Gian Galeazzo’s three sons by Isabella of Valois had died in infancy, leaving him with one daughter only, Valentina, whom in 1387 he had married to the Duke of Orleans, brother of Charles VI. of France, an alliance of immense immediate advantage to the Visconti, but of fatal issue for Milan and Italy generally, in days beyond even his far vision. After some years of marriage, his second wife, Caterina Visconte, had borne him a son, whom he had named Giovanni Maria, decreeing that every one of his descendants should thenceforth bear the name of Maria, as a token of his gratitude to the Virgin, to whose intercession he attributed the birth of his heir. A second son, Filippo Maria, was born later. At the time of the Duke’s death the elder was only fourteen, and the younger ten. In addition to their youth, they had the enduring disadvantage of issuing from parents both of the same stock, which already, in the ferocity and capriciousness of BernabÒ and the physical timidity and weakness of Gian Galeazzo himself, had shown signs of vitiation. This taint in the blood became in Giovanni Maria a moral disease, amounting to mania, and in his brother an exaggerated misanthropy and timidity.

Giovanni Maria succeeded to the dukedom, and Filippo became by his father’s will Count of Pavia, which had been erected into an appanage of the sovereign House. The charge of the young Duke’s person and state immediately became the object of a wild scramble among the different parties in the city. The dead man’s will, appointing his widow regent, was utterly disregarded, and she and her adviser, Francesco Barbavara, were driven out by Estorre and Carlo Visconte, two of BernabÒ’s sons, who now reappeared after long exile, hoping to recover their heritage. The Duchess died in 1404, poisoned, it was believed, by her son. But this unhappy lady, who had seen her father entrapped and murdered and her whole family ruined by her husband, and whose sons were now helpless in the hands of robbers and foes—who had been driven hither and thither in the whirl of faction and was already paralytic—might well sink beneath her sorrows, without the help of this unnatural crime, which there seems to have been no better reason than his general wickedness for laying to the young Duke’s charge.

Meanwhile BernabÒ’s sons were swept away by other faction leaders, to return and be again overthrown, as the fortunes of the struggle surged backwards and forwards. One after another of Gian Galeazzo’s great captains snatched and held the city for a time. Now Ottobuono Terzo—now Carlo Malatesta—now Facino Cane, the most famous of them all, ruled in the name of the utterly incapable Prince, while out of the ruins of Gian Galeazzo’s vast State, which Venice, Florence and the Church had hastened to dismember, each faithless governor seized some remaining fragment wherewith to create a small independent dominion for himself. Thus while the great Duke’s conquests, further off, were quickly lost, cities close to the capital and long subject to the Visconti fell to these lesser depredators. Pavia and other towns were captured by Facino Cane, who kept the young Filippo a virtual prisoner, and Monza became the stronghold of Estorre Visconte and his spirited sister Valentina.

The confusion and struggle in Milan continued throughout the ten years of Giovanmaria’s reign. The condition of the city was lamentable. Peace and order were destroyed, and the names of Guelf and Ghibelline were heard again in the streets, inflaming household against household and awakening the horrors of civil war. The Duke made no attempt to rule for himself. His only share in the government was the execution of State prisoners, whom he caused to be torn to pieces, under his own eyes, by dogs trained for the purpose. The extraordinary passion for dogs, together with the hatred of humankind, visible in BernabÒ and others of the Visconti, had become an extravagant ferocity in this degenerate member of the race. The story of Milan during his reign is like some dreadful dream, in which, when sleep has fallen on the incessant riots and fighting, through the darkness of the night stalk the awful figures of the maniac Prince, gloating in his sport, and his huntsman, Squarcia Giramo, beside him, with their terrible hounds in leash, on the scent of human blood.

The Duke’s appetite for blood was rewarded with Dantesque fitness. He died in 1412, suffocated in his own blood in the precincts of the palace, under the daggers of three Milanese nobles, who had sworn to rid the world of a monster, and his body, lying in its blood in the Cathedral, whither it had been carried and left alone by the general horror, had for its only pall blood-red roses strewn upon it by a harlot.

At the moment of Giovanmaria’s murder, Facino Cane, who for some years had dominated Milan, lay on his death-bed. Filippo Maria Visconte, whose youth had passed in confinement at Pavia, now found himself at one stroke free, and in nominal possession at least of the Dukedom. He was twenty years old. The astute young man’s first step was to marry Beatrice Tenda, Facino’s widow, through whom he became at once master of Pavia and the State which the Condottiere had conquered for himself, and of Facino’s fine army and immense treasure. He then led his troops to Milan, where his entry was opposed by Estorre Visconte and a strong faction. The great stronghold of Porta Giovia was, however, held for the legitimate prince by the Castellan, Vincenzo Marliano, who roused the citizens against Estorre. That brave soldier, the Hector of his race, was overthrown, and he and his nephew Giovanni Carlo, with all their supporters, were compelled to fly after a few days. The young Duke marched in without opposition and was received with enthusiasm by the people.

The city felt at once the presence of a master. Order was restored, factions calmed, peaceful industry protected, and punishment inflicted on Giovanmaria’s murderers. Filippo proceeded to engage the most successful Condottieri of the day to defend and restore his State, seconding their valour and generalship in the field by the most careful and industrious diplomacy in every Court of Italy and the principal European kingdoms. The rebel Visconti were subdued by the death of Estorre and the surrender of Monza (1412), which the brave Valentina relinquished, making honourable terms for herself and the remaining descendants of BernabÒ. Lodi, Como, Piacenza and Brescia were recovered in the course of a few years, and in 1422 Genoa was won. Filippo’s rapid progress awakened the old terror of the Snake once again in Italy. The third Duke of Milan had indeed many of the successful qualities of his race, the craft, the patience, the untiring industry. But they were vitiated by his timidity of mind and body, which made him both suspicious and superstitious. Supremely perfidious himself, he dared trust no man, and constantly laid snares for his own agents, and ended by falling into them himself. Thus in 1424, fearful of the glory of his great general, Carmagnola, who had been the chief means of restoring his fortunes, he offended and alienated the Condottiere, with disastrous consequences. In his fear and dislike of all men he shut himself up in the innermost recesses of the Castle of Porta Giovia, and maintained as many precautions as if he dwelt in a city of traitors. He tolerated few persons around him, except his astrologers, who ruled him through his fears. He dared take no step without consulting them. He was never seen by his subjects except upon some rare State occasion, surrounded by guards, or when some peasant, working in the solitary fields, spied him slipping hastily in his barge along the canals between Milan and his favourite country palace of Abbiategrasso.

