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Title: Tudor school-boy life: the dialogues of Juan Luis Vives

Author: Juan Luis Vives

Translator: Foster Watson

Release date: January 2, 2018 [eBook #56286]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TUDOR SCHOOL-BOY LIFE: THE DIALOGUES OF JUAN LUIS VIVES ***

TUDOR SCHOOL-BOY LIFE

_All rights reserved._


[Illustration: _Juan Luis Vives._]




  TUDOR
  SCHOOL-BOY LIFE

  THE DIALOGUES

  OF

  JUAN LUIS VIVES

  TRANSLATED FOR THE FIRST TIME INTO ENGLISH
  TOGETHER WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

  FOSTER WATSON, M.A.

  Professor of Education in the University College
  of Wales, Aberystwyth

  [Illustration]

  LONDON

  J. M. DENT & COMPANY

  MCMVIII




CONTENTS


  INTRODUCTION—                                              PAGE

  J. L. Vives: A Scholar of the Renascence                    vii

  The Significance of the _Dialogues_ of J. L. Vives        xviii

  The Dedication of the _School-Dialogues_ of Vives           xxi

  Contents of the _Dialogues_                                xxii

  Home and School Life                                      xxiii

  Subject-matter and Style                                  xxxii

  Popularity                                                xxxiv

  The Greek Words in Vives’ _Dialogues_                      xxxv

  Euphrosynus Lapinus                                       xxxvi

  Style                                                     xxxvi

  Characteristics of Vives as a Writer of _Dialogues_      xxxvii

  Vives as a Precursor of the Drama                        xxxvii

  Some Educational Aspects of Vives’ _Dialogues_            xxxix

  Vives’ Idea of the School                                 xxxix

  Games                                                       xli

  Nature Study                                               xliv

  Wine-drinking and Water-drinking                            xlv

  The Vernacular                                             xlvi

  The Educational Ideal of Vives                           xlviii

  Vives’ Last _Dialogue_: The Precepts of Education             l




DIALOGUES

      I. SURRECTIO MATUTINA—_Getting up in the Morning_         1

     II. PRIMA SALUTATIO—_Morning Greetings_                    6

    III. DEDUCTIO AD LUDUM—_Escorting to School_                9

     IV. EUNTES AD LUDUM LITERARIUM—_Going to School_          11

      V. LECTIO—_Reading_                                      18

     VI. REDITUS DOMUM ET LUSUS PUERILIS—_The Return Home
           and Children’s Play_                                21

    VII. REFECTIO SCHOLASTICA—_School Meals_                   26

   VIII. GARRIENTES—_Students’ Chatter_                        39

     IX. ITER ET EQUUS—_Journey on Horseback_                  55

      X. SCRIPTIO—_Writing_                                    65

     XI. VESTITUS ET DEAMBULATIO MATUTINA—_Getting Dressed
           and the Morning Constitutional_                     80

    XII. DOMUS—_The New House_                                 93

   XIII. SCHOLA—_The School_                                  101

    XIV. CUBICULUM ET LUCUBRATIO—_The Sleeping-room
           and Studies by Night_                              109

     XV. CULINA—_The Kitchen_                                 117

    XVI. TRICLINIUM—_The Dining-room_                         125

   XVII. CONVIVIUM—_The Banquet_                              132

  XVIII. EBRIETAS—_Drunkenness_                               150

    XIX. REGIA—_The King’s Palace_                            163

     XX. PRINCEPS PUER—_The Young Prince_                     172

    XXI. LUDUS CHARTARUM SEU FOLIORUM—_Card-playing
           or Paper-games_                                    185

   XXII. LEGES LUDI—_Laws of Playing_                         198

  XXIII. CORPUS HOMINIS EXTERIUS—_The Exterior of
           Man’s Body_                                        210

  XXIV. EDUCATIO—_Education_                                  219

   XXV. PRAECEPTA EDUCATIONIS—_The Precepts of
          Education_                                          234

  INDEX                                                       243




INTRODUCTION

J. L. VIVES: A SCHOLAR OF THE RENASCENCE

1492–1492


Erasmus was born in 1466, Budé (Budaeus) in 1468, and Vives in 1492.
These great men were regarded by their contemporaries as a triumvirate
of leaders of the Renascence movement, at any rate outside of Italy.
The name of Erasmus is now the most generally known of the three, but
in one of his letters Erasmus stated his fear that he would be eclipsed
by Vives. No doubt Erasmus was the greatest propagandist of Renascence
ideas and the Renascence spirit. No doubt Budé, by his _Commentarii
Linguae Graecae_ (1529), established himself as the greatest Greek
scholar of the age. Equally, without doubt, it would appear to those
who have studied the educational writings of Erasmus, Budé, and Vives,
the claim might reasonably be entered for J. L. Vives that his _De
Tradendis Disciplinis_ placed him first of the three as a writer on
educational theory and practice. In 1539 Vives published at Paris the
_Linguae Latinae Exercitatio_, _i.e._, the _School Dialogues_ which are
for the first time, in the present volume, presented to the English
reader.

Juan Luis Vives was born, March 6, 1492 (the year of Columbus’s
discovery of America), at Valencia, in Spain. His father was Luis
Vives, of high-born ancestry, whose device was _Siempre vivas_.
Similarly his mother, Blanca March, was of a good family, which had
produced several poets. Vives himself has described his parents, their
relation to each other and to himself, in two passages in his _De
Institutione Feminae Christianae_ (1523). This work was translated into
English (_c._ 1540) by Richard Hyrde. As the two passages contain all
that is known of the parents, and give a short but picturesque idea of
the household relations, I transcribe them from Hyrde’s translation:
“My mother Blanca, when she had been fifteen years married unto my
father, I could never see her strive with my father. There were two
sayings that she had ever in her mouth as proverbs. When she would say
she believed well anything, then she used to say, ‘It is even as though
Luis Vives had spoken it.’ When she would say she would anything, she
used to say, ‘It is even as though Luis Vives would it.’ I have heard
my father say many times, but especially once, when one told him of a
saying of Scipio African the younger, or else of Pomponius Atticus (I
ween it were the saying of them both), that they never made agreement
with their mothers. ‘Nor I with my wife,’ said he, ‘which is a greater
thing.’ When others that heard this saying wondered upon it, and the
concord of Vives and Blanca was taken up and used in a manner for a
proverb, he was wont to answer like as Scipio was, who said he never
made agreement with his mother, because he never made debate with her.
But it is not to be much talked in a book (made for another purpose) of
my most holy mother, whom I doubt not now to have in heaven the fruit
and reward of her holy and pure living.”

Vives states that he had the intention of writing a “book of her acts
and her life,” and no one who reads the foregoing passage will be
otherwise than regretful that he failed to carry out this purpose. As
it is, we must content ourselves with another passage.[1]

“No mother loved her child better than mine did; nor any child did ever
less perceive himself loved of his mother than I. She never lightly
laughed upon me, she never cockered me; and yet when I had been three
or four days out of her house, she wist not where, she was almost sore
sick; and when I was come home, I could not perceive that ever she
longed for me. Therefore there was nobody that I did more flee, or
was more loath to come nigh, than my mother, when I was a child; but
after I came to man’s estate, there was nobody whom I delighted more to
have in sight; whose memory now I have in reverence, and as oft as she
cometh to my remembrance I embrace her within my mind and thought, when
I cannot with my body.”

Vives went to the town school of Valencia. The outlines of the
history of this school have been sketched by Dr. Rudolf Heine.[2]
The foundation of the school dates back to the time of James I. of
Aragon, when Pope Innocent IV. gave privileges to the newly founded
school in 1245. The school, Dr. Heine says, was first a _schola_, then
a _studium_, then a _gymnasium_, and in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries was known as an _academy_, the name by which Vives describes
schools in the _Colloquies_. In 1499 new statutes were drawn up for the
Valencia Academy, ordaining the teaching of grammar, logic, natural and
moral philosophy, metaphysics, canon and civil law, poetry, and “other
subjects such as the city desires and requires.”

The spirit of scholasticism reigned supreme in the Valencian Academy
when Vives was a pupil. The dominant subject of study was dialectic,
and the all-controlling method of education was the disputation. Vives
thus received a thorough drilling in dialectic and disputation. When
Vives became a convert to the Renascence interest of literature and
grammar, he was thus well prepared by his experience in the Valencian
Academy for an effective onslaught on the old disputational methods.
How deeply interwoven these methods were in the school instruction may
be seen in Vives’ own words:—

“Even the youngest scholars (_tyrones_) are accustomed never to keep
silence; they are always asserting vigorously whatever comes uppermost
in their minds, lest they should seem to be giving up the dispute.
Nor does one disputation or even two each day prove sufficient, as
for instance at dinner. They wrangle at breakfast; they wrangle
after breakfast; before supper they wrangle, and they wrangle after
supper.... At home they dispute, out of doors they dispute. They
wrangle over their food, in the bath, in the sweating-room, in the
church, in the town, in the country, in public, in private; at all
times they are wrangling.”

The names of two of Vives’ schoolmasters are preserved, Jerome
Amiguetus and Daniel Siso. Amiguetus was a thorough-going scholastic,
teaching by the old mediæval methods, and a stalwart opponent of the
Renascence. Spain generally resisted the Revival of Learning, and
wished to have a ban placed even on the works of Erasmus. But in the
person of Antonio Calà Harana Del Ojo, better known as Antonio de
Lebrijà (or Antonius Nebrissensis), a doughty champion of classicism
appeared and raised a Spanish storm. In 1492, the year of Vives’
birth, Antonio published a grammar and a dictionary, and had the
hardihood to present his learning in the Spanish language. About 1506
it was proposed to introduce Antonio’s _Introductiones Latinae_ into
the Valencian Academy. This suggestion was strenuously opposed by
Amiguetus. With the enthusiasm of a school-boy of fourteen years of
age, Vives espoused the side of his teacher, and by declamation and by
pen supported the old methods. But when he published his _De Tradendis
Disciplinis_ (1531) more than a quarter of a century afterwards,
he paid Lebrijà the praise which as a school-boy he had withheld,
recognising his varied and broad reading, his intimate knowledge of
classical writers, his glorious scholarship, and his modesty in only
claiming to be a grammarian.

Of Vives’ school-life little more can be gathered, except indeed
what in his writings may be surmised to be the reminiscences of his
own boy-life. We find glimpses of this kind in the _Dialogues_. For
example, in the twenty-second Dialogue—which expounds the laws of
school games—he describes his native town and early environment.

In 1509 Vives went to Paris to continue his studies. Amongst the
teachers under whom he studied here was the Spanish John Dullard. Vives
tells us that Dullard used to say: Quanto eris melior grammaticus,
tanto pejus dialecticus et theologus![3] Nevertheless, Paris had
awakened Vives to the unsatisfactory nature of a one-sided training
in dialectic. In 1512 he proceeded to Bruges. He became tutor in a
Spanish family, by name Valdaura. One of the daughters, Margaret, whom
he taught, he afterwards (in 1524) married. He speaks of the mother of
the family, Clara Cervant, in the highest terms, and regarded her—next
to his own mother—as the highest example of womanly devotion to duty he
had ever known, for she had nursed her husband, it is said, from their
marriage day for many years through a severe and obstinate illness.
Whilst at Bruges his thoughts gathered strength in the direction of
the Renascence. In 1514 he suggests that Ferdinand of Spain would do
well to get Erasmus as tutor in his family, for he says Erasmus is
known to him personally, and is all that is dear and worthy. It is thus
certain that Vives was confirmed by Erasmus in the study of classical
literature as transcending all the old mediæval educational disciplines.

From 1512 onwards, with breaks, Vives’ main quarters were in Flanders,
at Bruges or Louvain, at the former of which was the residence of many
of his Spanish compatriots. One of these breaks of residence was in
1514 at Paris, another at Lyons in 1516. In 1518 Vives was at Lyons,
where he was entrusted with the education of William de Croy, Cardinal
designate and Archbishop of Toledo. The course of instruction which
he gave was founded on a thorough reading of the ancient authors
and instruction in rhetoric and philosophy. At Lyons, too, Vives
met Erasmus. “Here we have with us,” writes Erasmus in one of his
letters, “Luis Vives, who has not passed his twenty-sixth year of
age. Young as he is, there is no part of philosophy in which he does
not possess a knowledge which far outstrips the mass of students. His
power of expression in speech and writing is such as I do not know
any one who can be declared his equal at the present time.” In 1519
Vives was at Paris, where he became personally acquainted with the
great William Budé. Of him Vives, in one of his letters to Erasmus,
writes, “What a man! One is astounded at him whether we consider his
knowledge, his character, or his good fortune.” But more interesting
to English readers, is a letter about this time (1519) of Sir Thomas
More on seeing some of the published work of Vives himself. He says:
“Certainly, my dear Erasmus, I am ashamed of myself and my friends, who
take credit to ourselves for a few brochures of a quite insignificant
kind, when I see a young man like Vives producing so many well-digested
works, in a good style, giving proof of an exquisite erudition. How
great is his knowledge of Greek and Latin; greater still is the way in
which he is versed in branches of knowledge of the first rank. Who in
this respect is there who surpasses Vives in the quantity and depth
of his knowledge? But what is most admirable of all is that he should
have acquired all this knowledge so as to be able to communicate it to
others by instruction. For who instructs more clearly, more agreeably,
or more successfully than Vives?”

At this point may be stated the chief works which Vives so far had
written:—

  1507. The boyish _Declamationes in Antonium Nebrissensem_
  (not extant).

  1509. _Veritas Fucata_, in which he designates the
  contents of the classics as “food for demons.”

  1514. _Jesu Christi Triumphus._

  1518. _De Initiis, Sectis et Laudibus Philosophiae_,
  perhaps the first modern work on the history of
  philosophy.

  1519. _In Pseudo-dialecticos._ This famous treatise pours
  its invective and indignation against the formalistic
  disputational dialectic of the schools of Paris, and
  marks Vives’ complete break with scholastic mediævalism,
  and his acceptance of the Renascence material of
  knowledge and methods of inquiry.

  1519. _Pompeius Fugiens._

  1519. _Praelectio in Quartum Rhetoricorum in Herennium._

  1519. The Dialogue called _Sapiens_.

  1519. _Praelectio in Convivia Philelphi._

  1519. _Censura de Aristotelis Operibus._

  1519. Edited _Somnium Scipionis_, the introduction to
  which was afterwards known as _Somnium Vivis_. Vives here
  regards Plato as the herald of Christianity.

  1520. _Sex Declamationes._

  1520. _Aedes Legum._ In this book Vives made important
  suggestions founded on Roman law for the improvement of
  law in his own times.

At the beginning of 1521 Vives’ old pupil and patron, Cardinal de
Croy, died. It was at this time he took in hand his great work, the
commentary on St. Augustine’s _Civitas Dei_. Erasmus suggested the
work to him, so that Vives might do for St. Augustine what Erasmus
himself had done for the works of St. Jerome. Vives’ edition of
St. Augustine’s _Civitas Dei_ was dedicated to King Henry VIII. of
England. The writing of this commentary was a huge labour, and it
marks two crises in Vives’ life—firstly, he fell ill with a tertian
fever, and, secondly, he gave up his teaching of youths, work which he
had hitherto strenuously pursued along with his literary labours. In
1522 he wrote a pleading letter to Erasmus, begging him forgive his
slowness in despatching the _Civitas Dei_. In it he confesses that
“school-keeping has become in the highest degree repulsive,” and that
he would rather do anything else than any longer continue “_inter has
sordes et pueros_.” It appears that at the time Vives was giving three
lectures daily in the University of Louvain as well as teaching boys.

In the autumn of 1522 Vives came to England for a short visit, and
in the following year he was offered the Readership in Humanity
in the University of Oxford. Whilst at Oxford he lived in Corpus
Christi College. He had for patron Queen Catharine of Aragon, to
whom he dedicated his _De Institutione Feminae Christianae_, which
was published in 1523. Vives was entrusted with the direction of the
Princess Mary (afterwards Queen Mary I.), for whose use was written
_De Ratione Studii Puerilis ad Catharinam Reginam Angliae_, 1523. In
the same year Vives also wrote _De Ratione Studii Puerilis ad Carolum
Montjoium Guilielmi Filium_. These two tractates present an excellent
account of the best Renascence views on education, in Tudor times, of a
girl and a boy respectively.

The _De Institutione Feminae Christianae_ already mentioned is one of
the earliest and most important Tudor documents on women’s education.
It marks the transition from the old mediæval tradition of the
cloistral life as the highest womanly ideal to that of training for
domestic life, in which the mother should be distinguished by the
deepest culture of piety and all the intellectual education conducive
to religious development. It may be described as typical of Catholic
Puritanism in the education of women in the Tudor times.

From 1522 onwards, till after the divorce of Catharine of Aragon, Vives
appears to have spent a portion of the year in England, and to have
earned enough money to keep him for the rest of the year in Flanders
or elsewhere, where he continued his literary career. Although he
sometimes lectured in Oxford his time seems principally to have been
spent at the court of Henry VIII. and his wife, Catharine. He had times
of great weariness in England. He writes in one of his letters of his
London life: “I have as sleeping place a narrow den, in which there
is no chair, no table. Around it are the quarters of others, in which
so constant and great noise prevails that it is impossible to settle
one’s mind to anything, however much one may have the will or need. In
addition, I live a distance from the royal palace, and in order not to
lose the whole day by often going and coming back, from early morning
till late evening I have no time at home. When I have taken my mid-day
meal I cannot once turn round in my narrow and low room, but must waltz
round and round as on a cheese. Study is out of the question in such
circumstances. I have to take great care of my health, for if I became
ill they would cast me like a mangy dog on a dung-hill. Whilst eating
I read, but I eat little, for with so much sitting I cannot digest, as
I should do if I walked about. For the rest, life here is such that I
cannot hide my ennui. About the only thing I can do, is to do nothing.”

Vives enjoyed allowances both from the king and from the queen, and he
had other sources of earnings. In 1524 he was back in Flanders to marry
his pupil Margaret Valdaura. Soon after his marriage, which appears to
have been a very happy one—though with Vives’ frequent travelling the
two were often separated—he wrote one of his widest circulated works,
the _Introductio ad Sapientiam_, which presents the grounds of the
Christian religion and the right fashioning of life by intelligence and
temperance.

Vives next turned his attention to great European military contests,
and was a warm advocate of international peace between Christian
powers together with combined warfare against the Turks. These views
he elaborated in 1526 in his _De Europae Dissidiis et Bello Turico_.
More remarkable still, in the same year, was his treatise, _De
Subventione Pauperum_, in which he is the first advocate of national
state provision for the poor. He would require those who are poor by
their own fault to submit to compulsory labour, and even to help in the
provision for other poor people.

In 1528 Vives wrote his _De Officio Mariti_, a companion volume to the
_De Institutione Feminae Christianae_. In this year he had to leave
England for good, since Henry VIII. was determined to divorce Catharine
of Aragon. Vives was a strong supporter of Catharine. It is said that
the queen wished to have Vives as her counsel before the judges on the
case, but Henry cast Vives in prison for six weeks, and only freed him
on the condition that he left the court and England. Vives retreated to
Belgium.

In 1529 Vives wrote the _De Concordia et Discordia in Humano Genero_,
another large-hearted discourse on the value of peace. In 1531 appeared
his great pædagogical work, the _De Disciplinis_.[4] In 1539 he wrote
the _De Anima et Vita_, one of the first modern works on psychology,
and the _De Veritate Fidei Christianae_. And in the same year appeared
the _Linguae Latinae Exercitatio_ or the _School Dialogues_. Vives died
May 6, 1540.

The _De Disciplinis_, with the two divisions _De Causis Corruptarum
Artium_ and the _De Tradendis Disciplinis_, and the _Exercitatio_ are
the great pædagogical works of Vives, the first a most comprehensive
theoretical work of education, probably the greatest Renascence book
on education. The _Exercitatio_ is perhaps the most interesting
school-text-book of the age.


THE SIGNIFICANCE OF THE _DIALOGUES_ OF J. L. VIVES


THE POVERTY OF THE VERNACULAR LITERATURE BEFORE THE TUDOR PERIOD

It is difficult to realise the position of the student of literature in
England in the first half of the sixteenth century. The whole wealth
of the Elizabethan writers, and all their successors in the Ages of
Milton, of Dryden and Pope, of Samuel Johnson, of Charles Lamb, of
Shelley, Byron, and Wordsworth, and the large range of Victorian
literature, all this had to come. The modern man, therefore, must
confess that it was not to English literature that the Tudor student
could look for the material of education. Even if it be justifiable
to claim that modern literature is a more fruitful study than ancient
literature, for the ordinary man, the question remains: How was the
ordinary educated man to be trained in the earlier Tudor Age, when the
time of great modern literature was “not yet”?

Before we can understand the function served by a Latin text-book of
boys’ dialogues like the work of Vives translated in this volume, we
must, therefore, first realise the poverty of the vernacular literature
of periods anterior to the sixteenth century, and the consequent
delight of scholars in finding Latin and Greek literature ready to hand.

“There is every reason to believe that the English language, before
the invention of printing, was held by learned or literary men in very
little esteem. In the library of Glastonbury Abbey, which bids fair
to have been one of the most extensive in the kingdom in 1248, there
were but four books in English, and those upon religious subjects, all
beside _vetusta et inutilia_. We have not a single historian in English
prose before the reign of Richard II., when John Trevisa translated
the _Polychronicon_ of Randulph Higden. Boston of Bury, who seems
to have consulted all the monasteries in England, does not mention
one author who had written in English; and Bale, at a later period,
has comparatively but an insignificant number; nor was Leland so
fortunate as to find above two or three English books in the monastic
and other libraries which he rummaged and explored under the King’s
Commission.”[5]

The classical writers of Greece and Rome, however, have always drawn
towards them a large proportion of the well-trained scholarly men of
each generation. _Before the vernacular literature existed, necessarily
it was to the ancient classical languages that the literary scholar
turned._ In Greek, Plato and Aristotle had written; so, too, Aeschylus,
Sophocles, Euripides, as dramatists, and the historians Thucydides,
Herodotus, Xenophon, and the “divine poet” Homer. Amongst the Latin
prose writers were Cicero, Terence, Livy; and amongst the poets, Horace
and Vergil. On any showing, such classical writers hold their own high
place even if brought into comparison with the greatest of the moderns.
The intellectual discipline received by reading their works in the
original Greek and Latin had its value. Hence the sixteenth-century
English student was trained on those ancient Greek and Latin authors,
all unconscious of the great awakening that was to be of modern English
literature, into which the twentieth-century reader so lightly enters.

The whole of the well-educated, scholarly, learned men of the sixteenth
century, in England and on the continent of Europe, all entered into
the _same_ classical heritage. They all honoured the same great names
of Greek and Latin authors. Latin was the learned language, as the
language of Latin literature, as well as the starting-point for the
study of Greek. Latin, too, was spoken in every country amongst the
learned, and even amongst many who were not regarded as learned. Latin
was, it is to be clearly understood, not only a dead language, but
a current, live language. It is said that beggars begged in Latin;
shopkeepers and innkeepers, and indeed all who had to deal with the
general public of travellers, are credited with a knowledge of some
colloquial Latin. Church services, of course, were all in Latin, and
youths were taught for the most part in the chantries of the churches,
and even elementary education provided sufficient knowledge of Latin to
enable the pupil to help the priest to say mass, _i.e._, a minimum of
Latin and of music.

Latin, therefore, at least occupied the place in the Mediæval Ages
which French holds to-day as an international language. When Laurentius
Valla, about 1440, wrote his epoch-making _Elegantiae Latinae Linguae_,
his aim was not to induce people to speak Latin—all well-conducted
persons, of course, did so—but to give them the facilities for speaking
_correct and well-chosen_ Latin phrases, such as Cicero or Terence
would have used. The complaint of the writers of the Renascence times
was not that students and the ordinary educated people did not speak
Latin, but that they spoke it so inaccurately that the Latin was spoken
differently, not only in pronunciation but also in construction, in
different countries, and even in different parts of the same country.
Text-book after text-book was written to expose and correct the
barbarisms in Latin which had become current. For this reason, in our
own country, Dean Colet enjoined the reading of good literature in
Latin and Greek. Colet requires “that filthiness and all such abusion
which the later blind world brought in, which much rather may be called
blotterature than literature,” shall be absent from the famous school
of St. Paul’s, which he founded.

The Renascence influence, then, attempted on the educational side to
bring the pupils of the schools away from the jargon and barbarism
of current Latin to the classical Latin of Terence and Cicero. The
Renascence leaders had the courage to hope to bring this reform even
into the ordinary conversation of educated men and women in their
speaking of Latin.

