it was known

for certain that the queen had murdered her rival, the unhappy Margaret

de Hijar, and that Alfonso never forgave her or would look upon her from

that day. Pontano, who was Ferdinand's secretary, told a different tale.

He affirmed that the real father of the Duke of Calabria was a Marrano

of Valentia. This last story is rendered probable by the brusque

contrast between the character of Alfonso and that of Ferdinand.

It would be terrible to think that such a father could have been the

parent of such a son. In Ferdinand the instinct of liberal culture

degenerated into vulgar magnificence; courtesy and confidence gave place

to cold suspicion and brutal cruelty. His ferocity bordered upon

madness. He used to keep the victims of his hatred in cages, where their

misery afforded him the same delight as some men derived from watching

the antics of monkeys.[1] In his hunting establishment were repeated

the worst atrocities of Bernabo Visconti: wretches mutilated for neglect

of his hounds extended their handless stumps for charity to the

travelers through his villages.[2] Instead of the generosity for which

Alfonso had been famous, Ferdinand developed all the arts of avarice.

Like Sixtus IV. he made the sale of corn and oil a royal monopoly,

trafficking in the hunger of his subjects.[3] Like Alexander VI. he

fattened his viziers and secretaries upon the profits of extortion which

he shared with them, and when they were fully gorged he cut their

throats and proclaimed himself the heir through their attainder.[4]

Alfonso had been famous for his candor and sincerity. Ferdinand was a

demon of dissimulation and treachery. His murder of his guest Jacopo

Piccinino at the end of a festival, which extended over twenty-seven

days of varied entertainments, won him the applause of Machiavellian

spirits throughout Italy. It realized the ideal of treason conceived as

a fine art. Not less perfect as a specimen of diabolical cunning was the

vengeance which Ferdinand, counseled by his son Alfonso, inflicted on

the barons who conspired against him.[5] Alfonso was a son worthy of his

terrible father. The only difference between them was that Ferdinand

dissembled, while Alfonso, whose bravery at Otranto against the Turks

had surrounded him with military glory, abandoned himself with cynicism

to his passions. Sketching characters of both in the same paragraph, de

Comines writes: 'Never was man more cruel than Alfonso, nor more

vicious, nor more wicked, nor more poisonous, nor more gluttonous. His

father was more dangerous, because he could conceal his mind and even

his anger from sight; in the midst of festivity he would take and

slaughter his victims by treachery. Grace or mercy was never found in

him, nor yet compassion for his poor people. Both of them laid forcible

hands on women. In matters of the Church they observed nor reverence nor

obedience. They sold bishoprics, like that of Tarento, which Ferdinand

disposed of for 13,000 ducats to a Jew in favor of his son whom he

called a Christian.'

[1] See Pontanus, _de Immanitate,_ Aldus, 1518, vol. 1. p. 318:

'Ferdinandus Rex Neapolitanorum præclaros etiam viros conclusos

carcere etiam bene atque abunde pascebat, eandem ex iis

voluptatem capiens quam pueri e conclusis in caveâ aviculis:

quâ de re sæpenumero sibi ipsi inter intimos suos diu multumque

gratulatus subblanditusque in risum tandem ac cachinnos

profundebatur.'

[2] See Pontanus, _de Immanitate_, Aldus; 1518, vol. i. p. 320:

'Ferd. R.N. qui cervum aprumve occidissent furtimve palamve,

alios remo addixit, alios manibus mutilavit, alios suspendio

affecit: agros quoque serendos inderdixit dominis, legendasque

aut glandes aut poma, quæ servari quidem volebat in escam

feris ad venationis suæ usum.'

[3] Caracciolo, _de Varietate Fortunæ_, Muratori, vol. xxii. p.

87, exposes this system in a passage which should be compared

with Infessura on the practices of Sixtus. De Comines, lib.

vii. cap. 11, may be read with profit on the same subject.

[4] See Caracciolo, loc. cit. pp. 88, 89, concerning the

judicial murder of Francesco Coppola and Antonello Perucci,

both of whom had been raised to eminence by Ferdinand, used

through their lives as the instruments of his extortion, and

murdered by him in their rich old age.

[5] See De Comines, lib. vii. cap. 11; Sismondi, vol. vii. p.

229. Read also the short account of the massacre of the Barons

given in the _Chronicon Venetum_, Muratori, xxiv. p. 15, where

the intense loathing felt throughout Italy for Ferdinand and

his son Alfonso is powerfully expressed.

This kind of tyranny carried in itself its own death-warrant. It needed

not the voice of Savonarola to proclaim that God would revenge the

crimes of Ferdinand by placing a new sovereign on his throne. It was

commonly believed that the old king died in 1494 of remorse and

apprehension, when he knew that the French expedition could no longer be

delayed. Alfonso, for his part, bold general in the field and able man

of affairs as he might be, found no courage to resist the conqueror. It

is no fiction of a poet or a moralist, but plain fact of history, that

this King of Naples, grandson of the great Alfonso and father of the

Ferdinand to be, quailed before the myriads of accusing dead that rose

to haunt his tortured fancy in the supreme hour of peril. The chambers

of his palace in Naples were thronged with ghosts by battalions, pale

specters of the thousands he had reduced to starvation, bloody phantoms

of the barons he had murdered after nameless tortures, thin wraiths of

those who had wasted away in dungeons under his remorseless rule. The

people around his gates muttered in rebellion. He abdicated in favor of

his son, took ship for Sicily, and died there conscience-stricken in a

convent ere the year was out.