This dark habit of life made him odious to the sunny-tempered Milanese. They shuddered at this pale fat man, who increased their horror by condemning his own wife to death in 1418. To Beatrice Tenda and her vast dowry Filippo owed almost entirely his possession of the Dukedom. Her years much exceeded her second husband’s, though the Duke, like his father, had never been young. Because he was tired of her, or because she was cross and avaricious, as the chroniclers variously aver, or more probably because she had served her purpose and was no longer of any use to him, Filippo accused her of infidelity. She was arrested and carried to the Castle of Binasco, together with her supposed lover, a handsome young knight, Michele Orombello, who had solaced her dreary existence with his skill upon the lute, and after having resisted torture inflicted to make her confess herself guilty, she was beheaded. Orombello and two of her ladies shared her fate. Ten years later the Duke married, for political reasons, the Princess Maria of Savoy. This poor lady was hardly less to be pitied than Beatrice. The Duke neglected her himself, yet jealously kept her secluded from all but her own women, allowing no man to appear in her presence. Meanwhile Agnese del Maino, the lady who had secured the tyrant’s affections, reigned in the Castle as his wife in all but name. Filippo’s love for Agnese, a woman of spirit and culture, and his devotion to the daughter she bore him, his only child, Bianca Maria, were human traits in his otherwise unamiable character. Though no lover of learning, Filippo continued, as much as circumstances allowed, the Viscontean patronage of culture and letters, the tradition that had descended from his ancestors, the hosts of Petrarca. He kept up the University of Pavia and called great scholars to its chairs. The celebrated humanist, Pier Candido Decembrio, was for many years his secretary. He employed artists of renown, including Brunelleschi and Pisanello, in various works. To his daughter the Duke was careful to give the scholarly training which with the revival of learning had become a necessary ornament for the women as well as the men of the great Italian Houses, and Bianca Maria added the accomplishments of Latin and Greek to the beauty and spirit with which nature had endowed her.

But the Duke had neither means nor leisure amid the struggles of his ambition and the pressure of his fears for much attention to the peaceful arts. He was entirely occupied in redeeming his heritage and preserving it from the greed of Venice, the inveterate hate of Florence, the envy of the smaller States, and, from what he feared most of all, the ambition and intrigues of the Condottieri in his own employ. The fortunes of Italy were now, in fact, in the hands of the great military adventurers. After a century and a half of physical lassitude, during which her wars had been carried on by foreign mercenaries, she had bred a race of warriors who had learnt their craft so well in the camps of the German and English Condottieri that they had now superseded the foreigners. With hosts of trained and disciplined soldiers at their command, who knew no faith except to their leader, they took service now with one sovereign, now with another, and with their fickle arms and policy made and unmade States at their will. Facino Cane and Jacopo dal Verme had already played their parts, to the disruption of the Milanese State. Carmagnolo, after serving Duke Filippo for many years, went over to Venice, and for long balanced the two States one against the other, by his crafty conduct of the war, till he fell a victim to the superior cunning of the Doge and his councillors in 1432. And now, in the midst of the noise of battle and the ferment of intrigue, in which all the years of Duke Filippo were wrapped, the great name of Sforza is first heard in Milanese story.

With the first Sforza and his son Francesco on the one side, and Braccio Montone and NiccolÒ Piccinino on the other, the age of the Condottieri culminated. The whole of Italy was plunged into strife by these great leaders, in whom the old faction divisions of the country were revived, and cities and States split up once again into hostile parties, Guelfs and Ghibellines reappearing under the new names of Sforzeschi and Bracceschi. These rival forces were at once the salvation and the torment of Duke Filippo. The hope of succeeding to the heirless man’s dominions—an elevation not beyond the attainment of an obscurely born individual, in an age and country in which men made themselves, and everything was possible to strength and ability—was a bait which drew them to his service; and with all his cunning and perfidious diplomacy he manipulated them for his own advantage, pitting them against each other, now encouraging one, now compassing his downfall by means of another. But they, too, were cunning. It was a game of wits, and Filippo often found himself outdone. Yet to the very end, though plagued, cajoled and defeated on all sides, he succeeded in circumventing all the efforts of either party to seat itself securely in Milan, preferring, with his strange spite towards mankind, to leave his kingdom to anarchy rather than adopt an heir.

In spite of him, however, destiny had raised up in a rustic race hailing from Cotignola, in the Romagna, a regenerator for the worn-out tyranny of the Visconti. Muzio Attendolo, the founder of the Sforza family, is pictured by legend as a peasant boy, who, when twelve years old, flung his woodman’s axe into a tree, and ran away to the wars. He appears to have been really the son of a small landowner, rich only in the possession of a progeny mighty in number and in strength. The name of Sforza is said to have attached itself to him, in consequence of some signal effort of his extraordinary strength and will. These qualities, joined to his great energy, raised him to the highest military fame. His life was chiefly spent in the wars of Naples and the Church, but he had just accepted service with the Duke of Milan, when one day he plunged into a swollen river, under the arrows of the enemy, to save a drowning boy, and sank beneath the weight of his armour (1424).

