Chapter IV: Introduction: J. L. Vives: a Scholar of the Renascence (3)

_Mother._ What is that lying on the ground? You are
spoiling all your clothes and boots on the dirtiest of
the ground. Why don’t you first sweep the floor and then
sit down? Bring the broom here!

_Tull._ What have we decided on?

_Sci._ One needle for each point in the game.

_Tull._ Certainly it should be two.

_Lent._ I have no needles. If you like I will deposit
cherry-stones instead of needles.

_Tull._ Get away. Let me and you play, Scipio.

_Sci._ I will risk it—to cast my needle on luck.

_Tull._ Give me the dice in my hand, so that I may cast
first. Look, I have won the stake.

_Sci._ You haven’t. For you were not playing then in
serious.

_Tull._ Whoever _plays_ seriously? It is as if you spoke
of a white Moor.

_Sci._ You may cavil as much as you like. At any rate you
are not going to have my nuts.

_Tull._ Come now, I will let you have the throw. Let us
play now for the stake, and may you have good luck!

_Sci._ You are beaten.

_Tull._ Take it.

_Lent._ Let me have the dice.

_Tull._ Let’s stake all on this throw.

_Lent._ I don’t mind.

_A Servant._ To your meal, boys. Will you never make an
end of your games?

_Tull._ Now just as we are getting started, she talks of
stopping!

IV. _The Game of Draughts_

_Corn._ I am sick of this game. Let us play with the
two-coloured draughtsmen.

_Tull._ You paint for us squares on this surface with
charcoal and with white lime.

_Sci._ I prefer to go and have my supper to playing any
more, and I go with all my needles collared by your fraud.

_Tull._ Don’t you remember that yesterday you plundered
Cethegus. “There is no one who can always have luck in
play.”

V. _Playing Cards_

_Corn._ Please get the playing cards which you will find
on the left hand under the writing table.

_Sci._ Some other time. Now I haven’t time. If I delay
any longer, I fear that my teacher will send me to bed,
in his anger, without food. You get the cards ready for
to-morrow evening, Corneliola.

_Corn._ If mother permits, it would be better to play now
when we have the chance.

_Sci._ It is better to go to eat when we are called.

_Servant._ And don’t you give me anything for looking on?

_Corn._ We would give you something if you had acted as
umpire. You ought rather to give us something, as things
are, for having had the enjoyment of our play.

_Servant._ You boys, then, when are you coming? The
meal-time is half over; soon we shall take the meat away,
and set the cheese and fruit on the table.

VII

REFECTIO SCHOLASTICA—_School Meals_

NEPOTULUS, PISO, MAGISTER, HYPODIDASCALUS

In this dialogue Vives treats of a banquet. The division into five parts:—

Jentaculum }
Prandium } An enumeration
Merenda } of different kinds.
Coena }
Comessatio }

_See_ Grap. lib. 2, cap. 3.

He describes convivial disputations.

_Nepotulus_ is a diminutive from nepos, used for one who drinks.

_Piso_ is a young nobleman.

_Hypodidascalus_, ὁ ὑπώ τὲ διδασκαλον, provisor, cantor.

In the beginning of this dialogue there are three αμφιβολίας or ambiguities. The first is in the adverb _lautè_, the signification of which is twofold, one proper, the other improper and metaphorical.

_Nep._ Are you bathed in luxury (_vivitisne lautè?_)
living here?

_Piso._ What do you mean by that? Do we wash ourselves
(_an lavamur_)? Every day, hands and face, and indeed,
frequently, for cleanliness of body is conducive to
health and to nurture.

_Nep._ That is not what I ask—but whether you get food
and drink to your mind?

_Piso._ We don’t eat according to our desire, but
according to the call of the palate.

_Nep._ I ask, if you eat, as you wish.

_Piso._ Certainly, forsooth, as hunger dictates. Who
wishes to eat, eats; who does not wish, abstains.

_Nep._ Do you go from the table hungry?

_Piso._ By no means sated. For this is not wise. For it
is the part of beasts, not men, to glut themselves. They
say that a certain wise king never sat down to table
without hunger, and never stood up sated.

_Nep._ What do you eat, then?

_Piso._ What there is.

_Nep._ Oh! I was thinking that you eat what you hadn’t
got! But what is there, then?

_Piso._ Troublesome questioner! What they give us.

_Nep._ But what do they give you, then?

I. _Breakfast_

_Piso._ We have breakfast an hour and a half after we
have got up.

_Nep._ When do you get up?

II. _Lunch—Food—Drink_

_Piso._ Almost with the sun, for he is the leader of
the Muses and the Muses are gracious to the dawn. Our
early breakfast is a piece of coarse bread and some
butter or some fruit as the time of the year supplies.
For lunch, there are cooked vegetables or pottage in
pottage-vessels, and meat with relishes. Sometimes
turnips, sometimes cabbages, starch-food, wheat-meal, or
rice. Then on fish-days, buttermilk from butter which has
been turned out in deep dishes, with some cakes of bread,
and a fresh fish, if it can be bought fairly cheap in the
fish-market, or if not, a salt-fish, well soaked. Then
pease, or pulse, or lentils, or beans, or lupines.

_Nep._ How much of these does each get?

_Piso._ Bread as much as he wishes; of viands as much
as is necessary not for satiety, but for nourishment.
For elaborate feasts, you must seek elsewhere, not in
the school, where the aim is to form minds to the way of
virtue.

_Nep._ What, then, do you drink?

III. _Afternoon Meal_

_Piso._ Some drink fresh, clear water; others light
beer; some few, but only seldom, wine, well diluted. The
afternoon meal (_merenda_) or before-meal consists of
some bread and almonds or nuts, dried figs and raisins;
in summer, of pears, apples, cherries, or plums.

IV. _Chief Meal_

But when we go into the country for the sake of our
minds (recreation), then we have milk, either fresh or
congealed, fresh cheese, cream, horse-beans soaked in
lye, vine-leaves, and anything else which the country
house affords. The chief meal begins with a salad with
closely-cut bits, sprinkled with salt, moistened with
drops of olive-oil, and with vinegar poured on it.