Ferdinand, a brave youth, beloved by the nation in spite of his father's

and grandfather's tyranny, reigned in his stead. Yet even for him the

situation was untenable. Everywhere he was beset by traitors--by his

whole army at San Germano, by Trivulzi at Capua, by the German guide at

Naples. Without soldiers, without allies, with nothing to rely upon but

the untried goodwill of subjects who had just reason to execrate his

race, and with the conquerors of Italy advancing daily through his

states, retreat alone was left to him. After abandoning his castles to

pillage, burning the ships in the harbor of Naples, and setting Don

Federigo together with the Queen dowager and the princess Joanna upon a

quick-sailing galley, Ferdinand bade farewell to his kingdom. Historians

relate that as the shore receded from his view he kept intoning in a

loud voice this verse of the 127th Psalm: 'Except the Lord keep the

city, the watchman waketh but in vain.' Between the beach of Naples and

the rocky shore of Ischia, for which the exiles were bound, there is

only the distance of some seventeen miles. It was in February, a month

of mild and melancholy sunshine in those southern regions, when the

whole bay of Naples with its belt of distant hills is wont to take one

tint of modulated azure, that the royal fugitives performed this voyage.

Over the sleeping sea they glided; while from the galley's stern the

king with a voice as sad as Boabdil's when he sat down to weep for

Granada, cried: 'Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but

in vain.'

There was no want of courage in the youth. By his simple presence he had

intimidated a mob of rebels in Naples. By the firmness of his carriage

he subdued the insolent governor of Ischia, and made himself master of

the island. There he waited till the storm was overpast. Ten times more

a man than Charles, he watched the French king depart from Naples

leaving scarcely a rack behind--some troops decimated by disease and

unnerved by debauchery, and a general or two without energy or vigor.

Then he returned and entered on a career of greater popularity than

could have been enjoyed by him if the French had never made the fickle

race of Naples feel how far more odious is a foreign than a familiar

yoke.[1]

Charles entered Naples as a conqueror or liberator on February 22, 1495.

He was welcomed and fêted by the Neapolitans, than whom no people are

more childishly delighted with a change of masters. He enjoyed his usual

sports, and indulged in his usual love-affairs. With suicidal insolence

and want of policy he alienated the sympathies of the noble families by

dividing the titles, offices, and fiefs of the kingdom among his

retinue.[2] Without receiving so much as a provisional investiture from

the Pope, he satisfied his vanity by parading on May 12 as sovereign,

with a ball in one hand and a scepter in the other, through the city.

Then he was forced to return upon his path and to seek France with the

precipitancy he had shown in gaining Naples. Alexander, who was witty,

said the French had conquered Italy with lumps of chalk and wooden

spurs, because they rode unarmed in slippers and sent couriers before

them to select their quarters. It remained to be seen that the

achievements of this conquest could be effaced as easily as a chalk mark

is rubbed out, or a pair of wooden spurs are broken.

[1] The misfortunes and the bravery of this young prince

inspire a deep feeling of interest. It is sad to read that

after recovering his kingdom in 1496, he died in his

twenty-eighth year, worn out with fatigue and with the

pleasures of his marriage to his aunt Joanna, whom he loved too

passionately. His uncle Frederick, the brother of Alfonso II.,

succeeded to the throne. Thus in three years Naples had five

Sovereigns.

[2] 'Tous estats et offices furent donnez aux François, à deux

ou trois,' says De Comines.

While Charles was amusing himself at Naples, a storm was gathering in

his rear. A league against him had been formed in April by the great

powers of Europe. Venice, alarmed for the independence of Italy, and

urged by the Sultan, who had reason to dread Charles VIII.,[1] headed

the league. Lodovico, now that he had attained his selfish object in the

quiet position of Milan, was anxious for his safety. The Pope still

feared a general council. Maximilian, who could not forget the slight

put upon him in the matter of his daughter and his bride, was willing to

co-operate against his rival. Ferdinand and Isabella, having secured

themselves in Roussillon, thought it behooved them to re-establish

Spaniards of their kith and kin in Naples. Each of the contracting

parties had his rôle assigned to him. Spain undertook to aid Ferdinand

of Aragon in Calabria. Venice was to attack the seaports of the

kingdom; Lodovico Sforza, to occupy Asti; the King of the Romans, to

make a diversion in the North. Florence alone, though deeply injured by

Charles in the matter of Pisa, kept faith with the French.

[1] Charles, by an act dated A.D. 1494, September 6, had bought

the title of Emperor of Constantinople and Trebizond from

Andrew Palæologus (see Gibbon, vol. viii. p. 183, ed. Milman).

When he took Djem from Alexander in Rome, his object was to

make use of him in a war against Bajazet; and the Pope was

always impressing on the Turk the peril of a Frankish crusade.

The danger was imminent. Already Ferdinand the Catholic had disembarked

troops on the shore of Sicily, and was ready to throw an army into the

ports of Reggio and Tropea. Alexander had refused to carry out his

treaty by the surrender of Spoleto. Cesare Borgia had escaped from the

French camp. The Lombards were menacing Asti, which the Duke of Orleans

held, and without the possession of which there was no safe return to

France. Asti indeed at this juncture would have fallen, and Charles

would have been caught in a trap, if the Venetians had only been quick

or wary enough to engage German mercenaries.[1] The danger of the

situation may best be judged by reading the Memoirs of De Comines, who

was then ambassador at Venice. 'The league was concluded very late one

evening. The next morning the Signory sent for me earlier than usual.