Into this aim Vives entered with the keenest enthusiasm. This will
become evident by reference to the Dedication of the _Dialogues_ which
I give in full.


THE DEDICATION OF THE SCHOOL-DIALOGUES OF VIVES:

“Vives to Philip, son and heir to the august Emperor Charles, with all
good will.

“Very great are the uses of the Latin language both for speaking and
thinking rightly. For that language is as it were the treasure-house of
all erudition, since men of great and outstanding minds have written on
every branch of knowledge in the Latin speech. Nor can any one attain
to the knowledge of these subjects except by first learning Latin.
For which reason I shall not grudge, though engaged in the pursuit of
higher researches, to set myself to help forward to some degree the
elementary studies of youth. I have, in these Dialogues, written a
first book of practice in speaking the Latin language as suitable as
possible, I trust, to boys. It has seemed well to dedicate it to thee,
Boy-Prince, both because of thy father’s goodwill to me, in the highest
degree, and also because I shall deserve well of my country, that is,
Spain, if I should help in the forming of sound morals in thy mind.
For our country’s health is centred in thy soundness and wisdom. But
thou wilt hear more fully and often enough on these matters from John
Martinius Siliceus, thy teacher.”

It will be noted that the expressed aim of Vives is to help boys
_who are learning to speak the Latin language_. For this purpose,
Vives realised that the method must be conversational, that the style
of speech must be clear, correct, and as far as possible based on
classical models, and that the subject-matter must consist of topics
interesting to children and connected with their daily life. The Prince
Philip, to whom the Dialogues are dedicated, it should be noted, was
afterwards Philip II., the consort of the English Queen Mary I.,
daughter of Catharine of Aragon.


CONTENTS OF THE DIALOGUES

The German historian of Latin School-Dialogues, Dr. Bömer, speaks of
the characteristic power of Vives in introducing, in relatively short
space, the ordinary daily life of boys, and tracking it into the
smallest corners. “If a boy is putting on his clothes, we learn every
single article of clothing, and all the topics of toilettes and the
names of each object (Dialogues I. and XI.). When two school-boys pay
a visit to a stranger’s house, we have shown to us its whole inner
arrangement by an expert guide (XII.). Interesting observations are
made on the different parts of the human body by a painter, Albert
Dürer (XXIII.). With a banquet as the occasion, we are introduced to
the equipment of a dining-room (XVI.), with ordinary kinds of foods
and drinks (XVII.), and if we like we can betake ourselves to the
cook in the kitchen and watch the direction of operations (XV.). We
are told in another Dialogue (XVIII.) of a man’s fear to go home to
his wife after too liberal a banquet, and how she would entertain him
with longer homilies than those of St. Chrysostom. When a company of
scholars wish to make a distant excursion, all kinds of horses and
carriages, with their trappings, are presented to the notice of the
reader (IX.).”[6] Then, to show us life under the most favourable of
circumstances, Vives gives a dialogue on the King’s Palace (XIX.).

Whilst the general environments of boys’ lives are thus pourtrayed in
considerable detail, Vives is particularly careful to show boys the
general features and significance of home and school life, and regards
it as part of his duty to expound, in the last two dialogues, some
general guiding principles of education for the boys, their teachers,
and readers of the book to ponder over.


HOME AND SCHOOL LIFE

The first dialogue treats of getting up in the morning. The girl
Beatrice tries to rouse the two boys Emanuel and Eusebius, the latter
of whom makes the excuse, “I seem to have my eyes full of sand,” to
which Beatrice replies, “That is always your morning song.” Then the
boys dress. Beatrice enjoins them, “Kneel down before this image of our
Saviour and say the Lord’s Prayer, etc. Take care, my Emanuel, that you
think of nothing else while you are praying.” The interchange of wit
between the boys and the maid is an interesting picture of child-life.
In the second dialogue, after family morning greetings, which include
playing with the little dog Ruscio, the father teaches his
little boy the difference between the little dog and a little boy.
“What have you,” he asks his child, “in you why you should become a man
and not he?” He suggests to him that the difference really is contained
in the magic word “school.” The boy says: “I will go, father, with all
the pleasure in the world.” Whereupon the boy’s elder sister gets him
his little satchel and puts him up his breakfast (_i.e._, lunch) in
it. The father takes the boy to the school, and (in III.) discusses
with a neighbour the comparative merits of the schoolmasters Varro and
Philoponus. The father is told that Philoponus has the _smaller_ number
of boys, and at once decides: “I should prefer him!” Then as Philoponus
comes into view, he turns to his boy, saying: “Son, this is as it
were the laboratory for the formation of men, and Philoponus is the
artist-educator. Christ be with you, Master! Uncover your head, my boy,
and bow your right knee.... Now stand up!”

  _Philoponus._ May your coming to us be a blessing to all!
  What may be your business?

  _Father._ I bring you this boy of mine for you to make of
  him a man from the beast.

  _Philoponus._ This shall be my earnest endeavour. He
  shall become a man from the beast, a fruitful and good
  creature out of a useless one. Of that have no doubt.

  _Father._ What is the charge for the instruction you give?

  _Philoponus._ If the boy makes good progress it will be
  little; if not, a good deal.

  _Father._ That is acutely and wisely said, as is all you
  say. We share the responsibility then; you to instruct
  zealously, I to recompense your labour richly.

It will thus be seen that the idea of co-operation and consultation
of parents and teachers is no new one.[7] But the enthusiasm of the
parent, depicted by Vives, to recompense the teacher “richly” can
hardly be said to have continued, if it existed in the Tudor age,
outside of Vives’ generous heart.

The next dialogue (IV.) shows how boys loitered on the way to school,
their difference in powers, and in the practice of observations and
the self-training of the senses and wits in the streets, such as made
R. L. Stevenson wonder if the truant from school did not gain more by
his self-chosen though casual wanderings than if he had gone orderly to
school.

An account of actual school-work in the subjects of reading (V.) and
writing (X.) is given, and the _raison d’être_ of school instruction
in these subjects suggested. The boys go home (VI.) and a most
pleasing picture is given of home-life, with the mother, the boys, the
girls, and the serving maiden, introducing children’s games and the
interference of meals with games.

Dialogue VII. deals with school-meals, and we plunge at once right
into the heart of school interests and life. The sort of foods and
drinks, the different kinds of banquets and feastings, mentioned in
older writers, the preparation of the table, moderation in eating and
drinking, the necessity of cleanliness in all the stages of a meal,
including washing up, become topics of the dialogue as it proceeds.
Then comes the fitting device of introducing a guest to the boys’
table, of another boy, a Fleming from Bruges. He is asked if he
has brought his knife. He has not. “This is a wonder!” exclaims an
interlocutor. “A Fleming without a knife, and he too a Brugensian,
where the best knives are made!” The conversation proceeds _in Latin_,
since boys were required to speak _in and out_ of school in Latin, at
least in all self-respecting establishments.

The Brugensian boy has been under John Theodore Nervius, and this
becomes the occasion for a compliment to that schoolmaster. Bruges,
too, we have seen, was the town in which Vives himself spent a
considerable portion of his adult life. He does not hesitate to
introduce himself, humorously, into this dialogue on school-boys’ meals.

  _Master._ But what is our Vives doing?

  _Nepotulus._ They say he is in training as an athlete,
  but not by athletics.

  _Master._ What is the meaning of that?

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

  _Master._ With whom?

  _Nepotulus._ With his _gout_.

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

  _Usher._ Nay, rather cruel victor, which fetters the
  whole body!

In this dialogue of school-boy meals, Vives has given samples of
conversational topics, and their due treatment, in the presence of
masters and in regular daily routine. In the next dialogue (VIII.),
called “Pupils’ Chatter,” boys are out of doors, and a series of
nineteen “stories” or topics of conversation get started. The subjects
are of interest in showing the type of incidents which boys were
supposed to introduce into conversation, and though didactic in
tendency, certainly do not favour the supposition that school-boys were
supposed to be absorbed in the study of recondite classical subtleties,
or even in purely Ciceronian subjects.

Dialogue IX., “Journey on Horseback,” contains the record of what
modern educationalists call “the school journey.” The idea of studying
geography and history by taking journeys, in which instruction shall
arise naturally out of the places of interest seen in the course of
the journey, is not a new one, as is often supposed. Vittorino da
Feltre, for instance, used to take his school in the summer months
for excursions from Mantua to Goito. Vives represents his Parisian
pupil as journeying from Paris to Boulogne. The occasion of holiday
for the pupils is that Pandulphus, their teacher, has “incepted” in
the university, and having thus become a “Master of Arts” (with the
right to teach school on his own account), according to university
custom he is performing his duty of giving a great feast to the other
masters in honour of his laurels, and as a matter of fact, as these
boys recognise, is making them drunk. This dialogue of the “Journey on
Horseback” contains a full account of different kinds of locomotion.
It is especially distinguished by the love that is shown for natural
objects of the country, the river, the sweet scent of the fields, the
nightingale, and the goldfinch.

In Dialogue XIII. the school is described. Each type and grade of
scholar is discussed. Vives’ conception of a school was afterwards
followed by Milton. It was an academy, in which the pupil remained from
early years up to and including the university stage. In this dialogue
is the account of a disputation, with description of the _propugnator_
of a thesis, and several types of oppugnators.

Dialogue XIV. describes a scholar burning the midnight oil. Vives
describes the extensive preparations of the scholar for his work of
reading authors. The account is almost a supplement to Erasmus’s famous
picture of the Ciceronian scholar setting himself to his composition.
The dialogue ends with the scholar going to bed whilst one of his
attendants sings to the accompaniment of the lyre the lines of Ovid
beginning: _Somne, quies rerum, placidissime somne deorum_.

It has already been stated that Vives devoted a dialogue to an account
of the King’s Palace. Similarly, in speaking now of Vives’ treatment
of school life, careful notice should be taken of the fact that one
dialogue (XX.) is concerned with the education of the boy-prince.
This dialogue is of especial interest, since the boy-prince is Philip
himself, the son of the Emperor Charles V., the child to whom Vives
dedicates the _Dialogues_. Philip was born at Valladolid, May 21,
1527, and was therefore eleven years of age when Vives completed the
writing of the _Dialogues_ and was twelve years old when they appeared.
It will be remembered that in 1554 Philip came to England to claim as
his bride the English Queen Mary I., the “bloody” Mary, daughter of
Catharine of Aragon, the first queen-consort of Henry VIII., whose
coming to England was probably to some degree the ground of its
attraction to Vives when he paid his first visit to England, in the
autumn of 1522. It is interesting to note that Vives wrote, in 1523, a
short treatise on the education of the Princess Mary, probably at the
request of Queen Catharine of Aragon, and at any rate dedicated to that
ill-fated queen. Vives, thus, is in the remarkable position of having
prescribed, as consultant-educationalist, for the Spanish Philip in one
of his dialogues (in 1538) and for the English Mary in 1523.[8]

In this dialogue, “The Boy Prince,” are the interlocutors, Prince
Philip and the two counsellor-teachers, Morobulus and Sophobulus.
Morobulus is a fawning sycophant, who advises Philip to “ride about,
chat with the daughters of your august mother, dance, learn the art of
bearing arms, play cards or ball, leap and run.” But as for the study
of literature, why, that is for men of “holy” affairs, priests or
artisans, who want technical knowledge. Get plenty of fresh air. Philip
replies that he cannot follow all this advice without opposing his
tutors, Stunica and Siliceus. Morobulus points out that these tutors
are subjects of Philip, or at any rate of Philip’s father. Philip
observes that his father has placed them over him. Morobulus advises
resistance to them. Sophobulus urges, on the contrary, that if Philip
does not obey them, he will become a “slave of the worst order, worse
than those who are bought and sold from Ethiopia or Africa and employed
by us here.”[9]

Sophobulus then shows, by three similitudes, that safety in actions
and in the events of life depends upon knowledge and study. First, he
proposes a game in which one is elected king. “The rest are to obey
according to the rules of the game.” Let Philip be king. But Philip
inquires as to the nature of the game. If he does not know the game, he
inquires, how can he take the part of king in it?

Secondly, Philip is invited to ride the ferocious Neapolitan steed,
well known for its kicking proclivities. Eleven-year-old Philip
declines, because he has not as yet learned the art of managing a
refractory horse, and has not got the strength to master such a horse.

Thirdly, Philip is offered, and declines, the rôle of pilot of a boat,
which has lately been overturned by an unskilled helmsman.

The young prince is thus led to recognise that for playing games
rightly, for riding properly, for directing a boat safely, in all these
cases adequate knowledge and skill is necessary. He himself is led to
suggest (in true pedagogical method) that for governing his kingdom
it will be necessary for him to acquire the knowledge of the art and
skill of sound government, and that this knowledge can only be gained
by assiduous study and learning. Sophobulus leads the young prince,
further, to the recognition that helpful wisdom can be learned from
“monitors” like Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca, Livy, Plutarch.
Philip asks: “How can we learn from the dead? Can the dead speak?”
“Yes,” is the reply. “These very men and others like them, departed
from this earth, will talk to you as often and as much as you like.”

Surely Vives has chosen an attractive and reasonable way of presenting
the significance of literature to the child. He uses a further
illustration in urging the study of the words and writings of wise
men. “Imagine that over the river yonder there was a narrow plank as
bridge, and that every one told you that as many as rode on horseback
and attempted thus to cross it had fallen into the water, and were in
danger of their lives, and, moreover, with difficulty they had been
dragged out half dead.... Would not, in such a case, a man seem to you
to be demented, who, taking that journey, did not get off from his
horse and escape from the danger in which the others had fallen?”

  _Philip._ To be sure he would.

  _Sophobulus._ And rightly. Seek now from old men, as to
  what chiefly they have felt unfortunate in this life,
  what negligence in themselves they most bitterly regret.
  All will answer with one voice, so far as they have
  learned anything, their regret is “not to have learned
  more.”

In two points the young Prince Philip seems to have risen to meet
Vives’ hopes. When Philip came to England in 1554 and married Queen
Mary, he is reported to have announced that he wished to live like
an Englishman. He asked for beer at a public dinner, and “gravely
commended it as the wine of the country.” He evidently had acquired
courteous bearing. Still more clearly, in accordance with the wishes
expressed in the Dedication, is the statement of the fact that Philip
addressed in Latin a deputation of the council which he received
at Southampton, on landing, and further that it was decided that
reports of proceedings of the council should be made in Latin or
Spanish. Whether Philip had learned to speak Latin from Vives’ _School
Dialogues_ is not recorded, but it is not unlikely.

The Dedication of the _Dialogues_ shows how earnestly Vives had
sought to influence Prince Philip. The last two dialogues (XXIV. and
XXV.) endeavour to lay down sound principles of education. The boys
(and Prince Philip amongst them) who had read through the preceding
dialogues were not to be dismissed until Vives had declared to them
the whole gospel of education, as he conceived it. Learning Latin,
even to speak it eloquently and to write it accurately, is not of
itself education; even to read the sayings and writings of the wise and
experienced dead, and to listen to the exhortations and suggestions
of the noblest and most learned of living men, is not necessarily the
essence of education. The underlying impulse of the student, the roots
of his will, must be taken into account. Education is not the adornment
of mental distinctions for the sake of popularity or reputation. It is
not the acquisition of an additional charm to a particular grade of
nobility. It is no artificial appanage. It is not a class distinction.
The real argument for education is that it makes a man a _better_ man.
If you use the word better it implies the _good_. Vives shows “the
good” does not consist in riches, honours, position, or in learning
merely, but in a keen intellect, wise mature judgment, religion, piety
towards God, and in performance of duties towards one’s country,
one’s dependants, one’s parents, and in the cultivation of justice,
temperance, liberality, magnanimity, equability of mind in calamity and
brave bearing in adversity. It is in the acquisition of these qualities
(for which learning is of high service) that we get “real, solid,
noble education.” Such training to the man of court-life will bring
“true urbanity,” and make him “pleasing and dear to all. But even this
thou wilt not set at high value, but wilt have as sole care—to become
acceptable to the Eternal God.”


SUBJECT-MATTER AND STYLE

In studying a work like the _School-boy Dialogues_ of Juan Luis
Vives the modern reader is likely to be attracted much more by the
subject-matter than by the literary style of the author. Were the
chief interest in Vives’ style, it would be difficult to plead any
justification for presenting an English translation. But the fact is
that these _School Dialogues_, in the course of time, have become, as
it were, historical documents, serving a purpose which was certainly
far from being present in the mind of the author. Vives, no doubt,
wished his book to be regarded as good and pure Latinity, and would
have been hurt to the quick if he had been charged with the barbarisms
and inaccuracies which it was the very object of the book to supplant.
But as for the subject-matter, he wanted it to contain the Latin
expressions for all sorts of common _things_ which entered into the
notice of, and required mention from, the young student of Latin. Vives
is thus the forerunner of Comenius, and when he treats of subjects
such as clothes, the kitchen, the bed-chamber, dining-room, papers and
books, the exterior of the body of man, and supplies the Latin for
all the terms used in connection with these subjects, he is exactly
on Comenius’s ground in the _Janua Linguarum_ and the _Orbis Pictus_.
But Vives is to be distinguished in two ways from Comenius:—(1) he is
constantly in touch with the real interests of boys; (2) he is greatly
concerned as to his methods of expression.

It is partly because Vives’ _Dialogues_ are intrinsically attractive
that we are content to believe they are a true picture of boys’
manners, habits, and life in the Tudor period. By their realistic
sincerity the dialogues bring with them their own evidence of
unconscious reality. But further evidence is to be found in the great
success and popularity of the dialogues. For had the details been
inaccurate and _invraisemblables_, and had there been a wrong emphasis
of educational spirit, it is not likely that the book would have
had its extensive vogue. It must be remembered that there were many
competing collections of dialogues. Vives’ _Dialogues_ may therefore
be regarded as being amongst the survivals of the fittest. Probably
the Latin dialogues for schools which have actually had the widest
circulation are those of Erasmus, Maturinus Corderius, and Sébastien
Castellion. Of these undoubtedly the dialogues of Vives (1538) and of
Corderius (whose dialogues were first published in 1564) throw the most
light upon the school-life of boys and the conditions of the schools.

An amiable feature of the _School Dialogues_ of Vives is the
introduction, not uncommon in school dialogue-books, of well-known
persons, ancient and contemporary, amongst the interlocutors. In this
way Vives brings before the boys people like Prince Philip, Vitruvius,
Joannes Jocundus Veronensis, and Baptista Albertus Leo, all famous
architects (Vitruvius being an author of antiquity, the other two
nearer Vives’ time), Pliny, Epictetus, Celsus, Dydimus, Aristippus,
Scopas, Polaemon, and personal friends like Valdaura (one of the
Bruges family into which Vives married), Honoratus Joannius, Gonzalus
Tamayus; the painter Albert Dürer, the scholar Simon Grynaeus, and the
poet Caspar Velius, and the great Greek scholar and educationalist
Budaeus. Vives delights in devoting one of the dialogues to describe
his native town Valencia, and in introducing local references of
persons and places there. He also (in Dialogue X.) refers to Antonius
Nebrissensis, the first to use Spanish vernacular in connection with
Latin text-books. His references to schoolmasters are very numerous,
and include many types. They are probably founded upon teachers known
to him.

One point further should be mentioned. Vives wishes to supply details
in the richest profusion in his various subjects, if for no other
reason at least so as to increase the vocabulary of the pupils.
Accordingly for his subject-matter he quotes and borrows from many of
the old writers. J. T. Freigius, in his Nürnberg edition of 1582, not
only names the various ancient authors on technical subjects whom Vives
has consulted, but also suggests further reading of authors, whom he
might with advantage have also quoted. Looking on the _Dialogues_ as
a whole, it is remarkable that so many interests were conciliated,
as if by instinct—_e.g._, the schoolboy, the schoolmaster, the
general reader, even in some cases the readers desirous of technical
instruction. But the unifying factor was the desire of all those and
others to learn to speak Latin, and to know the Latin terms for all
useful objects.


POPULARITY

J. T. Freigius, in the preface to his edition of 1582, tells us that
the dialogues of Vives were read in his time “in well-nigh every
school.” Bömer quotes orders for the government of ten grammar schools
in Germany, between 1564 and 1661, in which the dialogues of Vives were
prescribed. In England they were required to be read at Eton College in
1561, at Westminster School about 1621, at Shrewsbury School 1562–1562,
at Rivington Grammar School 1564, and Hertford Grammar School 1614.
These ascertained and official instances are probably typical of very
many others, both in England and abroad, of which the traces are lost.


THE GREEK WORDS IN VIVES’ DIALOGUES

One of the criticisms frequently urged against Vives is that he used
Latinised Graecisms very frequently. It is not improbable that this
very fact helped to secure the success of the book, for though there
was by 1538 considerable enthusiasm in the aspiration of learning
Greek, there was little knowledge of that language as yet even amongst
the learned. To know even a small vocabulary of Greek words was a
distinction, and to have such knowledge whilst learning to speak Latin
was the basis for acquiring at least a smattering of Greek knowledge
later on. Sir Thomas Elyot in his _Gouvernour_ (1531) wishes the
child “to learn Greek and Latin authors at the same time, or else
to begin with Greek. If a child do begin therein at seven years of
age, he may continually learn Greek authors three years, and in the
meantime use the Latin as a familiar language.” It was, no doubt, the
desire of Vives, as of Sir Thomas Elyot, that children should learn
as much as possible of Greek at the same time as Latin, and although
the introduction of Greek words into the dialogues would not help the
systematic study of Greek, it helped to create the atmosphere into
which the study of Greek would find its place naturally enough in time.

The introduction of Greek words and phrases by Vives into his _School
Dialogues_ did not at any rate prevent the book from being in great
demand, whilst the acknowledged difficulty of school teachers in
translating the Greek terms brought about a series of expositions and
commentaries on the _School Dialogues_ that almost raised the book to
the dignity of an ancient classical work. Issued first in 1538, in 1548
an edition was produced at Lyons with a commentary by Peter Motta and
a Latin-Spanish index by Joannes Ramirus. In 1552, at Antwerp, Peter
Motta’s interpretation of Greek words, together with the old and
somewhat obscure points in Vives, was supplemented by an alphabetical
index of the more difficult words rendered into Spanish, French, and
German. In 1553 Aegidius de Housteville published at Paris an edition,
especially prepared for French boys, which gave the French for all
difficult Latin words and included the commentary of Peter Motta.


EUPHROSYNUS LAPINIUS

In 1568 was published by Euphrosynus Lapinius at the Junta Press
in Florence, an edition of Vives’ _School Dialogues_. This also
included the commentary of Peter Motta and, in addition, an index of
certain words in Vives’ _Dialogues_, with a translation of them into
Etruscan.[10]

Vives’ _School Dialogues_, we have seen, had a circulation, with
vernacular vocabulary, in Spain, France, Germany, Italy (there does
not seem to have been any edition with an English vocabulary). The
inclusion of the Greek words, it is not unreasonable to suppose, met a
need amongst learned schoolmasters, and since sufficient translations
of the hard words, both Greek and Latin, were forthcoming, the book
was made available even in those cases where schoolmasters had not
sufficient knowledge to translate all the passages in which the pupils
might stick.


STYLE

Erasmus in his _Ciceronianus_ thus describes the style of Vives: “I
find lacking in Vives neither innate power, nor erudition, nor power of
memory. He is well provided with luxuriance of expression even when, in
the beginning of a work, he is a little hard; day by day his eloquence
matures more and more as he proceeds.... Daily he overcomes himself,
and his genius is versatile enough for anything. Yet sometimes he has
not achieved some portion of the Ciceronian virtues, especially in the
direction of charm and mildness of expression.” (Quoted by Namèche,
_Mémoire sur la vie et les écrits de J. L. Vives_.)


CHARACTERISTICS OF VIVES AS A WRITER OF DIALOGUES

Vives’ characteristics have been well described by Bömer, who says: “In
the dialogues of Vives we constantly have the pleasure of listening to
conversations rich in thought, made spicy at the right moments with
pointed wit, so that we are obliged to make an effort to understand the
separate words.” It may be added that Vives is always desirous to help
forward the cause of learning, yet, on occasion, he can detach himself
from his learning and become a boy among boys. He has a strong sense of
humour. He can tell a joke against himself, as for instance about his
gout,[11] or again about his singing.[12]


VIVES AS A PRECURSOR OF THE DRAMA

It might, with some ground, be urged that Vives and other writers of
school dialogues are the precursors of the drama. For not only are
there touches of wit and humour in the conversations, but there is a
considerable amount of characterisation in the interlocutors. The right
person says and does the right thing, and situations are sometimes
hit off exquisitely with an epithet. It is clear that a training
in following the school dialogues in the generation preceding the
Elizabethan dramatists may have had a distinctly preparative place in
rendering the dialogue of the drama more familiar and attractive as a
literary method. For a preparation in the power of audiences following
the dialogues of the Elizabethan drama may be regarded as requiring an
explanation, when we remember that the interest in and concentration on
the dialogue was more urgent than now, owing to the absence of scenery
and the other visual effects to which we are accustomed. The element in
the drama which is conspicuous by its absence in the school dialogues
is the plot. Yet in the school dialogue there is a definite method
of construction observed. In the old methods of Latin composition,
wherever there is a thesis, the writer must have regard to the sequence
of the introduction, the narration, the confirmation, confutation, and
the conclusion.