_Nep._ Can you have nut or turnip oil?

_Piso._ Ugh! the unsavoury and unhealthy stuff! Then
there is in a great vessel a concoction of mutton broth
with sauce, and to it, dried plums, roots, or herbs as
supplements, and at times a most savoury pie.

_Nep._ What sort of sauces do you have?

_Piso._ The best and wisest of sauces, hunger. Besides,
on appointed week-days we get roasted meat—as a rule,
veal; in spring sometimes, some young kid. As an
after-dish a little bit of radish and cheese, not old
and decayed, but fresh cheese, which is more nourishing
than the old, pears, peaches, and quinces. On the days
on which no meat may be eaten, we have eggs instead of
meat, either broiled, fried, or boiled, either singly by
themselves or mingled in one pan with vinegar or oil, not
so much poured on as dropped in; sometimes a little fish,
and nuts follow on cheese.

_Nep._ How much does every one get.

_Piso._ Two eggs and two nuts.

V. _Sleeping Draught_

_Nep._ What! do you never have a sleeping draught after
supper?

_Piso._ Pretty often.

_Nep._ What do you have, I beg? for that is most
delightful.

_Piso._ We prepare a banquet such as that of Syrus
mentioned by Terence, or of one of the lordly people
mentioned by Athenaeus or of the like, of which the
record has been handed down in history. Do you think
us swine or men? What stomach would preserve its
soundness of health if after four meals it were to add
a drinking-bout? Observe you are in a school, not in an
eating-house. For they say there is nothing more ruinous
to health than to drink immediately before going to bed.

_Nep._ May I be allowed to be present at meal-time?

_Piso._ Certainly. Only I must first beg permission
from the teacher, who will, I am sure, give it without
difficulty, as is usual with him.

To take you to the banquet, without the master’s
permission, would be ill breeding; and he who should so
bring you would draw on himself from his fellow-disciples
nothing less than reproach and shame. Stop a minute. Will
you, sir, permit with your good favour, that a certain
boy known to me should be present at our meal?

_Praec._ Certainly. There will be no harm in it.

_Piso._ Thank you. He whom thou seest there, who has a
napkin in place of a neck-cloth is the feast-master of
the dining-room (_architriclinus_) this week—for here we
have weekly feast-masters, like kings.

_Feast-Master._ Lamia, what time is it?

_Lamia._ I have not heard the hours since the third,
being intent on the composition of a letter. Florus will
know this better than I, for he has not seen book or
paper the whole of the afternoon.

_Florus._ This is friendly testimony, and if the teacher
were angry, it would have great weight. But how couldst
thou observe me, being immersed, as thou sayest, in the
composition of a letter? Clearly ill-will has driven
thee to telling a lie. I rejoice, indeed, that my enemy
is held to be a liar. If after this he shall wish to say
evil of me, such statements will not be believed.

_Feast-Master._ Can I not then, elsewhere, get to know as
to the time? Anthrax, run across to St. Peter’s and look
at the time.

_Anthrax._ The pointer shows that it is now six o’clock.

_The Cups_

_Feast-Master._ Six? Eh! boys, eh! Come, rouse
yourselves; throw your books aside, even as the stag
seeks a corner to hide his horns. Prepare the table,
cover it, place seats, napkins, round and square plates,
bread; fly, quicker than the word. Let not our teacher
complain of our slowness. Bring beer, one of you;
another, draw water from the well and place the cups.
What is the meaning of this—bringing them so unclean?
Take them back into the kitchen so that the maid may rub
them clean and wipe them thoroughly, whereby they may be
bright and shining.

_Piso._ Never will you accomplish this, so long as we
have that monkey of a kitchen-maid. For she never dares
to rub determinedly so as to clean, for she is afraid of
her fingers. Nor does she rinse things more than once and
that with tepid water.

_Arch._ Why don’t you report this to the teacher?

_Piso._ It would be better to ask the housekeeper
(_famulam atriensem_) for it is in her hands to change
the kitchen-maids. But there is the teacher. Do you
yourself wash these cups out, and rub them with a fig
or nettle-leaf, or with sand and water, so that our
schoolmaster to-day shall have no cause for blame.

_Praec._ Is all ready? Is there anything to delay you?

_Arch._ Nothing at all.

_Praec._ So that afterwards between the courses we need
not have to make any break!

_Feast-Master._ Between the courses! Rather say _the_
course and that a meagre one.

_Praec._ What are you murmuring?

_Feast-Master._ I say that you should sit down, that it
is meal-time, and that the food will soon get spoilt!

_Praec._ You boys, wash your hands and mouth. Eh! what
napkin is this? When did they clean themselves who wiped
themselves dry on this? Run, fetch another cleaner than
this. Let us sit down in our usual order. Is this the boy
who is to be our guest?

_Piso._ Yes, this is he.

_Master._ Of what country is he?

_Piso._ A Fleming.

_Master._ Of what city in that province?

_Piso._ From Bruges.

_Master._ Let him sit in the seat close to you. Let every
one take his knife and clean his bread, if there should
stick any ashes or coal on the crust. Whose turn is it
this week to say grace (_sacret mensam_)?

_Grace Before Meat_

_Florus._ Feed our hearts with Thy love, O Christ, who
through Thy goodness nourishest the lives of all living
beings. Blessed be these Thy gifts to us who partake of
them so that Thou who providest them may be blessed.[30]
Amen.

_Master._ Sit as far apart as possible, so as not to
press against one another’s sides, since there is
sufficient room for each. And you, Brugensian, have you a
knife?

_Piso._ This is a wonder! A Fleming without a knife, and
he, too, a Brugensian, where the best knives are made.

_Nep._ I don’t need a knife. I can part my food into
pieces by biting it with the teeth, and tear it into bits
by my fingers.

_Usher._ They say that biting is very useful both for the
gums and also for the surface of the teeth.

_Master._ Where didst thou receive early instruction in
the Latin tongue, for thou appearest to me not badly
taught?

_Nep._ At Bruges, under John Theodore Nervius.

_Master._ An industrious, learned, and honest man. Bruges
is a most elegant city, but it is to be regretted that
owing to the changing of the population from day to day,
it is going down. When did you leave it?

