He was self-willed when it came to action. He would, it is true, call a council of war, and listen to the opinions of his captains, but in the end he nearly always acted on his own views. He was admirable in distinguishing idle reports from the truth, being as indefatigable and clear-headed in his investigations as he was quick and fertile in the concerting of plans. During the intervals of rest, he liked to mingle with his soldiers. He would joke and be full of mischief with them, and, especially in his younger days, would often eat and drink with them. He always had a kind word for the men in the ranks, just as, in civil life, he was anxious to impress people that he held the great lord, the poor noble, and the peasant in equal esteem, as long as they proved themselves worthy of it. This was truly a rare princely virtue in his age. Always gracious and affable, he loved to discover merit, and to reward it. He sought out the wounded, often even on the battle-field, inquired into their circumstances, comforted them in their troubles, and reassured and nursed those who were low in spirits.
He made it a point that his soldiers should be regularly and punctually paid, and rather than get into arrears with their pay, he would borrow or levy heavy taxes. On one occasion, however, during the Czech wars, he was completely out of funds. He had been just pondering how to raise money for his soldiers, when he was called upon by his captains to join them in a game of dice. The playing was kept up all night, and the king hardly threw any other numbers than those indicated by him beforehand. It was easy for him, with fortune thus in his favor, to win 10,000 florins, a sum which he at once distributed amongst his soldiers in the morning.
Full of sympathy for his soldiers, and princely in his rewards, he yet rigidly exacted discipline, especially in times of peril; and well might he do so, as he himself was amongst the first to submit to it. A comrade to his soldiers during the hours of rest, he became a most severe commander in war, and during the military exercises and drills. Disregard of discipline and disobedience were punished with death. At the tournaments, he often challenged (as was customary in Europe during the middle ages) his captains to combat, rigorously enjoining upon them not to spare his person, but the very person whom he thus distinguished was mercilessly punished if he offended against military discipline. At a tournament, he met in single combat, in sight of the whole country, Szvéla, one of his captains; yet, but a short time afterwards, he sent both him and his companions to the gallows for breaches of discipline and mutinous conduct. He was, however, never cruel to his soldiers, and readily forgave offences if he was convinced that they sprang, not from ill-will, but from awkwardness and lack of experience.
During the campaign against Frederic, the emperor of Germany, he sent against him one of his generals by the name of Simon Nagy. Nagy, otherwise a brave captain, was defeated, and returned home filled with shame at his disgrace. The king received him with a cheerful countenance, well knowing that the gallant captain had done all he could, and sent him back again at the head of an army to resume the campaign. The brave soldier, animated by his king’s confidence and magnanimity, achieved such a triumphant victory that from that time Frederic never again ventured to send an army against Matthias. He was happy in the selection of his generals, and did not object to raising a man of merit, although of low degree, to the most exalted position. Kinizsy, his most distinguished captain, a man of mean fortunes, owed his elevation to the king. This man had been, in his youth, a plain miller-boy, endowed by nature with gigantic strength. As a miller, he was capable of lifting with one hand the heaviest mill-stone, and, on becoming a leader of armies, he rushed upon his enemy with a ponderous sword in each hand. Such was his enormous strength that, at a great feast held on the battle-field to celebrate his most renowned victory, near Kenyérmezo, he, the triumphant Kinizsy himself, stood up before the merrymaking crowd, and, holding the dead body of a full-grown Turk in his right hand, another in his left, and a third between his teeth, tripped the national dance. Captains like these contributed to the military prestige of the king, but he owed still more to his own royal qualities.
The impression made by these qualities upon his soldiers remained unchanged, for he continually demonstrated his soldierly virtues, his affability, his liberality, and generosity by deeds. Anecdotes in which the king always played a pleasant part went all the time from mouth to mouth. An old chronicler says of him: “Never was a prince more beloved and respected by his people and his soldiers than he, but, at the same time, everybody feared him as they would a savage lion.” At the sound of the drums and the blowing of the horns, every one stood instantly ready for the engagement, and willing to meet death for his king. During the military drills, every eye was fixed on his person, and every ear listened to the sound of his voice only; he alone was the magnet that attracted and riveted the general attention of his soldiers. In this respect, Hungary stood alone amongst the nations of Europe, and it was with men like these only that he was enabled to achieve his wonderfully rapid and well-planned strategic movements. At a time when the armies of Europe were generally noted for their unwieldiness, this mobility constituted one of the chief advantages of the king’s army, and to it he owed his most conspicuous military achievements.
The king, in his turn, placed the fullest confidence in his soldiers. In the camp and on the battle-field, as we have seen, he went about unattended, or, at the most, accompanied by one or two of his men. He bestowed no care upon the guarding of his person, although at that period immense sums were lavished by the rulers to insure their personal safety by surrounding themselves with a body-guard composed of picked men. He did not feel the necessity of imitating his royal neighbors in this particular; the love and respect of his soldiers proved a more powerful protection than any troop of body-guards he could have organized.
In summing up all we have said about Matthias as a soldier, we obtain an interesting, attractive, and by no means commonplace picture of him. Severe to others, he was no less severe to himself; active, energetic, enterprising, and crafty, he was most happy when actively engaged. Versed in military matters, he at times exhibited a knowledge of military science which reminds us of a modern tactician.
The general historian, as well as the chronicler of his own country, will always assign to him a conspicuous place, not only as a ruler and statesman distinguished in his own age, but also as an illustrious example for the world of royal power, dignity, and magnanimity. He entertained a high opinion of the functions of a ruler. Being ambitious and proud, he liked to give to the world the spectacle of a throne occupied by a king dignified, powerful, and splendid, who, nevertheless, paid tribute to all that was noble and virtuous in humanity. His mind was always busy with great affairs and bold schemes, and he was unwearying in seeking the means of accomplishing them. He never shrank from any task, nor was any task too trifling for him to engage in if there was a pressing occasion for it. He was as indefatigable in his study attending to diplomatic affairs as on the battle-field, unflagging in his activity, and thoroughly informed about every thing.
There was a great deal of work to be done, for Matthias took a large part in the political mazes of Europe. He kept up connections with all Europe, with a view to maintaining and increasing his power—a system which was at that time pursued by no other European ruler. The intercourse with the foreign countries was now of a friendly now of a hostile nature, but it never ceased. As soon as the campaign was at an end on the battle-field, the diplomatic contest was resumed and continued in the study. As the king grew older and more powerful, his troubles with the neighbors increased, for, owing to the enhanced weight of his word, more and more people sought him out and entered into relations with him. Foreign ambassadors were continually either arriving or departing from his court, while his own emissaries were either leaving on, or returning from, missions of lesser or greater importance concerning affairs of state or family. Upon such occasions, especially in the case of missions of greater importance, he felt the whole dignity of the royal position and spared neither pains nor money to surround it with stateliness. The ordinary embassies usually numbered from fifty to sixty members; the more brilliant embassies were frequently attended by as many as a hundred servants.
In 1487 Matthias sent a splendid embassy to the court of Charles VIII., king of France, a description of which will give an idea of the pomp displayed by the Hungarian king. He caused three hundred horses of uniform color to be selected, on each of which sat a youth clad in purple velvet. These youths all wore long gold chains on their sides, and upon entering a city each placed a braidwork mounted with pearls on his head. The contemporary chronicles speak with ecstasy of the beauty of the men, of the splendor of their dress, and of the rich harnesses of their horses, embossed with precious stones. The presents sent to the French king on that occasion, consisting of costly horses, horses’ trappings, splendid robes, vessels and ornaments of gold and silver, amounted to a sum of no less than half a million of florins of the currency of our days.