With regard to the school training towards the appreciation of the
drama in the Tudor age, it must be remembered that the school-play
was a recognised institution, especially the acting of the old plays
of Terence, Plautus, and eventually of Greek tragedies. The school
dialogue, it should be noted, was one of the earliest of school
text-books, and its object, as already stated, was to train the child
in readiness of expression in _the speaking_ of Latin. The study of
rhetoric followed, and this included not only the study of apt figures
of speech in Latin conversation, but also the accompaniment of right
gestures of the face, hands, and body. Hence it will be seen that the
grammar schools of the early part of the sixteenth century paved the
way for an intelligent appreciation of the Elizabethan drama. For the
drama not only requires writers; to some extent an intelligent response
is necessary in the spectators, at any rate when the plays involve
the intellectual elements characteristic of the later part of the
sixteenth-century drama in England.


SOME EDUCATIONAL ASPECTS OF VIVES’ DIALOGUES

It is remarkable that an elementary text-book for teaching boys to
speak Latin should raise so many fundamental questions in the theory of
education. But any presentation of the _Dialogues_ of Vives would seem
to be incomplete which left unconsidered such points as Vives’ _idea
of the school_, _of the school-games_, _of nature study_, _of the use
of the vernacular in the school_, and Vives’ _view of the relation of
religion and education_.


VIVES’ IDEA OF THE SCHOOL

We learn from another book of Vives, the _De Tradendis Disciplinis_
(1531), that the “true academy,” as he calls his ideal school, is
“the association together and fellow sympathy of men equally good and
learned, who have come together themselves for the sake of learning,
and to render the same blessing to others.” Vives suggests that to
such a “school” not only should boys go, but also men. He suggests
that “even old men, driven hither and thither in a great tempest of
ignorance and vice, should betake themselves to the academy as it were
to a haven. In short, let all be attracted by a certain majesty and
authority.” Further, Vives informs us that in this academy it would
certainly be best to place boys there from their infancy, “where they
may from the first imbibe the best morals, and evil behaviour will be
to them new and detestable.” We thus see that “the academy” combines
our so-called elementary, secondary, and university education. The
idea of the continuity of education is thus firmly conceived by Vives,
and, in addition, the action and reaction of different ages of the
individual scholars of the academy on one another. Nowadays, we realise
that the association together of those with the same limitations,
_e.g._, orphans, the blind, the deaf, may be a necessary evil, but that
every progressive educational effort should be made to help all those
who suffer from such limitations to become capable of taking their
places amongst the normal pupils. But Vives goes much further; with
him, it is a defect in education to isolate the young from the old, the
old from the young. If all be bent on learning and scholarship, the
differences of age disappear as clearly as the differences of rank and
wealth.

It is necessary to bear in mind this conception of the academy in
reading the school dialogues, for we have in them little children
learning their alphabet[13] and the elements of reading[14] and
writing,[15] and we have also the youths (at our undergraduate stage)
going on their academic journey on horseback from Paris to Boulogne.
This reminds us of Milton’s sallying forth of students “at the vernal
seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, and it were an
injury and sullenness against nature not to go out and see her riches
and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.”

And we have the student of mature age, in his dressing-gown, at
midnight, pursuing his classical meditations. Thus infancy, youth,
manhood, all stages, come into the conception of education. Education
is a continuous process lasting throughout life, and for Vives the
educational institution of “schools” should embody and make facilities
for the achievement of that idea. In passing, it should be remarked
that John Milton, in his _Tractate of Education_ (1644), and John
Dury (1650), in his _Reformed School_, advocate what we may call the
Vives-Academy view of school![16] It must occur to every reader of
Vives’ _De Tradendis Disciplinis_ as highly probable that Milton’s
hurriedly dashed-off and eloquent tractate was written after a fairly
recent perusal of Vives’ book.


GAMES

The treatises on education in Tudor times have scarcely been surpassed
by any later works in their treatment of physical education and
advocacy of games. Particularly is this so in England, for in that
period were published Sir Thomas Elyot’s _Gouvernour_ (1531), Roger
Ascham’s _Toxophilus_ (1545), and Richard Mulcaster’s _Positions_
(1581). But outstanding in their importance as these works were,
Vives in his _School Dialogues_ makes an interesting supplementary
contribution.

Vives shows the value of “play” as an underlying spirit of school work,
for the school is a form of “ludus” or play.[17] The little child,
Corneliola, learns the alphabet “playing,” as indeed children had
done at any rate from the days of Quintilian. Indeed, one of the most
charming pictures of children provided by Vives is in Dialogue VI.,
which describes the mother, the boys Tulliolus, Lentulus, Scipio, and
the little girl Corneliola, on the return from school of the boys, as
they engage in children’s play and discussion of it. The games named
in that dialogue are the games of “nuts,” “odd and even,” dice-play,
draughts, and playing cards. Vives passes over the question of the
moral obliquity of dice-playing and card-playing, though much was said
in the Tudor period with regard to them.[18]

Vives represents the school-boys playing dice and cards for counters,
and in the case of the cards for money. But substantially he gives the
picture of the play without combining a sermon. In passing, perhaps it
is permissible to call attention to the pun in Dialogue XXI., where the
Latin word _charta_ is taken up ambiguously in the meaning of “map” as
well as of “card.” The discovery of America in 1492 was comparatively
recent in 1539, and much interest was felt in geographical questions.
It is a great mistake to suppose that the classical scholars like Vives
were so wrapt up in meditations on antiquity that they did not realise
the significance of contemporary events, and that educationalists were
not eager to turn current incidents to use in the class-room.[19]
An interesting example of the fascination of Vives in geographical
discoveries is to be found in the dedication of the _De Tradendis
Disciplinis_ to the renowned King John III., King of Portugal, in
which he relates the splendid deeds of the Portuguese in travel
and discovery, which bring glory to descendants and the obligation
to live up to their standard of achievement. In Dialogue XII., in
the description of the entrance-hall of a house, a map is referred
to in which “you have the world newly discovered by the Spanish
navigations.”[20]

But educationally more important than any description of the games of
the period described by Vives is the statement made by him of the
laws which should regulate all play. The account is given in Dialogue
XXII. Vives describes his native city of Valencia by sending three
characters, Borgia, Scintilla, Cabanillius, on a promenade through the
streets. They come to a public tennis-court, where the game of tennis
is described. They proceed to the Town Court of Justice, whereupon
one of the characters, Scintilla, is requested to state the laws of
play which he has previously mentioned a teacher, by name Anneus, had
written on a tablet which he had hung in his bed-chamber.

The six laws of play according to Anneus are:—

1. _Quando Ludendum?_ The Time of Playing.—This should be when the mind
or body has become wearied. Games are to refresh the mind and body, not
for frivolity.

2. _Cum Quibus Ludendum?_ Our Companions in Play.—These should be those
who bring to the game no other purpose than your own, viz., that of
thorough rest from labour and freedom from mental strain.

3. _Quo Ludo?_ The Sort of Game.—It must be known well by all the
players. It must serve for both bodily and mental recreation. It must
not be merely a game of hazard.

4. _Qua Sponsione?_ As to Stakes.—Small stakes are justifiable if they
increase interest in exercise without producing excitement or anxiety
of mind. Big stakes do not make a game; they introduce the rack.

5. _Quemadmodum?_ The Manner of Play.—Win and lose with absolute
equanimity. No game should serve to rouse anger. No oaths, swearing,
deceit, sordidness.

6. _Quamdiu Ludendum?_ Length of Play.—Until one is refreshed and the
hour of serious business calls.


NATURE STUDY

It has already been mentioned that Vives supplies a dialogue describing
an academic journey.[21] Two of the characters thus discourse:—

  _Misippus._ 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!

  _Philippus._ How placidly the Seine flows in its
  current.... Oh, how the meadow is clothed with a magic
  art.

  _Missippus._ And by what a marvellous Artist!

  _Philippus._ What a sweet scent is exhaled.... Please
  sing some verses as you are wont to do.

Then Vives introduces some lines by Angelus Politian praising the
joy of peaceful, silent days which pass by without the agitation of
ambition and the allurement of luxury, with blamelessness, though we
work as with the labour of the poor man. Again[22]:—

  _Bambalio._ Listen, there is the nightingale!

  _Graculus._ Where is she?

  _Bambalio._ Don’t you see her there, sitting on that
  branch? Listen how ardently she sings, nor does she leave
  off.

  _Nugo._ (As Martial says) _Flet philomela nefas_. (The
  nightingale bemoans any injustice.)

  _Graculus._ 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 their rhythm.

Then Nugo tells the story of the nightingale and cuckoo.[23] One more
instance. Several boys are out for a morning walk:—

  _Malvenda._ Don’t let us take our walk as if in a rush,
  but slowly and gently....

  _Joannius_ [_after contemplating the view_]. 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?... 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....
  In very fact, you have, as it were, the whole study and
  school of music in the nightingale. Her little ones
  ponder and listen to the notes which they imitate. The
  tiny disciple listens with keen intentness (would that
  our teachers received like attention!) and gives back the
  sound.... Add to this there is a sweet scent breathing in
  from every side, from the meadows, from the crops, from
  the trees, even from the fallow-land and neglected fields.


WINE-DRINKING AND WATER-DRINKING

There can be little doubt even from the descriptions of feasts in the
_School Dialogues_ of Vives, as well as of Mosellanus and Erasmus,
that drunkenness was not uncommon even amongst teachers in the Tudor
period.[24] Vives distinguished himself by boldly advocating the claims
of water against those of wines and beer. In Dialogue XI., “Getting
dressed and a Morning Constitutional,” we read [speaking of the food
for breakfast, after the walk]:—

  _Malvenda._ Shall we have wine to drink?

  _Bellinus._ 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.

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

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

J. T. Freigius, who is always ready to supply what Vives omits, gives
in his commentary the reasons for Vives. The Greek well is the well
close to the gate, because the Greek language is closer to the sources
of language; the “Latin” well, for similar reasons, is further off from
the gate.

In Dialogue XVII., called “The Banquet,” we read:—

  _Scopas._ Don’t give one too much water (_i.e._ in his
  wine). Don’t you know the old proverb, “You spoil wine,
  when you pour water into it”?

  _Democritus._ Yes, then you spoil both the water and the
  wine.

  _Polaemon._ I would rather spoil them both than be
  spoiled by one of them.

But it is in Dialogue XVIII, on “Drunkenness,” that Vives specially
launches his thunderbolts against excessive drinking. With the
institution of lessons on temperance in schools under some Local
Education Authorities in England, we have a return to the methods
of Vives. For in the school dialogue referred to we have the matter
put very strongly, and probably Vives’ statements would not prove
unacceptable to modern teachers of this recently re-introduced
subject. After describing the moral effects of drunkenness, one of the
characters says: “Who would not prefer to be shut up at home with a dog
or a cat than with a drunkard? For those animals have more intellect in
them than the drunkard.” Another character remarks: “When you drink,
you treat wine as you like. When you have drunk, it will treat you as
it likes.”


THE VERNACULAR

It is surprising to find that though Vives, in 1538, produced his
_School Dialogues_ for the purpose of teaching children to _speak_
Latin, and though he regarded early and thorough acquaintance with
Latin, both for purposes of speaking and writing, as the very mark
and seal of a well-educated man, there was no learned man of his
age who went so far in advocacy of the importance of the teaching
in the vernacular of the pupil at a still younger age. As this
constitutes one of the grounds upon which the pre-eminence of Vives
as an educationalist would be rested, as for instance in comparison
with Erasmus, it may not be altogether irrelevant to quote here the
translation of a passage from the _De Tradendis Disciplinis_ explaining
Vives’ views on this subject.

“The scholars should first speak in their homes their mother tongue,
which is born with them, and the teacher should correct their mistakes.
Then they should, little by little, learn Latin. Next let them
intermingle with the vernacular what they have heard in Latin from
their teacher, or what they themselves have learned. Thus, at first,
their language should be a mixture of the mother-tongue and Latin.
But outside the school they should speak the mother-tongue so that
they should not become accustomed to a hotch-potch of languages....
Gradually the development advances and the scholars become Latinists
in the narrower sense. Now must they seek to express their thoughts
in Latin, for nothing serves so much to the learning of a language
as continuous practice in it. He who is ashamed to speak a language
has no talent for it. He who refuses to speak Latin after he has been
learning it for a year must be punished according to his age and
circumstances.”[25]

So much for the pupil’s knowledge of the vernacular. Still more
emphatically Vives speaks with regard to the necessity of a thorough
knowledge of the vernacular by the _teacher_.

“Let the teacher know the mother-tongue of his boys, so that by this
means, with the more ease and readiness, he may teach the learned
languages. For unless he makes use of the right and proper expressions
in the mother-tongue, he will certainly mislead the boys, and the
error thus imbibed will accompany them persistently as they grow up
and become men. How can boys understand anything sufficiently well in
their own language unless the words are said with the utmost clearness.
Let the teacher preserve in his memory all the old forms of vernacular
words, and let him develop the knowledge not only of modern forms, but
also of the old words and those which have gone out of use, and let him
be as it were the guardian of the treasury of his language.”[26]


THE EDUCATIONAL IDEAL OF VIVES

It has been usual to enter to the credit of the Protestantism of
John Sturm and Maturinus Corderius the educational ideal of _pietas
literata_. No doubt the seventeenth-century Huguenots of France and the
Puritans of England were distinguished by this double educational aim
of piety and culture. But it was characteristic also of the earlier
Catholic world of Erasmus and of Vives. Rising above the ordinary level
of the scholars of the Italian Renascence, Erasmus and Vives had higher
sympathy and delight in children. Erasmus dedicated his _Colloquia_ or
Dialogues (in 1524) to the little child John Erasmius Froben, the son
of the renowned publisher Froben of Basle. “You have arrived,” he says,
“at an age than which none happier occurs in the course of life for
imbibing the seeds of literature and of piety.... The Lord Jesus keep
the present season of your life pure from all pollutions, and ever lead
you on to better things.”

So, too, in 1538, Juan Luis Vives dedicated his _School Dialogues_ to a
child, the eleven-years-old boy—Prince Philip.

Both Erasmus and Vives believed in early training in religious
instruction. Vives writes as follows on religious education: “Who is
there who has considered the power and loftiness of the mind, its
understanding of the most remarkable things, and through understanding
love of them, and from love the desire to unite himself with them, who
does not perceive clearly that man was formed, not for food, clothing,
and habitation, not for difficult, secret, and vexatious knowledge,
but to develop the desire to know God more truly, to participate in
His Divine Nature and His Eternity?... Since piety is the only way of
perfecting man, and accomplishing the end for which he was formed,
therefore piety is of all things the one thing necessary. Without the
others man can be perfected and complete; without this, he cannot but
be most miserable.”[27]

In one passage Vives remarks that the strength of religion is
developed by its exercise rather than by any theoretical knowledge.
For this reason, when meals are described in the _School Dialogues_,
we find some form of grace, before and after the meal, duly said.
The tone of the _Dialogues_ is reverential. A. J. Namèche says[28]
that in the _Dialogues_ “Vives brings a sense of decency, respect for
morals, the fear so laudable of doing any violence to the innocence
of young people. We know well enough that Erasmus is far from being
irreproachable in this respect, and that his language is free sometimes
even to the extent of cynicism.” Without wishing to follow Namèche
in the comparison of the moral aspects of Erasmus and Vives in their
dialogues, a claim may be made for both that they were eager advocates
in the joining of piety with culture, and that both Erasmus and Vives,
each in his own way, did valiant work in endeavouring to raise the
standard of manners and morals as well as to promote piety in young and
old.

There can, however, be no doubt that Vives deserved the high reputation
which he received of reverence for the morals of youth. Peter Motta
is full of enthusiasm for Vives in this respect. In the Preface to his
_Commentary on Vives’ School Dialogues_, Motta says: “By reading other
books such as those of Terence and Plautus, you can undoubtedly get
extracts which show the fruit of eloquence. But who can avoid seeing
that in them you will find incitements to vices, and stumbling blocks
to morals? Now, in our author Vives, you will find little flowers of
Latin elegance which he has brought together from various most renowned
authors, whilst there is nothing in his work which does not seem to
suggest even the Christ, or at least the highest morality and sound
education.” This may be regarded as the exaggerated language of an
admirer, but the reverential tone of Vives is clear enough, reminding
one of Vittorino da Feltre, of whom it was said that he went to his
teacher’s desk each day as if to an altar.


VIVES’ LAST DIALOGUE: THE PRECEPTS OF EDUCATION

Vives lays down twenty-four Precepts of Education. Some critics have
thought such precepts out of place in a book written for boys. But
Vives has done all he could to interest boys on their own level. He has
always retained the boy in himself, and has spoken from the fulness of
his heart, as a boy, in the dialogues. And as he parts company with
boys in these dialogues, he wishes, as all true, older human beings
must wish, for once at least to give of his best to the young. He will
give back to the boys who have followed him through the _Dialogues_ (as
a teacher who is a “good sort”) a full reward for their trouble. He
will pay them the compliment of treating them seriously.

This seems a right instinct. It is not priggish (as some seem to think)
to give of a man’s best to a boy or to boys at the right moment. When
once a boy is sure there is “the boy” in any man he knows, there is no
_camaraderie_ he delights in such as that which allows him to see a
little of the man,—to jump, so to say, on the man’s mental shoulders to
catch a better glimpse of the far distance.

When John Thomas Freigius—grown up into the classical scholar—looks
back, in his Preface to his edition of Vives’ _School Dialogues_, he
says: “As a boy, I so loved Luis Vives that not even now do I feel
my old love for him has faded away from my mind.” Perhaps the last
dialogue, with its twenty-four precepts, did not cause the love of
Freigius for Vives, but the love being there, it continued in spite of
having to read the precepts. Anyway, Vives, who had turned aside from
the weighty problems of learning and literature, where he belonged to
the great triumvirate of writers of his day—enthroned by contemporary
judges by the side of the great Erasmus and the great Budaeus—stated
the precepts which, in his view, should guide, not only his book of
dialogues and the schools, but all stages of culture. Boys brought up
on these precepts, and retaining them as principles of education in
their later life, might perhaps have cheered the heart of Vives by
showing that he had abstained from his higher studies to some purpose
when he wrote his _School Dialogues_.

At any rate, for the modern reader, there is the satisfaction of
knowing, when he reads the _School Dialogues_ of Vives, that he is
reading a work which won the approval of children. With all our modern
advance, of which of the writers of our text-books to-day would
present-day children say as much as was said of this sixteenth-century
scholar, who merely wrote a text-book to help boys of the Tudor Age to
_speak Latin_!—“As a boy I so loved Luis Vives that not even now do I
feel my old love for him has faded away from my mind.”


NOTE

  The short summaries or headings to each dialogue in
  the text are translations from the edition of Vives’
  _Dialogues_ by John Thomas Freigius, published at
  Nürnberg, 1582. After each dialogue Freigius provides a
  commentary, by far the most complete of any commentator
  on Vives’ book, giving illustrative quotations and notes
  on obscure points, and giving references to the ancient
  sources from which technical expressions were taken by
  Vives. The headings of the sub-sections of each dialogue
  as given in the present translation are taken from
  Freigius. They are not a part of the original text of
  Vives.

  The above is the most scholarly and thorough edition of
  the _Dialogues_, but it may be noted that Dr. Bömer[29]
  has distinguished over _one hundred_ editions of the
  book, showing its popularity not only in the sixteenth
  century but its continued interest in still later
  generations of the study of Latin speech.


TUDOR SCHOOL-BOY LIFE




I

SURRECTIO MATUTINA—_Getting up in the Morning_


BEATRIX PUELLA, EMANUEL, EUSEBIUS

Dialogue (Latin—_colloquium_, _collocutio_, _sermo_) is so called from
διαλέγεως, in which sort of composition Plato was the first to delight.
In this first dialogue or discourse (_sermone_) there are laid down
five duties, which should be performed carefully in the morning by
youths and boys, viz. to rise betimes (because early morning is the
friend to studies), to dress, to comb the hair, to wash, to pray.

  _Beat._ May Jesus Christ awake you from the sleep of all
  vice. O you boys, are you ever going to wake up to-day?

  _Euseb._ I don’t know what has fallen on my eyes. I seem
  to have them full of sand.


I. _Getting Up_

  _Beat._ That is always your morning song—quite an old
  one. I shall open both the wooden and the glass windows,
  so that the morning shall strike brightly on your eyes
  from both. Get up! Get up!

  _Euseb._ Is it already morning?


II. _Dressing_

  _Beat._ It is nearer mid-day than the dawn. Emanuel, do
  you want another shirt?

  _Eman._ I don’t now need anything. This is clean enough.
  I will take another to-morrow. Please give me my
  stomacher.

  _Beat._ Which? The single thickness or the double
  thickness?

  _Eman._ Which you like. I don’t mind. Give me the single
  thickness so that I may be less heavy for playing ball
  (_pila_) to-day.

  _Beat._ This is always your custom. You think of your
  play before your school-work.

  _Eman._ What do you say, you stupid! When school itself
  is called play (_ludus_).

  _Beat._ I don’t understand your playing with grammar and
  logic (_grammaticationes et sophismata_).

  _Eman._ Give me the leathern shoe-straps.

  _Beat._ They are torn to pieces. Take the silken ones as
  your schoolmaster has ordered. What now? Will you have
  the breeches and long stockings as it is summer?

  _Eman._ No, indeed. Give me only the long stockings.
  Please, fasten them for me.

  _Beat._ What! Have you arms of hay or of butter?

  _Eman._ No, indeed. They are sewn together with threads.
  Alas! what straps (_i.e._ points) have you given me,
  without supports and all torn!

  _Beat._ Don’t you remember that yesterday at dice-playing
  you lost the others altogether?

  _Eman._ How do you know?

  _Beat._ I observed you through a chink in the door as you
  were playing with Guzmanulus.

  _Eman._ Oh! I beg that you won’t tell the teacher.

  _Beat._ No, but I will tell him if ever you call me
  “ugly” again, as you are accustomed to do.

  _Eman._ What if I call you greedy?

  _Beat._ Call me what you will, but not ugly.

  _Eman._ Give me my shoes.

  _Beat._ Which? Those with the long straps (_i.e._
  sandals)?

  _Eman._ Those covered against the mud.

  _Beat._ Against the dry mud, which they call dust. But
  thou doest well, for on the open road the strap gets
  broken and the buckle lost.

  _Eman._ Put them on, I beg.

  _Beat._ Do it yourself.

  _Eman._ I cannot bend myself.

  _Beat._ You could easily bend, but your laziness makes
  it difficult, or have you swallowed a sword as the
  mountebank did four days ago? Are you now so delicate?
  What will happen to you as you grow up?

  _Eman._ Tie a double knot—for it is more elegant.

  _Beat._ Certainly not, for then the knot would be
  loosened at that point and the shoe would fall from your
  foot. It is better either to have a double drawing tight
  or one knot and one loop. Take your tunic with long
  sleeves and your woven girdle.

  _Eman._ No, certainly not that, but the leathern hunting
  girdle.

  _Beat._ Your mother forbids that; do you wish to have
  everything according to your own caprice? And yesterday
  you broke the pin of the clasp!

  _Eman._ I could not otherwise unbuckle it. Then give me
  that red one made of linen cloth.


III. _Using the Comb_

  _Beat._ Take it, put your French girdle on. Comb your
  head first with the thinner, then with the thicker teeth,
  place your cap on your head, so as not to throw it to
  the back of your head, as is your custom, or on to your
  forehead down to your eyes.

  _Eman._ Let us at last go out.

  _Beat._ What, without having washed your hands and face!

  _Eman._ With your worrying curiosity you would have
  already plagued a bull to death, let alone a man. You
  think you are clothing not a boy, but a bride.


