Chapter V: Introduction: J. L. Vives: a Scholar of the Renascence (4)

_Manr._ First of all he said that it was thoroughly
wonderful that you can comprise so great a variety of
human sounds within so few written characters. Then, that
absent friends are able to talk to one another by the aid
of letters. He added that nothing seemed more marvellous
in these islands recently discovered by the munificence
of our kings, whence indeed gold is brought, than that
men should be able to open up to one another what they
think from a long distance by a piece of paper being
sent with black stains marked on it. For the question
was asked, Whether paper knew how to speak? He also said
this, that, and many other things which I have forgotten.

_Mend._ How long did he speak?

_Manr._ Two hours.

_Mend._ And from so long an oration have you committed to
memory so slight a portion as what you have just said?

_Manr._ I have indeed _committed_ it to the charge of my
memory, but my memory would not keep it all.

_Mend._ Clearly you have the wide-mouthed jar of the
daughters of Danaus.

_Manr._ Nay, I have received the oration into a sieve,
not into a jar at all.

_Mend._ We will summon some one who will bring back to
memory those points which you have forgotten.

_Manr._ Wait a bit! for I am seeking to recall something
by thinking it over. Now I have it.

_Mend._ Speak it out, then! Why didn’t you take notes?

_Manr._ I hadn’t a pen at hand.

_Mend._ Not even a writing-tablet?

_Manr._ Not even a writing-tablet.

_Mend._ Now tell on.

_Manr._ I have lost it again; you have shaken it out of
mind by interrupting so disagreeably.

_Mend._ What, so soon!

_Manr._ Now it comes back to me. He stated on the
authority of some writer (I don’t know who it was) that
nothing is more fitted as a help to great erudition than
to write clearly and quickly.

_Mend._ Who was the writer quoted?

_Manr._ I have often heard his name, but it has escaped
my memory.

_Nobles_

_Mend._ As have the other things! But the crowd of our
nobility do not follow the precept (as to the value of
writing), for they think it is a fine and becoming thing
not to know how to form their letters. You would say
their writing was the scratching of hens, and unless you
were warned beforehand whose hand it was, you would never
guess.

_Manr._ And for this reason you see how thick-headed men
are, how foolish, and imbued with corrupt prejudices.

_Mend._ What are the common run of people, if the nobles
are so skilless? or are the classes little different from
each other?

_Manr._ Because the common people are not distinguished
by their clothes and possessions, they are the more
separated by their life and sound judgment in their
affairs.

_Mend._ Do you mean that to vindicate ourselves from the
charge of vulgar ignorance we must give ourselves up to
the practice of writing?

_Manr._ I don’t know how it is inborn in me to plough out
my letters so distortedly, so unequally and confusedly.

_Mend._ You have this tendency from your noble birth.
Practise yourself—habit will change even what you think
to be inborn in you.

II. _The Writing-master_

_Manr._ But where does he (the writing-master) live?

_Mend._ Don’t seek that from me, for I did not hear the
man, nor see him, while I understood that you heard him.
You would like everything to be brought to your mouth,
chewed beforehand.

_Manr._ Now I remember he said he rented a house near the
church of SS. Justus and Pastor.

_Mend._ So he is our neighbour. Let us go.

_Manr._ Eh, boy! where is the teacher?

_Boy._ In that room there!

_Manr._ What is he doing?

_Boy._ He is teaching some pupils.

_Manr._ Tell him that there stand before his doors some
who have come to be taught by him.

_Teacher._ Who are these boys? What do they want?

_Boy._ They desire conference with you.

_Teacher._ Admit them straight to me.

_Manr. and Mend._ We wish you health and all prosperity,
teacher.

_Teacher._ And I, in my turn, wish you a happy entrance
here. May Christ preserve you! What is it? What do you
wish?

_Manr._ To be taught by you in that art which you
profess, if only you have time and are willing.

_Teacher._ Certainly, you ought to be boys highly
educated, for so you speak and desire with modest mouths.
Now, so much the more since a blush has spread over your
whole face. Have confidence, my boys, for that is the
colour of virtue. What are your names?

_Manr._ Manricus and Mendoza.

_True Nobility_

_Teacher._ The names themselves are evidence of noble
education and generous minds. But first then, you will
be truly noble if you cultivate your minds by those
arts which are especially most worthy of your renowned
families. How much wiser you are than that multitude of
nobles who hope that they are going to be esteemed as
better born in proportion as they are ignorant of the art
of writing. But this is scarcely to be wondered at, since
this conviction has taken hold of the stupid nobles that
nothing is more mean or vile than to pursue knowledge
in anything. And therefore it is to be seen that they
sign their names to their letters, composed by their
secretaries, in a manner that makes them impossible to
be read; nor do you know from whom the letter is sent to
you, if it is not first told you by the letter-carrier,
or unless you know the seal.

_Manr._ Over this Mendoza and I have grieved already.

_Teacher._ But have you come here armed?

_Manr._ Not at all, good teacher, we should have been
beaten by our teachers if we had dared to merely look at
arms, at our age, let alone to touch them.

_Teacher._ Ah, ah! I don’t speak of the arms of
blood-shedding, but of writing-weapons, which are
necessary for our purpose. Have you a quill-sheath
together with quills in it?

_Mend._ What is a quill-sheath? Is it the same as we call
a writing-reed case?

III. _Modes of Writing_

_Teacher._ It is. For the men of antiquity were
accustomed to write with styles. Styles were followed by
reeds, especially Nile reeds. The Agarenes (_i.e._ the
Saracens), if you have seen them, write with reeds from
right to left, as do almost all the nations in the East.
Europe followed Greece, and, on the contrary, writes from
the left to the right.

_Manr._ And also the Latins?