The embassy sent by Matthias in 1476 to the king of Naples—whose daughter, Beatrice, became subsequently his wife—exceeded the last named in numbers, if not in splendor. It was composed of church and lay magnates, scholars, prelates, soldiers of high rank, nobles, knights, relatives of the king, his intimates and councillors. These again were attended by their secretaries, chamberlains, pages, grooms and forerunners. It was a wonderfully variegated sight, rich in coloring, this mounted army of men dressed in costly robes of various and glaring colors. The great lords were dressed from head to foot in gala costumes, brilliant with gold and silver and jewels, the nobles and knights in costumes of colored velvet, the pages and courtiers in colored satin—all of them mounted on high-mettled steeds. In their train followed the numerous jesters or fools, whom it was customary at that time for every great lord to have by his side, to make sport, or to tell the truth; musicians, especially, according to the fashion of the day, trumpeters, drummers, and harpists; and, finally, players and buffoons, all of them attired and bedizened in motley, parti-colored and tawdry costumes.
The horses’ keep alone cost this embassy a million of florins, present currency. But not satisfied with carrying on their backs half of the current wealth of the country they came to represent, the members of the embassy had brought with them, besides, vessels of gold and silver, and jewelry of all kind, to be distributed as presents, or to be paraded about. Ostentation was the fashion of the day; objects of luxury were still a sort of novelty, and those possessing them were anxious to have the pleasure of their display. There was another feature about the pageant of this mission which made it almost unique; and with which Matthias created the greatest sensation. This was a band of Turkish prisoners of high rank, clad in costly caftans with golden turbans on their heads, who preceded the brilliant Hungarian procession upon their entering the Italian cities. These prisoners had just been captured by the king near Shabatz, and they were to serve as an evidence of Hungarian prowess. At that time half Europe stood in awe of the powerful Turks, particularly the Italians, who, although excelling in art and science, were wretched and pusillanimous soldiers. Both Matthias and his father, John Hunyadi, were known to the Italians as the most powerful and successful foes of the dreaded Turks, and the prestige of the names of these two warriors won greater respect for the embassy than all the wealth and luxury displayed by it.
Brilliant as were the embassies sent by Matthias to foreign courts, he was no less gratified by the arrival of missions to his own, which were looked upon as a sort of holiday event. The king himself was inclined to be liberal if he wished to do honor to any one. There were, besides, gathered about his person a motley crowd of Hungarian, German, and Czech magnates, prelates and nobles, attentive to every command of his. Then there were the court attendants amounting to many hundreds, and all these persons required but a nod from the king to devote themselves to the preparation of a brilliant reception. They were quick to don their sumptuous and costly dresses, they brandished their weapons inlaid with precious stones, they pranced on their steeds caparisoned in colored silk and velvet, and, attended by an army of courtiers and servants, clad in garments representing all the colors of the rainbow, the procession went out amid the blast of horns, to meet the ambassador and to escort him to the court. In 1487, John Valentini, the envoy from the court of Ferrara, in Italy, and in 1488, Melchior Russ, the Swiss envoy, were honored by receptions of this kind. In December, 1479, John Anagarini, the papal cardinal ambassador, was received with the greatest imaginable pomp, by the king in person, who, attended by his church and lay dignitaries, came out to meet him at three o’clock in the morning. Thousands of wax torches shed a light as broad as day over the dark and wintry scene. Three days after the arrival of the cardinal the solemn audience took place. The king appeared in his royal robes, surrounded by the highest dignitaries of the court, and by the church and lay magnates, all sumptuously dressed. The king well understood the art of astonishing and dazzling his visitors by the dignity of his presence and by the display of lavish pomp.
Upon one occasion he was staying at Visegrád, his splendid palace a short distance from Buda, when the sultan’s ambassador arrived. It gratified the pride of Matthias to dazzle the eyes of the Turkish envoy, who was accustomed to the brilliant surroundings of the sultan, with the splendor of his own court. Visegrád, which was called by the contemporaries “an earthly paradise,” fully suited his purpose. The envoy and his train were brought from their city quarters to the royal castle, in order to be admitted to the solemn audience with the king. As the gates of the castle were thrown open a gorgeous spectacle met their eyes. The king stood on an eminence of one of his hanging gardens. Around him, above and below him, were grouped the great of the land and his courtiers, clad in silk, velvet, gold, and silver robes, with shining arms. At this unexpected sight the envoy was struck with awe. In confusion he drew nearer, but as his eyes met the proud look of the king he became so embarrassed that he lost the command of his voice, and was only able to stammer out, after a pause: “The padishah greets you, the padishah greets you.” The king, perceiving his painful hesitation, had him led back to his quarters. After the lapse of a few days he was conducted again into the king’s presence, who, after having bestowed upon the envoy rich presents, sent him back to his master with the proud message to “send another time an ambassador who, at least, can speak.”
Of such a nature were the audiences granted to foreign envoys. The audiences granted to his own subjects lacked, of course, the pomp and pageant of the former, but the king was particularly careful and painstaking in the treatment of the matters thus brought before him. This was more especially the case during the beginning of his reign. His first wife, the daughter of the Czech king, whom he had married in 1458, died a few years afterwards, leaving him a widower, and the ceremonial of the court, in the absence of a queen, admitted of an unrestrained intercourse with his people. But he married again in 1476 the daughter of the king of Naples, Princess Beatrice. With her presence Italian etiquette and formality began to prevail in the royal court, and free access to the king’s person became more and more difficult. In his youth the business of his doorkeepers was but scant, for the doors stood wide open for the petitioners, who were kindly received by the young king. Nor was the number of these small, for the king’s fame as a friend to justice had spread all over the country. A whole army of petitioners, from the great lord to the simple peasant, frequently besieged the doors of the audience hall, for Matthias was known to treat them all with uniform affability. He attentively listened to and duly weighed the petitions and complaints of all. This was a matter of great importance at a time when a privileged class, the nobles, were the masters of the property of the numerous peasantry, and frequently held control even of their lives. The laws at that period were both loose and defective, and the judges could, with impunity, either misinterpret or distort their meaning to the injury of the suitor. Besides, in that age nearly every noble had a train amounting to a small army, and the temptation proved frequently irresistible to be his own judge and to treat the weaker party as he pleased. Such was then the condition of things all over Europe.
The most efficacious remedy for these evils was a king just and strong, who was not loth to inquire into abuses and was ready to lend the weight of his kingly command and of armed force against the recalcitrant. Matthias was a ruler equal to such a task. Many excellent laws were introduced during his reign, and he had both the sense of justice and the power to enforce them. The very knowledge of the existence of such a final appeal greatly improved the administration of justice, for every one was aware that the king was a man of his word, and that his threats were not empty utterances, but were sure to be followed by swift and severe punishment. He was as quick in disposing of the matters submitted to him as he was careful in their consideration. If he ever delayed affairs they were mostly connected with important questions of state, diplomacy, and finances, requiring caution in their management. On such occasions he was master in the art of keeping silent, and might have excited the envy of the craftiest Italian diplomatist by his wariness. His mind was not easily open to extraneous influences; he liked to get at the bottom of all complaints and accusations by personal investigation. He brought into the management of civil affairs the habits exhibited by him on the battle-field; he was always inspecting and investigating. It was a matter of frequent occurrence with the king to go among the people in disguise in order to study their characters and dispositions, to learn their complaints and troubles, and, if possible, to give at once a helping-hand. During these expeditions he strayed unknown into the villages, exposing himself frequently to the overbearing treatment of a village judge, a landed noble, or a constable, and even to occasional blows, but if he afterwards got hold of the guilty parties he showed them on his part no mercy. In his disguise he was indifferent to the scoffs and gibes levelled at him; he rather enjoyed the incongruous and comical plights he often found himself in, but at the same time he was apt to give and to take a joke. Of course the king always laughed last, when the disgraced culprits, after being punished, ruefully slunk away. He was, as a general thing, very fond of good-natured intrigues, and liked to season even graver matters with a bit of pleasantry.