His son, Francesco, though only twenty-two, took command of his army, and soon showed equal valour and much greater ability. Engaged, in 1425, by Duke Filippo, he rapidly became a power in Milan, where he struggled with the rival Condottiere, NiccolÒ Piccinino, for supremacy in the councils of the Prince, and in the favour of the people. In 1432, Filippo gave him the highest mark of favour by promising him the hand of Bianca Maria, and with all solemnity the little girl of eight years old was betrothed to the great general. But no sooner had the Duke thus exalted Sforza, than he hastened to depress and humiliate him in every way. NiccolÒ Piccinino was given the chief command of the Visconte’s forces, and Francesco was fain at the time to abandon Milan, and his hopes of eventually possessing the Dukedom in his promised wife’s right, and to accept the standard of Pope Eugenius IV., Filippo’s bitter enemy. For many years the brilliant genius of Piccinino and the subtlety of the Duke were victorious over all enemies, and baffled every effort of Sforza to obtain his little princess and regain his footing in Milan. The climax of Filippo’s success came in 1435, when his Genoese fleet defeated the Neapolitans at Gaeta, and brought back captive the Kings of Naples and Navarre and a great company of lords and gentlemen. The Duke on this occasion completely belied his usual character and astonished the whole world by his kingly spirit. He received the two monarchs with the utmost honour, and immediately granted them their freedom. Moreover, he entertained them and their trains for a whole month, with great splendour and a joyous festivity, rare indeed in Milan during his reign. His generosity was doubtless calculated; in Alfonso of Naples he disarmed an enemy and made a lasting friend, and by cunningly rousing in that monarch a hope of succeeding to the Milanese state, he raised up an aspirant who might be useful as a weapon against the conflicting pretensions of Piccinino and Sforza.

Before long, however, fortune turned against the Duke. Sforza, at the head of the League of Venice, Florence and the Church, routed his generals and captured his provinces and cities. In this predicament, Filippo appealed to the great Condottiere’s ambition, and allured him once more by offering him his bride at last with a rich dowry of territory and gold. Francesco thereupon ceased to press the attack upon him, and the war became little more than a languid pretence. Having thus nonplussed his foes, who were completely dependent on the caprice of their general, the Duke, with his interminable negotiations, continually delayed the accomplishment of his promise, and meanwhile secretly endeavoured in every way to entangle and overthrow Francesco. In this he was only baffled by the almost equal craft and caution of his would-be son-in-law.

But as time went on, the Duke began to grow old and to weary of the eternal struggle. He was oppressed with languor and excessive fat. The fear of total blindness came upon him. Nearly all Italy was armed against him. The parties in the State grew ever more clamorous, his captains more unmanageable. Each of the latter seized upon one of his cities and domineered over it as its Lord. Disasters accumulated upon him in the field. Piccinino’s daring raid into Florentine territory, in 1439-40, ended in the great defeat of Anghiari, and Sforza, enraged by the Duke’s duplicity, was capturing his cities for the League and devastating his territories far and wide. Meanwhile, the peace which all Italy sighed for was delayed by the great Condottiere, who, having triumphed over all his rivals, would not sheath his sword till he had secured Bianca Maria and the enormous dowry which he demanded with her. At last, yielding to the persuasion of his only friend, NiccolÒ III. of Ferrara, the general peacemaker, Filippo agreed to the marriage, and the maiden of seventeen was conducted to the city of Cremona, which was to be her rich portion, by the fatherly Marquis NiccolÒ, and there wedded to her mature bridegroom.

Sforza’s purpose was, however, only half accomplished. Though the lady was won, the Dukedom remained to be secured. But he had to reckon with his father-in-law’s antipathy, doubtless originating in a deep-seated pride of race, and also with the hostile party—led by NiccolÒ Piccinino and his sons—which was all-powerful in Milan and virtually ruled the now decrepit Filippo. The Milanese armies before long moved once more against Sforza, who retaliated by accepting the command of the Venetian forces and carrying fire and sword right up to the walls of Milan. The terrified Filippo was compelled to seek reconciliation with his offended son-in-law, and to the chagrin of Venice, Sforza abandoned her side in the hour of success and rapidly won back for the Visconte the Milanese territories which he had just conquered for the Republic. At this juncture the Duke, plagued by the irreconcilable importunities of the two parties, used the only resource left to him wherewith to baffle them both. Without confirming his promises to Sforza he fell sick, and, obstinately refusing all remedies, let himself die (1447), reiterating with his last breath a wish that after his death everything might fall to ruin.

And so it did. The city was immediately plunged into confusion and uproar. Pretenders sprang up on every side, and the old faction trouble threatened to overwhelm all order. The cities subject to Milan rebelled, and once more the great State of the Visconti broke up into independent fragments. Meanwhile, in the midst of the tumult in the capital itself, the beautiful word Liberty, still remembered from the glorious days of Milan’s Republican freedom, was breathed by a few noble and disinterested citizens. It was acclaimed by the people, who thought it meant relief from taxation, and was accepted by the various factions, each hoping to make profit out of it. Amid enormous enthusiasm the Golden Republic of St. Ambrogio was constituted, and the supreme authority delegated to a few leading men, who were called Captains and Defenders of the Liberty of Milan.

The first act of the Republic was to sweep away the Castle of Porta Giovia, stronghold and symbol of hated tyranny. The people exulted to see it fall, but many thoughtful men, remembering the predatories who coveted the rich city, were dismayed. Nor did the new Constitution prosper. The Milanese had lost all capacity for self-government under the long-continued despotism of the Visconti. ‘Nothing could make Milan free,’ pronounced Macchiavelli later, ‘being altogether corrupt, as was seen after the death of Filippo Visconte, when desiring to establish liberty she neither was able, nor knew how, to maintain it.’ The tyranny of hostile factions triumphed over the best intentions of the Republicans, and the thoughtless people arrayed themselves one against another, behind leaders whose only aim was to subjugate them. Those who had really pure motives were drawn hopelessly into the whirlpool, and the Defenders of Liberty oppressed each other, and the citizens generally, with every cruelty and injustice.