_Nep._ Six days ago.

_Master._ When did you begin to study?

_Nep._ Three years ago.

_Master._ You have not got on badly.

_Nep._ Deservedly; for I have had a master I am not
ashamed of.

_Master._ But what is _our Vives_ doing?

_Nep._ They say that he is training as an athlete, yet
not by athletics.

_Master._ What is the meaning of that?

_Nep._ He is always wrestling, but not bravely enough.

_Master._ With whom?

_Nep._ With his gout (_morbo articulari_).

_Master._ O mournful wrestler, which first of all attacks
the feet.

_Usher._ Nay, rather cruel victor which fetters the whole
body. But what are you doing? Why do you stop eating? You
would seem to have come here not to eat, but to stare
around. Let nobody during the meal disturb his cap lest
any hair fall into the dishes. Why don’t you treat your
guest as a comrade? Nepotulus, I drink to you.

_Nep._ Sir, your toast is most welcome.

_Usher._ Empty your cup, since so meagre a draught
remains in it.

_Nep._ This would be new to me.

_Praec._ What! not empty it? But you, Usher, what do you
say? What have you new to give us at our meal?

_Grammatical Questions_—1. _On Genders._ 2. _On Tenses_

_Usher._ I say nothing indeed, but I have thought much
during the last two hours on the art of grammar.

_Master._ And what of that now?

_Usher._ On very hidden things and the penetration of
learning: first, why the grammarians have placed in their
art three genders when there are merely two in nature?
again, why nature does not produce things of the neuter
gender as it does of the masculine and feminine? I cannot
find out the cause of this great mystery. So, too, the
philosophers say that there are three tenses, but our art
demands five, therefore our art is outside the nature of
things.

_Master._ Nay, rather thou art thyself outside of the
nature of things, for art is in the nature of things.

_Usher._ If I am outside the nature of things, how can
I eat this bread and meat, which are in the nature of
things?

_Master._ Thou art so much the worse to belong to another
nature whilst you eat what belongs to this our nature.

_Nep._ Παράφθεγμα ἀπροσδιόνυσον. I would wish another
solution of my questions. Would that we had now some
Palaemon or Varro who could resolve these questions.

_Master._ Why not rather another, an Aristotle or Plato?
Have you not something further to say?

_Pronunciation_

_Usher._ Yesterday I saw committed a crime of deepest dye
(_scelus capitale_). The schoolmaster of the Straight
Street (_vicus rectus_), who smells worse than a goat,
and instructs his threepenny classes in his school, which
abounds in dirt and filth, pronounced three or four times
_volucres_ with the accent on the penultimate. I indeed
was astounded that the earth did not at once gulp him up.

_Praec._ What otherwise ought one to expect such a
schoolmaster to say? He is in other parts of the
grammatical rules thoroughly worn out (_detritus_). But
you are disturbed over a very small matter and make a
tragedy out of a comedy, or still more truly a farce.

_Usher._ I have finished my task. Now it is your turn.
You now keep the conversation going.

_Praec._ I don’t wish to give you the chance to answer
me what I don’t ask (παραφθέγγης). This broth is getting
cold. Bring a table fire-pan. Heat it up a little before
you dip your bread in it. This radish is not eatable, it
is so tough—and so are the rootlets in the broth.

_Usher._ They certainly have not brought the toughness
from the market, but they have acquired it here in our
store-room in which the pantry is quite unsuited for
provisions. I don’t know why it is we always have brought
to us here bones without marrow in them.

_Praec._ Bones have but little marrow in them at the new
moon (_sub lunam silentem_).

_Usher._ What when it is full moon?

_Praec._ Then there is plenty.

_Usher._ But our bones have little, or more truly no,
marrow.

_Praec._ It is not the moon that bereaves us of marrow
but our Lamia. She has here put in too much pepper
and ginger, and in the soup and particularly in the
salad there is also too much mint, rock-parsley, sage,
cole-wort, cress, hyssop. Nothing is more harmful to
the bodies of boys and youths than foods which make the
stomach hot.

_Arch._ What kinds of herbs then would you wish to be
used for food?

_Praec._ Lettuce, garden-oxtongue, purslain, mixed with
some rock-parsley.

_Manners at Table—The Clearing of the Table_

Here, you, Gangolfus, don’t wipe your lips with your
hand or on your cuff, but wipe both lips and hands
with your napkin, which has been provided you for the
purpose. Don’t touch the meat, except on that side which
you are about to take yourself. You, Dromo, don’t you
observe that you are putting your coat-sleeves into the
fat of the meat? If they are open, tuck them up to the
shoulders. If they are not, turn them or fold them to
the elbow. If they slip back again, fix them firm with
a needle, or what would be still more suitable for you,
with a thorn. You, delicate little lordling, you are
reclining on the table. Where did you learn to do that?
In some hog-stye? Eh! you there, put him a little cushion
for him to lean on. Prefect of the table, see that the
remains of the dinner don’t get wasted. Put them away in
the store-room. Take away first of all the salt-cellar,
then the bread, then the dishes, plates, napkins, and
lastly the table-cloth. Let each one clean his own knife
and put it away in its sheath. You there, Cinciolus,
don’t scrape your teeth with your knife, for it is
injurious. Make for yourself a tooth-pick of a feather or
of a thin sharp piece of wood, and scrape gently, so as
not to scar the gum or draw blood. Stand up all of you
and wash your hands before thanks are returned. Move the
table away, call the maid that she may sweep the floor
with the broom. Let us thank Christ. Let him who said
grace return thanks.

_Grace after the Meal_

_Florus._ For this timely meal, we render Thee timely
thanks, Lord Christ. Grant that we may for eternity
render immortal thanks. Amen.

_Praec._ Now go and play, and have your talk, and walk
about wherever you please, whilst the light permits.

VIII

GARRIENTES—_Students’ Chatter_

NUGO, GRACULUS, TURDUS, BAMBALIO

In this dialogue Vives puts forth nineteen little narratives suited to the age of childhood and as it were the progymnasmata of eloquence. The names also of the interlocutors are neatly fabled.