To the secret denunciations of eavesdroppers the king, unlike many of his royal contemporaries, never listened, preferring to trust to his own eyes and ears only. This manly straightforwardness inspired all his actions, and was instrumental in causing him to arrive at the truth and to do justice, and obtained for him among the people, even in his lifetime, the name of “the just.” The memory of his fame for justice has survived to this day in the current popular saying: “King Matthias is dead, justice has fled!” Although as a soldier and statesman crafty and full of expedients, and even loving disguise in contact with his people, he never was treacherous and deceitful. Poisoning and assassination did not enter into his catalogue of expedients as it did into the policy and practice of his contemporary, the French king, Louis XI., or the Italian princes, the Estes, Sforzas, the Borgias, and the popes themselves, who employed both as a favorite means for accomplishing political objects. All unclean means were repugnant to his frank and knightly nature, as was evinced by the following instance. While he was engaged in war, in 1463, against George Podiebrad, the Czech king, he was approached by a man who offered to take George’s life in armed combat for a reward of five thousand florins. The king, knowing the difficulties of the enterprise, at once consented, promising even a larger amount in case of success. This man, after lurking for a long while about the person of King George, despaired of being able to carry out his fell design, for the king was surrounded by the finest soldiers of the period, and to attack him, under those circumstances, would have been equivalent to forfeiting his own life. He therefore proposed to King Matthias to remove the Czech king by poison. The king indignantly refused to profit by the assassin’s offer, proudly exclaiming: “We are in the habit of fighting with arms and not with poison!” At the same time he sent a message to the Czech king putting him on his guard against the attempt to take his life by poison, and cautioning him not to partake of any food or drink unless it was first tested by one of his trusty men.
With views like these it was natural that King Matthias should not be accessible to any fear of poison or assassination. It was secretly intimated to him at one time that his courtiers intended mixing poison with his food. Upon hearing this he exclaimed: “Let no king ruling justly and lawfully fear the poison and assassin’s dagger of his subjects.” His capacity for government was particularly shown in the right selection and thorough appreciation of men, and in the independence which he always maintained. This trait of character became at once evident on his ascent to the throne. Being only fifteen years of age he was deemed too young for the burden of government, and a governor and state-councillors were placed by his side. But he felt equal to the duties of his royal office, and determined to take the reins of government in his own hands. In this scheme, however, he saw both his friends and his enemies arrayed against him. The former, the adherents of old Hunyadi, to whose services he owed his throne, wished to superintend his education, to guard him against dangers, and to maintain at the same time their influence over him. His enemies, on the other hand, true to the instincts of their inveterate hostility to the Hunyadi family, after having first opposed his aspirations to the throne and afterwards intrigued against him, were glad of an opportunity to balk him in his wishes, and therefore they now sided against him, and soon after openly declared for Frederic, the German emperor.
The position of the young king was an exceedingly critical one; his foreign enemies, too, the Turks, Germans, and Czechs, began open opposition and, what was most discouraging of all, the treasury was empty. But he surprised everybody by the independence and circumspect conduct with which he met both friends and foes, and also the difficulties threatening from abroad. His astute questions and ready replies in conversation were the theme of universal admiration. It was thought that, being a youth, he would busy himself with empty trifles, and give little thought to his royal responsibilities. His partisans had hoped to be called upon to instruct him in the art of government, whilst his enemies had anticipated that, unmindful of his kingly duties, he would very soon be ruined. But he disappointed both. In the council chamber he listened attentively when any of the lords spoke, but as soon as their views diverged and threatened to degenerate into a heated discussion, it was he, the youth, whom they had met to advise, who admonished them to be calm and to agree. His enemies saw that the youth was thoroughly conscious of the exaltedness of his position, which placed him above his adherents as well as his enemies, and they now tried every means to create dissensions between him and his partisans. In this they failed, for the king was on his guard. Knowing his difficult position, he took pains to conciliate his friends. In the treatment of them he was both determined and smooth. In conversation he first ascertained the views of those to whom he spoke, and then shaped his own remarks accordingly. He had the talent of persuading his antagonists without seeming to do so, and of getting them to share his views, and as he was quick to discover the opinions of others, he was not liable to being imposed upon. By slow degrees all opposition to him died out and both friend and foe were silenced.
After disposing of his domestic antagonists, he turned his attention to his enemies abroad, and, by dint of an active mind, knowledge of men, polished manner, and generosity, where it was needed, he soon succeeded in strengthening his throne against all enemies. One by one, the proud princes and oligarchs, who had only reluctantly and disdainfully accepted the sovereignty of the upstart, were conciliated by his royal qualities, and under the rule of Matthias, the son of Hunyadi, Hungary secured an wider influence and a higher degree of power than she had ever attained beneath the sceptres of the descendants of the ancient kings.
An account has been previously given of the splendor which the king’s embassies displayed abroad, and we may add that Matthias was the wealthiest and most luxurious ruler in all Europe. He had enormous wealth at his disposal, composed in part of his own private fortune, and in part of the royal revenues. At that time there was generally no distinction made between the revenues of the king and those of the state. The king disposed of all the sums flowing into the royal treasury, whether derived from the state taxes or from any other sources. King Matthias was quite proficient in the art of turning to the fullest use these sources of income, and of adding fresh ones, in case of need. He introduced a more punctual and rigorous administration of the finances with most admirable results. He was himself also the possessor of a vast private fortune, inherited from his father. His domains extended for many miles, and he was the owner of mines of gold and silver, of great productiveness, in the richest mineral region of the country. None of his subjects could compare with him as to the extent of their private estates, although there were many amongst the church and lay magnates who could boast of immense wealth.
In his reign the royal revenues increased upon an unprecedented scale. The aggregate annual income of the Hungarian treasury amounted under King Ladislaus V. to only about 120,000 florins. Under Matthias it increased, on an average, tenfold. His yearly income very soon exceeded one million, and not unfrequently reached even two million florins, and this at a period when the French king, who was supposed to be the richest sovereign, was unable to make his income reach one million. It is true Matthias stood always in need of a great deal of money to carry out his vast schemes, his soldiers and wars swallowing up enormous sums; while it may be said, he was also prone to indulge in all the luxuries of life.
The time had passed when men’s whole lives were divided between war and prayer only. Until now these had been the essential characteristics of the middle ages. But all this was suddenly changed; people awoke to the consciousness of their wealth, and there were several countries in Europe offering a long list of varied enjoyments fit to tempt the most fastidious. The arts, painting, sculpture, and skilful working in precious metals, as well as the sciences, began to flourish; and people began to read books, books written by hand in elaborate manuscripts and richly ornamented with gold and silver and the most varied illuminated work. The classic authors of ancient Greece and Rome—long lost sight of—had been rediscovered, and scattered memorials of ancient art came to light, and were cherished by the finders with the fresh delight of childhood enjoying new playthings.