_Teacher._ The Latins also, my sons, but they have their
origin from the Greeks. Formerly the ancient Latins
wrote on parchment which was called palimpsest because
the writing could be wiped out again, and only on one
side, for those books written on both sides were called
Opistographi. Such was that _Orestes_ of Juvenal which
was written on the back of a written sheet and not
brought to an end. But as to these matters I will speak
some other time; now those which press. We write with
goose quills, though some use hen’s quills. Your quills
there are particularly useful, for they have an ample,
shining, and firm opening. Take off the little feathers
with a knife and cut off something from the top. If they
have any roughness, scrape it off, for the smooth ones
are better fitted for use.

_Manr._ I never use any unless they are stripped of
feathers, and shine, but my instructor taught me how
to make them smooth by saliva and by rubbing on the
under-side of the coat or stockings.

_Teacher._ Seasonable counsel!

_Mend._ Teach us how to make our quills.

IV. _The Making of (Quill) Pens_

_Teacher._ First of all, cleave the head on both sides,
so that it is split into two. Then whilst you carefully
guide the knife, make a cutting on the upper part which
is called the _crena_ or notch. Then make quite equal
the two little feet (_pedunculos_), or if you prefer to
call them the little legs (_cruscula_); so, nevertheless,
that the right one on which the pen rests in writing
may be higher, but the difference ought to be scarcely
perceptible. If you wish to press the pen on the paper
somewhat firmly, hold it with three fingers; but if you
are writing more quickly, with two, the thumb and the
fore-finger, after the Italian fashion. For the middle
finger rather checks the course and hinders it from
proceeding too quickly, instead of helping it forward.

_Manr._ Reach me the ink vessel.

_Mend._ Ah! I have let the ink horn fall, whilst coming
here.

V. _Ink_

_Teacher._ Boy, bring me that two-handled ink flask, and
let us pour from it into this little leaden mortar.

_Mend._ Without a sponge!

_Teacher._ You get the ink thus more flowingly and easily
into the pen. For if you dip the pen into cotton, or
silk-thread, or linen, some fibre or fluff adheres to the
nib. The drawing of this out causes a delay in writing.
Or if you don’t draw it out, you will make blurs rather
than letters (_lituras verius quam literas_).

_Mend._ As my companions advised, I put in either Maltese
linen-cloth or thin, fine silk.

_Teacher._ That is certainly more satisfactory. However,
it is much better to pour ink only into a little mortar
which stands firmly, for that can be carried about; for
this, of course, a sponge is necessary. Have you also
paper?

VI. _Paper_

_Mend._ I have this.

_Teacher._ It is too rough, and such as would check the
pen so that it would not run without being hindered,
and this is a nuisance for studies. For whilst you are
struggling with roughness of paper, many things which
should be written down slip from the mind. Leave this
kind of paper, wide, thick, hard, rough, for the printers
of books, for it is so called (_libraria_) because from
it books are made to last for a very long time. For daily
use, don’t get great Augustan or Imperial paper, which
is named Hieratica because employed for sacred matters,
such as you see in books used in sacred edifices. Get
for your own use the best letter-paper from Italy, very
thin and firm, or even that common sort brought over from
France, and especially that which you will find for sale
in single blocks at twopence each (_nummis octonis_). In
addition, the linden-tree paper, either of the kinds of
paper called Emporetica,[45] which we call blotting paper
(_bibula_), should be in reserve (_pro corollario_).

_Mend._ What do these words mean, for I have often
wondered?

_Teacher._ _Emporetica_ comes from the Greek and means
paper used for wrapping goods in, and _bibula_ is so
called because it absorbs ink, so that you don’t need
bran, or sand, or dust scraped from a wall. But best
of all is when the letters dry up of themselves, for by
that method they last so much longer. But you will find
it useful to place _Emporetica_ paper under your hand so
that you may not stain the whiteness of the writing-paper
by sweat or dirt.

VII. _The Copy_

_Manr._ Now give us a copy, if it seems good to you.

_Teacher._ First the A B C, then syllables, then words
joined together in this fashion. Learn, boy, those things
by which you may become wiser, and thence happier.
Sounds are the symbols of minds amongst people in one
another’s presence; letters, the symbols between those
who are absent from one another. Imitate these copies and
come here after lunch, or even to-morrow, so that I may
correct your writing.

_Manr._ We will do so. In the meantime we commend you to
Christ.

_Teacher._ And I, you, the same.

_Mend._ Let us go apart from our friends, so that we may
reflect without interruption on what we have heard from
the teacher.

_Manr._ Agreed! Let us do so!

_Mend._ We have come to the place we want. Let us sit
down on these stones.

_Manr._ Yes, as long as we are out of the sun.

_Mend._ Quick! a half-sheet of paper, which I will return
to you to-morrow.

_Manr._ Will this small bit be sufficient?

_Mend._ Alas! it won’t take six lines, especially of such
writing as mine.

_Manr._ Write on both sides and make the lines more
crowded together. What need have you to leave such big
spaces between the lines?

_Mend._ I? I make scarcely any space. For these letters
of mine touch one another both above and beneath,
especially those which have long heads or feet, such as
_b_ and _p_. But what are you doing? Have you already
ploughed out two lines? and how elegant they are! except
that they are crooked.

_Manr._ You write, yourself, and be quiet!

_Mend._ Certainly with this pen and ink I can by no means
write.

_Manr._ How is that?

_Mend._ Don’t you see that the pen besprinkles the paper
with ink outside the letters?

_Manr._ My ink is so thick that you would think it was
lime. Look there, how it sticks on the top of the nib and
won’t flow down so as to form the letters. But we will
soon remedy both the inconveniences. Cut off from the top
of the pen with your knife so much that it collects what
is wanted for the letters; I will instil some drops of
water into the ink so as to make it flow more easily. The
best thing would be vinegar, if you had it at hand, for
this immediately dilutes the thick ink.

_Mend._ True, but there is the danger lest its acidity
enters into the paper.

_Manr._ You needn’t fear any such danger; this paper is
best of all in preventing ink from flowing.