_Nugo_ is so called from _nugae_, as if a small retailer of trifles (_nugivendulus_).

_Graculus_ and _Turdus_ are feigned names from the loquacity of those birds. Compare the Proverbs, _Graculus graculo assidet_ (one jackdaw resembles another),[31] _surdior turdo_ (deafer than a thrush).

_Bambalio_ is a man of worthlessness and of stammering speech as Cicero interprets it. Philip. 3. Compare the Proverb _Bambylius homo_.

I. _Story of the Trunk_

_Nugo._ Let us sit on this trunk, and you, Graculus,
on that stone facing us, so that without anything to
hinder us we may observe all who pass by. We shall keep
ourselves warm near this wall, which is excellently
exposed to the sun. What a fine trunk is this and how
enjoyable it is!

_Turd._ For us to sit on it!

_Nugo._ It must have been a very high and thick tree from
which it was cut.

_Turd._ Such as there are in India.

_Grac._ How do you know! Have you been in India with the
Spaniards?

_Turd._ As if one could know nothing of a district
without having been in it! But I will give you my
authority. Pliny writes that trees in India grow to
such a height that a man cannot shoot a dart over them,
and the people there are not to seek in shooting their
arrows, as Vergil says.

_Nugo._ Pliny also says that a company of horsemen could
be hidden under the branches.

_Turd._ No one can wonder at that who considers the
rushes of that district, which the infirm people, at any
rate the rich, use to support them in walking.

_Grac._ Eh! what hour is it?

II. _The Hour-Bells_

_Nugo._ No hour at all, for the hour-bell is now thrown
down to the ground. Haven’t you been to see it?

_Grac._ I did not dare, for they say that it is dangerous.

_Nugo._ I have been there and saw no end of women with
child spring across the channel for the molten metal,
which is dug in the earth.

_Turd._ I heard that this was beneficial for them.

_Grac._ This is distaff philosophy, as they say, but I
was inquiring as to the hour.

III. _The Timepiece_

_Nugo._ What need have you to know the time? If you wish
to do anything, while there is opportunity, there is
the time for it. But where is your watch (_horologium
viatorium_)?

_Grac._ I let it fall lately, when I was escaping the dog
belonging to the gardener, whose plums I had plucked.

_Turd._ From the window I saw you running, but I could
not see where you fled because the view was blocked by
the fruit garden, which my mother has planted there,
against the will of my father, and in spite of his many
protests. But my mother, indeed, in the beginning was
persistent in getting her own way, so that it could
scarcely be borne.

_Nugo._ What is amiss with you? You are becoming silent.

_Turd._ I was weeping and said nothing, for what should I
otherwise do when my dearest ones disagree? To be sure my
mother ordered me to stand by her as she called lustily;
but I had not the heart to mutter a word against my
father. Therefore I was sent to school four days running
without breakfast by my enraged mother, and she swore
I was not her son, but had been changed by the nurse,
for which she would have the nurse summoned before the
_Praetor capitalis_.

_Nugo._ Who is the _Praetor capitalis_? Hasn’t every
_Praetor_ got a head on?

_Turd._ How am I to know? So she said.

_Grac._ Look there! Who are those people with mantles,
and armour for the legs.

IV. _The French_

_Nugo._ They are Frenchmen.

_Grac._ What, is there then peace?

_Turd._ They said that there was to be war and a dire war
too.

_Grac._ What are they carrying?

_Turd._ Wine.

_Nugo._ Then they will give pleasure to many.

_Grac._ Of a surety. For not only does wine cheer in
drinking, but there is also the thought and recollection
of it.

_Nugo._ At any rate for wine-drinkers. It matters nothing
to me, for I drink water.

_Grac._ Then you will never write a good poem.

V. _The Deaf Woman_

_Turd._ Do you know that woman there?

_Grac._ No, who is she?

_Turd._ She has her ears stopped up against gossip.

_Grac._ Why so?

_Turd._ So as to hear nothing; because she hears ill of
herself.[32]

_Nugo._ How many “hear ill of themselves” who have
unstopped and normal ears?

_Turd._ I believe that it is to the point to quote the
passage in Cicero’s _Tusculanae Quaestiones_. M. Crassus
was somewhat deaf—but what was worse, he “heard ill.”

_Nugo._ There is no doubt that this must be traced back
to slander. But, I say, Bambalio, have you found your
_Tusculanae Quaestiones_?

VI. _The Lost Book_

_Bamb._ Yes, at the huckster’s, but so interpolated that
I did not at first recognise it.

_Nugo._ Who had stolen it?

_Bamb._ Vatinius. And may he be repaid for his misdeed!

_Grac._ Ah! that man with the hook-like and pitch-black
hands! Never let such a man have access to your
book-cases, nor to your manuscript-boxes if you wish all
your things to be safe and sound. Don’t you know that
every one holds Vatinius for a thief of purses and he
has been accused of thieving purses before the Principal
(_gymnasiarcha_).

VII. _The Twins_

_Nugo._ The sister of the girl there yesterday gave birth
to twins.

_Grac._ What is there wonderful in that? A woman living
in Salt Street at the Helmeted Lion six days ago had a
triplet.

_Nugo._ Pliny says that there have been as many as seven
at a birth.

_Turd._ Who of you has heard of the wife of the Count
of Holland who is said to have had at a birth as many
children as there are days in the year, owing to the
curse of a certain beggar?

_Grac._ What was the story of this beggar?

_Turd._ This beggar was laden with children and begged an
alms of the countess. But when she saw so many children,
she drove the beggar away by her reproaches, calling her
a harlot. She said she could not possibly have had from
one man so great a family. The innocent beggar prayed
the gods that as they knew she was chaste and pure, they
would give the countess from her husband at one birth
as many children as there are days in the year. So it
happened, and the numerous posterity is shown[33] in a
certain town in that island to-day.

_Grac._ I will rather believe this than investigate it.

_Nugo._ All things are possible with God.

_Grac._ And, moreover, easy of accomplishment.

VIII. _Mannius the Hunter_

_Nugo._ Don’t you know that man there laden with nets
accompanied by dogs? He wears a summer hat and soldier’s
boots, and rides on the lankest of mules.