Meanwhile the Duchy was claimed by the Guelf party for Alfonso of Aragon, on the strength of a will which his supporters had extracted from the dying Filippo. A pretension—first threat of the misfortune that was to fall later on Milan—was also advanced by the Duke of Orleans, son of Filippo’s sister, Valentina Visconte. The Emperor claimed the Duchy as a vacant fief. More dangerous than any of these pretenders was Venice, greedy to extend her empire. But strongest of all was the resolution of Francesco Sforza, who mended the flaw of illegitimacy in his wife’s claim by the strength of his good sword. General of the Milanese armies at Filippo’s death, he used his power to defend the State from the attacks of Venice, and to subdue it gradually to his own sway. But his enemies were strong. The Piccinini, Francesco and Jacopo, warred against him with arms and intrigue, in alliance with the old Guelf faction. They held Milan against him, but their councils were confused by passion and divisions, and the great general drew steadily nearer to the city. He defeated the Piccinini in the field, and outwitted their perfidious diplomacy with an equal craft. He leagued with Venice and Florence against the new Republic, defeated the Duke of Savoy, whom Filippo’s widow, Maria of Savoy, had enlisted against him, and cutting Milan off from all friends or help, laid siege to the capital itself.

Yet still the citizens clung to their illusion of liberty, and obstinately refused to submit to a new master. Amid fierce tumult they appointed fresh magistrates from the lowest ranks, persecuted and proscribed the nobles, and put an enormous price on the head of the ‘perfidious’ Francesco Sforza, decreeing death to any who breathed his name without a curse. But their resolution was useless. For some time they kept the invader at bay with great spirit, aided by his party foes; but the death of Francesco Piccinino at this juncture was a serious blow to the defence. All trade was stopped by the siege, and general ruin threatened this community, long used to wealth and ease. The city was now reduced to grievous straits by famine. The desperate struggles of the democratic leaders, Gio. Ossona and Gio. da Appiano, to maintain their rule by blood and torture in the face of the growing discontent and the ceaseless intrigues of Sforza’s partisans, made them odious to all. Tumults broke out, and everywhere, says Corio, were heard lamentations, weeping and cries. The Captains of Liberty were no longer feared or obeyed. When in desperation they began to parley with Venice, the citizens unanimously agreed that submission to Sforza was a lesser evil than falling into the jaws of San Marco, and a rising of Ghibellines and friends of the Condottiere succeeded in sweeping away the Republic of St. Ambrogio, and opening the gates at last to the victorious Francesco, and to a new era of peace, prosperity and servitude (1450).

Amid the wild applause of countless thousands, the great warrior rode in, followed by his soldiers, whose necks and shoulders were hung round with loaves of bread. It was a fine thing to see—in Corio’s words—with what eagerness the people snatched off the bread, and with what voracity they devoured it. So enormous was the throng, all shouting Sforza and Duca, that the conqueror and his horse were literally lifted up and carried on men’s shoulders. But even yet one or two, among them the high-hearted Ambrogio Trivulzio, opposed his entrance, demanding of him guarantees for the liberty of the city. They were overpowered, however, by the multitudes, and Francesco Sforza was proclaimed Duke by general consent of the citizens.

Milan had immediate consolation for her lost liberty. By the wise provision of the conqueror, such generous abundance flowed in after the herald loaves of the soldiers, that in three days it seemed as if there had been no siege at all. Order was restored with a firm and kindly hand, and the splendid feasts and tournaments, continuing for nine days, and drowning the memory of past afflictions, hid no cruel deeds of vengeance upon the Duke’s political opponents.

Italian historians generally agree in a favourable estimate of Francesco Sforza. Corio, the historian, whose father was a gentleman in the service of the Sforza, and he himself from his youth up, attached to the ducal household, describes the first Duke as liberalissimo, full of kindness, a lover of justice and religion, and declares that none observed faith better than he. This last, in fifteenth century Italy, was not saying much. More impartial writers, while praising his courage, ability and general humanity, recognise that his triumph was due as much to perfidy and political suppleness as to valour. He was a man of his time, and his moral standard was that expressed by Macchiavelli later, who, writing of the Sforza, excuses him on the ground that great men are ashamed to lose, not to gain, by deception.

As Duke of Milan, Francesco still resorted to the same practices. The long tyranny of the Visconti, the strange cruelties and mysterious misanthropic habits of the later princes, the intercourse of the last Duke with astrologers and necromancers, which had wrapped him in a sort of diabolical atmosphere, made the idea of a despot repulsive and awful to the people, apart from their fear of oppression. But the brave, robust presence, the frank and genial manner of this lord of the battlefield and camp, who nothing esteemed astrologers, did much to overcome their prejudices, and his rejection of the gorgeous symbols of sovereignty prepared for his entry as superstitioni dei Re, and unfit for a simple soldier, was carefully calculated to win their confidence. But he dared not trust them. No sooner was he seated on the throne than with false assurances that his only motive was the safety and embellishment of the city, he began to rebuild the castle of Porta Giovia, and to fortify it with enormous walls, and with two huge round towers commanding the habitations of his subjects themselves, an ever visible warning against rebellion. The Milanese, however, made no attempt to shake off the yoke. The bulk of the people resumed with joy their industrial occupations, too content with relief from immediate afflictions to question of the future. They might well, too, recognise that submission to the successful soldier was Milan’s only hope of salvation as an independent State.