_Mend._ The extreme edges of this paper of yours are
unequal, wrinkled, and rough.

_Manr._ Then apply the shears to the margin of the paper,
for then it will seem more elegant, or write only outside
the rough parts. The slightest obstacles seem to you to
be a great hindrance to prevent you going on. Whatever
you have under your hand, put it on one side.

_Mend._ Let us now go back to the teacher.

_Manr._ Does it seem to you to be time already?

_Mend._ I fear lest the time has already passed by, for
he has lunch early.

_Manr._ Let us go. You enter first, for you have less
timidity.

_Mend._ Nay, rather you, for you have less impudence.

_Manr._ See that no one goes out from his house and
catches us here, joking and frolicking. Let us knock at
the door with the knocker-ring, although the door is
open, for this would be more courteous. (Tat-tat.)

_Boy._ Who is there? Come straight in, whoever you are!

_Manr._ It is we. Where is the teacher?

_Boy._ In his room.

_Mend._ May all things befall you propitiously, teacher!

_Teacher._ You have come seasonably.

_Mend._ We have imitated your copy five or six times on
this paper and bring our work to you to have it corrected.

_What should be Avoided in Writing_

_Teacher._ You have done rightly. Show it. In the future
let there be a greater space between the lines so that
I may be able to alter your mistakes and correct them.
These letters are too unequal, an ugly fault in writing.
Notice how much greater _n_ is than _e_ and _o_ than the
circle you make of it. For the bodies of all the letters
ought to be equal.

_Mend._ Tell us, pray, what do you mean by “bodies”?

VIII. _Forming Letters in Writing_

_Teacher._ The middle part of the letters, the part
besides the little heads and feet, if they have any; _b_
and _l_ have heads, _p_ and _q_ have feet. In this _m_
the legs (or sides) are not equal in length. The first
is shorter than the middle. It has also too long a tail,
even as that _a_ has. You don’t sufficiently press the
pen on the paper. The ink scarcely sticks, nor can you
clearly distinguish what the beginnings of the letters
are. Since you have tried to change these letters into
others, having erased parts with the pointed end of
your knife, you have disfigured your writing. It would
have been better to draw a thin stroke through it. Then
you should have transferred what remains of the word at
the end of one line to the beginning of the next, only
preserving the syllables always as wholes, for the law of
Latin writing does not suffer them to be cut into. It is
said that the Emperor Augustus did not have the custom
of dividing words, nor did he transfer the overflowing
letters of the end of his lines on to the next, but that
he put them immediately under the line and round about it.

_Manr._ We will gladly imitate that, as it is the example
of a king.

_Teacher._ You may well do so. For how could you
otherwise satisfy yourselves that you had any connection
with him (lit., that you are sprung from his blood)?
But you must not join all the letters, nor must you
separate all. There are those which must be ranged with
one another, as those with tails, _e.g._, _a_, _l_,
_u_, together with others, and so the speared letters,
_e.g._, _f_ and _t_. There are others which don’t permit
of this, viz., the circle-shaped _p_, _o_, _b_. As much
as possible keep your head erect in writing, for if you
bend and stoop, humours flow down on to the forehead and
eyes, whence many diseases are born and whence too may
come weakness of eyes. Now receive another copy and put
it on paper for to-morrow, God willing (_Deo propitio_).
As Ovid says (_Remedia Amoris_, 93):

Sed propera, nec te venturas differ in horas,
Qui non est hodie, cras minus aptus erit.[46]

and as Martial says (_de Notario_):

Currant verba licet, manus est velocior illis,
Nondum lingua suum, dextra peregit opus.[47]

_Mend._ Do you wish that we should imitate this blur?

_Teacher._ The blurs of correction certainly—and what
else is marked.

_Mend._ In the meantime we wish you the best of health.

XI

VESTITUS ET DEAMBULATIO MATUTINA—_Getting Dressed and the Morning Constitutional_

BELLINUS, MALVENDA, JOANNIUS, GOMEZULUS

This dialogue (as its inscription indicates) has two divisions. The earlier part is a paraphrase of the first dialogue, for he treats of almost the same things as there, but more copiously: he describes the manner of putting on one’s clothes or dressing one’s self, and the kinds of clothes. The second part contains the morning constitutional, and includes a noteworthy description of spring as it reveals itself to all the senses.

First Part

_Mal._

Nempe haec adsidue? Iam clarum mane fenestras intrat et
angustas extendit lumine rimas: stertimus indomitum quod
despumare Falernum sufficiat.[48] (_Persius_, iii. 1–1.)

_Bell._ It is plain to be seen that you are not in
possession of your senses, for if you were, you would not
be awake so long before morning, nor pour out verses,
like a satyr’s, by which you disclose your frenzy.

_Mal._ Then hear some epigrammatic verses, with no bite
in them and yet full of salt (_edentulos et salsos_).

Surgite iam pueris vendit ientacula pistor
Cristataeque sonant undique lucis aves.[49].

MARTIAL, 223.

_Bell._ The call of breakfast would drive off sleep from
me more quickly than any din of thine.

_Mal._ Most happy jester, I wish you good morning.

_Bell._ And I wish you good night, and a good brain to be
able to sleep as well as you speak with fluent oratory.

_Mal._ I beg you, answer me seriously, if you are ever
able to answer seriously, what o’clock do you think it is
now?

_Bell._ Midnight, or a little after.

_Mal._ By what clock?

_Bell._ That in my house.

_Mal._ Where is your house-clock? You would have to get
or see a clock which had every hour for sleeping, eating,
and playing, but which had none for studying.

_Bell._ Yet I have a clock by me.

_Mal._ Where? Produce it.

_Bell._ In my eyes. See, such as cannot be opened by any
force. I beg of you, fall asleep again, or at least be
quiet.

_Mal._ What in the name of evil is this drowsiness or,
more truly, lethargy, and, in a certain sense, death? How
long do you think we have slept?