_Turd._ Isn’t it Mannius the verse-maker?

_Nugo._ Clearly it is.

_Turd._ Why has he made such a metamorphosis?

IX. _Curius the Dicer_

_Nugo._ From Minerva he has gone over to Diana, _i.e._,
from a most honourable occupation to an empty and foolish
labour. His father had increased his possessions by his
ability in business. He thinks his father’s skill is
a dishonour to himself, and turns himself to keeping
horses and following the chase, having thought that
not otherwise than by hunting can he acquire nobility
of race. For if he were to do anything useful, he would
not be held of noble family. Curius follows him to the
hunt—with dice. He is a very accomplished man, a very
well-known dice-player, who understands how to throw the
dice in the right way for himself. At home he has for
companion Tricongius.

_Turd._ Say rather an amphora.[34]

_Grac._ Or indeed a sponge.

_Nugo._ Better still, the driest sand of Africa.

_Bamb._ They say that he is always thirsty.

_Nugo._ Whether he is always thirsty or not, I don’t
know. But certainly he is always ready to drink.

X. _The Nightingale and the Cuckoo_

_Bamb._ Listen, there is the nightingale!

_Grac._ Where is she?

_Bamb._ Don’t you see her there, sitting on that branch?
Listen how ardently she sings; and how she goes on and on!

_Nugo._ (As Martial says) _Flet Philomela nefas._ (The
nightingale weeps at injustice.)

_Grac._ What a wonder she carols so sweetly when she is
away from Attica where the very waves of the sea dash
upon the shore not without rhythm (_non sine numero_).

_Nugo._ Pliny observes that they sing with more
exactitude when men are near them.

_Turd._ What is the reason for that?

_Nugo._ I will declare unto you the reason. The cuckoo
and the nightingale sing at the same time, that is, from
the middle of April till the end of May or thereabouts.
These two birds once met in a contest of sweetness of
song, when a judge was sought, and because it was a
trial concerning sound, an ass seemed the most suitable
for this decision, since he of all the animals had the
longest ears. The ass rejected the nightingale, because
he could not understand her harmony, and awarded the
victory to the cuckoo. The nightingale appealed to men,
and when she sees a man she immediately pours forth her
song, and sings with zest so as to approve herself to
him, so as to avenge the wrong which she received from
the ass.

_Grac._ This is a subject worthy of a poet.

XI. _Our Masters_

_Nugo._ Why, don’t you think it worthy of a philosopher?
Ask the question of our new masters from Paris.

_Grac._ Many of them are philosophers in their clothes,
not in their brains.

_Nugo._ Why do you say on account of their dress? For
you should rather say that they seem to be cooks or
mule-drivers.

_Grac._ I say so because they wear clothes which are
clumsy, worn out, torn, muddy, dirty, and full of lice
in them.

_Nugo._ Why this almost constitutes them cynic
philosophers!

_Grac._ Nay, they are rather _cimici_[35] but not what
they desire to seem, viz., _peripatetics_, for Aristotle,
the leader of this sect, was a most polished man. But
I have long since bidden farewell to philosophy, if I
cannot any other way than theirs become a philosopher.
For what is more comely and worthy in a man than
cleanliness and a certain refinement in bearing and in
dress? In this respect I consider the Lovanians are
superior to the Parisians.

_Turd._ But don’t you think that too much attention to
cleanliness and elegance is a hindrance to studies?

_Grac._ I certainly believe in cleanliness, but I don’t
think there should be an anxious and morose absorption in
it.

_Nugo._ Do you then condemn elegance, on which Laurentius
Valla has written so diffusely and which our teachers so
diligently commend to us? There is an elegance, _e.g._,
of words, in speaking, and there is an elegance of
clothes in dressing.

_Turd._ Do you know what was told me by the
letter-carrier at Louvain?

_Nugo._ What was that?

_Turd._ That Clodius fell in love madly with some
girl and Lusco transferred himself from letters to
merchandise, that is, from horseback to mule-back.

_Nugo._ What do I hear?

XII. _Clodius the Lover_

_Turd._ You all knew Clodius, full of vigour, rubicund,
well-clothed, cheerful, with shining countenance,
affable, genial teller of stories. Now it is said of him
that he is without vigour, bloodless, of pallid colour,
sallow, witless, wild-looking, stern, taciturn, one who
shuns the light and human society. No one who knew him
formerly would now recognise him.

_Nugo._ O wretched young man! Whence has this evil
befallen him?

_Turd._ He is in love.

_Nugo._ But whence his love?

_Turd._ As far as I could gather from the speech of the
letter-carrier he had given up solid and serious studies
and had devoted himself entirely to the looser Latin
poets—those of the vernacular; thence he got the first
preparation of his mind. So that if by any means any
spark of fire, however slight it might be, should fall on
him he was as kindling-wood ready for it and would flare
up suddenly like lit flax. So he gave himself up to sleep
and idleness.

_Nugo._ What need is there further to relate more or
greater causes of his falling in love?

_Turd._ Now he is beside himself, going about here,
there, and everywhere alone, but always either silent,
or singing something and dancing, and writing verses in
the vernacular.

_Nugo._ Which, forsooth, his Lycoris herself may read.

_Grac._ O Christ, preserve our hearts from so pernicious
a disease!

_Turd._ Unless I am deceived as to the character of
Clodius, he will return some time to a better and more
fruitful life. His mind wanders into the foreign lands of
evil; it does not take up its residence in them.

XIII. _Lusco the Merchant_

_Grac._ And that other one—what is the kind of commerce
in which he engages?

_Turd._ He has sent his father a letter written in a
weeping strain concerning the sad state of his studies.
The letter-carrier himself read the letter since it
was left open. The father, a man impervious to culture
(_crassae Minervae_), has handed him over from MSS. to
wools, cloths, dyes, pepper, ginger, and cinnamon. Now
girt as to his arms, wonderfully diligent and sedulous in
his odorous shop, he invites his customers, receives them
blandly, climbs up and comes down most unsafe ladders,
produces his goods, shows them this way and that, tells
lies, perjures himself. Everything is easier to him than
studying.