They were assembled in great numbers, perhaps a hundred or more, and

held their heads high, made a good cheer, and had not the same

countenance as on the day when they told me of the capture of the

citadel of Naples.[2] My heart was heavy, and I had grave doubts about

the person of the king and about all his company; and I thought their

scheme more ripe than it really was, and feared they might have Germans

ready; and if it had been so, never could the king have got safe out of

Italy.' Nevertheless De Comines put a brave face on the matter, and told

the council that he had already received information of the league and

had sent dispatches to his master on the subject.[3] 'After dinner,'

continues De Comines, 'all the ambassadors of the league met for an

excursion on the water, which is the chief recreation at Venice, where

every one goes according to the retinue he keeps, or at the expense of

the Signory. There may have been as many as forty gondolas, all bearing

displayed the arms of their masters upon banners. I saw the whole of

this company pass before my windows, and there were many minstrels on

board. Those of Milan, one at least of them who had often kept my

company, put on a brave face not to know me; and for three days I

remained without going forth into the town, nor my people, nor was there

all that time a single courteous word said to me or to any of my

suite.'

[1] See De Comines, lib. vii. cap. 15, pp. 78, 79.

[2] De Comines' account of the alarm felt at Venice on that

occasion is very graphic: 'They sent for me one morning, and I

found them to the number of fifty or sixty in the Doge's

bedchamber, for he was ill of colic; and there he told me the

news with a good countenance. But none of the company knew so

well how to feign as he. Some were seated on a wooden bench,

leaning their heads on their hands, and others otherwise; and

all showed great heaviness at heart. I think that when the news

reached Rome of the battle of Cannæ, the senators were not more

confounded or frightened.'

[3] Bembo, in his _Venetian History_ (lib. ii. p. 32), tells a

different tale. He represents De Comines quite unnerved by the

news.

Returning northward by the same route, Charles passed Rome and reached

Siena on June 13. The Pope had taken refuge, first at Orvieto, and

afterwards at Perugia, on his approach; but he made no concessions.

Charles could not obtain from him an investiture of the kingdom he

pretended to have conquered, while he had himself to surrender the

fortresses of Civita Vecchia and Terracina. Ostia alone remained in the

clutch of Alexander's implacable enemy, the Cardinal della Rovere. In

Tuscany the Pisan question was again opened. The French army desired to

see the liberties of Pisa established on a solid basis before they

quitted Italy. On their way to Naples the misfortunes of that ancient

city had touched them: now on their return they were clamorous that

Charles should guarantee its freedom. But to secure this object was an

affair of difficulty. The forces of the league had already taken the

field, and the Duke of Orleans was being besieged in Novara. The

Florentines, jealous of the favor shown, in manifest infringement of

their rights, to citizens whom they regarded as rebellious bondsmen,

assumed an attitude of menace. Charles could only reply with vague

promises to the solicitations of the Pisans, strengthen the French

garrisons in their fortresses, and march forward as quickly as possible

into the Apennines. The key of the pass by which he sought to regain

Lombardy is the town of Pontremoli. Leaving that in ashes on June 29,

the French army, distressed for provisions and in peril among those

melancholy hills, pushed onward with all speed. They knew that the

allied forces, commanded by the Marquis of Mantua, were waiting for them

at the other side upon the Taro, near the village of Fornovo. Here, if

anywhere, the French ought to have been crushed. They numbered about

9,000 men in all, while the allies were close upon 40,000. The French

were weary with long marches, insufficient food, and bad lodgings. The

Italians were fresh and well cared for. Yet in spite of all this, in

spite of blind generalship and total blundering, Charles continued to

play his part of fortune's favorite to the end. A bloody battle, which

lasted for an hour, took place upon the banks of the Taro.[1] The

Italians suffered so severely that, though they still far outnumbered

the French, no persuasions could make them rally and renew the fight.

Charles in his own person ran great peril during this battle; and when

it was over, he had still to effect his retreat upon Asti in the teeth

of a formidable army. The good luck of the French and the dilatory

cowardice of their opponents saved them now again for the last time.

[1] The action at Fornovo lasted a quarter of an hour,

according to De Comines. The pursuit of the Italians occupied

about three quarters of an hour more. Unaccustomed to the quick

tactics of the French, the Italians, when once broken,

persisted in retreating upon Reggio and Parma. The Gonzaghi

alone distinguished themselves for obstinate courage, and lost

four or five members of their princely house. The Stradiots,

whose scimitars ought to have dealt rudely with the heavy

French men-at-arms, employed their time in pillaging the Royal

pavilion, very wisely abandoned to their avarice by the French

captains. To such an extent were military affairs misconstrued

in Italy, that, on the strength of this brigandage, the

Venetians claimed Fornovo for a victory. See my essay

'Fornovo,' in _Sketches and Studies in Italy_, for a

description of the ground on which the battle was fought.

On July 15, Charles at the head of his little force marched into Asti

and was practically safe. Here the young king continued to give signal

proofs of his weakness. Though he knew that the Duke of Orleans was hard

pressed in Novara, he made no effort to relieve him; nor did he attempt

to use the 20,000 Switzers who descended from their Alps to aid him in

the struggle with the league. From Asti he removed to Turin, where he

spent his time in flirting with Anna Soléri, the daughter of his host.