_Bell._ Two hours, or at the most three.

_Mal._ Three times three.

_Bell._ How is this possible?

_Mal._ Gomezulus, run along to the sun-dial of the
Franciscans and see what hour it is.

_Bell._ Sun-dial, forsooth! When the sun has not as yet
risen.

_Mal._ Risen, indeed! Come here, boy. Open that glass
window that the sun with his beams may fall upon this
fellow’s eyes. Everything is full of the sun and the
shadows are getting less.

_Bell._ What has the rising or setting of the sun to do
with you? Let it rise earlier than you, since it has a
longer day’s journey to accomplish than you have.

_Mal._ Gomezulus, run quickly to St. Peter’s, and
there look both on the mechanical clock (_horologio
machinali_), and on the style of the sun-dial to tell
what time it is.

_Gom._ I have looked at both. By the sun-clock the shadow
is yet a little distant from the second line. By the
mechanical clock the hand points to a little after the
hour of five.

_Bell._ What do you say? What else remains for you to
do but fetch me the blacksmith from Stone Street, that
he may separate my eye-lids by pincers so firmly stuck
together? Tell him, that he has to force a door lever,
from which the key has been lost.

_Gom._ Where does he live?

_Mal._ The boy will be going in earnest. Leave off joking
and get up.

_Bell._ Well, let us get up, since you are so obstinate
in mind. Ah! what a vexatious companion you are! Rouse me
up, Christ, from the sleep of sin to the watchfulness of
justice! Take me from the night of death into the light
of life. Amen.

_Mal._ May this day proceed happily for you!

_Bell._ And for you, too, the same, and very many more as
joyful and prosperous, _i.e._, may you so pass through
it that you neither harm the virtue of any one, nor may
any one harm yours. Boy, bring me a clean shirt, for this
one I have already worn for six whole days. There, snatch
that flea on the leap. Now leave off the hunt. How small
a matter it would be to have killed a single flea in this
chamber!

_Mal._ As much as to take a drop of water out of the
river Dilia (at Louvain).

_Bell._ Or yet from the ocean-sea itself. I won’t have
the shirt with the creased collar, but the other one with
the smooth collar. For what are these creases otherwise
at this time of the year than nests or receptacles for
lice and fleas.

_Mal._ Stupid! You will then suddenly become rich,
possessing both white and black stock.

_Bell._ Property abounding in quantity rather than of
value in itself, and companions I would rather see in the
neighbourhood than in my house! Order the maid to sew
again the side of this shirt, and that with silk thread.

_Gom._ She hasn’t any.

_Bell._ Then with flax or with wool, or even if she
pleases with hemp. Never has this maid what is
necessary; of what is unnecessary she has more than
enough. But you, Gomezulus, I don’t want you to be a
prophet. Carry out my order and report to me. Don’t
foretell what will happen. Shake the dust out of the
stockings and then clean them carefully with that hard
fly-brush. Give me clean socks, for these are now moist
and smell of the feet. φεῦ, take them away, the smell
annoys me terribly.

_Gom._ Do you wish an under-garment?

_Bell._ No, for by the light of the sun I gather that the
day will be hot. But reach me that velvet doublet with
the half sleeves of silken cloth, and the light tunic of
British cloth with long cloth cords.

_Mal._ Or rather German cloth. But what is the meaning
of all this, whereby you think of making yourself so
extraordinarily smart, beyond your custom—especially
when it is not a feast-day? And you ask also for country
shoe-straps.

_Bell._ And you? Why have you put on your smooth
silk, fresh from the tailor’s, although you have your
goat’s-hair clothes and your well-worn clothes of
Damascus.

_Mal._ I have sent them to be repaired.

_Bell._ I indeed rather consider ease in my clothes than
ornament. These little hooks and knobs are out of their
place. You always loosen them wrongly and thoughtlessly.

_Mal._ I rather use buttons and holes, which are more
of an ornament, and less burdensome for putting on and
taking off one’s clothes.

_Bell._ Every one has not the same judgment on this any
more than on other matters. Put down this breast-covering
here in the box, and don’t bring it out again during the
whole of the summer. These straps have quite lost their
strength. This belt is unsewn and torn to pieces. See
that it is mended, but take care that no unshapely knots
are sewn on.

_Gom._ This will not be done for at least an hour and a
half.

_Bell._ Then stick a needle through it, so that it
doesn’t hang down. Give me the garters.

_Gom._ Here they are! I have got ready for you your shoes
and the sandals with the long latchets. I have shaken off
the dust from them well.

_Bell._ Rather wipe off the dirt from the shoes and
polish them.

_Mal._ Is the _ligula_ (shoe latchet) in the shoe?
Concerning this word there has been a very sharp
controversy amongst grammarians, as there usually is
about everything, whether it should be called _ligula_ or
_lingula_ (a little tongue).

_Bell._ The strap is sewn on the Spanish shoes over the
top of the sole. Here they do not wear it so.

_Mal._ And in Spain they have given up arranging it so,
because they now wear their shoes in the French fashion.

_Bell._ Let me have your ivory comb.

_Mal._ Where is your wooden one—the one from Paris?

_Bell._ Did you not hear me yesterday scolding Gomezulus?

_Mal._ Do you call beating a person scolding him?

_Bell._ This was the reason. He had broken five or six of
the thick and of the thin teeth of the comb—almost broken
them all to pieces.

_Mal._ I have lately read that a certain author stated
that we should comb the head with an ivory comb forty
times from the forehead to the top and then to the back
of the head. What are you doing? That is not combing but
stroking. Let me have the comb.

_Bell._ Nor is that combing, but shaving or sweeping. I
think your head is made of bricks.

_Mal._ And I think yours is of butter—so that you dare
not touch it closely.

_Bell._ Are you willing, then, that we should have a
butting match with our heads?

_Mal._ I am not willing to have a senseless contest with
you, nor to engage my good mind against your witless
one. Now at length wash well your hands and face, but
especially the mouth, that you may speak more clearly.