_Nugo._ From a boy I have known him intent on business,
and to delight in money, and so he has held business in
higher esteem than letters, and he has preferred filthy
lucre to the excellency of erudition. Some time he will
repent it.

_Turd._ But too late!

_Nugo._ Without doubt. May he take care that it does not
happen to him as it did to his cousin.

_Turd._ Which?

XIV. _Antony the “Cook”_

_Nugo._ Antonius in Fruit Lane, near the Three Jackdaws.
Haven’t you heard that in a former year he “cooked”?[36]

_Grac._ What did he cook, please? Is this so great an
evil? Doesn’t it go on in every kitchen daily?

_Turd._ He “cooked” his accounts (_rem decoxit_).

_Grac._ What accounts?

_Turd._ His business with others, and couldn’t meet his
creditors.

_Grac._ Hasn’t he paid back his creditors?

_Turd._ He has betaken himself to a place of retreat, and
made over his books one by one at a quarter of their cost
price.

_Grac._ Is this what you call “cooking,” when nothing
could be more raw. But how did he lose the money?

_Turd._ I have heard lately from his father with regard
to that, but I have not yet fully understood the
matter. The father said that he had made most prodigal
borrowings, which would skin him and swallow him up to
the bones.

_Grac._ What do you mean by “borrowings” and what by
“skinning”?

_Turd._ I don’t quite know, but I believe it has
something to do with theft.

XV. _The Tumbler_

_Nugo._ Do you see, there, that fat man? You would
scarcely think it possible to move him. Yet he is a
tumbler and rope-dancer (_funambulus_).

_Grac._ Ah! be quiet! You are saying something which is
incredible.

_Turd._ He does not indeed dance with his body, but he
makes drinking-cups dance.

_Grac._ Did the letter-carrier bring any news of our
companions?

XVI. _Hermogenes_

_Turd._ Yes, concerning Hermogenes, who in all our
contests always bore away the chief prizes. By an
astounding change from being a man of the highest ability
and learning (as his time of life brought about) suddenly
he has become most sluggish and boorish.

_Nugo._ Such a change I have often seen happen with
certain keen-witted men.

_Bamb._ They say that this happens when the sharpness
of the wit is not really genuine, like a lancet whose
edge is easily blunted, especially if it is used to cut
anything a little too hard.

_Grac._ What, is there an edge in wits, even as there is
in steel?

_Bamb._ I don’t know. I have often seen steel, but never
have I seen a man’s wits.

XVII. _The Boorish Youth_

_Nugo._ What has become of that young countryman
(_paganus_) who some months ago on his arrival
entertained us with a lunch consisting of delicacies
brought from the country, after whom the teacher has sent
four slave-catchers to bring him back from his flight? He
was rather a handsome fellow!

_Turd._ He has become a delightful ass! My aunt’s
maid-servant, who is his cousin, met him lately in his
village, with bare head, uncombed, shaggy, and bristly,
with wooden shoes and a poor, rough coat, selling in a
public square paper pictures and horn books, and singing
new songs before a circle of sightseers.

_Grac._ Yet he must be a man sprung from a distinguished
family.

_Turd._ Why so?

_Grac._ Since his father is of the race of the Coclites.

_Nugo._ That name does not so much argue a man of noble
family as a thrower of the dart. He will take his aim
easily.

_Turd._ Or it betokens a carpenter who directs his
red-chalk with one eye.

_Nugo._ That boy has never pleased me, nor has he ever
disclosed to me any sign of ability.

_Grac._ How so?

XVIII. _The Man with the Neck Chain_

_Nugo._ Because he never loved studies, nor showed any
reverence for his teacher. This is the clearest proof of
a lost mind. Then, too, he ridiculed old men and mocked
at the unfortunate. But who is that man clothed in silk,
adorned with neck-chain and with gold decorations?

_Grac._ He is of a renowned race, and has a mother a most
noble and fruitful mother.

_Nugo._ Who is she?

_Grac._ The earth,[37] and you will scarcely believe what
delights he always has. You would say he was a little
child up to now in the cradle, crying for his rattle.

_Nugo._ And yet the down begins to creep over his cheeks.

XIX. _The Overseer of Studies_

_Bamb._ Ah! the overseer (_observator_) is coming. Get
ready your books, open them, and begin to turn over the
pages and read them.

There has not been for many weeks a more zealous
overseer, one who would rejoice so much to pass on
charges against any one to the master.

_Bamb._ Would that at least he would accuse us of our
real faults, but for the most part he brings false
witness against us.

_Nugo._ Let that saying of Horace be a wall of brass to
us:

Nihil conscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa.

But be quiet! I will immediately put him to rout.

_Observ._ What do you say, Vacia?

_Nugo._ What do you say, Vatrax?

_Observ._ What do you say, Batrachomyomachia? But, joking
aside, what are you doing here?

_Nugo._ What are we doing? What are good scholars
and students always doing? We are reading, learning,
disputing. Tell us, please, most charming creature,[38]
what is the meaning of that passage in Vergil’s
_Eclogues_:

... transversa tuentibus hirquis.

_Observ._ You do well; proceed with your studies as it
behoves young men of good abilities. I have now other
business in hand. Farewell.

_Nugo._ We have had sufficient trifling. Let us get back
to school. But first let us read over again what the
teacher explained, so that we learn something, and give
him pleasure, and so that he may approve of us—which must
be in our prayers as much as it is in those of the father
of each of us.

IX

ITER ET EQUUS—_Journey on Horseback_

PHILIPPUS, MISIPPUS, MISOSPUDUS, PLANETES

In this dialogue are contained those matters that pertain to horses and peregrinations, concerning which see as a whole, Grapaldus, lib. 1, cap. 8, and Volaterranus, lib. 25, philologiae. We place the kinds one by one, according to their nomenclature, primarily for the sake of boys.

_Lupatum_, ein scharpff Gebisz.
_Frenum_, ein Zaum.
_Orea_, der Riem unter dem Maul.
_Aurea_, der Riem über die Ohren.
_Antilena_, der Brustriem.
_Postilena_, der hinder Riem. Hinderbug.
_Ephippium_, Sattel.
_Stapes vel stapeda_, Steigreiff.
_Habena_, Zügel.
_Calcar_, Spor.