This girl had been sent to harangue him with a set oration, and had

fulfilled her task, in the words of an old witness, 'without wavering,

coughing, spitting, or giving way at all.' Her charms delayed the king

in Italy until October 19, when he signed a treaty at Vercelli with the

Duke of Milan. At this moment Charles might have held Italy in his

grasp. His forces, strengthened by the unexpected arrival of so many

Switzers, and by a junction with the Duke of Orleans, would have been

sufficient to overwhelm the army of the league, and to intimidate the

faction of Ferdinand in Naples. Yet so light-minded was Charles, and so

impatient were his courtiers, that he now only cared for a quick return

to France. Reserving to himself the nominal right of using Genoa as a

naval station, he resigned that town to Lodovico Sforza, and confirmed

him in the tranquil possession of his Duchy. On October 22 he left

Turin, and entered his own dominions through the Alps of Dauphiné.

Already his famous conquest of Italy was reckoned among the wonders of

the past, and his sovereignty over Naples had become the shadow of a

name. He had obtained for himself nothing but momentary glory, while he

imposed on France a perilous foreign policy, and on Italy the burden of

bloody warfare in the future.

A little more than a year had elapsed between the first entry of Charles

into Lombardy and his return to France. Like many other brilliant

episodes of history, this conquest, so showy and so ephemeral, was more

important as a sign than as an actual event. 'His passage,' says

Guicciardini, 'was the cause not only of change in states, downfalls of

kingdoms, desolations of whole districts, destructions of cities,

barbarous butcheries; but also of new customs, new modes of conduct, new

and bloody habits of war, diseases hitherto unknown. The organization

upon which the peace and harmony of Italy depended was so upset that,

since that time, other foreign nations and barbarous armies have been

able to trample her under foot and to ravage her at pleasure.' The only

error of Guicciardini is the assumption that the holiday excursion of

Charles VIII. was in any deep sense the cause of these calamities.[1]

In truth the French invasion opened a new era for the Italians, but only

in the same sense as a pageant may form the prelude to a tragedy. Every

monarch of Europe, dazzled by the splendid display of Charles and

forgetful of its insignificant results, began to look with greedy eyes

upon the wealth of the peninsula. The Swiss found in those rich

provinces an inexhaustible field for depredation. The Germans, under the

pretense of religious zeal, gave a loose rein to their animal appetites

in the metropolis of Christendom. France and Spain engaged in a duel to

the death for the possession of so fair a prey. The French, maddened by

mere cupidity, threw away those chances which the goodwill of the race

at large afforded them.[2] Louis XII. lost himself in petty intrigues,

by which he finally weakened his own cause to the profit of the Borgias

and Austria. Francis I. foamed his force away like a spent wave at

Marignano and Pavia. The real conqueror of Italy was Charles V. Italy in

the sixteenth century was destined to receive the impress of the Spanish

spirit, and to bear the yoke of Austrian dukes. Hand in hand with

political despotism marched religious tyranny. The Counter-Reformation

over which the Inquisition presided, was part and parcel of the Spanish

policy for the enslavement of the nation no less than for the

restoration of the Church. Meanwhile the weakness, discord, egotism, and

corruption which prevented the Italians from resisting the French

invasion in 1494, continued to increase. Instead of being lessoned by

experience, Popes, Princes, and Republics vied with each other in

calling in the strangers, pitting Spaniard against Frenchman, and paying

the Germans to expel the Swiss, oblivious that each new army of

foreigners they summoned was in reality a new swarm of devouring

locusts. In the midst of this anarchy it is laughable to hear the shrill

voice of priests, like Julius and Leo, proclaiming before God their vows

to rid Italy of the barbarians. The confusion was tenfold confounded

when the old factions of Guelf and Ghibelline put on a new garb of

French and Spanish partisanship. Town fought with town and family with

family, in the cause of strangers whom they ought to have resisted with

one will and steady hatred. The fascination of fear and the love of

novelty alike swayed the fickle population of Italian cities. The

foreign soldiers who inflicted on the nation such cruel injuries made a

grand show in their streets, and there will always be a mob so childish

as to covet pageants at the expense of freedom and even of safety.

[1] Guicciardini's _Dialogo del Reggimento di Firenze_ (_Op.

Ined._ vol. ii. p. 94) sets forth the state of internal anarchy

and external violence which followed the departure of Charles

VIII., with wonderful acuteness. 'Se per sorte l' uno

Oltramontano caccerà l' altro, Italia resterà in estrema

servitù,' is an exact prophecy of what happened before the end

of the sixteenth century, when Spain had beaten France in the

duel for Italy.

[2] Matarazzo, in his _Cronaca della Città di Perugia_ (_Arch.

St._, vol. xvi. part 2, p. 23), gives a lively picture of the

eagerness with which the French were greeted in 1495, and of

the wanton brutality by which they soon alienated the people.

In this he agrees almost textually with De Comines, who writes:

'Le peuple nous advouoit comme Saincts, estimans en nous toute

foy et bonté; mais ce propos ne leur dura gueres, tant pour

nostre desordre et pillerie, et qu'aussi les ennemis

oppreschoient le peuple en tous quartiers,' etc., lib. vii.

cap. 6. In the first paragraph of the _Chronicon Venetum_

(_Muratori_, vol. xxlv. p. 5), we read concerning the advent of

Charles: 'I popoli tutti dicevano _Benedictus qui venit in

nomine Domini_. Nè v'era alcuno che li potesse contrastare, nè

resistere, tanto era da tutti i popoli Italiani chiamato.' The

Florentines, as burghers of a Guelf city, were always loyal to

the French. Besides, their commerce with France (_e.g._ the

wealth of Filippo Strozzi) made it to their interest to favor

the cause of the French. See Guicc. i. 2, p. 62. This loyalty

rose to enthusiasm under the influence of Savonarola, survived

the stupidities of Charles VIII. and Louis XII., and committed

the Florentines in 1328 to the perilous policy of expecting aid

from Francis I.