_Bell._ Would that I could cleanse my mind as quickly as
my hands! Give me the wash-hand-basin.

_Mal._ Rub together more diligently the knuckles of your
hands, to which there sticks the thickest dirt.

_Bell._ You are mistaken, for I think it is rather
discoloured and wrinkled skin. Pour the water in these
hand-basins, Gomezulus, into that sink and give me
that net-bag and that striped cap. Bring now my boots
(_ocreas_, lit. _greaves_).

_Gom._ Travelling boots?

_Bell._ No, my city boots.

_Gom._ Do you wish your Spanish cap and the long mantle?

_Bell._ Are we going out of doors?

_Mal._ Why not?

_Bell._ Bring then the travelling cloak.

_Mal._ Then at last we will go out, so as not to let slip
by the time for having a walk.

_Second Part_

_Bell._ Lead us, Christ, in the ways which are pleasing
to Thee, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Spirit. Amen. Oh, how beautiful is the dawn! truly rosy
and golden, as the poets call it. How I rejoice to have
arisen. Let us go out of the city.

_Mal._ Yes, let us go. For I have not stepped foot out
of the city gate for a whole week. But whither shall we
first go, and after that which way shall we take?

_Bell._ To the citadel, or to the Carthusian Monastery?

_Mal._ Or to the meadows of St. James?

_Bell._ No, not there in the morning; rather in the
evening.

_Mal._ To the Carthusian Monastery, then, past the
Franciscan Monastery and the Recreation Grounds, thence
through the Brussels gate, then we will return by the
Carthusian Monastery to divine service. See, here is
Joannius. A greeting to you, Joannius!

_Joan._ The warmest of greetings to you! What an unusual
thing is this that you should be stirring so early?

_Bell._ I was bound in the deepest sleep, but Malvenda
here, by shouting and pinching me, tore me from my bed.

_Joan._ He did rightly, for this walk in the country will
revive you and freshen you up. Let us go on the green
walk (the _Pomerium_). O marvellous and adorable Creator
of beauty so great; this world is not inappropriately
called Mundus and by the Greeks Κόσμος, as if it were
decked and made elegant with beauty.

_Mal._ Don’t let us take our walk as if in a rush,
but slowly and gently. Please let us make the circuit
of the city walls twice or three times so that we may
contemplate so splendid a view the more peacefully and
freely.

_Description of Spring_—1. _Sight_. 2. _Hearing_

_Joan._ Observe, there is no sense which has not a
lordly enjoyment! First, the eyes! What varied colours,
what clothing of the earth and trees, what tapestry!
What paintings are comparable with this view? Here
are natural and real things; the representations are
artificial and false. Not without truth has the Spanish
poet, Juan de Mena, called May the painter of the Earth.
Then, the ear. How delightful to hear the singing of
birds, and especially the nightingale! Listen to her
as she sings in the thicket, from whom, as Pliny says,
issues the modulated sound of the completed science of
music. Attend accurately and you will note all varieties
of sounds. At one time there is no pause in them, but
continuously, with breath held equably over a long time
without change, the bird sings on. Now it changes tone!
Now it sings in shorter and sharper tones! Now it draws
in its tones and, as it were, makes its voice tremulous!
Now it stretches out its voice and now it calls it back!
At other times it sings long and, as it were, heroical
verses; at other times, short sapphics, and at intervals
very short, as in adonics. In very fact you have, as
it were, the whole study and school of music in the
nightingale. The little ones ponder and listen to the
verses, which they imitate. The little bird listens with
keen intentness (would that our teachers received like
attention!) and gives back the sound. And then, again,
they are silent.

3. _Smell_. 4. _Taste_. 5. _Touch_

The correction by example and a certain criticism from
the teacher-bird are closely observed. But Nature leads
them aright, whilst human beings exercise their will
wrongly. Add to this there is a sweet scent breathing in
from every side, from the meadows, from the crops, and
from the trees, even from the fallow-land and neglected
fields! Whatsoever you lift to your mouth has its relish,
as even from the very air itself, like the earliest and
softest honey.

_Mal._ This seems to me to be accounted for by what I
have heard said by some, that in the month of May, bees
are wont to gather their honey from celestial dew.

_Joan._ This was the opinion of many. If you wish
anything to be offered to the touch, what softer or more
healthful than the air we breathe on every side? For by
its bracing breath it infuses itself through the veins
and the whole body. Some verses of Vergil on spring come
into my mind which I will hum to you, if you can listen
to my voice, which I am afraid sounds more like that of
a goose than of a swan—although, for my part, I would
rather have a goose’s voice than that of a swan, who only
sings sweetly if he is just approaching his fate.

_Bell._ I, indeed, as far as I may answer on my own
behalf, have a keen desire to hear the verses, with any
voice you like, if only you will give us an explanation
of the verses.

_Mal._ My opinion is not otherwise from that of Bellinus.

_Joan._

Non alios prima crescentis origine mundi
Inluxisse dies, aliumve habuisse tenorem
Crediderim: ver illud erat: ver magnus agebat
Orbis, et hybernis parcebant flatibus Euri,
Quum primae lucem pecudes hausêre, virumque
Terrea progenies duris caput extulit arvis,
Immissaeque ferae sylvis et sidera caelo.
Nec res hunc tenerae possent perferre laborem
Si non tanta quies iret frigusque caloremque
Inter, et exciperet caeli indulgentia terras.[50]

_Georgics_, ii. 336–336.

_Bell._ I have not quite followed it.

_Mal._ And I still less, as I think.

_Joan._ Learn the verses thoroughly, or you won’t
understand them, for they are taken from the depths of
philosophy, as are very many others of that poet.

_Mal._ We will question the schoolmaster Orbilius about
them, for here he is coming to meet us.