In Italy, as a whole, the elevation of Francesco Sforza meant the boon of peace. It enrolled on the side of order and stability the chief element of disturbance in the country. For more than a century continual strife had been kept up by the Condottieri in their own interests. But now that the greatest of them all had attained a solid throne, the era of their irresponsible energies was over. The splendid title and wealth of the Visconti, and the immense resources of the Lombard capital, united with the military skill and renown of the Sforza, could consolidate and safeguard once again that great empire of the Snake, whose decrepitude had been the chief opportunity of the Condottieri, and the provocation of the late wars. On the part chosen by Milan depended largely the fate of the whole peninsula. The far-eyed ambition of the Visconti had chosen war. The new dynasty, on the contrary, preferred to develop the vast wealth of the State which it had won rather than increase its bounds, and was content to relinquish for the sake of peace all pretensions to the cities once belonging to the Visconti, and now usurped by Venice. Neither Francesco nor his successor sought the aggrandisement of their dominions. And where the Visconti, aggressive though they were, had studied the peace of Italy in the larger sense, they were nobly followed by the two first Sforza. Gian Galeazzo’s national policy—Italy for the Italians—his care to keep those Alpine gates, whose keys had been committed to Milan’s charge, locked against a possible invader, was adopted and carried on by the Sforza, through nearly half a century; and when it was reversed, and the flood of disaster and ruin let loose upon the country by Francesco’s younger son, the brilliant prince to whom Fate had denied no gift except just those two qualities which had made the Visconti great—judgment and knowledge of men—there is reason to believe that fear rather than ambition was the motive.

During the last century of the Viscontean domination, Milan, which had suffered little herself from the wars of Gian Galeazzo and Filippo Maria, and had never been taxed beyond her strength by those able tyrants, had grown into an enormous centre of trade. The rich produce of the East, transmitted from Venice and the other Italian ports, and the exports of the country itself, passed through the Milanese warehouses to the marts of the North. The Milanese woollen fabrics clothed all well-to-do Europe, and her smiths forged the panoply of the knights and men-at-arms on every battlefield and in every jousting-list of Christendom and of civilised Heathenesse as well. So great were the workshops of the master armourers that two of them alone are said to have armed on one occasion four thousand horsemen and two thousand foot soldiers for Duke Filippo in the space of a few days. The abundant products of the fertile plains around flowed into the capital, and with increasing population and wealth new industries arose, adding to the general prosperity, so that this city could with ease keep up an army which would have beggared Venice or Florence. In her almost inexhaustible resources lay the secret of her power in Italy, and of her great influence even in the Councils of Europe.

The new Duke laboured to breed, by all the arts of peace, yet greater wealth, and to secure its full advantage for the State. Especially he desired that Milan should have a due share in that splendid patrimony of light and learning which Italy was now inheriting across the chasm of the Middle Ages from her rediscovered Past. This man of war, bred up from childhood in the camp, entertained all the liberal ideals of the day. He particularly honoured virtuous and learned men, Corio tells us, and to his encouragement of art the city owed many beautiful buildings. In his patronage of the humanities, as in all his affairs, the Duke was nobly supported by his wife, Bianca Maria Visconte. This lady—donna d’animo virile—had been from their marriage-day the prop of his ambition and resolve. Her invincible spirit had never allowed him to flinch a moment from his task of conquest, had restored his courage under misfortune, and had even inspired him by donning helmet and cuirass, and herself leading troops to his succour on the battlefield. Aided by her clever mother, Agnese del Maino, Bianca Maria had acted for him in critical moments in his absence, with invariable constancy and promptitude, so that he was wont to declare that he had more confidence in her than in his whole army. In the acquisition of Milan she was his chief councillor, and now that the throne of her ancestors was won, she claimed her full share of it. One may suspect that this conqueror of men—not alone in history—was somewhat mastered by the young woman at his side. Bianca Maria is celebrated by the chroniclers for her goodness. ‘This lady,’ says Cagnola, ‘in piety, compassion, charity, and beauty of person, as well as every other virtue, surpassed all the women of our age, and was the splendour and mirror of all Italian women.’

Francesco left the government of his sons entirely to this notable lady. She herself superintended their Greek and Latin studies. But instruction in the art of ruling was the chief feature of her training, and that famous pedant, Filelfo, the Florentine, who was one of their tutors, had to remember that his task was to form princes, not merely men of letters. She was careful to have them taught chivalrous exercises, habits of courtesy, and the good manners proper to princes; and so rigorous was her discipline that no boys were ever better behaved than the ‘fantastick’ of after days, Galeazzo Maria, and he who was to betray Italy, Lodovico il Moro.

With the change from the worn-out domination of the Visconti, rooted in the Middle Ages, to the rule of the soldier of fortune, who owed his success to personal genius and character, the Renaissance era, that opportunity of individual talent, may be said to have opened in Milan. The aspect of the city soon showed the operation of a new vitality and enthusiasm, in the splendid buildings which now arose, and in the activity of all artistic and industrial employments. But Duke Francesco’s designs for the improvement of his State were hampered by the last convulsive struggles of the long-continued wars of North Italy. It was some years before Venice, Savoy, and the rest of Milan’s enemies were quieted and propitiated by the arms and the prudent diplomacy of the new ruler, who with time found means of overcoming all the dangers which threatened him. An alliance with Louis XI. of France protected the Duke from the pretensions of Orleans. With Cosimo de’ Medici he maintained a loyal friendship, and thus disarmed Florence, and with Naples he concluded a treaty of peace, which was sealed by the marriage of his daughter Ippolita to King Ferdinand’s son, Alfonso of Calabria. Francesco was well aware, however, of the secret hostility harboured against him by a strong party in the city, and was ever on his guard. The death of Jacopo Piccinino, in 1465, rid him of the last survivor of the great family of Condottieri, who had been his most formidable foes and rivals. Historians have charged Francesco with a share in the horrid deception by which this brilliant captain was decoyed to his destruction at the hands of Ferdinand of Naples.