In this movement Italy occupied the front rank. From his early youth Matthias was drawn by all the fibres of his heart towards the awakening culture, the motto of which was to enjoy the beautiful. How thoroughly he entered into the spirit of the rising glory of the new civilization, is best shown by the fact that his Italian contemporaries praised him to the skies as the whole-souled patron of science and art. In the magnificence and the splendor with which he surrounded himself, Matthias certainly exceeded all his contemporaries, not even excepting the Italian princes, who were famous for their sumptuousness and their appreciation of works of art, and of whom Matthias had, undoubtedly, learned a good deal. The example set by the king influenced his subjects, the chief prelates of the church, who had obtained immense endowments from the first kings of Hungary, and the proud and rich great lords. But none of them could approach the king in magnificence or in refined luxury. His court was the gathering place of scholars and artists not only from Hungary and Italy but from all Europe. To them he assigned the highest places in the state, in the church, and in the schools. From these scholars he selected his chancellors and vice-chancellors, his treasurers and sub-treasurers, the royal councillors, his son’s tutor, men employed to read to him, his librarians, court historiographers and secretaries, all of whom were munificently rewarded for their services.
Nor was it necessary for a scholar to have a fixed position at court in order to secure a rich income; his very presence at court was supposed to give him a valid title to a compensation. Theologians, philosophers, poets, orators, jurists, physicians, and astronomers came to admire the renowned court, and remained there to add to its brilliancy, to amuse the king, and to be the recipients of his munificence. These men were treated by the king as his friends and companions and led a comfortable, and, frequently, a luxurious life. They had their abundant share in the good cheer of the table, and in the pastimes and honors. The frequent discussions of scientific and literary questions, which arose in such a circle, produced, especially when peaceful seasons intervened for a time, a busy scholarly life at court, of which the king, who was fond of taking part in the conversations, was the bright centre. He was himself proficient in the lore of his age. It is true that his youthful education had not been completed, for he had been left an orphan at a tender age, and had soon been compelled to exchange the games of youth for the cares of government, but his great talents, his quickness, and the keen interest he took in every thing, greatly contributed to make up for any deficiency in precision of knowledge. He had a retentive memory and rarely forgot what he heard in conversation, and probably a large part of what he learned came in this way. It was also the fashion at that time for scholars to prolong their discussions, after the fashion of the Greek gymnasiums, from morn until night, and to appoint special meetings for special subjects. The subject under discussion was pursued everywhere—at the table, during the sports, in the reception room, the garden, and the fields. The subjects were principally classical. Sometimes lectures were delivered in the presence of the king or queen, as in the instance of Bonafini, who visited the court in 1487. In order to get better acquainted with him and to present him to the court, the king, who subsequently appointed him his court historiographer, ordered him to deliver a lecture at his palace, in Vienna, where he then happened to hold his court. The whole court, together with the foreign ambassadors, appeared on this interesting occasion. At the conclusion of the lecture the writings of Bonafini were brought in and distributed amongst the chief prelates and the magnates.
The court dinners afforded favorable opportunities for scholarly discussions and conversations. A great number of guests had a permanent invitation to the king’s table. Such were his near relatives, soldiers of high rank, dignitaries of Church and State, foreign ambassadors, and, especially, the scholars residing at his court. In an atmosphere like this it was quite natural that the discourse should take a lively turn, and include in its range both serious and amusing subjects. The king himself enjoyed a world-wide fame for his ready wit and attractive talk. He liked to propound riddles to his learned friends, and at times would give them a great deal of trouble by his cleverly-contrived oracular questions, particularly if he wished to confound some braggart. He delighted in disputes, in which he was seldom worsted, because he kept his temper to the last. But in most cases the discussion was begun by his guests—the king only joining in afterwards, and very frequently giving the decision. Some of his puns and anecdotes are remembered to this day. The theme of one of these was decidedly of a convivial nature. The discourse ran on eating, and the question was mooted as to which was the best dish. The king quoted the Hungarian proverb: “Nothing is worse than cheese” (Habere nihil est pejus caseo). This, of course, was denied by many, who maintained that cucumbers, apricots, and many varieties of fish were far worse than cheese. Every one was amused when the king explained the double meaning of the saying that “Nothing is worse than cheese” being equivalent to “Cheese is better than nothing.” It happened, however, often enough that grave scientific propositions or Scriptural themes were under discussion, and, on such occasions, the king would send to his library for books calculated to support the soundness of his statements or argument.
This library was the king’s chief glory and pride. It contained on his accession to the throne but a few volumes, but in the course of time it so increased in the number of books as well as their value, that it brought to the king even greater fame than his successes on the battle-field—not only in the age he lived in, but during the ages that followed. Over a hundred specimens of those books are still in existence, and from these we can form an adequate idea of its magnificence and richness. The library was in the castle of Buda, and the place assigned to it comprised two large halls, provided with windows of artistically stained glass, opening into each other. The entrance consisted of a semicircular hall commanding a magnificent view of the Danube. Both halls were provided with rich furniture. One of them contained the king’s couch, covered with tapestry embroidered with pearls, upon which he spent his leisure hours reading. Tripod-shaped chairs covered with carpet were placed about, recalling the Delphian Apollo. Richly-carved shelves ran along the walls and were curtained with purple-velvet tapestry, interwoven with gold. It would be difficult to describe properly the magnificence of the books themselves. They were all written on white vellum and bound in colored skins, ornamented with rose-diamonds and precious stones and with the king’s portrait or his arms. The pages are illuminated with miniature paintings and ornaments, vying with each other in excellence, and the work of some of the most famous illuminators of the age. At the time of the king’s death there were over 10,000 such volumes in the library.
The king permanently employed at his court thirty transcribers and book-painters, and also gave occupation to Florentine and Venetian copyists and painters, who sent the volumes when finished to Buda. Although the art of printing had been already invented, yet its productions appeared so primitive when compared with these splendid works of art, that the collectors preferred having their books written and painted by hand. It was, to be sure, much more expensive. King Matthias spent over thirty thousand florins annually on his library, a sum equivalent in present currency to considerably over half a million of florins. He lavished larger sums even on architects, painters, sculptors, carvers, and goldsmiths. A whole army of artists were kept busy at his court, especially after his second marriage. During the first years of his reign he was content with the edifices and art memorials inherited from his ancestors, but the arrival of the new queen entirely changed the old modes of life. The habits of life which had been familiar in Italy long ago, with brilliancy, good taste, and wit in their train, were now domesticated on the banks of the Danube. The royal bride was a child of the sunny clime of Naples, a city which was one of the first to foster the new civilization. King Matthias had both the ambition and the ability to effect such changes in the royal residence, before the arrival of his bride, as would make her feel at home in Buda. Long before the new queen was to come, Buda presented a busy scene. The royal palace was enlarged and embellished. Its court-yards were beautified by bronze statues and sculptured marble fountains, and the ancient plastering gave way to porphyry and marble columns. The sides of the staircases were ornamented with frescoes, and from the niches statues of antique style peeped at the passer-by. Costly new tapestry covered the walls, and splendid carpets were spread on the floor of the wide vestibules, stately halls, and roomy chambers, which were filled with sumptuous furniture. The walls were hung with paintings representing heroic events or themes from ancient history or from the Scriptures. Modern carved furniture took the place of the old pieces, and every thing seemed to breathe a new life and to be rejuvenated.