IV. _Washing_

  _Beat._ Eusebius, bring a wash-basin and a pitcher.
  Raise it to a fair height; let the water drop out rather
  than pour it from the stopple. Wash thoroughly that dirt
  from the joints of the fingers. Cleanse the mouth and
  use water for gargling. Rub the eyelids and eyebrows,
  then the glands of the neck under the ears vigorously.
  Then take a cloth and dry yourself. Immortal God! that
  it should be necessary to admonish you as to all these
  things, one by one, and that you should do nothing of
  your own thought.

  _Eman._ Ah! you are too much of a boss and too rude!


V. _Prayer_

  _Beat._ And you are too shrewd and pretty a boy. Come,
  give me a kiss. Kneel down before this image of our
  Saviour and say the Lord’s Prayer and the other prayers,
  as you are accustomed, before you step out of your
  bedroom. Take care, my Emanuel, that you think of nothing
  else while you are praying. Stay a moment, hang this
  little handkerchief on your girdle, so that you can blow
  and clean your nose.

  _Eman._ Am I now sufficiently prepared, in your opinion?

  _Beat._ You are.

  _Eman._ Then not in my opinion since at last I am in
  yours. I will dare make a wager that I have taken up a
  whole hour in dressing.

  _Beat._ Well, what even if you had taken two? Where would
  you have gone if you hadn’t? What were you going to do? I
  suppose to dig or to plough?

  _Eman._ As if there were a lack of something to do.

  _Beat._ Oh, the great man! so keenly occupied in doing
  nothing.

  _Eman._ Won’t you go away, you girl sophist? Go, or I’ll
  shy this shoe at you or tear the veil off your head.




II

PRIMA SALUTATIO—_Morning Greetings_


PUER, MATER, PATER—Boy, Mother, Father

  In this dialogue there are three parts: the first
  contains the mutual salutations expressed in the morning
  when the little charms of early childhood are skilfully
  displayed. The second part contains the sport of a boy
  with a dog. The third gives a conversation with this boy
  concerning the school, the opportunity for which arises
  from the incident with the little dog.


I. _Morning Salutation_

  _Boy._ Hail, my father! hail, my mother dear (_salve mea
  matercula_)! I wish that this may be a happy day for
  you, my little brothers (_germanuli_). May Christ be
  propitious to you, my little sisters!

  _Father._ My son, may God guard you and lead you to great
  goodness (_ingentes virtutes_).

  _Mother._ May Christ preserve you, my light. What are you
  doing, my darling? How are you? How did you rest last
  night?

  _Boy._ I am very well and slept peacefully.

  _Mother._ Thanks be to Christ! May He grant that this may
  be constantly so!

  _Boy._ In the middle of the night I was roused up with a
  pain in the head.

  _Mother._ It grieves me sorely to hear that (_me
  perditam et miserrimam_)! What do you say? In what part
  of the head?

  _Boy._ In the forehead.

  _Mother._ For how long?

  _Boy._ Scarcely the eighth of an hour. Afterwards I fell
  asleep again, nor did I feel anything further of it.

  _Mother._ Now I breathe again; for you took away my
  breath.


II. _Playing with the Dog_

  _Boy._ All good to you! Little Isabel, prepare my
  breakfast. Ruscio, Ruscio, come here, jolly little dog!
  See how he fawns with his tail and how he raises himself
  on his hind legs. What are you doing? How are you? Hullo,
  you, bring a bit or two of bread which we may give him,
  then you will see some clever sport. Won’t you eat?
  Haven’t you had anything to-day? Clearly there is more
  intelligence in that dog than in that crass mule-driver.


III. _The Father’s Little Talk with his Boy_

  _Father._ My Tulliolus, I should like to have a talk with
  you soon.

  _Boy._ Why, my father? For nothing more delightful could
  happen to me than to listen to you.

  _Father._ Is thy Ruscio here an animal or a man?

  _Boy._ An animal, as I think.

  _Father._ What have you in you, why you should be a man
  and not he? You eat, drink, sleep, walk, run, play. So
  he does all these things also.

  _Boy._ But I am a man.

  _Father._ How do you know this? What have you now, more
  than a dog? But there is this difference that he cannot
  become a man. You can, if you will.

  _Boy._ I beg of you, my father, bring this about as soon
  as possible.

  _Father._ It will be done if you go where animals go, to
  come back men.

  _Boy._ I will go, father, with all the pleasure in the
  world! But where is it?

  _Father._ In the school.

  _Boy._ There is no delay in me for such a great matter.

  _Father._ Nor in me. Isabel, dear, do you hear, give him
  his breakfast in this little satchel.

  _Isabel._ What shall it be?

  _Father._ A piece of bread and butter, and dry figs, or
  pressed, not dried, grapes, as an additional dish—for
  fresh grapes besmear the fingers of boys and they spoil
  their clothes—unless he should prefer a few cherries, or
  golden and long plums. Hang the satchel on his little
  arm, so that it shall not fall off.




III

DEDUCTIO AD LUDUM—_Escorting to School_

PATER, PUER, PROPINQUUS, PHILOPONUS LUDIMAGISTER—Father, Boy, Relative,
Philoponus the Schoolmaster

_Philoponus._—This name, so worthy of a teacher, has been rightly
and wisely bestowed by the author. For the true teacher ought to
be φιλόπονος, that is, φίλος τοῦ πονοῦ, a lover of labour, and by
his diligence and assiduity to give satisfaction to his pupils. But
Philoponus is, moreover, the proper name of the Greek interpreter of
Aristotle.


_Consultation as to a Teacher_

  _Father._ Make the holy sign of the cross.

  _Son._ Lead us ignorant ones, O most wise Jesus Christ,
  Thou most powerful, lead us most weak!

  _Father._ Inform me, I beg, thou who art most versed in
  the study of letters, who in this school is the best
  teacher of boys?

  _Prop._ The most learned is a certain Varro; but the most
  industrious and the most upright is Philoponus, whose
  erudition, moreover, is not to be despised. Varro has
  the best frequented school, and in his house he has a
  numerous flock of boarders. Philoponus does not seem to
  delight in numbers, but is content with fewer boys.

  _Father._ I should prefer him. That must be he walking
  into the hall of the school. Son, this is, as it were,
  the laboratory for the formation of men, and he is the
  artist-educator. Christ be with you, master! Uncover your
  head, my boy, and bow your right knee, as you have been
  taught. Now, stand up!

  _Philoponus._ May your coming be a blessing to us all!
  What may be your business?

  _Father._ I bring you this boy of mine for you to make of
  him a man from the beast.

  _Philoponus._ This shall be my earnest endeavour. He
  shall become a man from a beast, a fruitful and good
  creature out of a useless one. Of that have no doubt.

  _Father._ What is the charge for your instruction?

  _Philoponus._ If the boy makes good progress, it will be
  little; if not, a good deal.

  _Father._ That is acutely and wisely said, as is all you
  say. We share the responsibility then; you, to instruct
  zealously, I to recompense your labour richly.




IV

EUNTES AD LUDUM LITERARIUM—_Going to School_


CIRRATUS, PRAETEXTATUS, TITIVILLITIUM, TERESULA (AN OLD WOMAN, A WOMAN
SELLER OF VEGETABLES)

The names of the interlocutors in this dialogue for the most part
signify something serious and ancient. _Cirrati pueri_ were those boys
who wore their hair curled and crisped. Krausz Haar. For the _cirrus_
is an instrument devised for the curling of hair.

  _Martial_:
            Nec matutini cirrata caterva magistri.

  _Juvenal_:                                  Flavam
            Caesariem et madido torquentem cornua cirro.

  _Persius_, Satyr, i.:
            Ten’ cirratorum centum dictata fuisse
            Pro nihilo pendas?

_Praetextatus puer_ is another way of referring to a noble or
patrician, for his outer garment was bordered with purple, and thus
worn by boys up to fourteen years of age, or as others say, up to
sixteen, when such an one assumed the _toga virilis_ in the Capitol.
_See_ Macrob. lib. i. _Satur._ cap. 6. Budae, in prior. annot. ad l.
fin. De senator. Alexand. lib. 2, cap. 25. Baysius, de re vestiment.
Sigonius, lib. 3, de judic. cap. 19. Papirius, a certain Roman, was
called _praetextatus_ because in the _praetextata_ age he showed the
height of prudence. _See_ Macrob.

_Titivillitium_ formerly was a word declaring nothing certain, but just
an exclamation, indicating extreme uncertainty. The word was used by
Plautus. _See_ Proverb, Titivillitium.

  _Oluscularia_, a woman selling vegetables. Λαχανοπῶλις.

  _Cirr._ Does it seem to you to be time to go to school?

  _Praet._ Certainly, it is time to go.

  _Cirr._ I don’t properly remember the way; I believe we
  have to go through this next street.

  _Praet._ How often have you already been to the school?

  _Cirr._ Three or four times.

  _Praet._ When did you first go?

  _Cirr._ As I think, three or four days ago.

  _Praet._ Well, now; isn’t that enough to enable you to
  know the way?

  _Cirr._ No, not if it were a hundred times of going.

  _Praet._ Why, if I were to go once, never afterwards
  should I miss the way. But you go, against your will, and
  as you go, you stop and play. You don’t look at the way,
  nor at the houses, nor any signs which would show you
  afterwards which way you should turn, or which way you
  should follow. But I observe all these points diligently,
  because I go gladly.

  _Cirr._ This boy lives quite close to the school. Here,
  you, Titivillitium, which is the way to your house?

  _Tit._ What do you want? Do you come from your mother? My
  mother is not at home, nor even my sister. Both have gone
  out to St. Anne’s.

  _Cirr._ What then is to be done?

  _Tit._ Yesterday was dedication festival (_encaenia_).
  Today some woman who sells cheese has invited them to a
  meal at the house called “Thick Milk” (_lac coagulatum_).

  _Cirr._ And why haven’t you gone with them?

  _Tit._ They have left me at home to keep house. They
  have taken my little brother with them, but they have
  promised me that they would bring back something of what
  was left for me in a basket.

  _Cirr._ But why art thou then not remaining at home?

  _Tit._ I shall return immediately, only I will now play
  dice a little with the son of this cobbler. Will you also
  come with us?

  _Cirr._ We will go, please.

  _Praet._ Certainly I shall not do so.

  _Cirr._ Why not?

  _Praet._ We don’t want to get a thrashing.

  _Cirr._ Ah! I had not thought of that.

  _Tit._ You won’t get thrashed.

  _Cirr._ How do you know that?

  _Tit._ Because your master lost his rod (_ferula_) to-day.

  _Cirr._ Eh! by what means did you get to know that?

  _Tit._ To-day we heard him from our house shouting
  out—and it was for his ferula he was seeking.

  _Cirr._ I beg of you, let us play for a short time.

  _Praet._ Play you, if you will; but I shall go on to
  school at once.

  _Cirr._ I beg of you, don’t report me to the master. Say
  that I am kept by my father at home.

  _Praet._ Do you wish me to tell a lie?

  _Cirr._ Why not, for a friend’s sake?

  _Praet._ Because I have heard a preacher in a church
  declare that liars are the sons of the devil, but
  truth-tellers, sons of God.

  _Cirr._ Of the devil, indeed! Get away! By the sign of
  the holy cross, may our God free us from our enemies!

  _Praet._ Thou canst not be freed to play when thou
  oughtest to go and learn.

  _Cirr._ Let us go. Farewell.

  _Tit._ Oh, I say! these boys dare not stay and play a
  moment because otherwise they would get thrashed!

  _Praet._ This boy is a waster and will become a bad man!
  See how has he slipped away from us without our having
  asked him which is the way to the school? Let us call him
  back.

  _Cirr._ Let him go his evil ways. I don’t wish him again
  to invite me to play. We will inquire from this old
  woman. Mother, do you know which is the way to the school
  of Philoponus?

  _Old Woman._ I have lived near this school for six years,
  just opposite to it where my eldest son and two daughters
  were born. You cross this street (the _Villa Rasa_
  Street), then comes a narrow lane, then the _Dominus
  Veteranus_ Street. Hence you turn to the right, then to
  the left, there you must inquire, for the school is not
  far from there.

  _Cirr._ Ah! we cannot remember all that!

  _Old Woman._ My little Teresa, lead these boys to the
  school of Philoponus, for the mother of this one here was
  she who gave us the thread for combing and spinning.

  _Ter._ What in the name of evil have you to do with
  Philoponus? What sort of man is this Philoponus? As if I
  knew him! Do you speak of the man who mends shoes near
  the Green Inn (_cauponam viridem_) or of the herald in
  the Giant Street, who keeps horses on hire?

  _Old Woman._ This I know well, that you never know those
  things which are wanted, but those which have nothing to
  do with the matter in hand. Slowest of girls, Philoponus
  is that old schoolmaster, tall, short-sighted man,
  opposite the house where we used to live.

  _Ter._ Ah! now it comes back to my mind.

  _Old Woman._ In returning, go across the market and buy
  salad, radish, and cherries. Take with you the little
  basket.

  _Cirr._ Lead us also over the vegetable market.

  _Ter._ This way is shorter.

  _Cirr._ We don’t wish to go that way.

  _Ter._ Why so?

  _Cirr._ Because the dog in that street, belonging to the
  baker, bit me once. We would rather go with you to the
  market.

  _Ter._ Returning I will make the journey through the
  market (for we are not far from it) and I will buy what I
  was told to buy, after I have left you at the school.

  _Cirr._ We desire to see how much you give for the
  cherries.

  _Ter._ We buy them at six farthings a pound; but what is
  that to you?

  _Cirr._ Because my sister ordered me this morning to
  inquire. She particularly mentioned there is an old woman
  in the market who sells vegetables. If you buy of her,
  I know that she will sell you at a less price than they
  will elsewhere, and she will give us a few cherries or
  thyrsus of lettuce, for her daughter formerly served my
  mother and sister.

  _Ter._ I hope that this roundabout way may not let you in
  for some lashes.

  _Cirr._ Not at all. For we shall have plenty of time.

  _Ter._ Let us go. I get so little chance of walks,
  wretched that I am, for my time is all taken up sitting
  at home.

  _Praet._ What do you do? Do you merely sit idly at home?

  _Ter._ Idly, indeed! Not at any rate that! I spin, I
  gather (wool) into a ball, wind, weave. Do you think our
  old woman would let me sit idle? She curses feast-days,
  on which there must be a stoppage of work.

  _Praet._ Are not feast-days holy? How can she curse what
  is holy? Does she wish to curse what has been ordained as
  holy?

  _Ter._ Do you think that I have learned geometry that I
  should be able to explain these things to you?

  _Cirr._ What do you mean by geometry?

  _Ter._ I don’t know. We had a neighbour who was called
  Geometria. She was always either in church with priests,
  or the priests were with her at her house. And so she
  was, as they said, very wise.—But we have come into the
  vegetable market. Where is now your old woman?

  _Cirr._ I was looking round about for her. But buy of
  her only on the condition that she gives us something as
  a present. Ah! great-aunt (_amita_). This girl will buy
  cherries of you, if you will give us some.

  _Vegetable Woman._ We are given nothing; we have to buy
  everything.

  _Cirr._ That dirt which you have on your hands and neck
  was not given to you, was it?

  _Vegetable Woman._ Unless you take yourself off, you
  impudent boy, your cheeks will feel some of this dirt on
  them.

  _Cirr._ How will my cheeks feel, when you have it on your
  hands?

  _Vegetable Woman._ Give those cherries back, you young
  rogue.

  _Cirr._ I am merely sampling, for I wish to buy.

  _Vegetable Woman._ Then buy.

  _Cirr._ Provided they have pleased me. How do you sell
  them?

  _Vegetable Woman._ A sesterce a pound.

  _Cirr._ Ah! they are bitter, you old poisoner! You are
  selling here cherries to people to choke them.

  _Ter._ Let us go away to the school. For you will get me
  involved in difficulties with your subtleties, and you
  will detain me too long. Now, as I think, my old woman
  is raging at home, on account of my delay in returning.
  There is the door. Knock at it.




V

LECTIO—_Reading_


PRAECEPTOR, LUSIUS, AESCHINES, PUERI—Teacher, Lusius, Aeschines, Boys

_Lusius_, so called from playing (_ludendo_).

_Aeschines_, proper name of the Greek orator, who shamelessly declaimed
against Demosthenes.

_Cotta_, proper name of a Roman citizen, so called from his anger.

This dialogue contains a division of the letters into vowels and
consonants.

  _Praec._ Take the A B C tablet in your left hand, and
  this pointer in the right hand, so that you can point
  out the letters one by one. Stand upright; put your cap
  under your arm-pit. Listen most attentively how I shall
  name these letters. Look diligently how I move my mouth.
  See that you return what I say immediately in the same
  manner, when I ask for it again. Attention (_sis mecum_)!
  Now you have heard it. Follow me now as I say it before
  you, letter by letter. Do you clearly understand?

  _Lus._ It seems to me I do, fairly well.


  _Letters—Syllables—Vowel—Speech_

  _Praec._ Every one of these signs is called a letter.
  Of these, five are vowels, A, E, I, O, U. They are in
  the Spanish _oveia_, which signifies _sheep_. Remember
  that word! These with any letter you like, or more than
  one, make up syllables. Without a vowel there is no
  syllable and sometimes the vowel itself is a syllable.
  Therefore all the other letters are called consonants,
  because they don’t constitute sounds by themselves unless
  a vowel is joined to them. They have some imperfect,
  maimed (_mancum_) sound, _e.g._ _b_, _c_, _d_, _g_, which
  without _e_ cannot be sounded. Out of syllables we get
  words, and from words connected speech, which all beasts
  lack. And you would not be different from the beasts, if
  you could not converse properly. Be watchful and perform
  your work diligently. Go out with your fellow-pupils and
  learn what I have set.

  _Lus._ We are not playing to-day.

  _Aesch._ No, for it is a work-day. What, do you think
  you have come here to play? This is not the place for
  playing, but for study.

  _Lus._ Why, then, is a school called _ludus_?


_True Leisure_

  _Aesch._ It is indeed called _ludus_, but it is _ludus
  literarius_, because here we must play with letters as
  elsewhere with the ball, hoop, and dice. And I have
  heard that in Greek it is called _schola_, as it were
  a place of leisure, because it is true ease and quiet
  of mind, when we spend our life in studies. But we will
  learn thoroughly what the teacher has bidden us, quite in
  soft murmur, so that we don’t become a hindrance to one
  another.

  _Lus._ My uncle, who studied letters some time in
  Bologna, has taught me that you better fix anything you
  wish in the memory if you pronounce it aloud. This is
  also confirmed by the authority of one called Pliny—I
  don’t know who he was.

  _Aesch._ If, then, any one should wish to learn his
  _formulae_, he should go off into the garden or into the
  churchyard. There he can shout aloud as if he would rouse
  the dead.

  _Cotta._ You boys, do you call this learning thoroughly?
  I call it prattling and disputing! Up, now go all of you
  to the teacher, as he commanded.




VI

REDITUS DOMUM ET LUSUS PUERILIS—_The Return Home and Children’s Play_


TULLIOLUS, CORNELIOLA, LENTULUS, SCIPIO

This dialogue contains an account of different kinds of boys’ games;
the names of the interlocutors are taken from appellations of the
Romans. Concerning which, _see_ Valer. Maximus and Sigonius.

  _Corn._ Welcome home, Tulliolus, shall we have some games?

  _Tull._ Not just now.

  _Corn._ What is there to prevent us playing?

  _Tull._ We must go over again what the master set, and
  commit it to memory, as he bade us.

  _Corn._ What then?

  _Tull._ You just look at this.

  _Corn._ I say, what are those pictures? I believe they
  are pictures of ants. Mother mine, Tulliolus is bringing
  a lot of ants and gnats painted on a writing-tablet.

  _Tull._ Be quiet, you silly thing, they are letters.

  _Corn._ What do you call this first one?

  _Tull._ A.

  _Corn._ Why is this first one rather than the next called
  A?

  _Mother._ Why art thou Corneliola and not Tulliolus?

  _Corn._ Because I am so called.

  _Mother._ And it is just the same way with those letters.
  But go and play now, my boy.

  _Tull._ I am putting my tablet and pencil (style) down
  here. If anybody disturbs them, he will be beaten by
  mother. Won’t he, mammy? (_mea matercula._)

  _Mother._ Yes, my boy.

  _Tull._ Scipio, Lentulus! Come and play.

  _Sci._ What shall we play at?


I. _The Game of Nuts_

  _Tull._ Let us play at nuts, at throwing them in holes.

  _Lent._ I have only a few nuts and those squashed and
  smelly.

  _Sci._ Well then, we will play with the shells of nuts.

  _Tull._ But what good would they be to me even if I were
  to win twenty? There would be no kernels in the nuts for
  me to eat.

  _Sci._ Why, I don’t eat when I am playing. If I want to
  eat, I go to the mater. Nut-shells are good for making
  little houses to put ants into.


II. _The Game of Odd and Even_

  _Lent._ Let us play odd and even with little pins (lit.
  small pins for a head-dress—_acicula_).

  _Tull._ Let’s have dice instead.

  _Sci._ Fetch them, Lentulus.

  _Lent._ Here are the dice.


III. _The Game of Dice_

  _Tull._ How grubby and dirty they are. They are not free
  from fluff. Nor are they polished. Cast!

  _Sci._ For the first throw!

  _Tull._ I am first. What are we playing?

  _Sci._ We are playing for trousers buttons
  (_astrigmenta_—lit. points).

  _Lent._ I don’t want to lose mine, for if I did I should
  be beaten at home by my tutor.

  _Tull._ What are you willing to lose then, if you are
  beaten?

  _Lent._ Some good raps with the fingers on me.

  _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_

  _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._

  _Spud._ He is the _propugnator_, who will receive the
  attack of all, and who has become thin and pale by his
  immoderate night-watches. He has done great things in
  philosophy and is advanced in theology. But now you must
  be quiet and listen, for he who is now making the attack
  is accustomed to think out his arguments most acutely and
  subtly, and presses most keenly the _propugnator_, and,
  in the opinion of all, is compared with the very highest
  in this discipline, and often compels his antagonist to
  recant. Notice how the latter has tried to elude him,
  but how the _oppugnator_ has met him effectively by
  his irrefutable reasoning, and how the _propugnator_
  cannot escape him! This arrow cannot be avoided. His
  argument is like an invincible Achilles. It enters the
  neck of the opponent. The _propugnator_ cannot protect
  himself and soon will give in (_manus dabit_) unless
  some god suggests a subterfuge to his mind. Behold, the
  question is brought to an end by the decision of the
  judge (_decretor_). Now I loosen your tongue to speak
  as you wish. For he who now attacks is as vapid wine,
  and contends as with a leaden dagger, yet he shouts
  louder than the rest. Notice, and you will see that he
  grows hoarse from the encounter. Though his weapons are
  repulsed, he presses on none the less pertinaciously,
  but without effect; nor does any one wish to have the
  reversion to his argument, or to have him assuaged by
  the answer of the defender or the president. He who now
  enters the contest effeminately begs the judge for his
  permission, and speaks with courtesy, though he argues
  ineffectively and always leaves off tired, even gasping,
  as if he had gone through the unpleasant business with
  fortitude. Let us depart.




XIV

CUBICULUM ET LUCUBRATIO—_The Sleeping-room and Studies by Night_

PLINIUS, EPICTETUS, CELSUS, DYDIMUS


  In this dialogue Vives treats of two matters: in
  the first place he describes night-studies with
  adjuncts of time, causes, and subjects; then the bed,
  its apparatus and adjuncts. The assisting causes
  (_causae adjuvantes_) of night-study are lights, the
  night-study gown, Minerva or Christ, table, bookcase,
  reader (_anagnostes_), a scribe (_exceptor_), pens,
  sand-case (_theca pulveraria_). The subjects are Cicero,
  Demosthenes, Nazianzenus, Xenophon. The apparatus of
  the bed consists in a mattress, a bolster, cushions,
  sheets, coverlets, curtains, mosquito-curtain, hangings,
  rugs. Adjuncts are—gnats, fleas, lice, bugs, a striking
  clock, a folding seat, a pot, a lyre. The names of the
  persons are aptly allotted, for they were the four most
  learned and studious men, concerning whom Volaterranus
  has written in his _Anthropologia_. Plinius wrote _De
  Historia Naturali_, in xxxvii. books. He was the uncle
  of the other Pliny whose letters are still extant.
  The latter writes thus to Marcus, of his uncle: “He
  was sharp-witted, of incredible studiousness, of the
  highest vigilance, most sparing of sleep. After food
  (which he used to take in the daytime, of a light and
  easily digestible kind, according to the custom of the
  ancients), if he had leisure, often in the summer, he
  would lie in the sun. Then read his book, annotate it,
  and make extracts. He never read without making extracts.
  He was even accustomed to say that no book was so bad as
  not to be profitable in some part of it. I remember once
  when a reader had pronounced something wrongly, one of
  his friends had the man called up and made him repeat
  it, whereupon my uncle said: ‘You understood, forsooth?’
  He nodded. ‘Then why have the passage recalled? We have
  lost more than ten verses by this interruption.’ So great
  was his economy of time. This, too, in the midst of his
  labours in the noise of the town. Even in the retirement
  of his bath he spent his time in studies. When I say the
  bath, I speak of the inner parts of the house generally.
  For whilst he was stretching himself or drying himself,
  he used to listen to reading or to dictate. On a journey,
  as if relieved from other cares, he occupied himself in
  study only. At his side was an amanuensis with a book and
  writing tablets, whose hands were furnished in winter
  with gloves, so that by no roughness of weather should
  any time be snatched from studies. For the same reason,
  when at Rome, he was carried about in a chair. I recall
  that I was reproved by him when I went for a walk. ‘Are
  you not able,’ said he, ‘not to waste your time?’ For
  he thought all time wasted which was not devoted to
  studies.” For an account of his death, see an epistle by
  the same writer to Tacitus.