GENERA EQUORUM

_Asturco gradarius, tollutarius, tieldo_, ein Zelter.
_Mannus_, ein kleines Rösslein.
_Cantherius_, ein Mönch.
_Succussator_, ein harttrabender Gaul.
_Vector seu ephippiarius_, Reitrosz.
_Clitellarius_, Saumrosz.
_Jugalis, helciarius_, Ziehrosz. Wagenrosz. Kummetrosz.
_Dorsualis_, Müllerrosz, das auff dem Rücke trägt.
_Meritorius_, Lehenrosz. Drei Plappert Rosz.

CURRUS

_Species_ {Rheda, ein Karr.
{Sarracum, Lastwagen. Stein. Wagen.

{Rotae, Reder.
_Partes_ {Temo, Deichsel.
{Canthi, Radschinnen.

The names of the interlocutors are suitably framed. Misippus, the hater of horses, μισῶν τοῦς ἵππους; Philippus, the lover of horses, φιλῶν τοῦς ἵππους; Misospudus, the hater of studies (_osor studiorum_), μισων τῶν σπυδίων; Planetes erro, vagus, planus, ein Landstreicher, from πλανάομαι, erro, vagor.

_Phil._ Wouldn’t you like us to set out for Boulogne
along the Seine, to cheer our minds?

_Misi. and Miso._ There is nothing we should like better,
especially on a mild day like this, without a sound of
wind, and when, again, we are having a holiday from
school.

_Phil._ Why are you not at work to-day?

_Miso._ Because Pandulfus is going to make all the
masters drunk with a great luncheon in honour of his
laurels in obtaining his mastership.

_Plan._ Oh! what a lot they will drink!

_Miso._ Much more than will satisfy thirst.

_Misi._ I have an Asturian horse.

_Phil._ And I have a hired horse which I have got from a
one-eyed rogue.

_Miso._ Planetes and I will go in a travelling carriage;
the rest, if it seems good to them, shall follow us on
foot, or by strength of arms push a boat against the
current of the stream.

_Phil._ Rather let it be dragged along by horses.

_Miso._ As you please (_ut erit cordi_), for we choose to
take the journey on foot.

_Phil._ Eh! boy, bridle my horse and saddle him! Why,
in the name of mischief, are you putting on the little
steed so sharp-toothed a curb? Give him rather that light
little curb with the knobs.

_Boy._ Alas! he has neither bit nor bridle.

_Phil._ If I knew who had broken them, I would break him!

_Misi._ What are you saying in your agitation?

_Phil._ Put in bread for a meal. Get it where you can,
conveniently.

_Boy._ Certainly, whilst you are at your school classes.
You want both horses and their equipment!

_Phil._ Supply, then, what is lacking out of this cord.

_Boy._ It will look unsightly.

_Phil._ Go, fool, who will see us when we get out of the
town?

_Boy._ The body-band is also in two.

_Phil._ Mend it with some straps.

_Boy._ It has no tail-band.

_Phil._ There is no need for it.

_Plan._ A great and experienced horseman! Why, the the
saddle will slide on to his neck and the horse will shoot
you over his head.

_Phil._ What is that to me? The road is muddy rather
than stony. I shall take my fill of dirt, but none of my
blood will be spilt. If all these preparations have to
be made, we shall not set forth from this place before
the evening. Bring a horse of some kind, whatever his
trappings may be.

_Boy._ Here he is, ready. Mount him. Eh! what are you
doing, putting your right foot first into the stirrup?

_Phil._ What am I to do then?

_Boy._ Why, the left, and hold the reins in your left
hand; with the right hand take this switch, which will
serve in place of spurs.

_Phil._ I don’t need it. My heels will do for spurs.

_Boy._ You see Jubellius Taurea, or is it Asellus who
entered into a struggle with that famous steed.[39]

_Phil._ Have done with your glib stories! Where are the
others?

_Boy._ Off you go! I will accompany you on foot.

_Misi._ Most abominable, jolting horse. The beast will
break all my bones before we reach the town.

_Phil._ What, in the name of evil, is that
horse-covering? It is a pack-saddle, I believe.

_Misi._ Surely not.

_Phil._ How much for it? What’s its price?

_Misi._ Fourteen Turonic[40] sesterces.

_Phil._ I wouldn’t give as much for the horse himself
with his fodder and trappings. It seems to me to be
neither a draught horse, nor a horse for riding, but a
beast of burden, ready for the pack-saddle, or for the
yoke, or to carry goods on its back. Note, I beg, how it
constantly stumbles. It would trip up over a piece of
paper, or a stalk of straw spread out on its way.

_Misi._ What do you say of it? It is as yet a foal.
But chatter on as you like. Do you see this horse? He,
whatever he may be, is going to carry me, or I him.

_Boy._ The poor animal has a very tender hoof.

_Phil._ What, then, did the one-eyed man so carefully
warn you about when he handed the horse over to you?

_Misi._ He begged, in the most amiable manner, that the
two of us should not sit on the beast, one on the saddle
and the other on the buttocks, and that I should have him
carefully covered when he was put in the stable.

_Boy._ The poor horse surely needs covering when he has
his sides of raw flesh.

_Phil._ What are you doing? Are you not getting into the
carriage?

_Plan._ You speak to the point. The driver now demands as
much again as what we agreed to.

_Phil._ It is easy to deal with drivers and boatmen; they
will do everything to your satisfaction. They tell you
you will accomplish everything. This kind of man is soft,
gentle, obliging, courteous, respectful. Drivers are the
scum of the earth, the boatmen the scum of the sea. Give
him the half of what he asks.

_Boy._ What time do you suppose it is already?

_Phil._ Guessing by the sun, I should say past ten
o’clock.

_Boy._ Mid-day is near.

_Phil._ Fancy! Eh! Misippus, let us get along. Follow
who can! We shall be found at the “Red Hat,” _i.e._, the
hostelry situated opposite the royal pyramid, not far
from the house of the Curio.[41]

_Misi._ Which way shall we go?

_Phil._ Through the Marcelline Gate, on the right. It is
a simple and straight road.

