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For this reason the republic of Ragusa, the Swiss, and the United Provinces, in all their aristocracies or democratic monarchies, if I may call them that, exclude these degrees of hereditary honour. They allow only the learned, wise, discerning, and well-educated to hold office, like the Athenian Areopagites. The Chinese follow the same customs: no one among them is noble by birth. They choose magistrates from their philosophers and doctors; their civic nobles are drawn from those who are “morally noble,” noble in virtue. “Nobility, as formerly, comes from office, not from nature,” as in ancient Israel. Their office was to defend and govern their country in war and peace, not merely to hawk, hunt, eat, drink, and gamble, as too many do.
Their Loysii, mandarins, scholars, licentiates, and those who have risen through their own merit are their only noblemen, the people thought fit to govern a state. Why, then, should anyone who has worth in other respects be ashamed of his birth? Why should a man who leaves noble descendants not be respected as much as one who had noble ancestors? Indeed, why not more? For “more people worship the rising sun”: we mostly adore the sun as it rises. How much better to say, “In virtue I outshone my ancestors,” and boast of one’s virtues rather than one’s birth!
Cathesbeius, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, was a slave by condition, but second to no king in worth, valour, and courage; for that reason, as Giovio writes, he was elected emperor of the Mamluks. That poor Spaniard Pizarro was made Marquis of Anatillo by Charles V for his valour. The Turkish pashas are all such men.
Pertinax, Philip the Arab, Maximinus, Probus, Aurelius, and others rose from common soldiers to emperors. Cato, Cincinnatus, and others became consuls; Pius II, Sixtus V, John II, Nicholas V, and others, popes. Socrates, Virgil, Horace—“born of a freedman father.” The kings of Denmark, some say, trace their pedigree to one Ulfo, the son of a bear. “A great man often comes from a humble cottage”: many a worthy man comes out of a poor cottage.
Hercules, Romulus, Alexander—by Olympias’s confession—Themistocles, Jugurtha, King Arthur, William the Conqueror, Homer, Demosthenes, Peter Lombard, Peter Comestor, Bartolus, Pope Adrian IV, and others were born outside marriage. In almost every kingdom, the oldest families began with princes’ illegitimate children. Our annals’ worthiest commanders, finest minds, great scholars, and boldest spirits have been of low birth. In his Subtleties, Cardano gives a reason why they are usually more capable than others in body and mind, and consequently more fortunate.
Castruccio Castracani, a poor child found in a field and exposed to misery, became prince of Lucca and Siena in Italy, a thoroughly accomplished soldier and a worthy commander. Machiavelli compares him to Scipio or Alexander. It is a wonderful thing, he says, for anyone who considers it, that all those, or most of them, who have performed the greatest exploits on earth and surpassed the other great men of their time have invariably been born in some lowly, obscure place, or to poor, obscure, lowly parents.
Scaliger considers it a most memorable observation: “Nor should we pass over the fact that most of the greatest men had unknown fathers and unchaste mothers.” I could list a vast catalogue of them: every kingdom, every province will supply countless examples. Why, then, should anyone have his low birth held against him?
Who thinks worse of Cicero for being a man from Arpinum, an upstart? Or of Agathocles, that Sicilian king, for being a potter’s son? Iphicrates and Marius were of humble birth. What wise man thinks better of anyone because of his noble ancestry? As the speaker in Machiavelli said, “All born of the same father”: sons of Adam, all conceived and born in sin, and so on. By nature we are all one, all alike, if you see us naked. Let us wear their clothes and them ours, and what is the difference?
To speak the truth, as Bale did of P. Schalichius: I value your merit, learning, and integrity more than your nobility. I honour you more for being a writer and a doctor of divinity than for being Earl of the Huns, Baron of Skradine, or having a claim to this or that province, and so on.
You are more fortunate and greater for your virtues, so Giovio writes to Cosimo de’ Medici, then Duke of Florence, than for your lovely wife and fortunate children, your friends, your wealth, or your great duchy of Tuscany. That is how I judge you; and who, indeed, does not? Abdolominus was a gardener, yet Alexander made him king of Syria for his virtues.
How much better to be born of humble parents and excel in merit: to be morally noble, which theologians, philosophers, and political writers prefer to nobility by birth; to be learned, honest, judicious, and capable, fit for any employment in one’s country and commonwealth, in war and peace; than to be “degenerate Neoptolemuses,” as so many splendid nobles are, accounted wise only because they are rich, but otherwise fools, illiterate, and unfit for any service?
Ulrich, Earl of Cilia, reproached John Hunyadi with his low birth, but Hunyadi replied, “In you the earldom of Cilia dies shamefully; in me that of Bistritz rises gloriously”: your earldom is consumed by dissipation; mine begins with honour and renown.
You have had so many noble ancestors: what is that to you? “I can scarcely call those things our own,” when you yourself are a fool. “What good is it, Ponticus, to be reckoned by a long pedigree?” And so on.
I conclude: have you a sound body and a good soul, a good upbringing? Are you virtuous, honest, learned, capable, religious, and of good character? Then you are a true nobleman, perfectly noble, though born of Thersites, “provided that you yourself resemble the descendant of Aeacus”: not born noble, but made so, noble in the fullest sense. For neither sword, fire, water, sickness, outward violence, nor the devil himself can take your good qualities from you.