The vaults gave up their old treasures, and new ones were added to the collections. Immense buffets were groaning under the weight of silver and gold, while antique gems, statuettes, and groups of vases were displayed on small tables and in sideboards with glass doors. The palace became a very museum of exquisite objects of art. We can picture to ourselves the vast main hall of the castle, with its peculiar mediæval splendor and brilliancy, in which the marriage took place in December, 1476. The walls of the hall were tapestried with silk interwoven with gold, and strewn with pearls and precious stones, and over the table of the bridal pair a tapestry of sheer gold came flowing down from the ceiling. In the centre of the hall, in front of the king’s table, stood a buffet with four faces, each side containing eight shelves loaded down with enormous silver pitchers, cans, goblets, tankards, amphores, and glasses of every description. On this buffet, alone, there were over five hundred vessels, besides two unicorns, which ornamented the lowest shelf, and which weighed seven hundred marks of silver. A gigantic fountain of silver of artistic design, in the centre of the hall, spouted fiery wines. It was so high that a tall man could hardly reach its top. Near the fountain was a bread-basket of solid silver. Further on, silver casks were suspended from the ceiling dispensing various wines. The hall contained eight more tables, and by each stood a buffet weighed down by gold and silver vessels. Over nine hundred vessels and plate of all kinds were arrayed on the shelves of these buffets without being used. The vessels and plate on the table of the royal couple were all of pure and massive gold. Nor were the other palaces or summer residences, in which the court dwelt, inferior in splendor. The permanent seat of the court was the castle of Buda, but it was frequently shifted to Visegrád, Tata, Presburg, and Vienna, everywhere displaying the same pomp and sumptuousness. These royal residences appeared like real fairy castles, with their hanging gardens, fountains, fish-ponds, aviaries, game-parks, small pleasure-houses, arbors, and statues. Visegrád, became especially famous. One of the papal legates, a man of taste and education, and a great lord, used to sumptuous living, speaks of Visegrád, in a communication to the Pope, as an earthly paradise created anew by the hands of King Matthias.
Within this brilliant network of royal palaces pulsated the busy court life, with a frequent exhibition of exceptional gayeties and splendid feasts. The court was always thronged with the relatives of the king, with captains of the highest rank, and with hundreds of courtiers, from the chancellor down to the humble attendant, and great lords and high prelates, with their courtly trains, gathered around the king, hoping for advancement of one kind or other. The court was also a favorite resort for foreign diplomatists, who came for the purpose of settling questions relating to politics, church, or family concerns, and delivering messages of respect and homage to the king, whose strong arm was able to restrain and check the Turks, the Germans, and the roving bands of marauders. By degrees the Hungarian court took on a European, or cosmopolitan air, becoming more and more refined, gaining also the repute of being a seat of classical learning and culture. There was both compliment and truth in the remark made to King Matthias by his antagonist, Uladislaus, the Czech king, at one of the brilliant feasts given by the former: “Your Majesty, it is difficult to triumph over a king who is the possessor of so much treasure.”
It was a great misfortune that Matthias died without leaving a son to succeed him, for all the accumulated splendor and culture vanished with the king who had introduced and developed them. It was at the zenith of his glorious career, while he was pondering on far-reaching plans for the future, that death surprised him. On Palm Sunday of the year 1490 he attended divine service, and, on returning from church, he was suddenly seized with extreme lassitude. He at once called for figs. They were brought, but on finding them mouldy, he angrily rejected them. Soon after he was overcome by dizziness, and a fit of an apoplectic character deprived him of the power of speech and memory. He expired on the 6th of April, after an illness prolonged for two days.
We are now approaching one of the darkest pages in the history of Hungary. The nation which but thirty-five years before had occupied a commanding position in the world, had, within that short space of time, sunk so low as to become merely a bone of contention for foreign princes. The concluding act of that sad era was the calamitous battle fought on the field of Mohács, where were expiated the many national sins which had brought about this sorrowful state of things.
The period following the death of the great king was marked by feeble rulers; by hierarchical chiefs, unmindful of their duties; by an oligarchy acknowledging no restraints; by a military organization rotten to the core; and by discontented subjects. So rapidly did the fame of the nation decline that we find Erasmus of Rotterdam envying their king, Louis, the possession, not of his kingdom, but of an eminent teacher (Jacob Piso) then living there. The power of the king was even at a lower ebb than that of the nation. We find, for instance, John Szapolyai (or Zápolya), the head of the oligarchy, daring to attack King Uladislaus at the latter’s own palace at Buda, in order to force from him the hand of Anna, his daughter. King Louis, the successor of Uladislaus, was told to his face by Thomas Bakacs, one of his councillors, at a meeting of the National Assembly, that, unless he acted according to the wishes of his councillors, and listened to their advice, they would drive him from the country, and elect another king in his place. These incidents clearly denote the character of the rulers, and of the leading men of the nation, whose province it was to defend the country against an enemy which the great Hunyadis themselves had hardly been able to withstand, namely, the Turkish power, and the ruinous effects of their misrule became evident soon enough. In rapid succession followed one loss of territory after another, coupled with loss of prestige abroad, and civil strife within, and shortly afterwards came the crowning disgrace of the Turkish yoke. It is but right to add that this melancholy period was not quite barren of good men, who both knew and strove to do their duty, and it will be a grateful task to make honorable mention of these noteworthy exceptions.
The partisans of four hostile candidates met on the 17th of May, 1490, on the field of Rákos, for the purpose of electing a king of Hungary. The National Assembly, at that period, greatly resembled the popular meetings held by the conquering Hungarians under the Árpáds. They gathered on horseback, numbering many thousands, on some extensive plain, taking counsel with each other, or, rather, listening to the utterances of their party leaders. These assemblies continued their so-called deliberations at times for many weeks, and their attendance entailed no little expense to those taking part. Many of them came with a large retinue of servants, and it frequently happened that the poorer members, the so-called middle, running short in provisions and money, were compelled to leave for their homes before the deliberations were concluded. This was precisely what happened on the present occasion. The powerful magnates purposely wasted time by delaying the deliberations, and thus compelled the smaller gentry to withdraw. Before leaving, however, these last elected sixty members from their number, who were to remain as representatives, but it was of no avail, for their party was defeated, owing to the withdrawal of such large numbers. This time the stratagem of the oligarchy proved more successful than at the former election, when, as we have seen, the impatient smaller gentry, who were greatly in the majority, succeeded in electing their candidate, Matthias Hunyadi.
Of the several candidates, John Corvinus, the son of King Matthias, had few adherents and many enemies. It was accounted a crime in him that he was not descended from a queenly mother. Beatrice, the widowed queen, was especially opposed to his election. She could not bear the idea of her husband’s son ascending the throne. She flattered herself, besides, with the hope of being able to retain her regal position by the election of a prince who would make her his queen. With this view she became the partisan of Maximilian, the son of the emperor of Germany, and advanced his interests with the passionate vehemence characteristic of the Italian blood which ran in her veins. Her partiality for the imperial prince, however, soon gave way to feelings of disdain, upon being addressed by him, in one of his letters, as his “dear mother,” and she transferred her affections to Ladislaus (styled by the Hungarians, Uladislaus), king of Bohemia. Her new favorite was descended, through the female line, from the Árpáds. The wealthy and influential magnates were also on his side, but with them the fact chiefly weighed in his favor that he was understood to be a kind-hearted, gentle, and feeble prince, whom it would be easy for them to govern. Both Báthory and the oligarchy wanted no king but a royal tool. Albert, the brother of Uladislaus, was the fourth aspirant for royal honors.