A year later (1466), when the Duke himself died, his dynasty seemed to be securely founded in Milan. Yet, in the absence of the heir, the Duchess and her councillors hastened to put the Castle into a state of defence, and to take every precaution against rebellion. Galeazzo Maria, was hurriedly summoned from France, where he was fighting for Louis XI. in the Barons’ War. His return was accomplished with the utmost speed and secrecy, and the story of his passage through the dominions of Savoy, disguised as the servant of a travelling merchant, the attempt to capture him as he passed by a certain castle in the mountains, his escape into sanctuary, and thence, after three days’ concealment, into the fastnesses of the hills, where by difficult ways he was conducted into his own territory, strikes at once that note of romance and extravagance which accompanies the strange personality of Galeazzo Maria Sforza throughout his short course to the grave.

Once in his own dominions the new duke had nothing to fear. The habit of servitude had become only too confirmed in the Milanese, and they sealed their submission to the House of Sforza by accepting Francesco’s son without protest as their Lord. Galeazzo, born too late to remember aught but the triumphant days of his House, or to have known any interruption in the flattery, servility and fear which waited on princes in the fifteenth century, found himself at twenty-two monarch of a great State and vast riches, lord of the lives and destinies of large populations, and master, in all the vigour and freshness of his youth and of the unexhausted Sforza blood, of that incomparable treasure of delight and varied human experience which the Renaissance of learning, of knowledge, of beauty, had added to the heritage of power bequeathed to the Italian tyrants by their immediate ancestors. Is it a wonder that the princes of that bright new day, in all the pride of the restored faith in human greatness and possibility, should have believed themselves more than men, and like the old Roman emperors, whose histories they read and whose heirs they considered themselves, should have assumed the proud appellation of Divi—Gods? These favourites of Time and Fortune lacked, however, one thing: that discipline of the will—more rigorous than the self-mortification of the apostles of asceticism—which the religion of beauty and joy requires in its followers.

In Galeazzo Maria Sforza the characters of a Renaissance tyrant appear in an exaggerated light. A strain of the bizarre, inherited from his Visconte ancestors, working in the strong new blood of the Sforza, produced in him an extravagance of temperament which ruled all his thoughts and acts. He had been instructed in the new learning by Filelfo and other humanists of repute; but from the classic example and precept thus set before him by men who themselves often abused the ideals which they taught his unbalanced nature had learnt only licence. His hot passions, romantically shown in youth by his love for Lucrezia Landriani, and his adoration of the child she bore him, that famous Caterina, afterwards Lady of ForlÌ, developed rapidly into unbridled lust. His vanity was nothing less than preposterous, and his care for his tall and splendid person, and in especial for his beautiful white hands, was a sort of idolatry. His insatiable appetite for gorgeous surroundings and rich display glutted itself with an orgy of colour and ornamentation, rioted in costly fabrics and priceless gems and gaudy equipages. Never before in Italy had such pomp been seen as accompanied his journey, in 1471, to visit Lorenzo de’ Medici, who, as head of the Florentine Republic, had been entertained a short time before in Milan. With him went his consort, the beautiful Bona of Savoy, the princess who was to have married Edward IV. of England, had not her fickle suitor fallen in love with Elisabeth Woodville instead. Bona became Galeazzo’s wife in 1467.

Besides his Duchess, all the great feudatories and ministers of State, arrayed in cloth of gold and silver, accompanied the Duke, himself a magnificent figure in royal crimson. The courtiers wore velvet and finest silk, the dresses of the chamberlains and pages were exquisite with needlework, the lackeys were in silk and cloth of silver, and the very cooks and scullions in velvet and satin. An immense train of horses, with trappings of silver and gold, carried grooms in silken liveries of the Sforza colours, purple and white. Mules, with housings of white and purple damask embroidered with the devices of the Sforza in silver, bore litters hung with gorgeous stuffs, and containing beds of cloth of gold. Huntsmen leading five hundred couple of dogs, falconers with highly trained hawks upon their wrists followed, and a host of trumpeters, pipers, musicians and jesters played their lively part in the procession. The description of this gallant train, winding out in all its fresh new bravery into the green Lombard plain from the serrated walls and gates of the mediÆval city, in the radiance of a May morning, suggests something of what Milan once was and of the lost beauty of Renaissance pageantry. The luxury and extravagance of the Milanese visitors greatly impressed the Florentines, and, according to Macchiavelli, helped to corrupt them and induce them to abandon their sober habits for pleasures and vanities.

Galeazzo’s love of decoration vented itself in the adornment of his palaces with paintings and works of art. He employed a host of artists, and in his impatience and excitement demanded miracles of them. He would have marble palaces and painted chambers rise as at the stroke of a magician’s wand; and an oft-told tale relates how he commanded a certain artist to decorate a whole wall with portraits of the ducal family in a single night. And woe to those who displeased him. The glittering, gaudy figure of this prince, with the great black eyes and hawk nose, and the white effeminate hands, dressed in the motley parti-coloured dress, red and white, used by the Dukes of Milan, moves through the pages of history in an alternation of black shadow and garish light. He was pointed out in whispers as the murderer of his own mother. It is true that his imperious temper had quickly resented Bianca Maria’s attempt to share in the government and to retain the power which her influence on her husband had given her. A short struggle had ensued between the mother and son, and ended by the defeated Duchess resolving to withdraw to her dower city of Cremona and there exercise her lawful authority. But neither did this division of the State suit the new Duke, and he detained her in the Castle of Melegnano, where, devoured by anger and grief, she fell sick after a few months and died, poisoned, according to common belief. But the accusation appears to rest only on Galeazzo’s general reputation for wickedness, and the ingratitude and want of filial piety which he had already shown himself capable of towards his mother. He is not a singular instance, however, of a young sovereign disagreeing with a dominant queen-mother. With as scant evidence, the death of his first betrothed, Dorotea Gonzaga, which freed him to make the more advantageous alliance with Bona, is laid to Galeazzo’s charge.