_The Mind_

_Joan._ He is by no means the man to meet the difficulty.
Let us just salute him and let him go his way, for he
is a fierce man, fond of flogging (_plagosus_), imbued
with a vast haughtiness, instead of being learned in
literature, although he has seriously persuaded himself
that he is the Alpha of learned teachers. Moreover, we
have only spoken of the body. How greatly are the soul
and mind exhilarated and aroused by such an early morning
as this! There is no time so suitable for good learning,
for observing things, and for attentively listening to
what is said, and whatever you read; nor is it otherwise
with reflection and with thinking a problem out, whatever
it may be. You can give your mind to it. Not undeservedly
has it been said: “The dawn (_Aurora_) is most pleasing
to the Muses.”

_Bell._ But let me tell you I’m famishing with hunger.
Let us get back home to breakfast.

_Mal._ What then will you have?

_Bell._ Bread, butter, cherries, waxen-coloured prunes,
which so greatly seem to have pleased our Spaniards that
they call all plums by this name.[51] Or should they not
have such food at home, we will pluck some leaves of the
ox-tongue (_buglossa_), and we will add some sage in
place of butter.

_Mal._ Shall we have wine to drink?

_Bell._ By no means—but beer, and that of the weakest, of
yellow Lyons, or else pure and liquid water, drawn from
the Latin or Greek well.

_Mal._ Which do you call the Latin well and the Greek
well?

_Bell._ Vives is accustomed to call the well close to the
gate the Greek well; that one farther off he calls the
Latin well. He will give you his reasons for the names
when you meet him.

XII

DOMUS—_The New House_

JOCUNDUS, LEO, VITRUVIUS

In this dialogue Vives describes the whole house and its parts, one by one, through the logical form of distribution of the whole into its parts. Concerning the details, _see_ the books of Vitruvius on architecture, and Grapaldus.

The interlocutors were distinguished architects. Vitruvius is an author of antiquity; the other two are more recent. The one, Johannes Jocundus Veronensis, wrote, amongst other monuments of a not inelegant mind, a work on the _Commentaries of Julius Caesar_. The other, Baptista Albertus Leo, distinguished himself in an equally great degree.

_Joc._ Have you any knowledge of the occupier of this
spacious and elegant house?

_Leo._ Most certainly; for he is a relation of the
man-servant of my father.

_Joc._ We will ask him to open the whole house to us,
for they say that nothing could be more pleasant and
delightful.

_Leo._ Let us go to it, and ring the little bell at the
door, so as not to burst in unexpected. (Tat-tat.)

_Vitruvius Insularius._[52] Who is there?

_Leo._ It is I.

_Vitr._ Hail! most welcome, sweetest boy! What brings you
here now?

_Leo._ I come from school.

_Vitr._ But for what reason are you here?

_Leo._ My friend here and I would very much like to see
over your house.

_Vitr._ Why, haven’t you seen it before now?

_Leo._ No, not all of it.

_The Vestibulum_—_The Door_—_The Threshold_

_Vitr._ Come in. Eh! boy, bring me the key for the
doors of the house. First, this is the entrance-hall
(_vestibulum_). It stands open the whole day, without
guard, for it is not within the house, yet also it is
not outside, though it is closed at night. Observe the
magnificent door, the leaves of which are of oak and
fitted with brass, and both the foot-piece and head-piece
of the doorway are made of alabaster marble. In former
times Hercules was set up at the door of the house to
ward off mischief (ἀλεξίκακος). But here we place Christ,
the true God, for Hercules was but a cruel and evil man.
With Christ as guard no evil will enter into the house.

_Joc._ Οὐδὲ οὖν δεσπότης αὐτός (so not even its master).

_Vitr._ What is that he said in Greek?

_Joc._ Why should so many evil persons enter in?

_Vitr._ Well, if evil persons do get in, they can then
bring nothing evil in with them.

_Leo._ Don’t you have any door-angels?

_Vitr._ The custom has gone out in some nations.

_The Door_—_The Hall_

Next comes the door of the entrance hall, which the hall
servant (_atriensis servus_) answers. He is the chief
of the servants, as the house-boy (_mediastinus_) is
the least in position. Then comes the spacious hall for
walking in, and in it are numerous and varied pictures.

_Joc._ Please, what are they all about?

_Vitr._ That is a representation of the foundations of
the heavens (_coeli facies ichnographica_). That shows
the plan of the earth and sea. There you have the world
newly discovered by Spanish navigations. In that picture
you see Lucretia as she is killing herself.[53]

_Joc._ Please, what is she saying, for even as she is
dying she seems to say something?

_Vitr._ “Many are astounded at my deed because it is not
every one who has suffered such a grief.”

_Joc._ I understand what she says.

_Leo._ What is the meaning of this picture delineated
with such varied figures?

_Vitr._ It is a sketch of this house. Draw back the
covering from that picture. There!

_Joc._ What does it represent? A little old man who is
sucking his wife’s breast?

_The Staircase_

_Vitr._ Hast thou not read of this subject in the chapter
on Piety in Valerius Maximus.[54]

_Joc._ What does she say?

_Vitr._ “I do not yet pay back as much as I have
received.”

_Joc._ What does the old man say?

_Winding Stairs_—_The Floor_—_The Upper Story_

_Vitr._ “I rejoice that I have been born.” Let us step up
these winding-stairs. The steps one by one, as you see,
are broad and were made of whole pieces of basalt-marble.
This first story is the dwelling of the master, the upper
story is for guests; not as if my master had a garret on
lease far away, but there it is furnished for his guest
friends always in order and free, unless filled already
with guests. This is the dining-room.

_The Dining-Room_—_The Window_

_Joc._ Good Christ! what transparent window panes these
are and how artistically painted they are in shaded
outlines! What colours! How life-like! What pictures,
what statues, what wainscoting! What is the story
pourtrayed on the panes?

