On, those days of happiness, how soon they come to an end! Poets and
philosophers have attempted in vain to convey to the mind by figures
and by argument the brevity of enjoyment, and the great master only
came near the truth when he declared it was--
"Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
That in a spleen unfolds both heaven and earth,
And ere a man hath power to say--Behold!
The jaws of darkness do devour it up."
Enjoyment is the most brief of all things, for its very nature is to
destroy time. Like the fabled monster of one of the Indian tribes--we
drink up the waters in which we float, and leave ourselves at last on
a dry and arid shore. But if enjoyment be so transient, hope is
permanent. Well did the ancients represent her as lingering behind
after all else had flown out of the casket of Pandora. She does linger
still in the casket of every human heart, whether it be joys or evils
that pass away.
"Quando il miser dispera
La speranza parla e dice,
Sta su, tienti, vivi, e spera
Che sarai ancor felice.
* * * *
"Ogni casa al mondo manca
La speranza mai si perde."
So sang Serafino l'Aquilano, a poet of the days of Lorenzo and
Leonora, and for a time at least they found the song true.
Hope remained after happiness had passed; but yet how bright were
those days and nights of happiness which the two young lovers passed
in Florence!
Are you old enough to have forgotten, reader, how, in your early
youth, you deified the object of your love? How her very presence
seemed to spread an atmosphere of joy around her? How her look was
sunshine and her voice the song of a seraph? Can you remember it? Then
think what must have been the feelings of Lorenzo Visconti and
Leonora d'Orco, at an age when the fire of passion is the brightest,
because the purest--where all those attributes of beauty, and
grace, and excellence with which imagination is wont to invest the
beloved objects were really present, and when the fancy of the heart
spread her wings from a higher point than she commonly can find on
earth. Think what must have been their feelings when in a lovely
climate, amidst beautiful scenes, in a land of song, where the
treasures of ancient and of modern art were just beginning to unfold
themselves--the one issuing from the darkness of the past, the other
dawning through the twilight of the future; think what must have been
their feelings, when, in such scenes and with such accessories to the
loving loveliness in their own hearts, they were suffered, almost
unrestrained, to enjoy each other's society to the full, when and
where they liked.
The old cardinal, plunged deep in politics and worldly schemes and
passions, took little heed of them. Mona Francesca was no restraint
upon them. Sometimes in long rambles by the banks of the Arno,
sometimes mingling with the gay masked multitudes that thronged the
streets on the clear soft autumnal nights, sometimes seated in the
beautiful gardens of the city of flowers, sometimes reposing in the
luxurious apartments of the Casa Morelli, the days and greater part of
the nights were passed during the stay of the French army in Florence.
It was a dream of joy, and it passed as a dream.
Gradually, however, the shadow stole over the sunshine. The day for
the march was named, and came nearer and nearer. Lorenzo had to go on,
fighting his way with the forces of the king; Leonora was to remain
behind in Florence. They were to part, in short; and the sorrow of
parting came upon them. But then there was hope--hope singing her
eternal song of cheering melody, picturing the coming time when a
bright reunion would wipe out the very memory of sorrow, and when,
perhaps, the link of their fate might be riveted too firmly for any
future separation. The old cardinal encouraged the idea, and promised
to give the blessing on their union, and Mona Francesca sighed, and
thought, perhaps, matrimony the next happiest state to widowhood.
The day came: the last parting embrace was given--the last, long
clinging kiss was taken--the last wave of the hand, as the troop filed
down the street, and then Leonora d'Orco was left to the solitude of
her own thoughts. The multitude of turbulent emotions which had
thrilled through her heart were all still. It was as when a gay crowd
that has been laughing, and singing, and revelling, suddenly departs
and leaves the scene of rejoicing all silent and solitary. The words
of Leonardo da Vinci's song came back to her mind--
"Oft have I wept for joys too soon possessed!"
And retiring to her own chamber she gave way to very natural tears.
Nor were they soon over, nor was the emotion in which they arose
transient. Nothing was evanescent in the character of Leonora d'Orco.
Even young as she was, all was deep, strong, and permanent.
But I must leave her alone for the present with her tears, or with the
sadness that followed them, and proceed with Lorenzo Visconti on the
march towards Rome and Naples; not that I intend to dwell upon battles
or sieges, intrigues or negotiations; but I merely purpose to give a
slight sketch of the historical events that followed, with one or two
detached scenes more in detail, where public transactions affected the
fate of those of whom I write. With audacity bordering upon folly,
Charles VIII. advanced rapidly upon Rome, without having taken any
efficient steps to guard his communications with France. Each step
rendered his position more perilous, and had there been anything like
unity amongst the Italian princes or states it is probable that
neither the King of France nor his gallant army would ever have seen
Paris again. The pope, too, thundered at him from the Vatican,
admitted Neapolitan troops into Rome, and endeavoured to raise the
partisans of the Church in the imperial city, to aid him in repelling
the advancing enemy. But Alexander found no support. No one loved, no
one respected him, and his call upon the citizens was made in vain.
On, step by step, the French monarch advanced, but, as he neared the
city, which had once been the capital of the world, a degree of
uncertainty came over him, and discord manifested itself in his
council. The Cardinal of St. Peter's urged him strongly to depose the
monster whose brow defiled the tiara; several other bishops and
cardinals joined in the demand. Some of the stern old military men,
too, argued on the same side, but the smooth Bishop of St. Malo and
many of the king's lay-counsellors recommended negotiation; advised
that the march of the army should be retarded or stopped, and that
skilful diplomatists should be sent forward to treat for peaceful
admission into Rome.