In spite of its transitory character the invasion of Charles VIII.,

therefore, was a great fact in the history of the Renaissance. It was,

to use the pregnant phrase of Michelet, no less than the revelation of

Italy to the nations of the North. Like a gale sweeping across a forest

of trees in blossom, and bearing their fertilizing pollen, after it has

broken and deflowered their branches, to far-distant trees that hitherto

have bloomed in barrenness, the storm of Charles's army carried far and

wide through Europe thought-dust, imperceptible, but potent to enrich

the nations. The French alone, says Michelet, understood Italy. How

terrible would have been a conquest by Turks with their barbarism, of

Spaniards with their Inquisition, of Germans with their brutality! But

France, impressible, sympathetic, ardent for pleasure, generous, amiable

and vain, was capable of comprehending the Italian spirit. From the

Italians the French communicated to the rest of Europe what we call the

movement of the Renaissance. There is some truth in this panegyric of

Michelet's. The passage of the army of Charles VIII. marks a

turning-point in modern history, and from this epoch dates the diffusion

of a spirit of culture over Europe. But Michelet forgets to notice that

the French never rightly understood their vocation with regard to Italy.

They had it in their power to foster that free spirit which might have

made her a nation capable, in concert with France, of resisting Charles

V. Instead of doing so, they pursued the pettiest policy of avarice and

egotism. Nor did they prevent that Spanish conquest the horrors of which

their historian has so eloquently described. Again, we must remember

that it was the Spaniards and not the French who saved Italy from being

barbarized by the Turk.

For the historian of Italy it is sad and humiliating to have to

acknowledge that her fate depended wholly on the action of more powerful

nations, that she lay inert and helpless at the discretion of the

conqueror in the duels between Spain and France and Spain and Islam. Yet

this is the truth. It would seem that those peoples to whom we chiefly

owe advance in art and knowledge, are often thus the captives of their

intellectual inferiors. Their spiritual ascendency is purchased at the

expense of political solidity and national prosperity. This was the case

with Greece, with Judah, and with Italy. The civilization of the

Italians, far in advance of that of other European nations, unnerved

them in the conflict with robust barbarian races. Letters and the arts

and the civilities of life were their glory. 'Indolent princes and most

despicable arms' were their ruin. Whether the Renaissance of the modern

world would not have been yet more brilliant if Italy had remained free,

who shall say? The very conditions which produced her culture seem to

have rendered that impossible.

APPENDICES

APPENDIX I.

_Blood-madness_. See Chapter iii, p. 109.

One of the most striking instances afforded by history of Hæmatomania in

a tyrant is Ibrahim ibn Ahmed, prince of Africa and Sicily (A.D. 875).

This man, besides displaying peculiar ferocity in his treatment of

enemies and prisoners of war, delighted in the execution of horrible

butcheries within the walls of his own palace. His astrologers having

once predicted that he should die by the hands of a 'small assassin,' he

killed off the whole retinue of his pages, and filled up their places

with a suit of negroes whom he proceeded to treat after the same

fashion. On another occasion, when one of his three hundred eunuchs had

by chance been witness of the tyrant's drunkenness, Ibrahim slaughtered

the whole band. Again, he is said to have put an end to sixty youths,

originally selected for his pleasures, burning them by gangs of five or

six in the furnace, or suffocating them in the hot chambers of his

baths. Eight of his brothers were murdered in his presence; and when

one, who was so diseased that he could scarcely stir, implored to be

allowed to end his days in peace, Ibrahim answered: 'I make no

exceptions.' His own son Abul-Aghlab was beheaded by his orders before

his eyes; and the execution of chamberlains, secretaries, ministers, and

courtiers was of common occurrence. But his fiercest fury was directed

against women. He seems to have been darkly jealous of the perpetuation

of the human race. Wives and concubines were strangled, sawn asunder,

and buried alive, if they showed signs of pregnancy. His female children

were murdered as soon as they saw the light; sixteen of them, whom his

mother managed to conceal and rear at her own peril, were massacred upon

the spot when Ibrahim discovered whom they claimed as father.

Contemporary Arab chroniclers, pondering upon the fierce and gloomy

passions of this man, arrived at the conclusion that he was the subject

of a strange disease, a portentous secretion of black bile producing the

melancholy which impelled him to atrocious crimes. Nor does the

principle on which this diagnosis of his case was founded appear

unreasonable. Ibrahim was a great general, an able ruler, a man of firm

and steady purpose; not a weak and ineffectual libertine whom lust for

blood and lechery had placed below the level of brute beasts. When the

time for his abdication arrived, he threw aside his mantle of state and

donned the mean garb of an Arab devotee, preached a crusade, and led an

army into Italy, where he died of dysentery before the city of Cosenza.