_Vitr._ The fall of Griselda, which John Boccaccio wrote
so aptly and skilfully; but my master has decided to add
a true story to this fiction, which excels the story of
Griselda, viz., that of Godelina of Flanders and the
English Queen Catharine of Aragon. The first of the
statues is the Apostle Paul.

_Joc._ What is the inscription of the sculpture?

_Vitr._ “How much we owe thee, O Christ.”

_Joc._ What does he say himself?

_Vitr._ “By the grace of God I am what I am and His
grace which was bestowed on me, was not in vain.” The
other statue is Mutius Scaevola.

_Joc._ But he is not mute even if he is called Mutius.
What is the inscription on his statue?

_Vitr._ “This fire will not burn me up because another
greater one burns in me.” The third statue is Helen; the
writing states: “Oh, would that I always had been such a
statue, then should I have wrought less harm.”

_Joc._ What is the meaning of the old blind bald-headed
man who points his finger at Helen?

_Vitr._ That is Homer, who says to Helen: “Thy ill deed
has been well sung by me.”

_Joc._ Look, the wainscoting is gilded, and here and
there decked with pearls.

_Vitr._ There are all kinds of pearls, but of small worth.

_Joc._ What do we look on from the windows?

_The Summer-house_—_The Sleeping-room_

_Vitr._ These windows look into the gardens, those
into the court. This is the summer-house or garden
dining-room. Here you see a sleeping-room or chamber.
The sleeping-room is furnished with tapestry, with a
pavement wainscoted and covered with rush-mats. There are
some pictures of the Holy Virgin, of Christ the Saviour,
and there are others of Narcissus, Euryalus, Adonis,
Polyxena, who are said to have been of the highest beauty.

_Joc._ What is written on the upper lintel of the door?

_Vitr._ “Withdraw from your troubles and enter the haven
of peace.”

_Joc._ What is written inside the door-post?

_Vitr._ “Bring into this haven no tempest.” The most
necessary house utensils are kept in that closed chamber.
The other is the winter chamber. As you see, everything
there is darker and better covered. Then there is a
sweating chamber.

_The Sweating Chamber_

_Joc._ It is bigger in my opinion than the dining-room
would lead one to expect.

_Vitr._ Don’t you notice that the inner sleeping-room is
heated by the same steam-pipe?

_Joc._ They say that if sleeping-rooms had no chimney
flue they would be warmer.

_Vitr._ It is not usual to have them in the air-holes.

_Joc._ What is that room, so elegantly vaulted?

_The Chapel_

_Vitr._ It is the chapel (_lararium_) or sanctuary
(_sacellum_) in which divine service (_res divina_) is
held.

_Joc._ Where is the _latrina_?

_Vitr._ We have it up in the granary out of the way.
In the sleeping-rooms my master uses basins, pans, and
chamber-crockery.

_Joc._ How beautifully and artistically made are all
these little towers and pyramids and columns and
weathercocks!

_The Kitchen_—_Eating Chamber_—_The Cellar_

_Vitr._ We will now go down. This is the kitchen; this
the eating-chamber; here is the wine-cellar and the
larder, where we are annoyed by the attempts of thieves
to get in.

_Joc._ How can thieves get in here? It is, as it seems
to me, so carefully closed in, and the windows have iron
gratings?

_Vitr._ Through chinks and borings.

_Leo._ There are also mice and weasels who strip you of
all kinds of food!

_The Back-door_

_Vitr._ This is the back-door of the house, which, when
the master is not at home, is always fastened with two
bars, both locked and bolted.

_Leo._ Why have these windows no iron bars?

_Vitr._ Because they are only rarely open and they abut,
as you see, on a narrow and dark by-street. Rarely any
one puts his head out of the window. Therefore my master
has decided that he will have them latticed.

_Leo._ With what kind of bars?

_Vitr._ Perhaps with wooden bars. It is not yet certain.
In the meantime this fastening suffices.

_The Portico_

_Joc._ What high columns and a portico full of majesty!
See how these Atlantides and Caryatides seem to strive to
support the building against falling, whilst really they
are doing nothing.

_Leo._ There are many people like them, who appear to
accomplish great things when they are in reality leading
leisurely and sluggish lives; drones who enjoy the fruits
of the labours of others. But what is that house there
below, adjoining this, but badly built and full of cracks?

_Vitr._ It is the old house. Because it had cracks and
had great lack of repair, my master decided to have this
new one built, from the foundation. That old one is now a
resting-place for birds and the habitation of rats, but
we shall soon take it down.

XIII

SCHOLA—_The School_

TYRO, SPUDAEUS

In this dialogue the school is described in six parts, as teachers, honours, hours of learning and repetition, books, library, the disputation. The name _Tyro_ is that of the crude novice, a metaphor taken from military affairs of those as yet unskilled in war, to whom are opposed the _veterani_. _Spudaeus_ is in Greek the diligent and industrious person, a name worthy of one who is studious.

I. _The Teachers_

_Tyro._ What a delightful and magnificent school! I
suppose there is not in the whole academy any part more
excellent.

_Spud._ You judge rightly; add, also, what is of more
importance, that elsewhere there are no more cultured and
prudent teachers, who with such dexterity pass on their
learning.

_Tyro._ It behoves us then to repay their trouble by
attaining great knowledge.

_Spud._ And this indeed by great shortening of the labour
of learning!

_Tyro._ What does the schooling cost?

_Spud._ You can at once give up so base and unreasonable
a question. Can one in a matter of so great moment
inquire as to payment? The very teachers themselves do
not bargain for reward, nor is it suitable for their
pupils to even think about it. For what reward could
be adequate? Have you never heard the declaration of
Aristotle that gods, parents, and masters can never be
sufficiently recompensed? God created the whole man, the
parents gave the body birth, the masters form the mind.

_Tyro._ What do those masters teach, and for how long?

_Spud._ Each one has his separate class-room and the
masters are for various subjects. Some impart with labour
and drudgery the whole day long the elements of the art
of grammar; others take more advanced work in the same
subject; others propound rhetoric, dialectic, and the
remaining branches of knowledge, which are called liberal
or noble arts.