The States-General not being able to agree upon any one of the candidates, they at last resolved that he who should obtain the vote of Szapolyai, governor of Vienna, should become king. This decision greatly elated the party of John Corvinus, for as soon as they learned that the election of their candidate depended upon Szapolyai’s decision, they felt assured of his triumph. They could expect no less of the man who, from having been twenty years ago a common trooper—at Visegrád—had been raised to his present exalted position by King Matthias. Szapolyai received in Vienna the deputation which had come to invite him to elect the king. In the consciousness of his power, the proud upstart lifted up his little boy, who afterwards became king of Hungary, and placing him upon his knee, said: “Wert thou, my boy, but that tall, I would make thee king of Hungary.” This unscrupulous man was not inclined to obey a master, and, knowing that he himself had no chance of royalty, he preferred a weak king, such as he believed Uladislaus to be, and, in consideration of a large reward, he sold to him the throne.
The result of the election greatly disappointed and surprised the middle classes. John Corvinus himself was at first at a loss how to act, but finally determined to retire to the southern part of the country and to take with him the crown of St. Stephen, which was in his hands. Six thousand men ready to do battle for his cause accompanied him, and an occasion for the display of their zeal soon presented itself through the treachery of Stephen Báthory and Paul Kinizsy. These faithless favorites of the late King Matthias had promised him, on his deathbed, to stand by his son, and now, instead of redeeming their sacred obligation, they turned traitors to the cause they had vowed to defend. They were the first to assail the son they had promised to support. They came up with him in the county of Tolna, scattered his troops, and not only took from him the crown, but robbed him also of his personal treasures. John Corvinus himself became afterward reconciled to the new order of things, and, at the coronation, it was he who presented the crown to his more fortunate rival. A deputation was sent to Uladislaus, to invite him to the throne of Hungary. He received them most graciously, kissing each of them in turn, and crying with joy. In the month of August the newly elected king made his triumphal entry into Buda, accompanied by a gayly dressed cavalcade, and no one could have anticipated that the brilliant pageantry displayed on that occasion would be followed so soon by a series of humiliations terminating in a national tragedy.
The remaining rival candidates, however, were not disposed to consider their cause as lost. Each of them wanted his share of the kingdom, which was now become an easy prey to its neighbors, and the borders of Hungary on the east and west were simultaneously crossed by enemies. A few months had hardly elapsed since the death of Matthias, the great king, and Albert, Duke of Poland, brother to Uladislaus, was already laying waste the country to the east as far as Erlau (Eger), while the horsemen of Maximilian were tramping at Stuhlweissenburg over the grave of Matthias, and making booty of his treasures. Uladislaus remained inactive in the face of these outrages committed by Maximilian. He finally concluded a most humiliating peace (which to him seemed advantageous), by the terms of which all the former conquests of Matthias were to revert to Maximilian. The true patriots blushed at the news of the disgraceful treaty, and all the comfort they could obtain from the king was his favorite ejaculation, “Dobzse, dobzse.” (It is all well, it is all well.)
Whilst the country was pursuing its downward course, the Czech attendants of the king were incessant in their clamors against poor Hungary. They complained that if they did not wish to starve they would soon have to leave the country. The king himself had not money enough at his disposal to provide for the ordinary expenses of the royal household. And yet the taxes were as high, and even higher, than during the reign of Matthias; nay, the chronicles of the time tell us that the people were better off under that Matthias who arbitrarily imposed taxes, than now under Uladislaus. In truth, the many burdens which were now weighing down the people were owing to the desire of many in high places to enrich themselves. The disorders of the time afforded a rare opportunity of doing so with impunity. It happened, though, at times, that the mismanagement of such greedy men would leak out, as in the case of Lukács, bishop of Csanád, and Sigismund Hampr, bishop of Fünfkirchen (Pécs), who were both treasurers of the realm, and whose fraudulent transactions were discovered. But the king was too weak to visit their crimes with condign punishment, and amongst the great of the land none were disposed to throw the first stone at the criminals. The impotence of the king caused the decline of the national strength, the ruin of the finances, and, as a natural consequence, the complete disorganization of the military institutions.
In this connection we have to record a strange encounter which took place in 1492 in the vicinity of Halas, in the county of Pesth. Paul Kinizsy, the terror of the Turks, the general who had grown gray on victorious battlefields, met there, in hostile array, the army he himself had formerly commanded, the famous “Black Guard” of Matthias. This very army, with their brave old leader, had a few months earlier repulsed the Turks near Szörény. After this victory the soldiers demanded the pay which had long been in arrears. As usual on such occasions, tumults and disorders broke out in consequence of this failure to keep faith with the troops. The wisdom of the Hungarian National Assembly knew no better remedy than to instruct Kinizsy to march against the exasperated men. The old general obeyed orders. Seven thousand men were massacred, and the remainder, flying to Austria, dragged out their weary lives as robbers, constantly at war with the law. This cruel and impolitic measure deprived the nation, at a time when she was preparing for the life-and-death struggle against the formidable power of the Turks, of one of her main supports, in destroying that army which alone could have saved her. For Kinizsy, the former miller-boy, this was the last campaign, for very soon after he was stricken with paralysis and deprived of the power of speech. His contemporaries saw in this a punishment decreed by Providence for the part he had played on that bloody occasion.
The better part of the nation soon grew restless under this state of things, and a party arose which was hostile to the king. Stephen Verböczy was the leader of the new party. He was a thorough patriot and a skilled jurist, well versed in legislation. He was highly esteemed by the middle class, in whom he saw the only element which would restore to his country the universal respect she formerly enjoyed. This party aspired to the government of the land, and their choice of a ruler fell on Stephen Szapolyai, the son of John Szapolyai. If Stephen had not been, in 1490, still a child, his father would then have made him king. That he should become king was the highest ambition of his mother Anna, Duchess of Teschen, a woman more ambitious even than her son, and of whom it is said that she invariably concluded her daily devotions with a special prayer to God, asking that she might be permitted to live to see her son ascend the Hungarian throne. Szapolyai himself did not consider it an arduous task to accomplish this, for he argued that it was a precedent in his favor that Matthias, who was of no more exalted origin than himself, had become king. His partisans first tried to attain their end by marriage, and with this view Szapolyai asked of Uladislaus the hand of the young Duchess Anna. Uladislaus refused to accede to his request, and sought protection against the vaulting ambition of the national candidate in an alliance with the emperor Maximilian. The idea of a treaty of marriage between the two reigning dynasties was broached. The national party answered by convoking the National Assembly on the field of Rákos and passing the important law that, in case of the extinction of the male branch of the dynasty, they would elect a native king only. In the meanwhile Szapolyai renewed his wooing, and he was all the more confident of accomplishing his object, as Uladislaus was then seriously sick and still remained without any male issue. But Uladislaus could not be moved to reconsider his refusal. He told Szapolyai that he trusted to God that he would recover his health, and that a male child might yet be born to him. Nor was he disappointed in his hopes. He regained his health, and shortly afterwards his queen bore him a boy who reigned, at a subsequent date, under the title of Louis II.