The only way of explaining his eccentric thirst for slaughter is to

suppose that it was a dark monomania, a form of psychopathy analogous to

that which we find in the Maréchal de Retz and the Marquise de

Brinvilliers. One of the most marked symptoms of this disease was the

curiosity which led him to explore the entrails of his victims, and to

feast his eyes upon their quivering hearts. After causing his first

minister Ibn-Semsâma to be beaten to death, he cut his body open, and

with his own knife sliced the brave man's heart. On another occasion he

had 500 prisoners brought before him. Seizing a sharp lance he first

explored the region of the ribs, and then plunged the spear-point into

the heart of each victim in succession. A garland of these hearts was

made and hung up on the gate of Tunis. The Arabs regarded the heart as

the seat of thought in man, the throne of the will, the center of

intellectual existence. In this preoccupation with the hearts of his

victims we may therefore trace the jealousy of human life which Ibrahim

displayed in his murder of pregnant women, as well as a tyrant's fury

against the organ which had sustained his foes in their resistance. We

can only comprehend the combination of sanguinary lust with Ibrahim's

vigorous conduct of civil and military affairs, on the hypothesis that

this man-tiger, as Amari, to whom I owe these details, calls him, was

possessed with a specific madness.

APPENDIX II.

_Nardi, Istorie di Firenze, lib. i. cap. 4._ See Chap. iv. p. 195.

After the freedom regained by the expulsion of the Duke of Athens and

the humbling of the nobles, regularity for the future in the government

might have been expected, since a very great equality among the burghers

had been established in consequence of those troubles. The city too had

been divided into quarters, and the supreme magistracy of the republic

assigned to the eight priors, called _Signori Priori di libertá_,

together with the Gonfalonier of Justice. The eight priors were chosen,

two for each quarter; the Gonfalonier, their chief, differed in no

respect from his colleagues save in precedence of dignity; and as the

fourth part of the honors pertained to the members of the lesser arts,

their turn kept coming round to that quarter to which the Gonfalonier

belonged. This magistracy remained for two whole months, always living

and sleeping in the Palace; in order that, according to the notion of

our ancestors, they might be able to attend with greater diligence to

the affairs of the commonwealth, in concert with their colleagues, who

were the sixteen gonfaloniers of the companies of the people, and the

twelve _buoni uomini_, or special advisers of the Signory. These

magistrates collectively in one body were called the College, or else

the Signory and the Colleagues. After this magistracy came the Senate;

the number of which varied, and the name of which was altered several

times up to the year 1494, according to circumstances. The larger

councils, whose business it was to discuss and make the laws and all

provisions both general and particular, were until that date two; the

one called the Council of the people, formed only by the _cittadini

popolani_, and the other the Council of the Commune, because it embraced

both nobles and plebeians from the-date of the formation of these

councils.[1] The appointment of the magistrates, which of old times and

under the best and most equitable governments was made on the occasion

of each election, in this more modern period was consigned to a special

council called _Squittino_.[2] The mode and act of the election was

termed _Squittinare_, which is equivalent to Scrutinium in the Latin

tongue, because minute investigation was made into the qualities of the

eligible burghers. This method, however, tended greatly to corrupt the

good manners of the city, inasmuch as, the said scrutiny being made

every three or five years, and not on each occasion, as would have been

right, considering the present quality of the burghers and the badness

of the times, those who had once obtained their nomination and been put

into the purses thereto appointed, being certain to arrive some time at

the honors and offices for which they were designed, became careless and

negligent of good customs in their lives. The proper function of the

Gonfaloniers was, in concert with their Gonfalons and companies, to

defend with arms the city from perils foreign and civil, when occasion

rose, and to control the fire-guards specially deputed by that

magistracy in four convenient stations. All the laws and provisions, as

well private as public, proposed by the Signory, had to be approved and

carried by that College, then by the Senate, and lastly by the Councils

named above. Notwithstanding this rule, everything of high importance

pertaining to the state was discussed and carried into execution during

the whole time that the Medici administered the city by the Council

vulgarly called _Balia_, composed of men devoted to that government.

While the Medici held sway, the magistracy of the _Dieci della Guerra_

or of Liberty and Peace were superseded by the _Otto della Pratica_ in

the conduct of all that concerned wars, truces, and treaties of peace,

in obedience to the will of the chief agents of that government. The

_Otto di guardia e balia_ were then as now delegated to criminal

business, but they were appointed by the fore-named Council of Balia,

or rather such authority and commission was assigned them by the

Signory, and this usage was afterwards continued on their entry into

office. Let this suffice upon these matters. Now the burghers who have

the right of discussing and determining the affairs of the republic were

and still are called privileged, _beneficiati_ or _statuali_, of that

quality and condition to which, according to the laws of our city, the

government belongs; in other words they are eligible for office, as

distinguished from those who have not this privilege. Consequently the

_benefiziati_ and _statuali_ of Florence correspond to the

_gentiluomini_ of Venice. Of these burghers there were about 400

families or houses, but at different times the number was larger, and

before the plague of 1527 they made up a total of about 4,000 citizens

eligible for the Consiglio Grande. During the period of freedom between

1494 and 1512 the other or nonprivileged citizens could be elevated to

this rank of enfranchisement according as they were judged worthy by the

Council: at the present time they gain the same distinction by such

merits as may be pleasing to the ruler of the city for the time being:

our commonwealth from the year 1433 having been governed according to

the will of its own citizens, though one faction has from time to time

prevailed over another, and though before that date the republic was

distressed and shaken by the divisions which affected the whole of

Italy, and by many others which are rather to be reckoned as sedition

peculiar and natural to free cities. Seeing that men by good and evil

arts in combination are always striving to attain the summit of human

affairs, together also with the favor of fortune, who ever insists on

having her part in our actions.

[1] Lorenzo de' Medici superseded these two councils by the

Council of the Seventy, without, however, suppressing them.

[2] A corruption of Scrutinio.