_Misi._ Nay, let us take this lane. It is a pleasant and
quiet way.

_Phil._ By no means. Nothing is easier and safer than the
high road, for by cross roads we shall lose our friends,
especially since that way, if my memory does not fail me,
is full of windings and turnings.

_Misi._ Who are those men with spears? They seem to be
soldiers from the mercenary troops.

_Phil._ What must we do?

_Misi._ Let us turn back, so that we don’t get robbed.

_Phil._ Let us go forward, for on horseback we shall
easily escape them, by running through the fields.

_Misi._ What if they have got handcuffs with them!

_Phil._ I see nothing of the sort, but only long lances.

_Misi._ Come nearer, boy.

_Boy._ What’s amiss?

_Misi._ Don’t you see those Germans?

_Boy._ Which?

_Misi._ Those people coming this way against us.

_Boy._ They are German[42] sure enough, but two Parisian
peasants with their sticks.

_Misi._ Yes, certainly, that is so. A blessing on you!
You have restored my courage and vitality. But where are
Misospudus and Planetes?

_Boy._ The driver, enraged at not getting what he had
demanded, drove them on a lumpy road. The horses, in
struggling with all their might to drag the wheels as
they stuck in the deep mud, broke in pieces the pole
of the carriage and the horse-collars. Then the tyres,
together with the nails, were torn off. The reckless
driver, with blind rage, had put the brake on the wheel.
He is now angrily repairing the damage and blaspheming
all the gods, and cursing the passengers with the most
terrible imprecations.

_Phil._ May his curses recoil on his own head!

_Boy._ I think they will leave the carriage behind and
get into a cart, which is going, unladen, to Boulogne.
Glaucus and Diomedes had got on a boat, but the boatman
declared that against this wind they could not make way
with their oars and poles. Also they say that the horses
which pull boats up the stream are all at work, so I know
not by what means the boat could be drawn. So they have
not yet loosened the stern-rope.

_Phil._ Is there any news as to the boat fare?

_Plan._ Absolutely none.

_Phil._ That is extraordinary. I guess what will happen.
They won’t reach Boulogne before nightfall.

_Misi._ What of that! Let us take all to-morrow for
refreshing our minds. But look how softly the river
flows by! What a delightful murmur there is of the full
crystal water amongst the golden rocks! Do you hear the
nightingale and the goldfinch? Of a truth, the country
round Paris is most delightful!

_Phil._ What sight can be equal to this? How placidly the
Seine flows in its current, how that small ship with its
full sail before a favourable breeze is borne along! It
is marvellous how minds are restored by all these things.
Oh, how the meadow is clothed as by magic art.

_Misi._ And, moreover, by what a marvellous Artist!

_Phil._ What a sweet scent is exhaled!

_Misi._ Here, here; bend to the left so as to escape the
thickest of mud, in which thy steed at once would lose
his hoof. How different this field is from the next,
covered over with dirt, squalid, withered, bristling
thick with straws, and armed with thorns.

_Boy._ Don’t you see that the field is covered with the
waste from the river? and elsewhere it is fruitful.

Hyberno pulvere, verno luto, magna farra Camille metes.[43]

_Phil._ Please, sing some verses, as you are wont to do.

_Misi._ With pleasure.

Felix ille animi, divisque simillimus ipsis,
Quem non mendaci resplendens gloria fuco
Sollicitat, non fastosi mala gaudia luxus:
Sed tacitos sinit ire dies, et paupere cultu
Exigit innocuae tranquilla silentia vitae.[44]

_Phil._ Most elegant and matterful verses, whose are they,
I beg?

_Misi._ Don’t you know?

_Phil._ No.

_Misi._ They are by Angelus Politian.

_Phil._ I should have taken them to be from the classics.
They have the grace of antiquity. I suspect we have lost
our way!

_Misi._ Ah! good sir, which is the way to Boulogne?

_Rustic._ You are going out of the way. Turn your beasts
to the cross-roads and strike the way there where the
river bends. On it you cannot get wrong. The road is
straight and plain up to the old oak, then you turn
quickly on this side (pointing with his hand).

_Misi._ We are grateful.

_Rustic._ May God lead you!

_Misi._ I would rather run on foot than be shaken as I am
by this horse.

_Phil._ You will have so much the greater appetite.

_Misi._ I shall, on the contrary, be able to eat nothing,
so weary and exhausted I am in all my body. I would
rather go to bed than ask for anything to eat.

_Phil._ Sit down, with knees drawn together, and not
stretched apart. You will feel weariness the less.

_Misi._ That is the custom of women. I would do it were I
not afraid of the laughter and grimaces of passers by.

_Boy._ Stop a moment, Philip, until the smith here has
shod thy horse, whose shoe on the right foot has become
loose.

_Misi._ Nay, rather let us stay here, so that if the inn
is closed we may sleep out in the open air.

_Phil._ What is that? Under the open sky? Would it not be
more excellent than in a closed room? It would be a more
serious matter for us to have to go without a meal.

X

SCRIPTIO—_Writing_

MANRICUS, MENDOZA, THE TEACHER

As, above, in the fifth dialogue, Vives taught the method of reading, so here he explains in an elegant manner the method of writing. For it is no small honour for a learned man to form his letters skilfully. But he adds the praise of correct writing and various kinds of writing, also he writes somewhat on pens and their preparation, and concerning different kinds of paper and other adjuncts of writing.

_Manr._ Were you present to-day when the oration on the
usefulness of writing was delivered?

_Mend._ Where?

_Manr._ In the lecture-room of Antonius Nebrissensis.

_Mend._ No, but do you recount what took place, if
anything of it remains in your memory.

_Manr._ What am I to recount? He said so many things that
almost everything has fallen from my mind.

_Mend._ Then it has happened to you what Quintilian said
of the vessels with narrow neck, viz., that they spit out
the supply of liquid when it is poured down on them; but
if it is instilled slowly they receive it. But haven’t
you retained anything of it exactly?

_Manr._ Almost nothing.

_Mend._ Then at least something.

_Manr._ Very, very little.

_Mend._ Then communicate this very, very little to me.

I. _The Usefulness of Writing_