Uladislaus now perceived the bearing of the Rákos resolution and, in consequence, entered into a new treaty with Maximilian. Under its terms Ferdinand, a grandson of Maximilian, was to marry Uladislaus’ daughter Anna, whilst another grandchild of Maximilian, Mary, was betrothed to Louis, the boy just born. By virtue of this treaty Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria, took possession of the throne of Hungary after the fatal day of Mohács. This new alliance, however, did not deter Szapolyai from his bold purpose. Twice again he tried to gain Anna’s hand, forcing his way into the presence of Uladislaus, but it was all in vain. His partisans now began to meditate the policy pursued by them later on, namely, to resort to Turkish friendship for assistance. The present state of things had become so intolerable, that the national party recoiled from no measures, however extreme, to bring about a change. One day a wicked hand sped two balls into the palace of Uladislaus; the king escaped, but to this day the suspicion of the foul deed rests on the adherents of Szapolyai.
The desperate contentions of the two parties gave frequent rise to lawlessness and stormy scenes. The nobility laid waste each other’s estates and often even took unlawful possession of them. In this way many a castle which John Corvinus had inherited from his father passed at that time into the hands of Szapolyai. Duke Ujlaky ventured even to molest the royal domains, and upon being called to account for this by the king, Ujlaky disdainfully styled him an ox. The offended king, in order to avenge this affront, sent an army against him under the lead of Bertalan Drágfy, the vayvode of Transylvania, with the message that the king’s second horn was now growing, and that henceforth the king would fight his unruly subjects with two horns. Szapolyai, the palatine of the kingdom, offered to intercede; the intercession, however, being nothing but a cloak to incite the people to rebellion against Uladislaus, the latter was compelled to yield, and to pardon Ujlaky. A most disgraceful brawl, such as is usually witnessed only amongst the drunken rabble, took place in the very presence of the king in the royal council-chamber. George Szalkán, the primate of Hungary, allowed himself to be carried away, during a heated discussion with Christopher Frangepán, to such an extent as to seize the latter by the beard, whereupon he was struck in the face by Frangepán. The king, by personally interfering, put an end to these most unparliamentary proceedings.
A dangerous movement was at this time gaining strength throughout Europe. The peasantry, weary of the servitude in which they were held, resorted to arms against their former oppressors. In Hungary, especially, this movement assumed ominous proportions. The rebellion broke out in 1514, and was commonly called either the Kurucz rebellion, from the fact that those who took part in it were originally intended to be soldiers of the cross (cruciferi), or, after the name of their leader, the Dózsa rebellion.
Julius II., one of the most distinguished popes, died at Rome in 1513. Amongst the aspirants to the papal see we find a Hungarian archbishop, Thomas Bakacs. He is said to have spent fabulous sums in the eternal city to further his object. In order to ingratiate himself with the populace he had his horses’ feet shod with silver shoes, but so loosely that they were dropped on the road and picked up by the people. Being unsuccessful at the papal election, he begged of the new pope, Leo X., to be allowed, as a solace for his disappointment, to organize a crusade against the Turks on his return to Hungary. The arrival of Bakacs was the signal for a fierce struggle in the ranks of the Diet. A portion of the oligarchy, who hoped to derive some profit from this venture, warmly advocated his scheme, while by others, who were too much burdened already, it was violently opposed. Stephen Telegdy, the keeper of the treasure, stood at the head of the latter and threw the whole weight of his authority into the scale in order to prevent the passing of the law sanctioning the crusade. He vividly pictured the miserable condition of the peasantry, and resolutely objected to providing them with arms, saying that it would be equivalent to arming their own enemies. The law was passed in spite of this remonstrance, and the crusade was proclaimed on the 16th of July, 1514.
The condition of the Hungarian peasants at that period was a most wretched one. Those who inhabited the border were beggared by the incessant plundering expeditions of the Turks, while the remainder fared hardly better at the hands of their lords. Their masters were always in need of large sums of money to cover their enormous expenditures. A German contemporary, who lived for some time in Hungary, wrote of the landed gentry that they were in the habit of spending whole nights in riotous living, and passing the days with sleeping off the effects of their nocturnal orgies. The money required for this mode of life had to be wrung from the hard labor of the poor peasant, who was also weighed down by other burdens. The Hungarian nobility enjoyed privileges only; their shoulders knew no burdens. It was the peasantry who paid all the taxes, who had to pay out of their hard-earned farthings tithes to support the clergy; and over and beyond all this, they had to provide for their lords and masters. The peasant had to till the soil if he did not wish to starve, and in time of war he was compelled to ransom himself from military service. Against oppressions on the part of his lord he had no remedy, for his master was his judge. The lords’ tribunal sat in judgment over the peasant, and it can be easily imagined what kind of justice was meted out to him.
Such was the sad condition of the peasantry when the crusade was proclaimed. No wonder that the oppressed peasants flocked in great numbers into the camps ready to exchange the abject drudgery of their daily life for the perils of crusading. A large portion of the nobility were from the first arrayed against this movement, all the more so as it happened during the season when there was most work to do in the field, and it was very difficult for them to get along without the laborers. The peasants looked with indifference upon the distress of their masters, and deserted them in daily increasing numbers to take up the holy cross. Bakacs had already provided a leader for them, singling out for that position a simple gentleman from Transylvania. His name was George Dózsa, a name which, coupled with a doubtful fame, will, nevertheless, continue to figure for all times in the history of his country. Hungarian historians of our days are fond of ascribing to him high and patriotic schemes, and love to portray him as a hero in the cause of liberty and one animated by a lofty spirit. Yet, if we attentively scan his actions, we are compelled to admit that he was little better than a brave and desperate peasant, whose whole conduct proves him to have bitterly hated the nobility. Nor was he indebted to any great qualities for the distinction he had won. His chief merit consisted in being a bold man, of a fine and martial appearance, in possessing a voice fit for command, and in having a few years before, in a skirmish, cleft in twain a Turkish pasha. The officers placed under him were for the most part poor nobles like himself, together with a few citizens from Pesth, and a certain Lawrence Mészáros, a priest from Czegléd. In a few days there were collected at the camp of Pesth no less than 40,000 men, who were to be marched against the Turks. But the army did not need to go so far to find an enemy—namely, their old oppressors, their Hungarian masters. The more hot-headed amongst the peasants were haranguing the others with vehemence, exciting their passions. Their chief, Dózsa, was himself swept into the new movement. Bakacs himself became terror-stricken at the direction things were taking. He called upon Dózsa to lead the army to their place of destination, and as the latter hesitated to obey, he was placed by this high church dignitary under the ecclesiastical ban. Dózsa, in answer to the archbishop’s anathema, changed his programme, and led his men against the nobility. The struggle was short but bitter. It was fear rather than the badly armed troops of peasants that, at first, defeated the great nobles. As soon as the first shock was over, every member of the nobility felt that to avoid the general ruin of all, they must stand together, in a well organized force. They gathered under the leadership of Stephen Báthory, the chief Comes (count) of Temes, and Nicholas Csáky, bishop of Csanád, but were destined to meet with yet another defeat. The cruelties then perpetrated by the blood-thirsty peasantry beggar all description. They overran the whole country, burning one castle after another, and massacred, by the light of the flames, all the noblemen with their families who were so unfortunate as to fall into their hands. Stephen Telegdy, who had so vehemently opposed the crusade, himself lost his life in this shocking manner, and Nicholas Csáky was captured on the battle-field, and was, to the delight of the whole camp, killed with torture.