_Varchi: Storia Fiorentina, lib. iii. caps. 20, 21, 22._

The whole city of Florence is divided into four quarters, the first of

which takes in the whole of that part which is now called Beyond the

Arno, and the chief church of the district gives it the name of Santo

Spirito. The other three, which embrace all that is called This side the

Arno, also take their names from their chief churches, and are the

Quarters of Sta. Croce, Sta. Maria Novella, and San Giovanni. Each of

these four quarters is divided into four gonfalons, named after the

different animals or other things they carry painted on their ensigns.

The quarter of Santo Spirito includes the gonfalons of the Ladder, the

Shell, the Whip, and the Dragon; that of Santa Croce, the Car, the Ox,

the Golden Lion, and the Wheels; that of Santa Maria Novella, the Viper,

the Unicorn, the Red Lion, and the White Lion; that of San Giovanni, the

Black Lion, the Dragon, the Keys, and the Vair. Now all the households

and families of Florence are included and classified under these four

quarters and sixteen gonfalons, so that there is no burgher of Florence

who does not rank in one of the four quarters and one of the sixteen

gonfalons. Each gonfalon had its standard-bearer, who carried the

standard like captains of bands; and their chief office was to run with

arms whenever they were called by the Gonfalonier of Justice, and to

defend, each under his own ensign, the palace of the Signory, and to

fight for the people's liberty; wherefore they were called Gonfaloniers

of the companies of the people, or, more briefly, from their number, the

Sixteen. Now since they never assembled by themselves alone, seeing that

they could not propose or carry any measure without the Signory, they

were also called the Colleagues, that is, the companions of the Signory,

and their title was venerable. This, after the Signory, was the first

and most honorable magistracy of Florence; and after them came the

Twelve Buonuomini, also called, for the like reason, Colleagues. So the

Signory with the Gonfalonier of Justice, the Sixteen, and the Twelve

were called the Three Greater. No man was said to have the franchise

(_aver lo stato_), and in consequence to frequent the council, or to

exercise any office, whose grandfather or father had not occupied or

been passed for (_seduto o veduto_) one of these three magistracies. To

be passed (_veduto_) Gonfalonier or Colleague meant this: when a man's

name was drawn from the purse of the Gonfaloniers or of the College to

exercise the office of Gonfalonier or Colleague, but by reason of being

below the legal age, or for some other cause, he never sat himself upon

the Board or was in fact Gonfalonier or Colleague, he was then said to

have been passed; and this held good of all the other magistracies of

the city.

It should also be known that all the Florentine burghers were obliged to

rank in one of the twenty-one arts: that is, no one could be a burgher

of Florence unless he or his ancestors had been approved and

matriculated in one of these arts, whether they practiced it or no.

Without the proof of such matriculation he could not be drawn for any

office, or exercise any magistracy, or even have his name put into the

bags. The arts were these: i. Judges and Notaries (for the doctors of

the law were styled of old in Florence Judges); Merchants, or the Arts

of; ii. Calimala,[1] iii. Exchange, iv. Wool; Porta Santa Maria, or the

Arts of; v. Silk; vi. Physicians and Apothecaries; vii. Furriers. The

others were viii. Butchers, ix. Shoemakers, x. Blacksmiths, xi.

Linen-drapers and Clothesmen, xii. Masters, or Masons, and

Stone-cutters, xiii. Vintners, xiv. Innkeepers, xv. Oilsellers,

Pork-butchers, and Rope-makers, xvi. Hosiers, xvii. Armorers, xviii.

Locksmiths, xix. Saddlers, xx. Carpenters, xxi. Bakers. The last

fourteen were called Lesser Arts; whoever was enrolled or matriculated

into one of these was said to rank with the lesser (_andare per la

minore_); and though there were in Florence many other trades than

these, yet having no guild of their own they were associated to one or

other of those that I have named. Each art had, as may still be seen, a

house or mansion, large and noble, where they assembled, appointed

officers, and gave account of debit and credit to all the members of the

guild.[2] In processions and other public assemblies the heads (for so

the chiefs of the several arts were called) had their place and

precedence in order. Moreover, these arts at first had each an ensign

for the defense, on occasion, of liberty with arms. Their origin was

when the people in 1282 overcame the nobles (_Grandi_), and passed the

Ordinances of Justice against them, whereby no nobleman could exercise

any magistracy; so that such of the patricians as desired to be able to

hold office had to enter the ranks of the people, as did many great

houses of quality, and matriculate into one of the arts. Which thing,

while it partly allayed the civil strife of Florence, almost wholly

extinguished all noble feeling in the souls of the Florentines; and the

power and haughtiness of the city were no less abated than the insolence

and pride of the nobles, who since then have never lifted up their heads

again. These arts, the greater as well as the lesser, have varied in

numbers at different times; and often have not only been rivals, but

even foes, among themselves; so much so that the lesser arts once got it

passed that the Gonfalonier should be appointed only from their body.

Yet after long dispute it was finally settled that the Gonfalonier could

not be chosen from the lesser, but that he should always rank with the

greater, and that in all other offices and magistracies, the lesser

should always have a fourth and no more. Consequently, of the eight

Priors, two were always of the lesser; of the Twelve, three; of the

Sixteen, four; and so on through all the magistracies.

[1] The name Calimala was given to a trade in cloth carried on

at Florence by merchants who bought rough goods in France,

Flanders, and England, and manufactured them into more delicate

materials.

[2] Marco Foscari, quoted lower down, estimates the property

the Arts at 200,000 ducats.