To such a personality as this prince’s, so conspicuous and so frenzied, legend readily clings, even in his own lifetime, and the imaginations which peered into the secrets of his dungeons carried, perhaps, some of their morbid visions with them. We must, however, believe the contemporary writers, who record hideous deeds committed by the Duke even in the light of day, grim pranks of punishment and devices of cruelty inflicted upon offenders, under his own eyes. There was a strange touch of imagination in his adjustment of torments to offences, and often a kind of wild justice and sympathy for the oppressed, horribly manifested, as when he punished a priest, who had refused the funeral rites to a poor man, by burying him alive in the same grave as the corpse. Galeazzo Sforza was in fact an embodied paradox—a monster of vices and virtues, as he has been called, or better still, in his daughter Caterina’s word, a ‘Fantastick.’ This mad, bad prince had the theoretic admiration of his age for virtue, and was possessed with a very rage for cultivating it in his subjects. Abuses, such as bribery of magistrates, corruption in the public administration, oppressive restrictions on trade and commerce, were vigorously put down. He allowed none but himself to take money from petitioners, or to seize other people’s property. His passion for justice and good government had planted so many gallows in his realm, that when his young bride came to Milan she trembled at the spectacle and fell on her knees, imploring pardon for prisoners and offenders, a boon immediately granted to her compassionate beauty. Though greedy of treasure and guilty of robbing his rich subjects, Galeazzo was punctual and exact in paying his servants—a rare virtue in an Italian prince. So trustworthy was his word as a sovereign that men regarded it as if it had been money. He had great personal attractions, was merry, affable and familiar with those around him, and willingly gave audience to his subjects. The courage which the populace expect of a prince was conspicuous in him—a man who never knew fear, as his fearless daughter Caterina proudly describes him.

Better still, Galeazzo Sforza knew men. No one of proved worth and activity had to fear his caprices. Cecco Simonetta, his father’s faithful minister, was retained in the highest offices throughout his reign; and his chief engineer and architect, Bartolommeo Gadio, kept undisturbed command of the great works of the Castello. Nor did the Duke’s heated temper affect his political judgment. He reconciled himself with Savoy, and with Lorenzo de’ Medici and Ferdinand of Naples formed that triple alliance which gave Italy her most splendid period of peace. In the cordial relations which he maintained with France he never forgot Milan’s appointed task of guarding the gate of Italy. Within his own dominions he held party passions in check, and followed his father’s prudent policy of employing in the important offices of State foreigners like the Sicilian Simonetta, and men who owed everything to the House of Sforza, and of diminishing the influence of the great nobles.

With peace without and order within, the tide of prosperity rose ever higher in the populous city. The vast lands of the Duchy were everywhere being brought to full fertility by irrigation works and the draining of wastes. Palaces surrounded by beautiful gardens and fruitful orchards and vineyards were springing up where before had been wilderness. Great schemes for new waterways between the different cities of the State were in hand, and all the immense increase of the country’s resources, resulting from improved agriculture and greater facilities of traffic, flowed by a thousand streams into the coffers of the capital. An extraordinary vitality seemed to possess all classes in this morning of the Renaissance. The larger horizons revealed to the spirit by the revival of ancient literature and thought, the multiplicity of new interests created by increased knowledge, the joy of the release from the mediÆval sense of guilt and sorrow, gave to this age the vigour and enthusiasm of a regenerated world. Milan was one vast hive of vivacious energies, busy in commerce, in art and all kinds of handiwork, in learning, poetry, music. The Duke’s excited spirit was eager for all intellectual and artistic novelties. His Court was thronged with scholars and philosophers. Not content with the magnificent library of Pavia, he formed a fine collection of books in Milan, and printing-presses were set up in the city at this time. But above all else Galeazzo loved music. Milan had been from early times the resort of troubadours, minstrels and those skilled in ‘divers musicks,’ but never before had such beautiful singers been heard there as the Duke summoned from Flanders and all parts of Europe to compose the choir of the ducal chapel in the Castello. Music and the chase were Galeazzo’s favourite diversions; and the vast hunting-grounds and deep forests of the Duchy, full of wild boars and stags and all sorts of beasts and birds, the wide meres and watery channels crowded with waterfowl, were continually visited by gallant hunting and hawking trains. The picturesque interest of that far-off princely life, rich in all the adornments of rarest art, and fresh with the springing joy of that hopeful age, is enhanced for us by its dimness. It has all the poetic charm of a half-obliterated fresco. These historic figures appear to our vision in that stiffness and innocence and decorative grace, that mingling of mediÆval romance and Renaissance beauty with which they were doubtless represented by the primitive painters who covered the walls of Galeazzo’s palaces in Milan and Pavia with scenes of the ducal life—frescoes, alas! long perished.