Dózsa now proceeded to lay siege to Temesvár. He had singled out this fortified place as the point from which he would conquer the country for his peasants, but at this very spot he had to learn by painful experience that it was not an easy task to cope with the established power, no matter how demoralized for the time it be. The factions, admonished by the common peril, ceased for the time their party strife, and the chief Comes of Temes, a partisan of the king, did not hesitate to invoke the support of John Szapolyai, the vayvode of Transylvania, who was the leader of the national party. The vayvode, together with a strong force of the yeomanry of Transylvania, came to his assistance, and the struggle soon approached its termination. At the first engagement the army of Dózsa was utterly defeated, those who survived were scattered, and the leader with a few of his companions was taken captive. The savage work of retaliation now followed. The vayvode Szapolyai was the president of the tribunal. The victory he had achieved raised his authority with the nobility, who looked upon the late struggle as a war waged for their extermination, and he thought it would add to his glory if he presented to the excited nobles a harrowing spectacle. Mercy was shown only to Gregory, the brother of George Dózsa, inasmuch as he was merely beheaded. The remaining rebel leaders, including Dózsa, were thrown into prison, and were not permitted to taste any food for a fortnight. Nine of them still remained amongst the living. Dózsa was seated on a red hot iron throne, a red hot crown was placed on his forehead, and a red hot sceptre forced into his hand. Not a murmur of pain escaped him during this dreadful torture. Only when his famished companions in arms rushed upon him and tore the charred flesh from his body to appease their craving for food, he exclaimed: “These hounds are of my own training.” This was the end of one of the episodes of this sanguinary domestic war. Four months of civil strife had cost the country the lives of 50,000 men. At a future period, not very distant, the nation might have made a much better use of these lives, but there seemed to be a fatality impelling the people to become their own destroyers. The Hungarian popular feeling has always sympathized with the peasantry in this bloody rebellion. Thus the story is, to this day, current amongst the people, that, as often as the Lord’s body was raised, during mass, Szapolyai became maddened for a few minutes, because by his deeds he had rendered himself unworthy of beholding the sacred host. History, on the other hand, still cherishes the names of John Gosztonyi, bishop of Raab, and Gotthard Sükey, a captain from Pápa, of whom it is recorded that in order to scatter the peasantry with as little bloodshed as possible they loaded their guns with grass and rags instead of cannon balls. The 50,000 victims, however, did not suffice to appease the vindictive spirit of the victors, for in their opinion the crimes of the peasantry called for a sterner expiation. The crime of the fathers must be visited on all generations to come. The Diet, which met on the 18th of October, 1514, seemed to think that the peasants had been treated too mildly, and that all of them deserved death. The wise fathers of the land reflected, however, that if all were exterminated no one would be left to work for the nobles and to provide them with food and drink. They therefore let mercy prevail—but mercy as they understood it was the most refined cruelty. The peasants were to be allowed to live, but their life should become a calamity to them. The perpetual servitude of the peasantry was proclaimed, and it was ordained that they should be chained down to the soil.
This iniquitous law was passed and sanctioned by the king on the 19th of November, on the same day that he confirmed the celebrated tripartite code compiled by Stephen Verböczy, the Chief-Justice of the land. Truly a most remarkable contrast in legislation. On the one hand, a code which established law and order in the kingdom; on the other hand, the most inhuman measure in European history dictated by savage vindictiveness. Verböczy’s tripartite code, or, as its title runs, “Decretum tripartitum juris consuetudinarii,” is the most famous and the most important work of Hungarian jurisprudence, shedding also an interesting light on the social condition of the country at a remoter period. The tripartitum is a strong advocate of the privileges and immunities of the nobility. It establishes equal rights for all the members of the Hungarian nobility, acknowledging no difference between them except on grounds of personal merit. Every Hungarian noble accordingly was entitled to the privileges accorded to the whole body; he could not be deprived of his liberty without due conviction; above him there was but one lord and master, and that was the king, and he was exempt from taxation. It further limits the authority of the clergy over lay nobles, and denies the right of the Pope to the disposal of church benefices. After endeavoring in this manner to claim for the nobles independence as to those above them, the code at the same time tries to enlarge their rights as to those below them. The recent uprising of the peasantry offered a good opportunity for this tendency. It says: “The recent rebellion, aimed, under the pretext of a crusade, against the whole nobility, and led by a robber chief, has, for all days to come, put the stain of faithlessness on the peasants, and they have thereby forfeited their liberty and become subject to their landlords in unconditional and perpetual servitude. The peasant has no sort of right over his master’s land save bare compensation for his labor and such other reward that he may obtain. Every species of property belongs to the landlords, and the peasant has no right to invoke justice and the law against a noble.” This was the view taken by the nobility at that period, a view which they succeeded in forcing upon the feeble king.
The king, indeed was indifferent to the political and social changes which injured the best interests of the nation. His main purpose was to secure the throne to his family, and as long as he succeeded in this all the rest was “dobzse” to him. He had his sickly son crowned when he was but an infant of two years, and obtained for him the powerful protection of the imperial family. In 1506 his queen, Anna of Candal, an intelligent and energetic woman, the niece of Louis XI., King of France, died. The sorrow of the widowed king was boundless; for days he remained in his rooms weeping and moaning. Ten years later he followed the queen he had so much mourned, and his son, Louis II., succeeded him. Louis was a mere boy, but ten years old, when he ascended the throne, and his youth was another misfortune to the weakened and divided country. The events of his reign are usually summed up in one sentence: “He was prematurely born, married young, ascended the throne young, and died young.” We shall, however, devote a larger space to this kind-hearted but unfortunate youth. Louis, as was stated, came prematurely into the world, and it required all the skill the medical science of the time afforded to keep alive the royal infant, who hardly breathed when he was ushered into the world. For weeks he was kept lying in the warm carcasses of animals slaughtered and cut open for that purpose, and in this manner was saved from death. But little attention was paid to his education during his father’s life; it is reported that at a later period he blamed the latter for his neglect, and strove hard by redoubled exertions to make up for lost time. Although prematurely born he developed quite early in life, and was a tall and strong youth at the time his father died. Cardinal Thomas Bakacs, John Bornemisza, the castellan of Buda, and George of Brandenburg, Margrave of Anspach, were, by the king’s last will, appointed his guardians. George became the ruin of the ambitious young king. The good lessons taught him by Jacob Piso, his excellent teacher, were set at naught by this guardian. He was not actuated by sinister motives in spoiling his ward; his conduct was the effect rather of a life-long habit of riotous living, of which he could not divest himself, and it was no wonder that the youthful king was quick to imitate the unworthy example. The more serious studies soon gave way to amusements of all kinds, and the boy-king spent his life in riding, hunting, and feasting, as long as his means would allow. Some of the frolicsome eccentricities recorded of him best illustrate his giddiness. He had among his courtiers a man named Peter Korogi, whose indestructible stomach was far-famed for its utter want of squeamishness. It was his great delight to summon before him Korogi, and see him devour living mice, cats’ tails, carrion found in the streets, and inkstands with the ink in them. Poor Korogi lost his life afterwards at the battle of Mohács.