_Tyro._ Why are they so-called?

_Spud._ Because every noble-minded person must be
instructed in them. They are in contrast to the illiberal
subjects of the market-place which are practised by the
labour of the body or hands, which pertain to slaves and
men who have but little wit. Amongst scholars some are
“tyrones” and others “batalarii.”

II. _Grades or Honours of Scholars_—_Tyro_—_Baccalaureus_—_Licentiates_—_Doctors_

_Tyro._ What do these names signify?

_Spud._ Both these names are taken from the art of
warfare. “Tyro” is an old word used with regard to the
one who is beginning the practice of war. “Batalarius”
is the French name of the soldier who has already
once been in a fight (which they call a battle) and
has engaged in a close fight and has raised his hand
against the foe, and so in the literary contests at
Paris, “batalarius” has begun to signify the man who
has disputed publicly in any art. Teachers are chosen
from them, and are called “licentiates,” because it is
permitted them to teach, or, better still, they might
be termed “designate,” _i.e._, the men marked out. At
least they have taken the doctorate. Before the whole
university, a hat is placed on their head as a sign that
they have had their freedom conferred on them, and become
_emeriti_. This is the supreme honour and the highest
grade of dignity.

_Tyro._ Who is that with so great a company round him,
before whom march staff-bearers with silver staffs?

_The Rector_

_Spud._ That is the Principal (_Rector_) of the Academy.
Many are drawn to him because of the honour they bear him
in his office.

_Tyro._ How often in the day are the boys taught?

III. _Hours of Teaching and Repetition_

_Spud._ Several times. One hour before sunrise; two hours
in the morning; two hours in the afternoon.

_Tyro._ So often?

_Spud._ An old custom of the Academy so establishes it.
And in addition the scholars repeat and think over what
they have received in instruction from their masters,
like as if they were chewing the cud of their lessons.

_Tyro._ With so much noise over it?

_Spud._ Such is now their practice!

_Tyro._ To what purpose?

_Spud._ So as to learn.

_Tyro._ On the contrary, so as to shout. For they don’t
seem to meditate on their studies, but to be preparing
themselves for the office of public crier. That one there
is clearly raving. For if he had a sound brain, he would
neither so call out, nor gesticulate, nor so distort
himself.

_Spud._ They are Spaniards and Frenchmen, somewhat
impetuous, and as they hold divers opinions, they contend
the more warmly as if for their hearths and altars, as it
is said.

_Tyro._ What! are the teachers here of different opinions?

_Spud._ Sometimes they teach contradictory views.

_Tyro._ What authors are they interpreting?

IV. _Authors_

_Spud._ Not all the same, but each one as he is furnished
with skill and knowledge. The most erudite teachers
take to themselves the best authors with the sharpest
judgment, those whom you grammarians call classics. There
are those who, on account of their ignorance of what is
better, descend to the lowest (_ad proletarios_) and are
worthy of condemnation.

V. _The Library_

Let us enter. I will show you the public library of this
school. It looks, according to the precept of great men,
to the east.

_Tyro._ Wonderful! How many books, how many good authors,
Greek and Latin orators, poets, historians, philosophers,
theologians, and the busts of authors!

_Spud._ And indeed, as far as could be done, delineated
to the life and so much the more valuable! All the
book-cases and book-shelves are of oak or cypress and
with their own little chains. The books themselves for
the most part are bound in parchment and adorned with
various colours.

_Tyro._ What is that first one with rustic face and nose
turned-up?

_Spud._ Read the inscription.

_Tyro._ It is Socrates and he says: “Why do I appear in
this library when I have written nothing?”

_Spud._ Those who follow him, Plato and Xenophon, answer:
“Because thou hast said what others wrote.” It would take
long to go through the things here, one by one.

_Tyro._ Pray what are those books thrown on a great heap
there?

_Spud._ _The Catholicon_, Alexander, Hugutio, Papias,
disputations in dialectics, and books of sophistries in
physics. These are the books which I called “worthy of
condemnation.”

_Tyro._ Nay rather, they are condemned to violent death!

_Spud._ They are all thrown out. Let him take them who
will; he will free us of a troublesome burden.

_Tyro._ Oh, how many asses would be necessary for
carrying them away! I am astonished that they have not
been taken away, when there is so great an assembly of
asses everywhere. Somewhere in that heap the books of
Bartolus and Baldus are lying together and others of that
quality (_hujus farinae_).

_Spud._ Say rather of that coarseness (_furfuris_). The
loss would not be hurtful to the tranquillity of mankind.

_Tyro._ Look, who are those with those flowing hoods?

VI. _The Disputation_—1. _The Praeses_.

_Spud._ Let us go down. They are “batalarii,” going to
the disputation.

_Tyro._ Please lead us thither.

_Spud._ Step in, but quietly and reverently. Uncover your
head and watch attentively all, one by one, for there
is a discussion beginning on weighty matters which will
conduce greatly to one’s knowledge. That one whom you
see sitting alone in the highest seat is the president
(_praeses_) of the disputation and the judge of the
disputes, so to say, the Agonotheta. His first duty is to
appoint the place for each of the contenders, lest there
should be any disorder or confusion, if one or other
should want to take precedence.

_Tyro._ What is the meaning of the skin-covering of his
toga?

_Spud._ It is his doctor’s robe, the emblem of his
position and dignity. He is a man of whom there are few
so learned, who, by the choice of the candidates in
theology, carried off the first prize, and by the most
learned of the faculty is regarded as the first among
them.

_Tyro._ They say that Bardus was the first choice in his
year.

_Spud._ He beat all his competitors by canvassing and
craft, not by his knowledge.

_Tyro._ Who is that thin and pallid man they all rush
upon?

2. _The Propugnator._ 3. _The Oppugnator (a smart man)—The Vapid Man—The Smooth Man._