more in the spirit of the original, but to be at their own country's service whenever required. The existence of such a body as Methuen's Horse is a proof that this would not be impossible.
It is with no such chivalrous service, however, that' we have now to do. No condition of society could be more appropriate for the creation of the mercenary soldier than the state of Italy in those centuries of art and glory, of murder and rapine, which are called, according to the taste of the critic, the Dark Ages, or the Ages of Faith. That great and noble country, beloved of all men, the home of all that is beautiful and glorious, which has lately, by an inspiration unequalled in the history of nations, performed the old miracle of the fable and bound all its suffering particles, all the loose sticks which were at every conqueror's mercy, into a fagot which Hercules might attempt in vain – Italy, which beyond all hope has become one of the great Powers of Europe – was then no country at all, but a succession of arrogant and wealthy cities, of little principalities and dukedoms, all hating each other with a fervour such as only close neighbourhood brings, bent on each other's subjugation as the one thing of importance outside their several walls, or bent on preserving their own tumultuous and fantastic but vigorous freedom against a succession of petty despots within. Supposing a wholesome-minded and sound-headed condottiero of the fifteenth century to have troubled his mind about the matter, which was highly improbable, there was little principle involved in the questions between Florence and Pisa, between Venice and Genoa, except that determination to show which was the better man, – to make one's neighbour knock under, and enrich one's self at his expense – which is one of the best understood rules of primitive life. And for a Savoyard coming to the richer plains to seek his fortune, what could be less important than the question, which of those wealthy paymasters he should take service under? The firm resolve of the proud citizens to have no yoke about their own necks, and to forge double coils around each neighbour's; their prudent consciousness that to carry this resolve out with their own hands would impair trade and generally interfere with the comfort of their world, – were to the men of war the very conditions essential for their own trade, which was not perhaps, at that period and in these circumstances, so very noble a one as arms have generally been considered to be. One of its chief dangers was the unlucky accident that occurred now and then, when a general who failed of being invariably successful had his head taken off by the Signoria to whom he had engaged himself. But fighting of itself was not dangerous, at least to the troops engaged, and spoils were plentiful, and the life a merry one. Italy, always rich in the bounties of nature, had never been so rich as in these days, and the troops had a succession of villages at their command always, with the larger morsels of a rich town to sack now and then, ransoms of prisoners, and all the other chances of war. Their battles were exercises of skill rather than encounters of personal opponents, and it was not unusual to achieve a great feat of arms and rout an enemy without shedding a drop of blood. The bloodshed was that of the hapless non-combatants, the villagers, the harmless town-folk who were mad enough to resist the mailed sav-