As a consequence from what has been said, it is easy to perceive that

all the inhabitants of Florence (by inhabitants I mean those only who

are really settled there, for of strangers, who are passing or

sojourning a while, we need not here take any account) are of two sorts.

The one class are liable to taxation in Florence, that is, they pay

tithes of their goods and are inscribed upon the books of the Commune,

and these are called contributors. The others are not taxed nor

inscribed upon the registers of the Commune, inasmuch as they do not pay

the tithes or other ordinary imposts; and these are called

non-contributors: who, seeing that they live by their hands, and carry

on mechanical arts and the vilest trades, should be called plebeians;

and though they have ruled Florence more than once, ought not even to

entertain a thought about public affairs in a well-governed state. The

contributors are of two sorts: for some, while they pay the taxes, do

not enjoy the citizenship (_i.e._ cannot attend the council or take any

office); either because none of their ancestors, and in particular their

father or their grandfather, has sat or been passed for any of the three

greater magistracies; or else because they have not had themselves

submitted to the scrutiny,[1] or, if they have advanced so far, have not

been approved and nominated for office. These are indeed entitled

citizens: but he who knows what a citizen is really, knows also that,

being unable to share either the honors or the advantages of the city,

they are not truly citizens; therefore let us call them burghers,

without franchise. Those again who pay taxes and enjoy the citizenship

(whom we will therefore call enfranchised burghers) are in like manner

of two kinds. The one class, inscribed and matriculated into one of the

seven first arts, are said to rank with the greater; whence we may call

them Burghers of the Greater: the others, inscribed and matriculated

into the fourteen lesser arts, are said to rank with the lesser; whence

we may call them Burghers of the Lesser. This distinction had the

Romans, but not for the same reason.

_Varchi: Storia Fiorentina, lib. ix. chs. 48, 49, 46._

As for natural abilities, I for my part cannot believe that any one

either could or ought to doubt that the Florentines, even if they do

not excel all other nations, are at least inferior to none in those

things to which they give their minds. In trade, whereon of a truth

their city is founded, and wherein their industry is chiefly exercised,

they ever have been and still are reckoned not less trusty and true than

great and prudent: but besides trade, it is clear that the three most

noble arts of painting, sculpture, and architecture have reached that

degree of supreme excellence in which we find them now, chiefly by the

toil and by the skill of the Florentines, who have beautified and

adorned not only their own city but also very many others, with great

glory and no small profit to themselves and to their country. And,

seeing that the fear of being held a flatterer should not prevent me

from testifying to the truth, though this will turn to the highest fame

and honor of my lords and patrons, I say that all Italy, nay the whole

world, owes it solely to the judgment and the generosity of the Medici

that Greek letters were not extinguished to the great injury of the

human race, and that Latin literature was restored to the incalculable

profit of all men.

[1] For an explanation of _Squittino_ and _Squittinare_, see

Nardi, p. 593 above.

I am wholly of opinion opposed to that of some, who, because the

Florentines are merchants, hold them for neither noble nor

high-spirited, but for tame and low.[1] On the contrary, I have often

wondered with myself how it could be that men who have been used from

their childhood upwards for a paltry profit to carry bales of wool and

baskets of silk like porters, and to stand like slaves all day and great

part of the night at the loom, could summon, when and where was need,

such greatness of soul, such high and haughty thoughts, that they have

wit and heart to say and do those many noble things we know of them.

Pondering on the causes of which, I find none truer than this, that the

Florentine climate, between the fine air of Arezzo and the thick air of

Pisa, infuses into their breasts the temperament of which I spoke. And

whoso shall well consider the nature and the ways of the Florentines,

will find them born more apt to rule than to obey. Nor would it be

easily believed how much was gained for the youth of Florence by the

institution of the militia; for whereas many of the young men, heedless

of the commonwealth and careless of themselves, used to spend all the

day in idleness, hanging about places of public resort, girding at one

another, or talking scandal of the passers by, they immediately, like

beasts by some benevolent Circe transformed again to men, gave all their

heart and soul, regardless of peril or loss, to gaining fame and honor

for themselves, and liberty and safety for their country. I do not by

what I have been saying mean to deny that among the Florentines may be

found men proud, ambitious, and greedy of gain; for vices will exist as

long as human nature lasts: nay, rather, the ungrateful, the envious,

the malicious, and the evil-minded among them are so in the highest

degree, just as the virtuous are supremely virtuous. It is indeed a

common proverb that Florentine brains have no mean either way; the fools

are exceeding simple, and the wise exceeding prudent.

[1] Compare, however, Varchi, quoted above, p. 243. The Report

of Marco Foscari, _Relazioni Venete_, series ii, vol. i. p. 9

et seq., contains a remarkable estimate of the Florentine

character. He attributes the timidity and weakness which he

observes in the Florentines to their mercantile habits, and

notices, precisely what Varchi here observes with admiration:

'li primi che governano lo stato vanno alle loro botteghe di

seta, e gittati li lembi del mantello sopra le spalle, pongonsi

alia caviglia e lavorano pubblicamente che ognuno li vede; ed i

figliuoli loro stanno in bottega con li grembiuli dinanzi, e

portano il sacco e le sporte alle maestre con la seta e fanno

gli altri esercizi di bottega.' A strong aristocratic prejudice

transpires in every line. This report was written early in

1527. The events of the Siege must have surprised Marco

Foscari. He notices among other things, as a source of

weakness, the country villas which were all within a few months

destroyed by their armies for the public good.