The picture of the city at this time would be bright indeed but for the plague-spots of vice and cruelty in the ruler, and of corruption in the people. Acquiescence in tyranny, and the new luxury of life, had bred effeminacy and servility in the citizens. But there were some among them who could not forget their shame. This motley prince, himself an early and crude product of the still undisciplined spirit of the Renaissance, was destined to perish by the operation of that same spirit. The very arrogance of blood and brain which drove him to excess swelled the indignation of the youths who assembled in the school of the humanist Cola Montana, and followed the finger of their preceptor as he pointed with scorn to the spectacle of the Duke passing with extravagant pomp across the Piazza dell’ Arengo, and to the obsequious train of nobles and magistrates in gorgeous attire attending him, and contrasted the degradation and pusillanimity of these courtiers with the noble simplicity of the Carthaginian and Roman patriots who had won immortal fame by giving their lives for their country. Cola, who was himself secretly envenomed against the Duke on account of personal wrongs, never ceased to hold up before his pupils the example of Brutus and the lofty ideal of virtue and self-sacrifice which inspired their classic ancestors. Inflamed by his eloquence and by a mingling of pedantic pride and youthful enthusiasm, these sons of fathers who remembered the brief hope of the Ambrosian Republic formed a resolution to rid the State of the monstrous tyranny which oppressed it. Girolamo Olgiati, Gio. Ant. Lampugnano and Carlo Visconte were the chief conspirators. The lofty indignation of the two latter was aggravated by personal grievances, but the motives of Olgiati, whose sensitive mind had been moulded for years by Cola Montana, seems to have been pure of all egoism except a beautiful self-conceit. They communicated their plot to a few trusty comrades, and went about the city secretly stirring up discontent. In spite of the general prosperity poverty existed, and it happened that the season had been bad and scarcity threatened. The populace could not see beyond this immediate evil, and all groaned together under the taxation which they supposed went only to provide for the limitless luxury of the Court. Many citizens were hereditary Guelfs and foes of the Sforza. The idea of rebellion was familiar enough in every North Italian city, and the conspirators received so much sympathy and so many promises of adherence that the excited vision of young Olgiati pictured the whole city awaiting the signal of the great deed to rise and set him and his fellows at the head of a Republic as noble as those of antiquity. Day and night Lampugnano’s house was crowded with enthusiasts for liberty. All preparations were made for the rising, deputies were appointed to ensure the safety of the city in the confusion which was sure to follow the overthrow of the government, and the day and the particulars of the great act of judgment on the tyrant were carefully arranged.

On St. Thomas Day (1476), Duke Galeazzo entered early in the morning into his capital, after a short victorious campaign against the encroachments of Burgundy in the mountains of Savoy. Let it be remembered of him that his last deed was thus to beat back invaders of Italy. As he rode to Milan from his Castle of Abbiategrasso, in the bitter cold which had numbed the streams and fogged the air, three ravens slowly rose and flew across his path, one after the other, uttering hoarse croaks. The Duke seized a gun and fired at these evil augurs, and was half-minded to turn back. He went forward, however, but a heavy presentiment of ill had fallen on his soul. As he rode in, welcomed by the nobles who had thronged the city to do him homage, the conspirators noted his heavy countenance, and knew that the hour was at hand. Instead of mirth he carried gloom into the Castle, all prepared for his coming, and though it was the season of joy, he ordered the ornaments of the chapel to be draped in black, and bade the Flemish priest, Cordiero and his thirty fellow-singers from beyond the mountains, chant every day in the Mass a verse from the Office of the Dead. Nevertheless the great Christmas festivities took place as usual, and the tall figure of the Prince, robed to the feet in crimson damask, and accompanied by the fair Duchess and a crowd of nobles, stalked gesticulating though the splendid chambers of the Castello, vaunting, in the midst of a strange and mournful oppression, his own magnificence, and the glory and enduring strength of his House.

The next day was the Feast of St. Stephen. Very early in the morning, Gio. Antonio Lampugnano and Girolamo Olgiati knelt and heard Mass together, like knights entering into battle. A great crowd gathered in S. Stefano, where the Duke was to attend Mass later. Some of the conspirators mingled with the people, while the three leaders waited in a house close by. The slow moments passed. At last the appointed hour arrived and the procession was at hand. Girolamo, in his confession, tells the rest in breathless words. Soon a noise; it is the Prince. We hide our daggers, and in an instant stand in the church. The Duke passes, I transfix him, he falls and expires.

Corio, who was one of the Duke’s chamberlains and was present in the church, describes how Galeazzo entered between the Ferrarese and Pisan Envoys, preceded by a pompous train of guards and servants. The writer saw the daggers flash from the little group of conspirators and bury themselves in the gaudy body of the Prince, and heard his one cry, O Nostra Donna! as he fell back in a pool of blood. In the uproar which immediately arose, Lampugnano was killed as he fled through the press of shrieking women; but Girolamo and Carlo Visconte, with their accomplices, succeeded in escaping from the church. The mangled body of the tyrant was carried into the adjoining Canonica, and its gory dress was exchanged for a robe of white cloth of gold, and all the ducal ornaments and insignia set upon it. Meanwhile Girolamo, hounded by the rage and terror of his father out of his home, whither he had fled, took refuge with a priest and waited in violent agitation, his exalted brain seething with hopes and fears. The people must be even now rushing to arms. His friends must be coming to find him and place themselves under his command. They would sack the palaces of Cecco Simonetta and the hated ministers, seize the gates, abolish the taxes, proclaim a glorious Republic. The hours went by and nothing happened. Hearing a great noise, he looked eagerly out and saw the lacerated remains of his comrade Lampugnano being dragged along by yelling children with every hideous insult.

Hope began to desert him. He was sought, not by friends and admirers, but by officers of justice, and fleeing miserably from one refuge to another, was soon captured. In his dungeon, the mind of the young man—he was twenty-three—maintained its exaltation, though it was a wonder, says Corio, that amid such torments as he underwent, the afflicted spirit did not abandon the agonised body. He managed to compose a long relation in Latin of all the circumstances of the plot, a document of poignant human interest which shows the effect of the prevailing enthusiasm for antiquity upon a serious and lofty soul. Even at the last frightful moment, when the iron of the executioner was at his breast, the fainting youth had courage to animate himself in the tongue of Brutus and Cato with the words—Collect thyself, Hieronimo. The memory of thy deed shall live long. Mors acerba, fama perpetua!