  Epictetus (as the epigram concerning him testifies) was
  both a slave and lame. He was poorer than Irus.[55]
  But in wisdom and equanimity of mind and constancy (as
  records about him testify) he was admirable and almost
  divine. But he was the servant of Epaphroditus the
  freedman of the Emperor Nero. Celsus was a renowned
  physician, whose works are still extant, whose excellent
  _dictum_ was: “That many grave diseases are cured by
  abstinence and quiet.”

  Dydimus, the grammarian, on account of the almost
  incredible number of books which he is said to have
  written, is called χαλκέντερος, as if having intestines
  of brass, _i.e._, he was remarkably patient and
  indefatigable in labour. He (as also Origen) was
  called Adamantinus. On this same matter _see_ Proverb:
  Adamantinus and Chalcenterus and the lamp of Aristophanes
  and Cleanthes.


I. _Studies by Night_

  _Plin._ It is five o’clock in the afternoon. Epictetus,
  shut me the window and bring me light. I will work with a
  light.

  _Epict._ What light do you wish?

  _Plin._ For the time being, whilst others are present,
  tallow or wax candles; when they have retired, take them
  away and place here for me the lampstand.

  _Cels._ What for?

  _Plin._ For working.

_Time_

  _Cels._ Don’t you study better in the morning? Then it
  seems to me the season of the time and the condition of
  the body invite study, since at that time there is the
  least exhalation from the brain, digestion having been
  completed.

  _Plin._ But this hour is very quiet, when every one has
  gone to rest and everything is silent, and for those who
  eat at mid-day and morning it is not inconvenient. Some
  follow the old custom and only eat one meal and that in
  the evening; others merely at mid-day, according to the
  advice of the new doctors; and again others both mid-day
  and evening, according to the usage of the Goths.

  _Cels._ But were there no mid-day meals before the Goths?

  _Plin._ There were, but light meals. The Goths introduced
  the custom of eating to satiety twice a day.

  _Cels._ On that account Plato condemned the meal-times of
  the Syracusans, who had two good meals every day.


_Circumstances Aiding Studies_

  _Plin._ For that very reason you may conclude that people
  like the Syracusans were very rare.

  _Cels._ Enough of them! Why do you prefer to work with a
  lamp than a candle?

  _Plin._ On account of the equable flame, which less tries
  the eyes, for the flicker of the wick injures the eyes
  and the odour of the tallow is unpleasant.

  _Cels._ Then use wax candles, the odour of which is not
  displeasing.

  _Plin._ In them the wick is more flickering and the
  vapour is no more healthy. In the tallow lights the wick
  is for the most part of linen and not of cotton, as the
  tradesmen seek to make a profit on all these things by
  fraud. Pour oil into this lamp, bring a candle and take
  out the wick and clean it.

  _Epict._ Notice how the lampblack sticks to the needle.
  They say this is a sign of rain, in the same manner as we
  find in Vergil:—

  Scintillare oleum et putres concrescere fungos.[56]

  _Plin._ Bring hither also the snuffers and clean this
  candle. But don’t throw the black on the floor lest it
  smoke, but press it into the snuffers-box whilst it is
  held together. Bring me my dressing-gown, that long one
  lined with skin.

  _Cels._ I will provide you with your books. May Minerva
  be favourable to you!

  _Plin._ May Paul or, what I should rather have said, may
  Jesus Christ, the Wisdom of God, be with me.

  _Cels._ Perhaps Christ is adumbrated in the fable of
  Minerva and that of the birth from Jupiter’s brain.

  _Plin._ Place the table on the supports in the
  sleeping-chamber.

  _Cels._ Do you prefer the table to the desk?

  _Plin._ At this time, yes; but place a small desk on the
  table.

  _Epict._ A self-standing one or a movable one?

  _Plin._ Which you like. But where is the Dydimus of my
  studies?

  _Cels._ I will summon him thither.


_Subjects of Study_

  _Plin._ Fetch also my boy-scribe. For I should like to
  dictate something. Give me those reed-pens and two or
  three feather pens, those with thick stalk, and the
  sand-case. Bring me also from the chest the Cicero and
  Demosthenes, and from the desk, the book in which I make
  all my notes and important extracts. Do you hear? And my
  extemporaneous MS. book in which I will polish up some
  passages.

  _Dyd._ I believe the MS. book is not in the desk but in
  the chest, locked up.

  _Plin._ Do you yourself search for it. And bring me the
  Nazianzenus.

  _Dyd._ I don’t know it.

  _Plin._ The book is of slight thickness, sewn together
  and roughly bound in parchment. Bring also the volume,
  the fifth from the end.

  _Dyd._ What is its title?

  _Plin._ Xenophon’s _Commentaries_. The book is in
  finished style. It is bound in leather with fastenings
  and knobs of copper.

  _Dyd._ I don’t find it.

  _Plin._ Now I remember. I put it in the fourth case.
  Fetch it. In the same case there are only loose sheets
  and rough books just as they have come straight from the
  press.

  _Dyd._ Which volume of Cicero do you want, for there are
  four?

  _Plin._ The second.

  _Epict._ It is not yet back from the book-gluer, who had
  it, I believe, five days ago to glue.

  _Dyd._ How do you like that pen?

  _Plin._ On that point I am not very particular; whatever
  comes into my hand I use it as if it were good.

  _Dyd._ You have learned that from Cicero.

  _Plin._ You just be quiet. Open me the Cicero. Look me up
  three or four pages of the _Tusculan Questions_. Seek the
  passages on gentleness and joy.

  _Epict._ Whose verses are these?

  _Plin._ They are his own translations of Sophocles. This
  he does with keen pleasure and therefore often.

  _Epict._ He was, I think, sufficiently apt in writing
  verses.

  _Dyd._ Most apt and facile, and, for his time, not
  unhappy in his verse, contrary to what very many think.

  _Epict._ But wherefore hast thou left off pursuing the
  art of poetry?


II. _The Bed—Its Equipment_

  _Plin._ I hope that we yet at times may take it up
  again in leisure hours, for there is much alleviation
  in it from more serious studies. I am already weary of
  studies, meditation, writing. Stretch out my bed.

  _Epict._ In which sleeping-room?

  _Plin._ In the big square room. Take away the reclining
  cushion out of the corner, and put it in the dining-room.
  Place over the feather-bed another of wool. See also that
  the supports of the bed are sufficiently firm.

  _Epict._ What is it that is troubling you? For you don’t
  lie on one part or other of the frame-work, but in the
  middle of the bed. It would be more healthy for you if
  the bed were harder and one which would offer resistance
  to your body.

  _Plin._ Take the head-pillow away, and instead of it put
  two cushions, and in this heat I prefer that lightly
  woven, to the linen, cloth.

  _Epict._ Without bed-covering!

  _Plin._ Yes.

  _Epict._ You will get cold, for the body is exhausted by
  studies.

  _Plin._ Then put on a light covering.

  _Epict._ These? And no more?

  _Plin._ No. If I feel cold in bed, then I will ask for
  more clothes. Take away the curtains, for I prefer a
  mosquito-net for the keeping off of gnats, a net of fine
  gauze (_conopeum_).

  _Epict._ I have noticed but few gnats, though of fleas
  and lice a pretty fair number.


_Adjuncts_

  _Plin._ I am surprised that you notice anything
  particularly, for you sleep and snore so soundly.

  _Epict._ No one sleeps better than he who does not feel
  how badly he is sleeping.

  _Plin._ None of the insects with which we are troubled in
  bed in summer disgust me so much as the bugs because of
  their ghastly odour.

  _Epict._ Of which there is a good supply in Paris and
  Lyons.

  _Plin._ At Paris there is a kind of wood which produces
  them, and in Lyons the potter’s earth. Place my
  alarum-clock here, and place the pointer for four o’clock
  in the morning, for I don’t wish to sleep later. Take
  my shoes off, and place here the folding-chair in which
  I may sit. Let the chamber-crockery be set near the bed
  on a foot-stool. I don’t know what it is that causes a
  bad smell here. Fumigate with frankincense or juniper.
  Sing to me something on the lyre as I go to bed after the
  custom of Pythagoras, so that I may the more quickly fall
  asleep, and my dreams may be the more peaceful.

  _Epict._

  Somne, quies rerum, placidissime, somne, deorum,
  Pax animi, quem cura fugit, qui corpora duris
  Fessa ministeriis mulces, reparasque labori.[57]

  OVID, _Metamorph._ book xi. ll. 623–623.




XV

CULINA—_The Kitchen_

LUCULLUS, APICIUS, PISTILLARIUS, ABLIGURINUS


  In this dialogue Vives describes the matters which
  concern the kitchen. Nor is it any disgrace for a noble
  youth to be able to call things, one by one, by their
  right names, as also the interpreter of Aristophanes
  thinks in the _Acharnians_:—

  ἔστι δὲ τοῦτο ἀστεῖον καὶ πεπαιδευμένῳ ἀρμόξον, μήδε τῶν
  κατὰ τὴν οἰκίαν σκευ ῶν τῆς καθημερινῆς χρείας, ἀγνοεῖν
  τὰ ὀνόματα.[58]

  The names of the interlocutors are aptly chosen, as is
  always the case. Lucullus and Apicius are fit names of
  men noted for luxury. As to Lucullus, see Plutarch in his
  _Lucullus and Athenaeus_, book xii., who says that he:—

  τρυφῆς πρῶτον εἰς ἅπαν Ῥωμαίοις ἡγεμόνα γενέσθαι.[59]

  Also in Book iv. he says:—

  τὸν’ Ἀπίκιον περὶ ἀσωτίᾳ πάντας ἀνθρώπους
  ὑπερηκοντικέναι.[60]

  Pistillarius and Abligurinus are fictitious names; the
  former from the pounder of a mortar, and as if the
  epithet for an obtuse man; the latter from a “licking
  away,” as of a gourmand. This dialogue may be divided
  into three parts, the management of the kitchen by
  Apicius, his precepts, and songs.


I. _The Hiring of Apicius_

  _Luc._ Are you an eating-house keeper (_popino_)?

  _Apic._ I am.

  _Luc._ Where do you work?

  _Apic._ At the eating-house called the Poultry-Cock
  (_galli gallinacei_). Do you want my services?

  _Luc._ Yes, for a wedding.

  _Apic._ Let me then hasten home, so that I may give
  instructions to my wife how to treat the gourmandisers
  (whom I know are not wont to be lacking in this city) and
  their guests who are invited.

  _Luc._ Do you hear? You will find me in the Stone
  Street—in the shoemakers’ district.

  _Apic._ I will soon be with you.

  _Luc._ Very well. Get to your cook-shop.


II. _The Precepts of Apicius_

  _Apic._ Hallo! Pistillarius and Abligurinus, make a fire
  with big logs on the hearth under the flue, and let them
  be as dry as possible.

  _Pist._ Do you think you are at Rome? Here we have not
  stalls for the sale of dry wood from which dry logs can
  be got. But this which I have will be dry enough.

  _Apic._ If you don’t get it dry enough, Abligurinus, you
  will, by your work of blowing up the flame, lose your
  eyesight.

  _Ablig._ Then I shall drink so much the more freely.
  Curse the wine!

  _Apic._ Curse the water! For you shall not touch wine
  to-day if I keep in my right mind. I am not going to let
  you overturn the vessels, and break the small pots to
  pieces, and ruin the food.

  _Ablig._ This fire won’t burn!

  _Apic._ Throw in a small bundle of sticks smeared in
  brimstone, and kindling-wood, together with some chips.

  _Ablig._ It is quite gone out.

  _Apic._ Run across to the next house with the shovel and
  bring us a great big firebrand and some good live coal.

  _Ablig._ The master of that house is a metal-worker, nor
  does he let a single piece of coal be taken from his
  furnaces but he has his eye on it (_citius oculum_).

  _Apic._ He is not a metal-worker, but a metal-cutter; go
  therefore to the oven. What are you bringing there? This
  is not a firebrand; it is rather a torch (_titionem magis
  quam torrem_).

  _Ablig._ They have not got burning coal.

  _Apic._ What bad coal! You should rather call it turf.
  Move these logs and stir the kindling wood with this
  poker so that it may gather flame. Use the _pyrolabum_
  (the tongs), you ass!

  _Ablig._ What thing does that word signify?

  _Apic._ _Forceps ignaria_ (tongs for the fire), a
  _pruniceps_ (a fire-stirrer).

  _Ablig._ Why do you give me words in Greek, as if there
  were not Latin words for the things?

  _Apic._ Are asses also grammarians?

  _Ablig._ What wonder, since grammarians are certainly
  _asses_.

  _Apic._ Make an end of wrangling. I want some coals
  or pieces of turf lighting for me on this hearth, for
  cooking the cakes baked in earthen cups. Hang the bronze
  vessel over the fire so that we can have plenty of hot
  water. Then throw into the cooking-pot that shoulder
  of mutton with the salted beef; add calf and lamb
  flesh, and stir the cooking vessel on the fire. In the
  _chytropus_[61] we will thoroughly boil the rice.

  _Ablig._ What shall we do with the chickens?

  _Apic._ They shall be cooked in brazen pots which are
  lined with tin, so that they may have a more pleasant
  taste. But don’t bring them too soon; the meat-spits and
  the pans should be forthcoming about nine o’clock. Let
  this pike play about in the water a little, then skin him.

  _Ablig._ Are there to be meat and fish at the same meal?

  _Apic._ Decidedly, according to the German fashion.

  _Ablig._ And is this approved by the doctors?

  _Apic._ It is not in accordance with the art of medicine,
  but it will please the doctors. I thought this block of
  a man (_stips_) was merely a grammarian; he is also a
  doctor.

  _Ablig._ Have you never heard of that question: Whether
  there are in a city more doctors or fools?

  _Apic._ Who has thrust you into the kitchen, when you are
  such a salted herring (_saperda_)?

  _Ablig._ My adverse fate.

  _Apic._ Nay, what is quite clear,—it is thy sluggishness,
  carelessness, voracity, thy throat and thy stomach, thy
  degenerate and debased soul. Therefore must thou now
  run about with naked feet, half-clothed, in old torn
  garments which don’t cover you behind.

  _Ablig._ What has my poverty got to do with you?

  _Apic._ Nothing at all, and I should not like it to
  concern me. But to work! And outside of work let us
  have no more talk than necessary. Are my orders not
  sufficient? Nothing apparently can be enough for you
  in the way of closely laying down and insisting over
  and over again on what is to be done. Give me my
  cooking-trousers. I want to go out of doors, but I will
  soon be back. Give me also, please, the olive-crusher
  (_tudicula_), the badge of our art. This is my
  thunderbolt and trident.

  _Pist._ Hallo, Abligurinus, place those jugs on the
  urn-table and wash this beef steadily, and give it a good
  rubbing in the basin.

  _Ablig._ Have you any other orders to give? One commander
  is sufficient for one camp, but it does not seem to be
  sufficient for one kitchen. Do it all yourself. You are a
  sharper exactor of work than the master of the cook-shop
  himself. For the future I won’t call you Pistillarius (a
  pounder with the pestle), but a sharp sting (_stimulus
  acutus_).

  _Pist._ Nay, rather call me _Onocentron_ (the spur
  of asses). Cut up then this calf’s flesh on this
  flesh-board. Also powder the cheese so that we can
  sprinkle it over this dumpling.

  _Ablig._ How? With the hand?

  _Pist._ No, but with the grater. Pour a few drops of oil
  in from the cruse.

  _Ablig._ Do you mean from this flask?

  _Pist._ Place here the mortar.

  _Ablig._ Which of them?

  _Pist._ That brazen one with the pestle of the same metal.

  _Ablig._ What for?

  _Pist._ For grinding rock-parsley.

  _Ablig._ This is done more satisfactorily in a marble
  mortar with a wooden pestle.


III. _Songs_

  _Pist._ Please sing us a song, as you are wont to do.

  _Ablig._

  Ego nolo Caesar esse,
  Ambulare per Britannos,
  Scythicas pati pruinas.[62]

  FLORUS.[63]

  Ut sapiant fatuae Fabiorum prandia betae,
  O quam saepe petet vina piperque coquus.[64]

  MARTIAL’S _Epigrams_, 13, 13.

  _Pist._ Do you say the _Fabii_ or the _fabri_?

  _Ablig._ On that point inquire of the bandy-legged
  schoolmaster and you will get for your _Fabii_ and
  _fabri_ a sound blow on the cheek or the back.

  _Pist._ Is that the sort of man?

  _Ablig._ He is a determined, courageous man, prompt with
  blows. He compensates for the slowness of his tongue by
  the swiftness of his hands.

  _Pist._ Here, bring the beer-jug. My palate, throat,
  gullet are parched with thirst.

  _Ablig._

  Et gravis attrita pendebat cantharus ansa.[65]

  VERGIL, _Eclogue_, 6, 17.

  Claudere quae coenas lactuca solebat avorum,
  Dic mihi, cur nostros inchoat illa dapes?[66]

  MARTIAL, _Epigram_, 13, 14.

  Filia Picenae venio Lucanica porcae,
  Pultibus hinc niveis grata corona datur.[67]

  MARTIAL, _Epigram_, 13, 35.

  _Apic._ Where hast thou thus learnt to ῥαψωδεῖν?

  _Ablig._ Lately I served a schoolmaster in Calabria who
  was a poetaster. He often used to give me no other meal
  than a song of a hundred verses, in which he used to say
  there was a wonderful savour. I, indeed, would rather
  have had a little bread and cheese. There was, however,
  enough water for the house, and we had permission to
  drink from the well to our heart’s content. If I then
  had gone hungry to bed, instead of food I chewed those
  verses and digested them. Nor did there seem to me to be
  any other remedy to drive away the keenness of hunger
  (_bulimia_) than to betake myself to the art of cookery.

  _Apic._ What services did you render that schoolmaster?

  _Ablig._ Such as Caesar rendered to the Republic. I was
  everything to him. I was his counsellor, though he had
  nothing to advise about; he had nothing secret from me,
  not even in his personal habits. I used to pour water on
  his hand, which he never used to wash himself. I served
  him as his treasurer.

  _Apic._ What treasure had he?

  _Ablig._ He had a few sheets of the trashiest poems which
  the moths used to eat away and barbarian mice gnawed at.

  _Apic._ Nay, say learned mice, since they bit their teeth
  into bad poems.




XVI

TRICLINIUM—_The Dining-room_

ARISTIPPUS, LURCO


  This dialogue is connected with the two following
  dialogues. For this contains descriptions of the master
  of a feast and his dining-room, the next of the banquet
  itself, and the third, drunkenness. It has two parts—the
  introduction and description (_narratio_). Triclinium is
  so called from having three dining-couches (_lectus_).
  For, of old, those about to breakfast or dine were
  accustomed to arrange couches for lying on, for the most
  part three. _See_ Castilionius in book 6; Vitruvius, cap.
  5; Baysius de Vasculis. Aristippus was the disciple of
  Socrates, from whom was derived the Cyrenaic teaching.
  For he lived in ease, sumptuously, voluptuously. He
  sought out every luxury of perfumes, clothes, women, and
  counted life happy in so far as it was full of pleasure.

    παριόντα ποτε αὐτὸν λάχανα πλύνων Διογένης
    ἔσκωψε καί φησιν: εἰ ταῦτα ἔμαθες προσφέρεοθαι
    οὐκ ἂν τυράννων αὐλὰς ἐθεράπευες. Ὁ δέ, καὶ σύ, εἶπεν,
    εἴπερ ᾔδεις ἀνθρώποις ὁμιλεῖν, οὐκ ἂν λάχανα ἔπλυνες.[68]

    DIOG. LAERT. i. 68.


I. _The Introduction (Initium)_

  _Arist._ Why are you so late getting up and, indeed,
  still half-asleep?

  _Lurc._ I am surprised that I have waked up at all the
  whole of this day, since yesterday we were eating and
  drinking.

  _Arist._ Nay, as it appears, you were simply gorging,
  gourmandising, and overwhelming yourself with sumptuous
  dishes and wine. But where was it you were thus loading
  your swift-sailing ship?

  _Lurc._ At the house of Scopas, at a banquet
  (_convivium_).

  _Arist._ Nay, rather, according to the manner of the
  Greeks, call it a συμπόσιον than by the Latin word
  _convivium_.

  _Lurc._ One brawler aroused another to speech. Olives and
  sauces pricked and pinched the sated stomach, and would
  not let the appetite get wearied out.

  _Arist._ Pray tell us all the courses so that by hearing
  of them I can imagine that I was there, and as if I were
  drinking with you, as that man who ate two great loaves
  of bread in a Spanish inn, and enjoyed the exhalation of
  a roasted partridge, in place of further viands.

  _Lurc._ Who could tell all? This would be a greater
  undertaking than to have bought the food, or prepared it,
  or what would have beaten everything in difficulty, to
  have eaten it all up.

  _Arist._ Let us sit down here in this willow-plantation,
  by the bank of this little stream, and, since we are
  tired, let us talk of your yesterday’s dining out,
  instead of other things. The grass will serve us for
  bolsters. Lean on that elm-tree.

  _Lurc._ On the grass? Won’t the moisture harm us?

  _Arist._ How stupid! moisture, when the dog-star is
  rising!

  _Lurc._ Formerly I refused; now my mind desires to tell
  you yet more than you ask. You inquire from me as to
  the banquet; you shall also hear as to the host and the
  dining-room. You asked that I would speak; I will do
  so that, soon perhaps, you will ask, proclaim, command
  silence, as was the case with the Arabian flute-player
  who was induced to sing for an _obolus_, but was only
  brought to silence by receiving three.

  _Arist._ Say as much as thou wishest of the feast; I
  shall not be pained by it, since we are now sitting in
  a shady place, and the goldfinch there accompanies thy
  narrative, or at least will bring harmony into it, as
  the slaves with the flute did into the speech of C.
  Gracchus.[69]


II. _Narration—Description of Scopas_

  _Lurc._ What was that story?

  _Arist._ When you have finished your account of the
  feast you shall have the story of the _Gracchi_, of the
  _graculi_,[70] and the _Graeculi_.

  _Lurc._ We were going for a walk by chance across the
  market (_forum_), Thrasybulus and I. We happened to have
  got more leisure than is usual with us. Scopas joined
  us. When he had made his first salutations, and started
  a suave conversation, Scopas began earnestly to entreat
  us that we would, on the next day, which was yesterday,
  go to his house. First we excused ourselves, the one for
  one reason, the other for another; I, on account of an
  important engagement with a magistrate (_praetor_), a
  very irritable gentleman. But Scopas, a man who likes to
  boast of his wealth, began an elaborate speech, as if his
  life were in question. What need of further words? We
  said yes, so that he should not continue to worry us.

  _Arist._ Do you know why he arranged the banquet?

  _Lurc._ What was it, pray, do you suppose?

  _Arist._ He is indeed himself a rich man, well provided
  with silver, clothes, and house-provisions. But he had
  bought three gilded silver phials and six cups. These
  would have lost their value to him, had he not invited
  some guests to whom he might show them. For he believes
  that it is in the ostentation of wealth that its pleasure
  consists. He is driven on to profuse expenditure by his
  wife, who calls it magnificence.


_Description of the Dining-hall_

  _Lurc._ Yesterday, then, about mid-day we came together
  to his dining-room.

  _Arist._ What kind of a lunch was it?

