CHAPTER XI.

THE PERIOD OF NATIONAL DECLINE, AND THE DISASTROUS BATTLE OF MOHÁCS.

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.

A glance at Louis’ court and at his personal surroundings will suffice to give us a picture of the condition of the country. Uladislaus had already repeatedly complained that but a small portion of the revenues of the state ever reached his hands, and that his income during three years did not amount to as much as King Matthias used to spend on his clerks. Louis, who, besides, had to defray the expenses of his education, fared infinitely worse. He had to put off from day to day his journey to Prague, the capital of his Bohemian kingdom, because he was unable to procure the funds necessary for his travelling expenses. Things came to such a pass that the king could not provide decently for the royal table, which was all the more unfortunate for him, as he boasted of an excellent appetite; his contemporaries relating of him that when his resources permitted, seven meals were daily served at his court. His penury finally reached such a point that he lacked the means of paying the wages of his household servants, and then it was that a certain sum was set apart for royal expenses, to be paid into the hands of the treasurer and not of the king, a contrivance which was of little avail, the treasurers themselves being untrustworthy. King Louis remained as poor as he was before, and we read that at a reception given to the ambassadors of foreign powers, where the most brilliant display would have been in place, the young king sat on his throne in dilapidated boots. In spite of his poverty Louis found a way to indulge in pastimes and to squander money. At a time when they write of him that he could not call a sound pair of boots his own, he remitted to one of his courtiers a debt of 40,000 ducats in exchange for a trained falcon. George of Brandenburg wrote on one occasion that although the court was dreadfully poor, yet they managed to carouse all the time. These entertainments were marked by scenes and occurrences which but ill comport with the dignity of a court. The king was excessively fond of amusements, and on one occasion he wrote three months before the carnival: “Wherever we shall happen to be, even on a journey, we intend to make merry and to pass gayly our days.” The carousing at the court, however, was not confined to the carnival season, for we read that on the very eve of the battle of Mohács, the king and queen were enjoying themselves right royally. The queen, too, was fond of gayeties. No one would have foretold of her that she should ever become so versed in matters of state. The difference between Mary the queen and Mary the widow might well elicit universal surprise. The eventful battle of Mohács sobered her. While her husband lived she so freely entered into the pastimes and frolics of the king that the partisans of the king himself were compelled to remind her more than once of the rules of decency and propriety.

A fierce struggle ensued between the oligarchical and the national party as to who should be selected for the royal council. This rivalry sprang by no means from patriotic motives, or from a desire to serve the country in the royal councils, but from the more sordid aim of making use of the royal authority to extend and increase their personal power and influence. The party leaders were still the same. Szapolyai and Verböczy stood at the head of the middle-class party, whilst the royal party, led by Báthory, made common cause with the Fuggers. The Fuggers were the Rothschilds of the sixteenth century; they had amassed immense wealth in Hungary by advancing at first an inconsiderable sum to the king, and obtaining for it the privilege of working the mines. They fraudulently exported from the land all the gold and silver obtained from the mines, while of the money advanced by them but very little got into the king’s hands, as it had first to pass the hands of middle-men, who managed to keep large portions. In this way can it be accounted for that Thomas Bakacs’ household was far more lavish and brilliant than that of the king himself, and that Count Alexius Thurzó, being in collusion with the Fuggers, was enabled at one time to advance to the king 32,000 florins. Emeric Szerencs’ name figures most conspicuously amongst these money manipulators. He was a converted Jew, occupying a prominent position, and who subsequently became treasurer of the state. While he was never able to procure money for the treasury, he succeeded in constantly adding immense sums to his own fortune. The people at last rose against the unscrupulous treasurer, and attacked Szerencs in his own palace. He saved himself only with great difficulty from the fury of the populace by escaping through a window to which a rope ladder was attached.

The party of the nobility was at last victorious. At the Diet assembled at Hatvan 14,000 nobles assumed such a menacing attitude towards the government that all its members were compelled to give in their resignations, and Stephen Verböczy was elected by the triumphant party palatine of the kingdom. John Szapolyai became treasurer. To what extent the treasury was better managed under his direction it would be difficult to determine, for the sad fact remained that the treasury still remained empty, and that the new treasurer was constantly adding to the number of his estates and increasing his domain. The magnates as well as the burghers clearly saw that nothing had been gained by the change effected in the administration. They therefore combined to restore the former government, and were headed by the great nobles who had been deprived of their offices—Báthory, the late palatine, and Alexius Thurzó. The league is known in Hungarian history under the name of the “_Kalandos_” Society—the word “kalandos” having in the Magyar language the meaning of “adventurous,” but in truth the word was derived from the “_Kalends_,” the society being in the habit of meeting on the “Kalends,” or first of each month. This patriotic band of would-be saviors of their country went on with their intrigues even after the news had arrived of another Turkish inroad threatening the country. The league at last succeeded. At the Diet convoked in Buda they reinstated their party in power. Verböczy himself was not slow in perceiving that he had been used by Szapolyai merely as a tool, and, refusing to be an instrument in his hands, he resigned the dignity of which he had been already deprived by the Diet. In order to save his life he fled to Transylvania, but he could not prevent the Diet from declaring him to be an enemy to his country.