An eminent position is a curse for the weak, and a peril for the
strong. Till we can see into the hearts of men, no king can ever know
the secret motives, the dark selfishness, the pitiful objects, the
vain, the mercenary, the ambitious ends which lie at the bottom of all
the advice, and every suggestion they receive. We see the honest and
the true neglected; we see the noble and the wise make shipwreck, and
we know not whence it comes. The man who would map out the currents of
the ocean would confer a signal benefit upon his race and accomplish a
most laborious task; but he who would trace and expose all the
under-currents of a court would undertake a more herculean enterprise
still. Nor can the wisest and the best of those who rule the destinies
of men escape such pernicious influences. They can but judge by what
they see, while it is what they do not see which is bearing them
wrong. They may consult the magnet or the pole-star; they may reckon
closely and well, but they can neither calculate nor perceive those
undercurrents which are bearing them upon the shoals or rocks of
injustice or of danger. Nor are they in most cases to blame. Suffice
it, if in regard to great and plain facts where there can be no
deceit, their unassisted judgment leads them right. I myself,
accustomed to courts, have seen the wisest, the very firmest of men
misled to do small acts of wrong to their most deserving of friends.
Could I blame them even if I myself suffered? Oh, no! The whispered
word, the well-improved opportunity, the casual insinuation--all the
arts which the noble will not stoop to practise, are engines in the
hands of the crafty, which will blind the clearest eye, deceive the
most perspicacious mind.
How much more allowance should be made for a young, inexperienced, and
half-educated monarch like Charles VIII. if he did not discover that
the hope of a cardinal but swayed Breconnel in his advice; that this
counsellor had been promised a sum of money; or that had hopes of a
castle or an estate in Romagna; that one aimed at being prothonotary;
or another an archdeacon of the Roman hierarchy. All these things were
going on in his court and camp, and all these influenced the advice he
received; but how could he know it?
The party of the negotiators succeeded. Charles sent envoys into Rome.
to treat with Alexander. They went away full of confidence; they told
the king that in a few days they would return with all the
stipulations he required, assented to. What was his surprise to hear
that his envoys had been arrested, two thrown into prison, and two
given up to the Neapolitan troops which were in the city.
Rage and indignation took possession of him, and he gave orders that
the army should march the next morning; but there were still peaceful
counsellors near at hand; the march was put off till next day, and
before that hour the news arrived that two of the envoys had been set
free. Two, however, were still detained, and the further advance of
the army began.
Still Alexander vacillated and hesitated, now giving way to bursts of
furious passion, now yielding to immoderate terror; but that
vacillation had now to give way. A military envoy appeared at the
court of the sovereign pontiff, and with very little ceremony
delivered his message in the presence of Ferdinand, the young prince
of Naples, who stood at Alexander's right hand.
"What have you to say, Signor de Vitry?" asked the pope, affecting a
tone of calmness which he was far from feeling.
"Merely this, Holiness," answered Vitry, "the army of my Sovereign
Lord the King of France is within an hour's march of the walls; he
desires to know if you are prepared to receive him within them. The
day is nearly spent; he will have no time to force the gates to-night,
and the men must be lodged somewhere."
Alexander trembled--partly, perhaps, with rage, but certainly with
fear also. He looked to the Prince of Naples; he looked to his son,
the Cardinal Borgia, upon whose handsome lips there was a sort of
serpent smile; but no one ventured to utter one word of advice, till
Ramiro d'Orco slowly approached his chair, and spoke a few words in a
low tone.
"Well," said the pontiff, "tell the King of France, that I will not
oppose his entrance. The Church does not seek to drive even her
disobedient children to sacrilege. For myself, I will make no
treaty--no stipulation with one who can disregard the repeated
injunctions he has received. But for this young prince and his forces
I demand a safe conduct."
"Not for me, your Holiness," said Ferdinand, raising his head proudly.
"I need none. My sword is my safe conduct, and I will have no other."
"Then my errand is sped," said De Vitry. "I understand there will be
no opposition to the king's entrance?"
The pontiff bowed his head with the single word, "None," and the envoy
retired from his presence and from the city.
"And now to St. Angelo with all speed," cried Alexander. "Quick,
Burchard, quick. Let all the valuables be gathered together and
carried to the castle. Come, Cæsar--come, my son, and bring all the
men you can find with you. The place is well provisioned already;" and
he left the room without bestowing another word upon the young Prince
of Naples.
Ferdinand paused a moment in deep thought, and then, with a heavy
sigh, quitted the Vatican. Half an hour after he marched out of Rome
at the head of a few thousand men, and beheld, by the fading light,
the splendid host of the king who was marching to strip his father
and himself of their dominions, winding onward--like a glittering
snake--towards the gates of Rome.
Here, as at Florence, the fouriers and harbingers of the monarch rode
on before the rest of the army, and passed rapidly through the ancient
streets filled with the memories of so many ages, marking out quarters
for the troops and lodgings for the king and his court. They took no
heed to triumphal arch, or broken statue, or ruined amphitheatre; but
they marked the faces of the populace who thronged the streets and
gathered thickly at the gates, and they saw a very different
expression on those countenances from that which had appeared amongst
the Tuscans. To the Romans Charles came as a deliverer, and an
occasional shout of gratulation burst from the people as the strange
horsemen passed. Hasty preparations only could be made, for the royal
army was close behind, and just after sunset on the last day of the
year 1494, the French army reached the gates of Rome. Those gates were
thrown wide open; and shout after shout burst from the multitude as
the men-at-arms poured in. Charles himself was at their head, armed
cap-à-pie; "with his lance upon his thigh," says an eye-witness, "as
if prepared for battle." The drums beat, the trumpet sounded; and
every tenth man of the army carried a torch casting its red glare upon
the dazzling arms and gorgeous surcoats of the cavalry, and upon the
eager but joyous faces round. Shout after shout burst from the
multitude; and thus, as a conqueror, Charles entered Rome.