  _Lurc._ In the open air, in the cool shade. All was
  splendidly prepared, decorated, polished up. Nothing
  was lacking in elegance, splendour, and magnificence.
  Immediately on entrance, our eyes and souls were
  exhilarated by the most beautiful and most pleasant
  sights. There was a great sideboard, full of beautiful
  vases of all kinds, of gold, silver, crystal, glass,
  ivory, myrrh-wood; also others of more common material,
  tin, horn, bone, wood, shell, or earthenware, in which
  art lent a merit to the commonness of the material,
  for there were very many pieces of embossed work, all
  brightly cleaned and polished; the glitter almost
  dazzled the eyes. You might have seen there two great
  silver wash-hand-basins with gilded borders. The middle
  part together with the ornaments about it were of gold.
  Every basin had its outlet whose bung was gilded. There
  stood there also another water-basin of glass, similarly
  with gilded pipe, as well as an earthenware wash-basin
  varnished with red _sandarach_,[71] a piece of work of
  the Spanish city of Malaca. Besides, there were phials of
  every kind and two silver ones for the most generous kind
  of wines.

  _Arist._ From my own experience I prefer flasks of glass
  or of shells, which they call stone-ware.

  _Lurc._ What are you to do? Such is the nature of man! He
  does not in these things seek so much convenience as the
  opinion of being thought rich.

  _Arist._ These very rich people pretty often seem so to
  others whilst to themselves they seem poor. So there is
  no end of bringing forward, and presenting, to the eyes
  of others, their possessions. Especially is this so with
  those who have no other kind of skill in which they can
  trust. But proceed.

  _Lurc._ The border of the sideboard was covered with a
  shaggy carpet brought from Turkey. At a distance from
  the sideboard there were placed two small tables with
  quadrants and silver orbs. Every one had his salt-cellar,
  knife, bread, and napkin. Under the sideboard stood a
  refrigerator and large wine-decanters. Then they had
  various kinds of seats, settles, double-seats, benches,
  and the seat of the lady of the house, arranged so as
  to fold up, a noteworthy piece of work with silken
  upholstery, and provided with a foot-stool.

  _Arist._ Lay the table now, and unfold the napkins, for
  my vitals cry out for hunger.

  _Lurc._ The dining-table was large. It was inlaid with
  ancient mosaic work. It had belonged to the Prince
  Dicæarchus.

  _Arist._ O old table, what a different master is yours
  now!

  _Lurc._ He had bought the table at an auction sale at a
  sufficiently high price, only because it had belonged to
  the prince, and he would thus have something that had
  been his. Water is given for the washing of hands. At
  first there are great mutual refusings and invitations
  and yielding by turns.

  _Arist._ The same thing happened in all this yielding
  of dignity, when each one made himself of less account
  than the other, and exalted the other with the haughtiest
  courteousness, whilst in reality every one thought
  himself more important than all the rest.

  _Lurc._ But the host, by his own right, allotted the
  seats. Grace was said by a little boy briefly and
  perfunctorily, but not without rhythm:—

  Quod appositum est et apponetur, Christus benedicere dignetur.[72]

  Each one unfolds his napkin and throws it over the left
  shoulder. Then he cleans his bread with his knife, in
  case he did not think it had been sufficiently cleaned by
  the servant, for it had been placed before him with the
  crust taken off.

  _Arist._ Did you sit in ease?

  _Lurc._ Never with more ease.

  _Arist._ You couldn’t get a poor lunch. For the eatables
  had been supplied to redundancy, so far as ever the
  market had them; this I know.

  _Lurc._ In no place has this more certainly happened.
  But the very abundance palled. The director of the table
  busied himself with laying knives and forks. Then came
  in, with great pomp, the chief steward with a long band
  of boys, younger and older, who bore away the dishes of
  the first course.




XVII

CONVIVIUM—_The Banquet_

SCOPAS, SIMONIDES, CRITO, DEMOCRITUS, POLAEMON


  Concerning Scopas, _see_ Cicero, book 2, _de Orat._ As to
  Polaemon, _see_ Val. Max. bk. 6, cap. 11. There are three
  kinds of banquets, είλαπίνη, a magnificent and splendid
  banquet; γάμος, a nuptial banquet; and ἔρανος, when each
  guest came at his own expense and brought his own food.
  Homer links together those forms of banquets: εἰλαπίνη ἠὲ
  γάμος· ἐπεὶ οὐκ ἔρανος τάδε γ’ ἐστί (_Odyssea_, i. 226).

  The parts of this dialogue are these: Initium, apparatus,
  finis. Apparatus contains two courses.


COURSES

          { _Cibus_ { Panis   { Carnes
          {         { Obsonia { Pultes
          {                   { Pisces
  FIRST   { _Potus_ { Vinum
          {         { Aqua
          {         { Cerevisia
          {         { Pocula

          { Fructus
  SECOND  { Casei
          { Tragemata


I. _The Beginning (Initium)_

  _Scop._ Where is our Simonides?

  _Crit._ He said he would come immediately after he had
  met a debtor of his in the market.

  _Scop._ He does rightly. He will more easily get away
  from a debtor than he would from a creditor.

  _Crit._ How is this?

  _Scop._ It is as in a victory, the victor imposes the
  conditions, not the vanquished. The debtor comes away
  from the creditor when he will, the creditor when the
  debtor is willing. But have you not all met, as you
  arranged, and left the seriousness of home, bringing with
  you cheerfulness, wit, grace, pleasantness?

  _Crit._ Clearly these things are so, I hope, and we will
  be as M. Varro advises, an agreeable company.

  _Scop._ Let the rest be my concern.

  _Crit._ Here is Simonides coming!

  _Scop._ Happy event!

  _Sim._ All prosperity to you!

  _Scop._ We have keenly desired you!

  _Sim._ Ah, how boorish it all is! But you see I was
  invited to lunch, not for a period of detention in
  business. But have I really kept you waiting long?

  _Scop._ No, indeed not.

  _Sim._ Why did you not set to the meal without me? At
  least you could have begun with the fruit which I am not
  much given to eating.

  _Scop._ Courteous words, but how could we sit down
  without you?


II. _First Course—Bread_

  _Crit._ Enough of civilities. Let us begin our
  description. The best and lightest of bread! It is as
  light in weight as a sponge. The wheat is soft as a
  medlar. You must have an industrious miller.

  _Scop._ Roscius has the mill in his charge.

  _Sim._ Is he never hurled into it?

  _Scop._ Far be such a fate from such a thrifty servant!

  _Dem._ Pass me the coarse bread (made of unbolted flour).

  _Sim._ And me the bread made of the middle quality of
  foreign wheat.

  _Scop._ Why do you wish that?

  _Sim._ Because I have both heard and found from
  experience that I eat less when the bread has not a fine
  taste.

  _Scop._ Here, boy, bring him common bread, and even the
  black bread if he prefers. We will have the most pleasant
  of meals, if every one shall take what most pleases him.

  _Pol._ This bread, which you praise so much, is spongy,
  watery; I prefer it thicker.

  _Crit._ I indeed don’t dislike it spongy—so long as
  it isn’t hastily made. But this also has cracks such
  as cakes baked on the hearth are accustomed to have,
  although, as is sufficiently clear, this came out of the
  oven.

  _Pol._ This black bread is both sour and full of chaff;
  you would say that it was from flour of second-rate wheat.

  _Scop._ So our husbandmen are accustomed to do with all
  wheat which they bring hither; first to make it pungent
  with the common, and to mix it with all kinds of seeds;
  the taste then comes from the leaven being excessive.

  _Pol._ No class of men are more deceptive than
  husbandmen. They only act wrongly through ignorance.

  _Crit._ This bread is not sufficiently fermented.

  _Dem._ For to-day think thyself a Jew, one of those who,
  by the ordinance of God, only feed on bread which is
  unleavened.

  _Crit._ And this, indeed, was because they were such very
  bad men that the eating of swine was forbidden them,
  than which nothing is more pleasing to the palate; nor
  if taken moderately is anything more healthful. With
  unleavened bread sauces must be eaten together with field
  lettuce, which is extremely bitter.

  _Pol._ All this has too much depth of meaning. Let us
  leave the subject.

  _Scop._ Yes, indeed, and the whole discussion about
  bread! If there is so much difference of opinion about
  what is eaten with bread, how much discord there will be
  over every part of the menu of the whole meal!

  _Crit._ It happens, forsooth, as Horace says:—

  Tres mihi convivae prope dissentire videntur,
  Poscentes vario multum diversa palato.[73]


_Fruits_

  _Scop._ Bring those dishes and plates with the cherries,
  plums, pomegranates, ripe fruit, and early ripe fruit.

  _Pol._ Why did Varro say that the number of guests ought
  not to exceed the number of the Muses, when the number
  of the Muses is not settled? For some put the number at
  three; others six; others nine.

  _Crit._ He spoke as if it were established that
  there were nine, and so it was commonly accepted.
  Whence Diogenes made his joke at the expense of the
  schoolmaster, who had only a small number of scholars in
  the school, whilst he had the Muses painted on the walls.
  The master, said he, has many scholars, if you reckon in
  the Muses (σὺν ταῖς μοῦσαις).

  _Dem._ But is it true that the Persians introduced into
  Greece the fruit which they regarded as so deadly as to
  be a pestilence to those against whom they were waging
  war?

  _Crit._ So I have heard.

  _Dem._ How wonderful is the variety of products in the
  different nature of soils!

  _Crit._ India sends ivory, says Vergil,[74] the
  effeminate Sabaeans their frankincense. Oh! look at those
  Persian quinces!

  _Sim._ This is a new kind of grafting which the ancients
  did not know of. Reach me the bowl with the hard-skinned
  figs, which are, as you know, early ripe.

  _Scop._ Enough of the fruits! Let us be filled with more
  healthful foods of the body.

  _Crit._ What is, then, healthier?

  _Scop._ Nothing, if to be health-giving and of good
  taste are the same thing as in a mid-day dream.

  _Crit._ I forgive fruits their harmfulness on account of
  their pleasantness of taste.


_Meats_

  _Scop._ Do you remember the verse of Cato?

  Pauca voluptati debentur; plura saluti.[75]

  Give every one a platter of meat with sauce, so that he
  may swallow it down, and this will warm the intestines
  and pleasantly wash and so soften the body.

  _Sim._ Here, boy, give me at once some salted pork. Oh!
  most savoury leg of pork! It is a barrow-hog. If you can
  hear what I say, return the cabbage and bacon, to the
  cook, at this season of the year, or preserve it till the
  winter. Cut me a couple of bits off this sausage, so that
  the first cup of wine may taste the sweeter.

  _Crit._ Let us follow the advice of physicians that wine
  be taken with pork. Pour out wine.


_Wine_

  _Scop._ Now follows action after talk. Surely this is
  wisest at this time of the year. Look at the necessary
  preparations for our drinking wine. First of all the
  keeper of the sideboard (_custos abaci_) has set out
  the cups of brightest crystal glass with purest white
  wine; you would think it water by its mere appearance. It
  is San Martin wine and partly Rhein wine, but not mixed
  as they are accustomed to drink it in Belgium, but such
  as they drink in mid-Germany. The wine-seller to-day
  has tapped two casks, one of yellow Helvell from the
  neighbourhood of Paris, and one of blood-red Bordeaux.
  Others are in readiness kept cool, dark (_fuscus_) from
  Aquitaine and black from Saguntum. Let every one choose
  according to his liking.

  _Crit._ What suggestion could be more delightful? as
  nothing is harder fortune than to perish of thirst.
  For myself I should prefer that you had set before
  us the best water. I would rather have heard such an
  announcement than that of the wines.

  _Scop._ Nor shall that be lacking.

  _Sim._ Lately when I was in Rome, I drank at a cardinal’s
  house, the noblest wines of every flavour; sweet, sharp,
  mild, fruity, and tart. I was indeed extremely friendly
  with the wine-cellarer.

  _Dem._ I dearly like fiery wine.

  _Pol._ So also do Belgian women. In some places in France
  they offer you the dregs of wine. They most delight in
  two and three year old vintage. But these are rather
  sampling of wine than real wine-drinking, and French
  wine especially bears neither the addition of water nor
  years. Therefore soon after it is racked off it is drunk.
  Indeed, in a year it begins to get worse, and becomes
  uncertain, then its flavour escapes and it becomes sour.
  Had it been kept longer it would become mouldy and flat.
  The Spanish and Italian wines, on the other hand, improve
  with age, and with the addition of water.

  _Dem._ What do you mean by wine getting “flat”? The casks
  become shrunken, the wine is enclosed in cells, and the
  casing of the cask falls in, if need be.

  _Pol._ Like as fruit gets uneatable through decay by age
  and does not keep, and, as we say commonly, goes bad. The
  opposite term is “still wine” (_consistens_).

  _Dem._ Pour me first a half-cupful of water and then pour
  in the wine, after the old custom.

  _Crit._ Nay, to-day’s custom is yet the same with many
  people, the French and Germans being exceptions.

  _Dem._ The nations who drink water with wine pour wine to
  the water; those who will drink wine watered, pour water
  on to the wine.

  _Crit._ And what do those drink who mix no water with
  their wine?

  _Dem._ Pure, unmixed wine.

  _Crit._ That is, if the wine-dealer did not first water
  it himself.

  _Pol._ They call that baptising it, so that the wine
  should be Christian. This was in my time a fine,
  philosophical way of speaking.

  _Dem._ They baptise the wine, and themselves are
  unbaptised (_i.e._, unwatered or unwashed).

  _Pol._ They do worse to wine who add chalk, sulphur,
  honey, alum, and other more noisome things than which
  nothing is more pernicious to one’s body. Against such
  people the state ought to proceed as against robbers or
  assassins. For thence are incredible kinds of diseases
  and especially gout.

  _Crit._ By conspiracy with physicians they can do this.
  Then both share the profit.

  _Dem._ The cup you reach to me is too full. Empty it a
  little, I beg, so that there may be a space for water.


_Drinking_

  _Crit._ Pour me wine in that chestnut-coloured cup. What
  is that?

  _Scop._ A great Indian nut, surrounded with a silver
  edge. Won’t you drink out of that bowl of ebony wood?
  They say that this is the healthiest. But don’t give me
  too much water. Don’t you know the old proverb: “You
  spoil wine when you pour water into it”?

  _Dem._ Yes, then you spoil both the water and the wine.

  _Pol._ I would rather spoil both, than be spoiled by one
  of them.

  _Scop._ Would it not be pleasant, according to the Greek
  custom, to drink out of the bowls and from the bigger
  beakers?

  _Pol._ By no means. You reminded us just now of the old
  proverb. In my turn I remind you of the Pauline precept:
  “Be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess”; and that
  of our Saviour: “And take heed to yourselves lest at
  any time your hearts be overcharged with surfeiting and
  drunkenness.”


_Water_

  _Crit._ Whence is this cold water, so pure and pellucid?

  _Scop._ Out of the spring near by here.

  _Crit._ Rather than mixing of wine I prefer cistern
  water, if it is thoroughly pure.

  _Dem._ What do you think of spring-drawn water?

  _Crit._ It is more appropriate for washing purposes than
  for drinking.

  _Pol._ Very many people commend flowing water.

  _Crit._ And quite rightly if the streams flow through
  gold veins, as in Spain, and the water is peaceful and
  clear.


_Beer_

  _Sim._ Bring me in that Samian phial some beer which, in
  this heat, should be very good for refreshing one’s body.

  _Scop._ Which sort of beer will you have?

  _Sim._ The lightest you have, for other kinds muddle the
  mind too much and make the body too fat.

  _Pol._ Give me some also, but in the round glass.

  _Scop._ Run to the kitchen and see what they are waiting
  for. Why don’t they send another course? You see that
  already no one further tastes of this. Bring young cocks
  cooked with lettuce, garden oxtongue, and endive; also
  mutton and calf’s flesh.

  _Crit._ Add also a little mustard or rock-parsley in
  small dishes.

  _Dem._ Mustard seems to me a strong (_violenta_) food.

  _Crit._ It is not suitable for bilious people, but is not
  without its usefulness for those who abound in thick and
  cold humours.

  _Pol._ Therefore are the countries of northern latitudes
  wise in using it, for whom it is of great service,
  especially with thick and hard food, _e.g._, with beef
  and salted fish.


_Pottage_

  _Scop._ In this place, I think broth and rice come
  seasonably, also ash-coloured bread, fine wheaten bread,
  starch-food, rice, “little worms” (_vermiculi_). Let
  every one take according to his taste.

  _Dem._ I have seen those who shuddered terribly at
  “little worms” because they believed they were out of the
  earth and from mud, and had previously been alive.

  _Crit._ Such people deserve to have these “worms” come to
  life again in their stomachs. They say that rice is born
  in water and dies in wine. Give me, therefore, wine.

  _Dem._ Drink not immediately after warm food. Eat first
  something cold and solid.

  _Crit._ What?

  _Dem._ A crust of bread, or a rissole or two of meat.


_Fish_

  _Sim._ Bah! fish and meat at the same sitting! To mix
  earth and sea. This is forbidden by physicians.

  _Scop._ Nay, rather physicians are pleased by it.

  _Sim._ I think it is because it is profitable to them.

  _Scop._ Why, then, do the physicians forbid it?

  _Sim._ I have made a mistake. I ought to have said
  that it is prohibited by the art of medicine, not by
  physicians. But what sort of fish is this?

  _Scop._ Place them in order. The first is roasted pike
  with vinegar and capers, then turbot cooked with the
  juice of pointed sorrel, fried soles, a fresh pike and
  a _capito_ (large-headed fish)—the salted pike serve
  for yourself—fresh roasted and salted tunny-fish, fresh
  _maenae_ (small sea fish) fried, pasties, in which are
  many bearded-fishes, _murenae_, and trout, with suitable
  relishes, fried gudgeon and boiled lobsters and crabs.
  Mingle with them dishes with garlic, pepper, mustard,
  pounded up.

  _Sim._ I will indeed speak of the fish, but not eat of
  them.

  _Crit._ If a philosopher begins to conduct a controversy
  on fish, _i.e._, on a most uncertain, debatable question,
  then let us have a bed set up, so that we can sleep here.

  _Scop._ No one is worthy to even taste these dishes. Take
  them away.

  _Sim._ And yet formerly banquets at Rome were most
  splendid and they were accustomed to say that sumptuous
  ones were given which consisted entirely of fish.

  _Crit._ Thus have times changed, although this custom
  also lasts with some people.


_Birds_

  _Scop._ Bring up roasted chickens, partridges, thrushes,
  ducklings, teal, wood-pigeons, rabbits, hares, calf’s
  flesh, kids, and sauce or flavours, vinegar, oil, fruit
  penetrating in its medical properties, also citrons,
  olives from the Balearic Islands, preserved, pressed, and
  kept in pickle.

  _Dem._ Are no Bethica (district of Spain) olives there?

  _Scop._ Those from the Balearic Islands taste better.

  _Crit._ What will happen to those big animals there, the
  goose, the swan, the peacock?

  _Scop._ Merely show them, and take them back to the
  kitchen.

  _Pol._ See there a peacock! Where is Q. Hortensius who
  held a peacock for such a delicacy?[76]

  _Sim._ Take the lamb-meat away.

  _Scop._ Why?

  _Sim._ Because it is unsound. They say it does not go out
  by any other way than that it entered.

  _Crit._ I have seen someone who swallowed olive stones
  like an ostrich.

  _Scop._ From what meat are those pasties made?

  _Crit._ This here is stag’s flesh.

  _Scop._ This is deer’s flesh; and that there, I believe,
  is boar’s flesh.

  _Crit._ I prefer the condiments to meat itself.

  _Sim._ And that is clearly right, for spice renders the
  sourest things sweet.

  _Crit._ What is the spice of the whole of life?

  _Dem._ An equable mind.

  _Crit._ I can name something else, which is of larger
  scope and more august.

  _Dem._ What can be more important than what I have named?

  _Crit._ _Pietas_, under which equanimity is included.
  Moreover, “piety” is the most suitable and pleasant sauce
  for all things hard and easy, and those things which lie
  between these extremes.

  _Scop._ Pour white Spanish wine in that beaker and bear
  it round to the guests.

  _Dem._ What are you preparing to do? When dinner is
  finished, bring us some strong and generous wine. We can
  afterwards drink something more diluted, if we wish to
  take care of our health.

  _Sim._ Thy counsel seems to me good, for it behoves us
  to have colder food at the end of a meal, which by its
  weight may thrust down the other food to the bottom of
  the stomach, and may restrain the vapours from escaping
  to the head.


III. _Second Course_

  _Scop._ Take away those things; change the round and
  square plates, and lay the second table (dessert). For
  no one is anywhere further stretching forth his hand to
  the dishes.

  _Crit._ I have eaten so heartily from the beginning that
  I have quite lost all further appetite.

  _Dem._ I also have no more appetite, but I was led on by
  the desire of the fruit dishes here, and so have eaten to
  satiety.

  _Pol._ I have eaten I don’t know how much fish. This has
  repulsed all my appetite.

  _Sim._ And is there so much of splendid dainties and
  delicacies before us when there is no longer the desire
  of eating? Pears, apples, and cheese of many kinds! The
  most attractive to my palate is the horse-cheese.

  _Crit._ I believe that it is not horse-cheese at all, but
  Phrygian cheese from asses’ milk, such as is brought from
  Sicily in the form of columns and squares. When one is
  broken, it cleaves into layers or, as it were, sheets (of
  paper).

  _Dem._ This cheese is porous as if it were from England,
  and will not in my opinion be pleasing to you.

  _Crit._ Nor will this spongy Dutch cheese. This from
  Parma is thicker and, as it seems, fairly fresh, and that
  Penasellian (Spanish) will easily vie with it.

  _Dem._ This cheese is not from Parma but Placentia.

  _Crit._ It also is pleasant. Commonly the cheese dearest
  to the Germans is old cheese, putrid, fried up and wormy.

  _Sim._ He who eats such cheese is hunting for thirst and
  he eats in order to drink.

  _Scop._ The pastry-cook delays too long with his sweets.
  Why does he not bring his tarts, his wine-cakes and
  cup-cakes and the fried cakes made of a concoction thrown
  into a vessel of boiling oil with honey poured over it?

  _Crit._ Give me a few dates, both some to eat and some to
  keep by me. Perhaps I shall to-night eat nothing else.

  _Scop._ Then take the whole of this branch of them. Will
  you have some pomegranates?

  _Pol._ Here, boy, relieve me of these wild dates and give
  me something eatable.

  _Scop._ I advise you to drink. Don’t you know that it was
  the opinion of Aristotle that the dessert was introduced
  into meals to invite us to drinking lest the food should
  be digested dry?

  _Crit._ The discoverer must have been either a sailor or
  fish to be so much afraid of dryness.

  _Scop._ Take away those things which are ordinarily
  called the seal of the stomach, because after them
  nothing more is to be eaten or drunk, biscuits,
  quince-cakes, coriander covered with sugar. But such food
  must be chewed, not eaten. What remains from the portion
  chewed must be spit out, for it is uneatable. Collect
  the bits and what remains over in baskets; bring scented
  waters, of rose, of the flowers of the healing apple
  (citron), and of musk-melon.


IV. _End of the Banquet_

  _Pol._ Let us return thanks to Christ.

  _The Boy._

  Agimus tibi gratias, Pater, qui tam multa ad hominum usus
  condidisti: annue, ut tuo favore ad coenam illam veniamus
  tuae beatitudinis.[77]

_Pol._ Now then let us return thanks to the host.

_Crit._ Well, you do it.

_Pol._ Nay, rather Democritus, who is strong on these points.

_Dem._ I cannot return thanks as in duty bound to thee, deserving well
of the republic, for all has been confused by Bacchus, but I will
recite what once Diogenes said to Dionysius; I have committed his
speech to memory. If I have a lapse of memory or a faltering tongue you
will forgive me after so great a soaking of drink.

_Scop._ Say what you will; it will be written in wine.

_Dem._ Thou hast, my Scopas, thyself, thy wife, thy man-servants and
maid-servants, neighbours, cooks, and pastry-cooks, wearied thyself
and themselves, so that we may become yet more wearied by eating and
drinking. When Socrates had entered a very crowded market, he exclaimed
wisely, “O immortal gods, how many things there are here which I don’t
need.” Thou, on the contrary, mightest say, “What a small part is
all this of that which I need.” The idea of moderation is pleasing
to Nature. Thereon it is formed and supported. This supply of many
and manifold things overwhelms Nature, as Pliny rightly observes.
Manifoldness of food is injurious to man; yet more injurious is every
sauce. We take hence to our homes bodies made heavy by these things,
minds oppressed and sunk in food and drinks, so that we cannot duly
perform any human duty. Do you yourself point out what thanks we owe
you.