Báthory occupied again his former position of a palatine, and announced his programme in these brief words: “We are not the cause of the ruin of the country”—a very strange assurance on the part of the councillors and leading statesmen of Louis II., coming too at a time when they were menaced on all sides by approaching perils. This conduct occasioned the papal nuncio’s remark that “they were playing comedy with their mutual protests.”

The Reformation added a new complication to the many dividing the nation, being a fresh source of discord amongst the people. This mighty religious movement spread as far as Hungary about the same time that it had won a large territory for itself in Germany. Here as there its adherents met with persecutions at the hand of the Roman Catholic Church. The new faith, although it had not gained large numbers, soon found its martyrs in the country. Both of the political factions were equally guilty of these persecutions, and we find a telling proof of this in the fact that Verböczy as well as Báthory, the respective palatines of the hostile parties, each had his share in the executions of the Protestants who laid down their lives for their faith. While Hungarian blood was thus shed by the Hungarians themselves, their proud neighbor, Sultan Selim, the mighty ruler of the Turkish empire, had registered a vow before Allah, in case he would vouchsafe victory to his armies over Persia, to build for his worship three magnificent mosques—one in Jerusalem, another in Buda, and a third in Rome. The sultan vanquished the Persians, but was prevented by death from fulfilling his vow. In Hungary they made merry, drinking death to the Turks, and little dreaming that the new sultan was destined to inflict upon them soon a most deadly blow.

Solyman the Magnificent succeeded the fierce Selim. He combined in his person the talents of a great warrior, a great legislator, and a great theologian. It was not long before the Hungarians themselves offered him an excuse for waging war against them. On his accession to the throne he had sent an ambassador to Louis II. for the purpose of prolonging the peace between them. The overbearing Hungarian nobles did not so much as enter into a parley with the envoy, but threw him into prison, dragged him with them all over the country, and finally, after cutting off his nose and ears, sent him back to his master. This dire offence against the law of nations, and the unprovoked insult to the sultan in the person of his representative, could not be left unpunished. Solyman swore he would be avenged for this affront, and vowed he would get possession of that Belgrade which at one time had maintained its independence against the warlike genius of a Mohammed II. “He attacked simultaneously two of the strongest border fortresses—Shabatz and Belgrade. The king was just then too busy with his wedding with the Austrian princess Mary to allow himself to be disturbed by the hostile inroad, nor did his chief councillors take any heed of it. Báthory, the palatine of the kingdom, was also celebrating his nuptials, whilst Chancellor Szalkay’s attention was entirely absorbed by the administration of the bishopric of Erlau that had been recently bestowed upon him.

Shabatz stood under the command of Simon Logody and Andrew Torma, both men of great heroism and rare courage. They shone out as conspicuous exceptions in this corrupt age. They preferred to face certain death rather than save themselves by deserting the fortress entrusted to their care, and solemnly swore to be true to the cause of the country unto death. They and their brave garrison kept their oaths faithfully; of five hundred men, but sixty were left on the 16th day of the siege. These sixty men were drawn up in soldierly array on the public square of the fort to receive the last assault of the Turkish army, and not one of them escaped with his life. Six weeks later Belgrade, the famous scene of Hungarian heroism, was taken by the Turks, and it is not often that an enemy achieved as easy a victory over such a stronghold as this border fortress as the Turks secured on the 29th of August, 1521. Francis Hedervári and young Valentine Törok had been entrusted with the defence of Belgrade. These selfish nobles, unmindful of their sacred duties, left Belgrade and proceeded to Buda, in order to obtain from the government repayment for the expenses already incurred by them for the maintenance of the fortress. Failing in their errand, they did not return to their trust, but left the garrison, numbering seven thousand men, to themselves, under the command of their subordinate officers, the brave Blasius Oláh, and the treacherous Michael Moré. Their desertion sealed the fate of this fortress. Moré became a traitor to the cause of his country; he deserted to the enemy’s camp, and, betraying to the Turks the weak points of the stronghold, he endeavored, at the same time, to prevail upon Oláh to aid him in his wicked designs. The patriotism of the latter, however, was proof against all the allurements of the tempter. The fall of the fortress was, nevertheless, unavoidable. The number of the garrison had dwindled down to seventy-two men, when a squabble ensued between those of them who were Hungarians and those who were Servians, which ended in their compelling Oláh to surrender the fortress. By the terms of the surrender the garrison was allowed to leave the fortress unmolested, but the Turks interpreted this clause in their own way. They were permitted to march into the Turkish camp, but on their wishing to leave the camp they were all of them massacred.