_Scop._ Are these the thanks you have for me? Thus you pay back so
splendid a meal!

_Pol._ Clearly it is so—for what greater benefit is there than becoming
wiser? You send us home evidently beasts. We wish to leave you at home
a man, so that you may know how to consult your own health and that of
others and to live conformably to the desires of Nature, not following
fancies caught up from folly. Farewell and learn wisdom.




XVIII

EBRIETAS—_Drunkenness_


ASOTUS, TRICONGIUS, ABSTEMIUS, GLAUCIA

In this dialogue Vives describes the causes and effects of drunkenness.
The occasion of the dialogue is based on Horace, book i. Epist. 5,
where firstly is described the desire to cast away care by a splendid
feast, to drink the best wines freely and in quantities, for Horace
says:

  Potare et spargere flores
  Incipiam patiarque vel inconsultus haberi.

Then he adds the seven effects of drunkenness. It causes the disclosure
of secrets, renders men confident, makes them bold, takes away anxiety,
brings the fatuous impression of wisdom, makes men garrulous and
loquacious, and in the depth of poverty renders men dissolute and
lavish.

  Quid non ebrietas designat? operta recludit:
  Spes jubet esse ratas, in praelia trudit inermem.
  Sollicitis animis onus eximit, addocet artes.
  Foecundi calices quem non fecêre disertum?
  Contractâ quem non in paupertate solutum?

Here, again, names of interlocutors are aptly applied. Asotus (middle
vowel long) is a man given up to luxuries of the palate. In Latin
such is called _heluo_ (glutton), _nepos_ (spendthrift), _decoctor_
(bankrupt). The Greek word comes from a privative particle, and σώζω;
Latin, _servo_. _See_ Cicero, book 2, _de Finibus_: “Nolim asotos, qui
in mensam vomant, et qui de conviviis auferantur, crudique nostridie
se rursus ingurgitent; qui solem (ut aiunt) nec occidentem unquam
viderint, nec orientem: qui consumtis patrimoniis egeant. Nemo istius
generis asotos jucunde putat vivere.”

Concerning Tricongius we have spoken in the dialogue “Garrientes.”
Abstemius is one who does not drink wine, as if held back, _i.e._ from
wine. There are two parts to the dialogue, the Exordium, which contains
the occasion of the dialogue, and Narratio, the telling of the story.


I. _Exordium_

  _Asot._ What do you say, Tricongius? How splendidly that
  Brabantian entertained us yesterday!

  _Tric._ A curse on him, for I could not rest the whole
  night! I was sick, with all due respect to you let me say
  it (_sit habitus honos vestris auribus_), and then tossed
  myself about all over the bed, now on the inner, then
  on the outer, frame of the bed. It seemed to me as if I
  should vomit forth throat and stomach. Even now I cannot
  use my eyes or ears for headache. It is as if I had heavy
  bars of lead lying on my forehead and eyes.

  _Asot._ Fasten a band round your forehead and temples,
  and you will seem to be a king.

  _Tric._ Much rather like Bacchus himself, from whom the
  institution of diadems on kings was derived.

  _Asot._ Go home, then, and sleep off the soaking.

  _Tric._ Home, indeed! There is no place I should shun
  so much as my home. I should feel too much aversion to
  meet my shrieking wife. For if she were to see me now she
  would entertain me with longer homilies than Chrysostom.

  _Abstem._ And this is what you call being treated
  splendidly!

  _Glauc._ Clearly so; for your throat and stomach have
  been well washed!

  _Abstem._ And the hands too?

  _Glauc._ Not even once.

  _Asot._ Nay, on the contrary, often with wine and milk,
  whilst we dipped our hands in one another’s bowls
  (_pateras_).

  _Glauc._ What could be said more splendidly? Fancy the
  fingers sticking with the fat of meat and with sauces.

  _Abstem._ By the gods, keep quiet! Who could listen
  without nausea to the unclean business, much less look
  upon it, or taste of such wine or milk.

  _Asot._ By your faith, ye gods! are you so delicate a
  man, Abstemius, that you cannot swallow this even with
  your ears? What would you do with your palate, if you
  were like us? But listen to me, Tricongius, sweetest
  fellow-wine-bibber, let us send some boy to fetch us
  some of the same wine in that clay vessel. There is no
  surer antidote against this poison.

  _Tric._ Has this been tried?

  _Asot._ Why should it not be so? Don’t you remember the
  verses which Colax sings:—

  Ad sanandum morsum canis nocturni,
  Sume ex pilis eiusdem canis.[78]

  PLAUTUS.

  _Glauc._ Tell us, I beg you, all about the banquet.

  _Abstem._ Nay, don’t! unless you wish me to part with all
  I have in my stomach, and even the vitals themselves.

  _Glauc._ Then go away for a short time.

  _Asot._ I will tell you as frankly as possible, but so as
  nowhere to go beyond the limits of decency.

  _Glauc._ Begin, I beseech you. Give your attention,
  Abstemius.

  _Asot._ My dear Glaucia, before everything, I am of
  opinion that there is no class of men which can be
  likened to festive and liberal hosts at banquets. Some
  show knowledge of all kinds of things, _i.e._, of mere
  trifles; others show with pride, experience, and wisdom
  gathered from practice. And what of this? There are
  people who indeed have wealth, but, wretched that they
  are, they don’t dare to spend it. What they have, they
  take pleasure in storing up. A kindly host is everywhere
  of use, everywhere is welcome. The very sight of him is
  sufficient to heal the sadness of the mind and scatter
  it; and if a man has any wretchedness, the memory of
  the feast takes it away. So, too, does the hope and
  expectation of a coming feast. All the other so-called
  mental blessings I don’t care to look on; they are, to
  me, slight and unfruitful.

  _Abstem._ I ask you, Asotus, who is the author of such a
  fine sentiment?

  _Asot._ I and all like me, _i.e._, a host of people
  from Belgic France, from the Seine to the Rhine. There
  are only a few poor and very sparing men who think
  differently, who envy Abstemius his name, and wish to be
  called frugal, or else certain distinguished people who
  are puffed up with a great opinion of their own wisdom,
  _i.e._, an empty word, whom we (_i.e._, the greatest and
  chief part of mankind) simply laugh at.

  _Abstem._ What do I hear?


_Digression_

  _Glauc._ He is quite right, though he is drunk. For
  nowhere has scholarship less estimation than in Belgium.
  A distinguished man in scholarship is not otherwise
  esteemed than one who is occupied in shoe-making or in
  weaving.

  _Abstem._ And yet there are many students here who make
  not altogether unsatisfactory progress.

  _Glauc._ Yes. Little boys are led by their parents to
  the schools as to an operative shop, by which afterwards
  they can derive a living. The very teachers themselves,
  incredible to say, as little as the pupils, cherish the
  occupation they follow with such slight honour and with
  such meagre reward, so that illustrious teachers of the
  first rank can scarcely maintain themselves.

  _Asot._ This has nothing to do with the subject of our
  conversation. Let us return to the banquet.

  _Glauc._ Yes, I would rather hear about that, but dismiss
  this talk about studies, which are certainly unfruitful.
  I know not how you Italians think about scholarship.
  In my eyes, it seems to me not only useless but even
  pernicious (_damnosa_).

  _Abstem._ So it seems to an ox and a pig, as it does to
  you. We, too, should think the same if we had not more
  intelligence than you.


II. _The Exposition (Narratio)_

  _Asot._ If we let you go on, there would be no end.
  Therefore, listen. First, we all of us reclined, severe
  and serious. Grace was said, and everywhere was silence
  and quiet. Every one began to get his knife ready. We put
  on the appearance not of eagerness but of restraint (_non
  invitatorum sed invitorum_), so that you would have said
  that we were compelled to eat, and in the act of eating,
  did it as if reluctantly, for our mind had not as yet
  warmed with the ardour of spontaneity. Each one placed
  his napkin over his shoulders; some indeed in front of
  their chests. Others spread the tablecloth over their
  knees. One takes bread, looks at it, cleans it, if there
  is any coal or cinders lining it. All these things are
  done gently and lingeringly (_cunctabunde_).


_Cause_

  Some began the meal by drinking; others, before they
  drank, took a little salad and salted beef to arouse
  their sleeping appetite and to stimulate their languor.
  The first cup was of beer, so that there might be a cold,
  firm foundation underlaid for the warmth of wine. Then
  that holy liquor was brought first in narrow and small
  cups, which should rather irritate than assuage thirst.
  The host was a very festive man, than whom there was none
  better in the whole neighbourhood, nor even his equal,
  _i.e._, in my opinion (which may be said without injury
  to any one). He then orders the largest of cups to be
  brought and a beginning was made of drinking liberally,
  after the Greek fashion, as a certain Philo-Greek said,
  who once had studied at Lyons. Then we began to talk,
  and then to get warm. Everywhere joviality and laughing
  became general. Oh, feasts and nights of the gods! We
  drank to one another’s health, and returned like for
  like, with great equity. It would have been unjust to
  gain a point over one’s companion, especially at such a
  time.

  _Abstem._ Rightly, if it were merely a question of a
  chalice of wine, but it is one’s senses and intellect
  which are in question, the chief possessions of man. But
  if we are to talk over so copious and festive a subject,
  first I must ask of you whether you are drunk?

  _Asot._ No, certainly not. This you can easily and truly
  see from the connectedness of my talk. Do you think, if
  I were drunk, that I could relate all this in such an
  orderly fashion?

  _Abstem._ Then it is well, for otherwise I should be
  contending with an absent opponent, according to the
  verse of Mimus. But tell me now, first, why don’t you
  erect a temple in these parts to Bacchus, the discoverer
  of this celestial liquor?

  _Asot._ This is your business; you, who have a temple
  at Rome of Sergius and Bacchus. It is sufficient for us
  daily to follow his rites, wherever we are. And perchance
  we should erect a temple for him if it were settled he
  was the discoverer, for I have heard certain students
  debate the question. There are some who think that Noah
  was the first who drank wine and was intoxicated by it.

  _Abstem._ Let us leave that point! Tell us what wine you
  had.

  _Asot._ What concerns us is what sort of wine it is and
  whence it came. Let it only have the name and colour of
  wine, that is sufficient for us. For these delicacies in
  wines let the Frenchman and the Italian seek.

  _Abstem._ What enjoyment can there then be if you don’t
  at all taste what you are pouring into your body?

  _Tric._ Perchance some taste something at the beginning
  with the palate whole. But when it becomes palled from so
  great a superfluity, things lose all their taste.

  _Abstem._ If thirst has been quenched, no pleasure
  remains. For this consists only in the satisfaction
  of natural needs. So it is a kind of torment to go on
  drinking when there is no thirst, or to eat when there is
  no hunger.

  _Tric._ Don’t you think, then, Abstemius, that we drink
  for pleasure or because it is pleasant?

  _Abstem._ Then you are so much worse than beasts, who are
  controlled by natural desires, whilst reason does not
  govern you, nor nature exercise a control over you.

  _Tric._ Good fellowship leads us to that point; and in
  spite of reason we get drunk little by little.

  _Abstem._ How often have you been drunk? how often do you
  see others drunk?

  _Tric._ Every day, very many.

  _Abstem._ Don’t then so many experiments satisfy you so
  as to put you on your guard against so disgraceful an
  event? Even one such experience would suffice for an
  animal!

  _Glauc._ But do you know also how dear our companions
  are, for whose sake men become beasts? Whilst drinking
  they would give their very hearts for them. When they
  meet afterwards, they hardly know them! Their very life
  and soul they would not redeem for the sum of a sesterce.

  _Abstem._ Out of what sort of cups and how did you quaff
  the wine?

  _Asot._ In the first place there were brought glass cups;
  a little time afterwards, on account of the danger,
  these were taken away and silver ones presented. In the
  wine at first we put herbs, which the season of the year
  provided, a little time afterwards, flesh-broth, milk,
  butter, and pap.

  _Abstem._ Oh, filth, which would not be borne by animals!

  _Tric._ How much more tragically (τραγικὼτερον) you would
  call out if you knew that they plunged their dirty hands
  into one another’s wine and cast in the shells of eggs,
  fruit and nuts, and the stones of olives and prunes.

  _Abstem._ Cease from this description, if you don’t wish
  me to take myself off hence to some woods.

  _Tric._ Listen to me, Glaucia. I will speak in your ear.
  Some people carry a hunting-bugle when taking a journey,
  which is full of dust, straws, fluff, and other dirty
  things. Out of this we drank.

  _Glauc._ What?

  _Tric._ What, indeed? wine?

  _Glauc._ Nay, rather say your understanding.

  _Tric._ Clearly it is so. And after we had drunk the
  understanding we took pots (_matuli_), not altogether
  clean, from off a stool and used them for cups.


_Effects_

  _Abstem._ How ended the banquet—the story of which sounds
  like a fable?

  _Asot._ The floors swam with wine. We were all drunk,
  especially the host, a strong man. Two or three were
  lying down under the table, overcome by a great victory.

  _Abstem._ O glorious victory, and in a very beautiful and
  glorious conflict! But did wine overcome every one?

  _Asot._ Even so.

  _Abstem._ Wretched man, what do you think drunkenness is?

  _Asot._ A fine thing! It is to give oneself up to one’s
  genius.

  _Abstem._ Yes, but which genius, your good one or your
  bad one?

  _Glauc._ If you will rightly look into all these matters,
  you will never find which genius they give themselves up
  to. For it is neither to the heart, nor to pleasure,
  nor any other cause for which others indulge, who follow
  vices and the depraved desires of the mind. To be drunk
  is different. It is to lose the power of the senses,
  to go away from the power of reasoning, of judgment;
  clearly, from being a man to become either cattle or,
  indeed, a stone. What follows afterwards I can easily
  imagine, had I never seen a drunkard; to speak, and not
  to know what you are saying; if any secret, of especial
  importance not to be divulged, is committed to you,
  to blab it out, and to say things which may lead into
  grave danger yourself, your people, and often your whole
  province and fatherland, to have no discrimination of
  friend and foe, of wife and mother—and it leads to
  quarrels, contentions, enmities, snares, wounds, maiming,
  killing!

  _Tric._ Even without sword and blood, for not a few pass
  on from drunkenness to death.

  _Glauc._ Who would not prefer to be shut up at home with
  a dog or a cat than with a drunkard? For those animals
  have more intellect in them than the drunkard.

  _Abstem._ After the drunkenness follows indigestion,
  weakening of the nerves, paralysis, the tortures of gout,
  heaviness in the head and the whole body, dulness of all
  the senses; memory is extinguished; the sharpness of the
  intellect is stunned; thence there is a stupor in the
  whole mind which precludes intelligence, wisdom, and
  eloquence.

  _Asot._ Now I begin to understand what a serious evil
  drunkenness is; henceforward, I will take the keenest
  pains to drink up to the point of cheerfulness, not to
  that of drunkenness.

  _Glauc._ Joviality is the gate of drunkenness. No one
  comes to be drunk with the idea in his mind that he will
  get drunk; but he is exhilarated by drinking; then going
  on and on, drunkenness follows afterwards, for it is
  difficult to place the bounds of joviality and to remain
  in it. Slippery is the step from joviality to drunkenness!

  _Abstem._ So long as thou hast the wine in the beaker, it
  is in thy power; when thou hast it in thy body, thou art
  in the power of the wine. Then you are held and do not
  hold. When you drink, you treat wine as you like. When
  you have drunk, it will treat you as it likes.

  _Asot._ What then? Are we never to drink?

  _Abstem._ When fools avoid their vices, they run into the
  opposite extremes. We must, indeed, quench thirst, but
  not be “drinkers.” Nature on this point teaches beasts
  alone. The same nature will not teach man, because he
  possesses reason. You eat when you are hungry; you drink
  when you are thirsty. Hunger and thirst will warn you how
  much, when, to what extent, we must eat and drink.

  _Asot._ What if I am always thirsty, and if I cannot
  assuage my thirst except by getting drunk?

  _Abstem._ Then drink what cannot possibly make you drunk.

  _Asot._ The constitution of my body won’t permit that.

  _Abstem._ If then you had such hunger that by no amount
  of food you could satisfy it unless you were to burst
  yourself, what then?

  _Asot._ That indeed would not be hunger, but disease.

  _Abstem._ There would surely be need of medicine, not
  meals, to take away that hunger, wouldn’t there?

  _Asot._ Certainly.

  _Abstem._ So needest thou for such a thirst a physician,
  not an inn-keeper, and a drug from the chemist, not one
  fetched from the providers of banquets. What you describe
  is not thirst but disease, and a perilous one, too!




XIX

REGIA—_The King’s Palace_

AGRIUS, SOPHRONIUS, HOLOCOLAX


  In this dialogue, the Royal Dwelling or Palace and its
  parts, persons, and functions are described, as to which
  see Vincentius Lupanas, in his book _de Magistratibus
  Francorum_. For our Vives here chiefly describes the
  palace of a French king. The persons represented in the
  dialogue are fitly named from the Greek. For Agrius is
  with them a country rustic, unskilled in court-life.
  Sophronius is a prudent, modest, and cautious man.
  Holocolax is altogether a flatterer, and one who (as
  Terence says) has commanded himself to agree to
  everything, of which sort of men there is always so
  large an assembly in courts. There are two parts of the
  dialogue, the Exordium and Narratio.


I. _Introduction (Exordium)_

  _Agri._ Why is it so many accompany the king in such
  varied styles of dress?

  _Soph._ Nay, rather look on their countenances than on
  their finery. For their faces are more varied and diverse
  than their decorations and clothes.

  _Agri._ What reason is there for this difference also of
  bearing?


_Apparel—The Countenance_

  _Soph._ They are clothed differently according to their
  means; differently according to their rank or family,
  often even according to their ambitions or vanity.
  Many also use elegancy of dress as an angle and net
  for catching the favour of the king or of his chief
  officers, and, not rarely, for winning the maids of his
  court. But the expression of outward countenance follows
  the stirrings of the mind, and such outward expression
  is nearly always such as is prompted by the inner
  disposition of the mind.

  _Agri._ But why do so many men meet here together?

  _Holo._ Is it not fitting that very many people should
  come where the capital and government of the whole
  province are seated?

  _Soph._ Quite so. But most people regard not so much
  the commonwealth as their private good. They follow the
  government, not because it has the country in its hand,
  but because it has fortunes to bestow.

  _Holo._ Why not? Since all things are sold for money.

  _Soph._ So they think who don’t possess any soul and
  mind, but whose health and gifts of body are only common.

  _Agri._ What need is there in this tumult of the court
  to hold so great a philosophical speculation? I indeed
  should prefer to understand from you what sort of
  people these are in such great numbers, in such varied
  appearances and fashions.

  _Holo._ I will tell you of them all, in their rank. For
  Sophronius, as far as I know, is not so well versed in
  royal matters. But I have been in royal company of all
  kinds; I have penetrated, inspected, and seen thoroughly
  their courts, and I have always been acceptable and
  pleasing to them all.

  _Soph._ Thence I suppose it is that you have gained that
  name of yours, Holocolax.


II. _Exposition (Narratio)—The King_

  _Holo._ You suppose rightly. But do you, Agrius, listen
  to me. He yonder, on whom every ear, eye, mind, is
  intent, is the king, the head of the kingdom.

  _Soph._ Truly the head, and so the health when he is
  wise and honest, but the ruin when he is bad or rash
  (_demens_).


_The Dauphin—Dignitaries—Prefects_

  _Holo._ The little boy who follows him is his son, his
  heir, whom in the Greek court they called despot, that
  is, lord (_dominus_). In Spain they call him prince, in
  France the dauphin. There with a neck-chain, like that
  of Torquatus, in clothes all of silk, or all of gold,
  are the leaders of the kingdom, with the decorations of
  names of military dignitaries, princes, dukes, lords of
  the marches, who are called _marchiones_, counts, men who
  are named barbarously, barons, knights. This one is the
  master of the horse, whom they call by the vulgar term
  of _comes stabilis_, a name taken from the Greek court,
  when the great Comestabulus (Constable) was, as it were,
  the prefect of the sea, the admiral. Further, he was
  supreme over the palace, and also was at the head of the
  guards. In the time of Romulus they named such an one
  _praefectus celerum_, and the guards themselves _celeres_.

  _Agri._ Who are those in robes reaching to the ankles,
  and with faces of great severity?


_Counsellors_

  _Holo._ They are the counsellors of the king.

  _Soph._ Those whom the prince calls to his council. It
  behoves them to be the most prudent of men, of great
  experience, of the greatest weight and moderation in
  their discernment.

  _Agri._ Why so?

  _Soph._ Because they are the eyes and ears of the prince,
  and so of the whole kingdom, and so much the more if the
  king should be blind or deaf, enslaved by his senses, or
  by ignorance, or by enjoyment of pleasure.

  _Agri._ Are that one-eyed man and that other deaf man
  eyes and ears of the king?

  _Soph._ Worse still is blindness and deafness of the
  heart!


_Secretaries_

  _Holo._ The secretaries follow the counsellors, nor
  are they few in number or of one rank; then those who
  deal in money matters for the king, or those who get it
  in, farmers of the taxes, treasury-tribunes, prefects,
  procurators, and advocates of the treasury.

  _Agri._ Who are those luxuriously decked and festive
  young men who always follow the king and stand at his
  side, some laughing at him and others with open mouth,
  full of wonder at what he says?


_Courtiers_

  _Holo._ These are a band of intimate friends, the delight
  and joy of the king.

  _Agri._ Why are the two who are entering there followed
  by so many men full of grimaces?


_Chancellor—Secretary—Litigants—Prefect of the Bed-chamber_

  _Holo._ Because the king has in them especial confidence.
  The one is the prefect of the sacred writings, or chief
  secretary; the other the keeper of the secret archives,
  amongst which are the official statistics (_regni
  breviarium_). He has to remind the king of everything.
  Therefore daily so many come to him, so that they may
  rub up and renew his memory, since that is the keeping
  of the memory of the prince. Those who draw in their
  countenances are litigants, who are prosecuting their
  suits. Their business never finds an end, through the
  long series of procrastinations which are kept up. Those
  two who keep walking up and down the hall are prefects,
  the one of the sleeping-chamber, the other of the royal
  stables. These have under them very many other chamber
  and stable attendants. But let us enter the royal
  dining-hall.

  _Agri._ Ah, how great a crowd solicitous and stately in
  their pomp!

  _Soph._ You would observe these with still greater
  amazement if you knew how small a matter they are
  attending to. It is, forsooth, this: it is how a sick man
  may suck up a single egg and drink a little wine.


_Master of the Feast_

  _Holo._ That man is the master of the feast for this
  week. There he is with an Indian who has a plait of
  rushes on him. That young man is the cup-bearer. The
  carver has not yet entered.

  _Agri._ Who are about to have their breakfast
  (_pransuri_) with the king?

  _Holo._ You mean who is so lucky as to take part in this
  feast of the gods?

  _Soph._ Formerly guests were invited to the royal table,
  sometimes experienced military commanders, sometimes men
  of high lineage, or sometimes those distinguished either
  by experience in affairs, or by their learning, by whose
  discourse the king would become better and wiser. But the
  pride of Goths and other barbarians has invaded this our
  custom.

  _Holo._ The chief followers have their grown-up
  armour-bearers and their boy-followers, boys on foot and
  spurred boys. Amongst these are quite magnificent, rich
  people, who most of them take their meals in correct
  fashion, or if this seems to them wearisome, they send
  basketfuls to their friends. This latter custom is more
  useful to their poorer friends. But the correct fashion
  of feasting has more distinction in it.

  _Agri._ I seem to see quite another sort of people in
  that eating-chamber.


_Ladies’ Quarters_

  _Holo._ Those are the ladies’ quarters, where the queen
  lives with her matrons and girls. Look how they enter and
  go out from the hall (_ex parthenone_) like as bees from
  a hive—young lovers and slaves of Cupid!

  _Soph._ Often old people have a second childhood.

  _Holo._ There is no greater pleasure than to hear the
  keenly thought-out sayings, or poems, songs, early
  morning (_antelucanus_) melodies, and chat of these
  girls, to see their briskness, their walking in and out,
  varieties of colour in their dress, their clothing and
  shapes of garments. They have boys as amanuenses, through
  whom they send and return messages. With what zeal and
  what industry, what breeding, they announce and bring
  back messages, hither and thither. By the faith of the
  gods! with uncovered heads, with bent hams and bowed
  knees. Every day there is something new to be heard,
  seen, and pondered over; something which has been acutely
  or subtly thought out or said, or done with spirit, or
  dexterously, or without restraint.

  _Soph._ Nay, rather in a négligé way.

  _Holo._ What greater happiness? Who could tear himself
  away from such delight?