The fall of Belgrade spread terror all over the country—all the more as it was entirely unexpected, and certainly might have been prevented. Báthory, the palatine, and John Szapolyai stood, each with a great army, not very far from Belgrade; but these noblemen, obeying only the dictates of their mutual hatred, would not join their armies, and truly says the poet Charles Kisfaludy, that the deepest wounds inflicted upon the poor country were “no, not by her enemies, but by her own sons.” Louis himself was roused from his lethargy upon hearing the sad news. He upbraided his councillors for neglecting to warn him of the dangers menacing the country, and for not having taken measures to avert them; nay, in his exasperation, as we are informed by his chaplain, he struck one of his councillors, Bishop Szalkay, in the face. Repentance was now too late, and the impending catastrophe seemed unavoidable. It is true that the Hungarians achieved one more victory in the Hungarian Lowlands. Paul Tömöry, the newly appointed archiepiscopal captain-in-chief of that section, defeated Ferhat Pasha on the field of Nagy-Olasz, in Syrmia. But the passing glow of this success left no permanent effects; three years later the Turks were more formidable than ever to Hungary.

While the Hungarian Diet was the scene of fierce discussions, Francis I., King of the French, smarting under the defeat he had suffered at the hands of the Emperor Charles V., stirred up Solyman against Hungary and the Hapsburg crown-lands, in order to effect a division of the imperial army. In this scheme Francis I. succeeded so well that in the month of August, 1526, an army exceeding 300,000 men, with 300 cannon, under the lead of Solyman, was invading Hungary.

The news of Solyman’s approach found the country unprepared. The treasury did not contain money enough to pay the messengers, still less to organize an army. A requisition of the gold and silver plate and vessels of the church was of little avail, for what little could be collected, owing to the resistance of the clergy, was appropriated again by the nobles, who were charged with the duty of coining them into money. Caspar Serédy owed his wealth to such transactions.

In soldiers they were even poorer than in money. The sultan was already crossing the southern frontier, and not a soldier was near King Louis. The cities bought their exemption from military service with money, and the great nobles were dilatory. The king finally marched alone against the enemy. The guilty were seized with shame at this noble example, and about the beginning of August four thousand men had already rallied round him. He was steadily proceeding southward and reached Mohács in the latter part of August. The army had swelled by this time to twenty-five thousand men, but it wanted a commander, and there was not in the whole country a single general capable of wielding large forces. The king, under these circumstances, had no other choice but to appoint, as commander-in-chief, Paul Tömöry, whose victory achieved over the Turks was still fresh in memory. Shortly afterwards the Turkish army, which had occupied Peterwardein (Pétervárad) a few days before, made its appearance. A serious discussion arose now whether the Hungarians should stand a battle, or, retreating first, join the army of Christopher Frangepán, coming from Slavonia, and that of John Szapolyai, marching from Transylvania. Tömöry was in favor of accepting battle at once, and was sustained by the king. Francis Perényi, the witty bishop of Grosswardein, on seeing that Tömöry’s counsels had prevailed, is reported to have said: “The Hungarian nation will have twenty thousand martyrs on the day of battle, and it would be well to have them canonized by the pope.” The battle took place on the 29th of August, on a fine summer’s day. The Hungarians formed in battle array early in the morning. The king, surrounded by his lay and ecclesiastical magnates, occupied the centre. A thousand mailed horsemen were around the king, and in their midst John Drágfy, the Chief-Justice of the land, waving high up in the air the national banner. Seated on a white horse, he wore no spurs, according to the ancient custom, implying that flight to him was impossible.

Báthory, afflicted with the gout, rode with the king along the line of each troop, addressing words of encouragement to the men. The whole army impatiently looked forward to the moment when the battle should begin, and, finally, at five o’clock in the afternoon the Turks advanced. It was remarked that the king, on the silver helmet being placed on his head, became deathly pale, as if in anticipation of the near danger, but while it shocked the attendants, it by no means disheartened them.

The first onslaught came from the Hungarian horse, who rushed upon the enemy in front of them and drove them back. The Turkish troops thus attacked retreated without offering any resistance to the body of the army. The Hungarians, shouting victory, pressed on in hot pursuit, little dreaming that they were running into the jaws of sure destruction. The retreat was but a feint, for when the Hungarian army had been drawn on near enough to the Turkish centre, the retreating troops opened their ranks, and, through the gap left open, three hundred cannon and several thousand Janissaries poured a murderous fire on the advancing troops. The slaughter was dreadful; a large portion of the troops, including their commander and their standard bearer, fell at the first fire. The rest fled in every direction, but were greatly impeded in their retreat by a violent shower of rain which suddenly burst on the fugitives, among whom was also the youthful king. As he was trying to cross the Csele, a small brook, swollen by the rain, the horse, after reaching the opposite bank, stumbled backward into the waters below, and buried his rider under him.

The prophecy of Perényi was fulfilled. Twenty thousand martyrs strewed the field of Mohács, and among them was the witty prophet himself. The Hungarians paid the heavy penalty of thirty-six years’ misrule and disorder, but the worst was yet to come. On the 10th of September there passed again a brilliant procession through the gates of Buda. This time it was not the crowned king of Hungary who made his entry into the fortress, but Solyman, who delivered it up for pillage to his soldiers. On this occasion was destroyed the famous library of Matthias.