  _Soph._ Colax, Colax, without being in love you
  are raving, and without wine, you are drunk. What
  foolishness could be greater than what has been described
  by you?

  _Holo._ I don’t know how it happens that you see heaps of
  people depart from the schools quite young, but let them
  once enter the court, they become old in it.

  _Soph._ So also those who drank from the cup of Circe
  would be unwilling to yield and return to their human
  nature and condition, having once lost their reason, and
  having degenerated into the nature of beasts!

  _Agri._ But what do all these do when they go home, and
  with what actions do they occupy themselves to pass the
  time, at least?


_Leisure Time—Flattery_

  _Soph._ The most of them do nothing more serious than
  what you now observe them doing, and then their leisure
  is for them the parent and nurse of many vices. Some play
  at dice, cards, the gaming-board, at disputations; others
  pass the afternoon hours in secret slander and artful
  calumny, that is to what they degenerate at home. Many
  also are wonderfully taken up with buffoons and jugglers,
  towards whom those who are at other times niggardly and
  sordid, to them they are most lavish. But the chief
  corruption of the court is the flattery of each to all
  the others, and, what is still worse, towards himself.
  This brings it about that no one ever hears salutary
  truths either from himself nor from his companions unless
  when at strife. And though he receives then all too
  little of truth, he takes it as insult.

  _Holo._ This employment is now by far the most
  profitable. _You_ may hunger and thirst after the love of
  speaking and truth. _I_ have become rich by my smiling,
  blandishments, and by approving and praising everything.

  _Agri._ Could not the kings alter these unsatisfactory
  matters?

  _Soph._ Very easily, if they only wished to do so! But
  these fashions are pleasing; they are similar to their
  own. Others are precluded by their preoccupations, on
  account of which they never have leisure for doing
  anything which is right or thinking anything which
  is sane. There are also not lacking those who, with
  indulgent minds and careless themselves, don’t think
  the morality of their own homes, and that of their
  dependants, any concern of theirs. And those things
  trouble them less than the private home of each of us
  troubles any of us.




XX

PRINCEPS PUER—_The Young Prince_

MOROBULUS, PHILIPPUS, SOPHOBULUS


  This dialogue is entirely “political,” for Vives lays
  down the precepts to the boy prince, and teaches the
  art of good government. The names are aptly bestowed.
  Morobulus is a foolish counsellor, _à_ μωρὸς, foolish,
  βουλὴ, counsel; Sophobulus, a prudent counsellor. There
  are two parts of the dialogue.


  INSTITUTIO


  _Morobuli de_ { Inutilitate studiorum
                { Praeceptoribus

                { Quod principi sit necessaria: idque ostendit
                { tribus similitudinibus
  _Sophobuli_   {
  _de arte_     { Quomodo    { Doctrina: ubi    { Sint
  _gubernandi_  { comparanda { ostendit, quinam {
                { sit        { Consulendi       { Non
                             { Ocii fuga        { sint


I. _The Teaching of Morobulus—The Study of Literature_

  _Morob._ What has your highness in hand, Philip?

  _Phil._ I read and learn with zeal, as you can see for
  yourself.

  _Morob._ I see only too well, and am pained that you
  weary yourself, and that you are making that little body
  of yours quite lean!

  _Phil._ What then should I do?

  _Morob._ That which other nobles, princes, and rich men
  do—ride about, chat with the daughters of your august
  mother, dance, learn the art of bearing arms, play cards
  or ball, leap and run. Such, you see, are the studies
  in which young nobles most delight. If now people, who
  scarcely are worthy to be received in your family, enjoy
  these pleasant occupations, why is it suitable for you to
  do as you are doing, when you are the son and heir of so
  great a prince?

  _Phil._ What! is the study of letters no good?

  _Morob._ It is indeed of good, but rather for those
  who are initiated in holy affairs, _i.e._, priests, or
  for those who, by useful knowledge of their art, are
  about to earn their living, such as the shoemaker’s
  art, the weaving art, and the other arts necessary for
  money-making. Rise, I beg of you, put away your books
  from your hands. Let us go out for a walk, so that for
  some short time you may get fresh air!

  _Phil._ I may not do so just now, because of Stunica and
  Siliceus.

  _Morob._ Who are these Stunica and Siliceus? Are they not
  your subjects, over whom you have the command, not they
  over you?


_Teachers_

  _Phil._ Stunica is my educator, while Siliceus is my
  literary tutor. Subjects of mine indeed they are, or to
  speak more exactly, of my father; but my father, to whom
  I am subject, placed them over me, and subjected me to
  them.

  _Morob._ What then! Did your father give your highness
  into servitude to these men?

  _Phil._ I don’t know.

  _Morob._ Oh! most unworthy deed!


II. _The Teaching of Sophobulus_

  _Soph._ By no means, my son! Certainly he made them thy
  servants; he wished them to stick close to thee, as eyes,
  ears, soul, and mind, to be always engaged on thy behalf,
  each of them to put aside his own affairs, and to make
  thy affairs his sole business, not so as to vex thee by
  imperiousness; but that those good and wise men should
  transform thy uncultivated manners into the virtue,
  glory, and excellence of a man; not so as to make thee a
  slave, but truly a free man and truly a prince. If thou
  dost not obey them, then wilt thou be a slave of the
  lowest order, worse than those here amongst us who are
  employed, bought and sold from Ethiopia or Africa.

  _Morob._ Whose slave, then, would he be, if he did not
  mould his morals after his educators?

  _Soph._ Not of men certainly, but of vices, which are
  more importunate masters, and more intolerable than a
  dishonest and wicked man!

  _Phil._ I don’t quite understand what you say.

  _Soph._ But did you understand Morobulus?

  _Phil._ Most clearly, everything.

  _Soph._ Oh, how happy men would be, if they had the sense
  and intelligence for good and satisfactory things which
  they have for frivolous and bad things! Now indeed,
  on the contrary, at your time of life, it happens that
  you understand with ease what is trifling, what is
  inept, nay, even what is insane, such things as those to
  which Morobulus has exhorted you, and then you regard
  what I would say on virtue, dignity, and every kind of
  praiseworthy thing, as if I were speaking Arabic or
  Gothic.

  _Phil._ What, then, are you of opinion I ought to do?

  _Soph._ You should at least suspend your judgment.
  Neither acquiesce in the opinions of Morobulus, nor in
  mine, until you are able to judge as to both.


_The Act of Governing_

  _Phil._ Who will give me this power of judgment?

  _Soph._ Ah! that will come with age, teaching, and
  experience.

  _Morob._ Alas! that would require long weariness of
  waiting!


_First Similitude_

  _Soph._ Morobulus advises well. Throw away your books.
  Let us go and play! Let us play a game in which one is
  elected king. He will prescribe to the others what should
  be done. The rest obey, according to the laws of the
  game. You shall be king.

  _Phil._ How shall the game be? For if I don’t know the
  game, how shall I be able to take the part of king in it?


_Second Similitude_

  _Soph._ What are you saying, sweetest little Philip, the
  darling of Spain? You would not dare to undertake to
  rule in a game, not knowing it, in a game and frivolous
  matters, in which a mistake brings no particular danger;
  and you are willing seriously to undertake to rule so
  many and so great kingdoms, ignorant of the condition of
  the people and of the laws of administration, although
  uninstructed in all prudence, and only knowing the
  ridiculous trivialities, which Morobulus here instils
  in your mind? Ah! my boy, tell the Master of the Horse
  to lead forth hither that Neapolitan horse, the most
  ferocious kicker, and the one given to throw his rider to
  the ground, and let Philip ride him!

  _Phil._ By no means that one, but another and safer one.
  For I have not as yet learned the art of managing a
  refractory horse, and I have not the strength for it!


_Third Similitude_

  _Soph._ Well, Philip, let me ask you whether you think
  that a lion is equally fierce as a horse; or that a horse
  will kick and be refractory, and less obedient to the
  bridle than people, and the host of men in a country who
  come together and congregate from every kind of vice,
  passion, crime, and evil deed; from agitations which have
  been fanned so as to be incensed, inflamed, burning into
  flame? You would not dare to mount a horse, while you
  demand that you should rule over a people, more difficult
  still to govern and manage than any horse! But let us
  dismiss this illustration. Do you see that boat on the
  river? The navigation is most pleasant and delightful
  between the meadows and the willow-plantings. Come, let
  us go down to it. You shall sit at the rudder and guide
  the boat.

  _Phil._ Yes, indeed! and overturn you and plunge you into
  the water, as Pimentellulus lately did!

  _Soph._ What! you are not willing to guide a boat, on
  a stream so even and so calm, because untrained, and
  yet you will commit yourself to that sea, to those
  waves and tides, to that tempest of the people, without
  knowledge and without experience? Evidently it has
  befallen you as it did Phaethon, who was ignorant of the
  art of charioteering, and yet, with youthful ardour,
  he requested that he might take the management of his
  father’s chariot! I think that story is known to you.
  Isocrates used to say excellently, that the two greatest
  offices in the life of men were those of the prince and
  the priest. No one, he said, should seek after them,
  unless he were worthy. No one should believe himself able
  rightly to rule, unless he were the most prudent man in
  the kingdom.

  _Phil._ I see that nothing is so necessary for my person
  and station as the knowledge of the art and skill of
  ruling a kingdom.

  _Soph._ Evidently you grasp the matter.

  _Phil._ How can I pursue my duty?


_How the Art of Governing is to be Acquired_

  _Soph._ Hast thou received the knowledge of governing at
  thy birth?

  _Phil._ Indeed, no!

  _Soph._ By what means, then, canst thou get to know
  except by learning?

  _Phil._ There is no other way.

  _Soph._ With what countenance, then, can Morobulus
  advise you, that you should throw away your studies, by
  which you may obtain experience in your art, as well as
  knowledge of other subjects of the greatest and most
  attractive kind?

  _Phil._ From whom, then, can knowledge of these subjects
  be obtained?

  _Soph._ From those who have reflected on them, and
  observed them as they have been manifested in the
  greatest minds, of whom some are dead, others living.

  _Phil._ But how can we learn from the dead? Can the dead
  speak?

  _Soph._ Have you never in conversation heard the names of
  Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca, Livy, Plutarch?


1. _Teachers no longer Living_

  _Phil._ These are great names! I have heard them spoken
  of often, and with great admiration and praise.

  _Soph._ These very names and many others like them,
  already departed from this life, will talk with you as
  often and as much as you like.

  _Phil._ How?

  _Soph._ In books, which they have left behind for the
  benefit of posterity.

  _Phil._ How is it that these are not already in my hand?

  _Soph._ They shall be given to you soon, after you have
  learned that language, in which you will be able to
  understand what they say. Only wait a little, and go
  through with the short burden which must be endured in
  receiving the elementary basis of instruction; after that
  follow incredible delights. It is no wonder that without
  such a preparation the idea of literary studies is
  abhorrent. But those who have enjoyed them would sooner
  be plucked from life itself than be torn away from books
  and intellectual interests.


2. _Living Teachers_

  _Phil._ But pray tell me, who are those living people
  from whom this wisdom and soundness of mind can be
  learned?

  _Soph._ If you were about to undertake any journey, from
  whom would you earnestly inquire the road? Would it be
  from those who had never seen the road, or from those who
  had at some time accomplished the journey?

  _Phil._ From those, forsooth, who had travelled on that
  journey!

  _Soph._ Is not this life even as a journey, and is it not
  a perpetual starting out?

  _Phil._ So it seems.

  _Soph._ Who, therefore, have performed this journey the
  most thoroughly? Old men or youths?

  _Phil._ Old men.

  _Soph._ Old men, then, should be consulted.

  _Phil._ All indifferently?

  _Soph._ That is an acute question; not all promiscuously.
  But in the same manner as it is with the journey, so
  it is with life. Do those know the way of life, who
  have gone along it without reflecting on it, busying
  themselves with something else, their minds wandering
  no less than their body; or those who have noted things
  diligently and attended to them, one by one, and
  committed what they have observed to their memory?

  _Phil._ To be sure it is the latter.

  _Soph._ Therefore, in taking counsel concerning the
  method of leading our life, it is not young men to
  whom we should listen, for they have not been over the
  journey, much less youths, and, what is most foolish and
  inappropriate, boys. Nor is counsel to be sought from
  foolish, lascivious, demented old men, worse than boys,
  whom the divine oracles execrate, because they are boys
  of a hundred years of age. Ears should be open to old men
  of great judgment, experienced in things, and prudent in
  mind.

  _Phil._ By what sign shall I know them?

  _Soph._ To be sure, at thy age, my son, thou canst not as
  yet distinguish them by any sign; but when a greater and
  stronger judgment has developed in thee, thou wilt easily
  recognise them by their words and deeds, as affording
  the clearest of signs. In the meantime, whilst thou hast
  not strength in this power of judgment, trust thyself
  entirely, and commit the direction, to thy father, and to
  those whom thy father has appointed as instructors and
  teachers and governors of thy early years—those who, as
  it were, lead thee by the hand, along that road on which
  thou hast not yet journeyed. For there is a greater care
  over thee exercised by thy father (to whom thou art
  dearer than he is to thee) than thou couldst have for
  thyself, and, in this matter, not only has he his own
  experience to guide him, but he makes use of the counsel
  of wise men.

  _Morob._ For too long I have been silent.

  _Soph._ Quite so, though contrary to your custom. For
  some time I have felt keen astonishment at the fact.


_The Sort of Leisure to be Shunned—The Assertion of the Similitude
(Protasis)_

  _Morob._ Philip, do not your father and the King of
  France and other great kings and princes rule their
  kingdoms and territories, and hold them in their duty,
  without the study of letters, and without that burdensome
  labour, which here is imposed mercilessly on your tender
  shoulders?

  _Soph._ Nothing is so easy that it cannot become
  difficult, if it is done unwillingly. Industrious
  labour, devoted to learning, is not wearisome to him
  who gives his attention to it gladly. But to him who is
  unwilling, if indeed it is a game that is in question, or
  if it were a case of taking a walk in the most pleasant
  spots, it is troublesome and intolerable. To thee,
  Morobulus, most eager for trifling and always accustomed
  to frivolity, either to do anything serious or even to
  hear of it, is as unpleasant as death. Certainly many
  others would regard their life as bitter, if the manner
  of their living were fixed according to the fashion of
  Morobulus. How many there are, especially in courts,
  to whom nothing is sweeter than a sluggish and inert
  leisure! To move their hands to do work is to put them
  on the torture-rack! How many there are, on the other
  hand, amongst the people, who would die rather than pass
  through all their days with such vacuity, and would get
  weary more quickly by doing nothing than by giving their
  closest attention to some business! But to answer you
  concerning the Emperor and King of France, you shall hear
  from me about old men in general, whom I take to be those
  who have run over the track of life. If all, whosoever
  have made the journey, with unanimity say that they have
  fallen on some spot full of difficulty and danger, from
  which place they have only got away wounded and broken
  down to the last degree; but if they had that journey
  to go over again they would take care for nothing more
  diligently than against that danger. What do you think,
  would it not be the part of a most foolish man, when he
  had to take that way again, not to recall the danger and
  not to know it was coming?

  _Phil._ Not as yet do I grasp what you mean!

  _Soph._ I will make it more clear by an example. Imagine
  that, over the river yonder, there was a narrow plank as
  bridge, and that every one told you that as many as rode
  on horseback and attempted thus to cross it, had fallen
  into the water, and were in danger of their lives, and,
  moreover, that with difficulty they had been dragged out
  half-dead. Do you understand this?

  _Phil._ Most clearly.

  _Soph._ Would not, in such a case, a man seem to you to
  be demented who, taking that journey, did not get off
  from his horse, and escape from the danger in which the
  others had fallen?

  _Phil._ To be sure he would.


_Its Explanation (Apodosis)_

  _Soph._ And rightly! Seek now from old men, as to what
  chiefly they have felt unfortunate in this life, what it
  grieves them most and what they bitterly regret to have
  neglected. All will answer with one voice, so far as they
  have learned anything, it is, not to have learned more.
  So far as they have not learned, they will regret that
  they did not take pains to acquire the knowledge. Having
  entered on this complaint against themselves, they
  will tell you over and over again, that their parents
  or educators sent them to schools and to teachers of
  literature, yet that they, drawn on by vain delights,
  either of play, or hunting, or love, or frivolity of some
  kind, let drop from their hands the opportunities of
  learning; and so they complain of their fate and bewail
  their lot, and accuse themselves, condemn themselves,
  and, at times, also curse themselves. You see now the
  state of slackness and ignorance on the road of life is
  especially unsafe and dangerous, and is the one chiefly
  to be avoided, since you hear the miserable cries of
  those who have fallen there. It is therefore to be
  avoided with all care and diligence. It is incumbent on
  youth, to reject and despise sluggishness, ease, little
  delicacies, and frivolity, whilst the whole mind should
  be intent on the study of letters and the cultivation
  of goodness of soul. You, then, ask your father on this
  matter, although he is yet a young man, and do you,
  Morobulus, ask yours, although an old man, and you will
  understand from them that my opinion is the true one.




XXI

LUDUS CHARTARUM SEU FOLIORUM—_Card-playing or Paper-games_

VALDAURA, TAMAYUS, LUPIANUS, CASTELLUS, MANRICUS


  This Dialogue has two parts: Exordium and the game. The
  Exordium is an introduction as to time (_à tempore_).


I. _Introduction on the Weather_

  _Val._ What rough weather! How cold and cruel the
  heavens! how unfavourable the sun!

  _Tam._ To what does this state of the heavens and the sun
  point?

  _Val._ That we should not go out of the house.

  _Tam._ But what are we to do in the house?

  _Val._ Study by the lighted hearth, meditate, think on
  things—a course which might bring profit and sound morals
  to the mind.

  _Cast._ This is indeed the chief thing to be done, nor
  ought anything to take precedence of it in a man’s
  mind. But when a man’s mind is wearied by intentness of
  application, how then shall he divert himself, especially
  in such weather as this?

  _Val._ Some recreations of the mind suit some people;
  others, others. I indeed receive delight and recreation
  by card games.

  _Tam._ And this kind of weather invites in that
  direction, so that we hide ourselves in a closely shut
  room, and guarded on every side from the wind and cold,
  with a shining hearth, and a table set with charts
  (_i.e._ maps).

  _Val._ Alas! we have no charts.

  _Tam._ I mean playing-cards.

  _Val._ I should like that.

  _Tam._ Then we want some money and stones (_calculi_) for
  reckoning.

  _Val._ We don’t need stones, if we have some very small
  coins.

  _Tam._ I have none, except gold and larger silver coins.

  _Val._ Change some for small money. Here, boy, take these
  coins of one, two, two-and-a-half, and three, stivers and
  get us tiny coins from the money-changer—single, two,
  three, farthing-pieces, not bigger money.

  _Tam._ How these coins shine!

  _Val._ Certainly, they are as yet new and unused.

  _Tam._ Let us go to the games-emporium, where we shall
  find everything ready to hand.

  _Cast._ It is not expedient, for we should have such a
  number of umpires. We might just as well play in the
  public street. It would be better to betake ourselves
  into your room, and invite a few of our friends,
  especially those likely to put us in good spirits.

  _Tam._ Your chamber is more convenient for this, for
  in mine, we should be interrupted continually by the
  mother’s maidservants, who are always seeking some dirty
  clothes in the women’s chests.

  _Val._ Let us go then into the dining-room.

  _Tam._ So let it be. Let us go! Boy, fetch us here
  Franciscus Lupianus and Roderick Manricus and Zoilaster.

  _Val._ Stay! By no means let us have Zoilaster, an angry
  man, given to quarrelling, a noisy calumniator, one who
  often raises fierce tragedies out of the smallest matters.

  _Cast._ You certainly advise wisely, for if a young man
  of such views of recreation should mix himself in our
  company, then there would not be sport but grave strife.
  Bring, therefore, Rimosulus instead of him.

  _Val._ No, not him, unless you wish whatever we do here,
  by way of sport, should be made known before sunset
  throughout the city.

  _Cast._ Is he so good a herald?

  _Val._ Yes, in making things known where no good is done
  by the knowledge. As to matters of good report, he is
  more religiously silent than the Eleusinian mysteries.

  _Tam._ Then Lupianus and Manricus alone are to come.

  _Cast._ They are first-rate companions.

  _Tam._ And warn them to bring little coins with them,
  but whatsoever is of severity and earnestness let them
  leave at home with the crabbed Philoponus. Let them come,
  accompanied by jests, wit, and agreeableness.

  _Lup._ Hail! most festive companions!

  _Tam._ What is the meaning of that contraction of your
  brow? Smooth those wrinkles. Haven’t you been advised to
  lay down all thoughts of literature in the abode of the
  Muses?

  _Lup._ Our thoughts on literature are so illiterate that
  the Muses who are in their abode wouldn’t own them.

  _Manr._ All prosperity!

  _Val._ Prosperity is doubtful, when you are called to the
  line of battle and to warfare, in which, indeed, kings
  will be present!

  _Tam._ Be of good cheer! Money-purses, not necks, will be
  attacked.

  _Lup._ The money-purse often is in place of a neck,
  and money in place of blood and spirit; as with those
  Carians, whose contempt of life is the pretext for kings
  to practise their madness on them.

  _Manr._ I don’t wish to be an actor in, but the spectator
  of, this play.

  _Tam._ How so?

  _Manr._ Because I am so very unfortunate; I always go
  away from playing, beaten and despoiled.

  _Tam._ Do you know what dice-players say, in a proverb of
  theirs? “You should seek your toga where you lost it.”

  _Manr._ True, but there is the danger that, while I seek
  the lost toga, I shall lose both my tunic and shirt.

  _Tam._ This indeed often happens, but he who risks
  nothing does not become rich.

  _Manr._ This is the opinion of metal-diggers.

  _Tam._ Also of the Janus in the middle of Antwerp.


II. _The Playing—Drawing Lots_

  _Val._ It is quite right. We can only play four at a
  time. We are five. Let us cast lots as to who shall be
  the spectator of the others.

  _Manr._ I will be the one, without any casting of lots.

  _Val._ No such thing! Wrong should be done to none. No
  one’s will, but chance, shall decide this. He to whom
  the first king falls in dealing, he shall sit as lazy
  spectator, and if any dispute shall arise, he shall be
  judge.

  _Lup._ Here are two whole packs of cards; one is Spanish,
  the other French.

  _Val._ The Spanish does not seem to be quite right.

  _Lup._ How so?

  _Val._ Since the tens are lacking.

  _Lup._ They don’t usually have them, as the French do.
  Cards, both Spanish and French, are divided into four
  suits, or families. The Spanish have gold coins, cups,
  sceptres, and swords. The French, hearts, diamonds,
  clubs, (little) ploughshares, otherwise called spades or
  arrow-points. There are in each suit—king, queen, knight;
  ones, twos, threes, fours, fives, sixes, sevens, eights,
  nines. The French also have tens. In the Spanish game,
  golden pieces and cups are used, but less preferably
  swords and sceptres. With the French, the higher numbers
  are always considered better.

  _Cast._ What game shall we play?

  _Val._ The game of Spanish Triumph, in which the dealer
  will retain for himself the last card as indication (of
  trumps) if it is a one or a picture.

  _Manr._ Let us know now who shall be left out of the game!

  _Tam._ You advise well. Pray deal the cards. This is
  yours, this is his, this for Lupianus. You are umpire.

  _Val._ I would rather have you as umpire than as a
  fellow-player.

  _Lup._ Nice words, I must say. Pray, why do you say so?

  _Val._ Because in playing you are so cunning, and such
  a caviller. Then they say that you have a knack of
  arranging the cards as suits yourself.

  _Lup._ My play has no deceit in it. But my activity seems
  to your lack of experience like imposture, as often is
  the case with the ignorant. However, how does Castellus
  please you, who, as soon as he has won a little money,
  leaves off playing?

  _Tam._ This is rather shirking play than playing itself
  (_eludere est hoc, quam ludere_).

  _Val._ That is a light evil enough. For if he should be
  beaten, he will fasten himself to the game like a nail in
  a beam.


_Partners_

  _Tam._ We will play by twos, two against two. How shall
  we be partnered?

  _Val._ I, indeed, knowing nothing of this game, will
  stick to you, Castellus, whom I understand to be most
  expert in the game.

  _Tam._ Add also, most crafty in it.

  _Cast._ There is no need of choosing. Lots must divide
  everything. Those who get the highest cards play against
  those with the lowest.

  _Val._ So be it. Deal the cards!

  _Manr._ As I wished, Castellus and I are on the same
  side. Valdaura and Tamayus are our opponents.

  _Val._ Let us sit, as we are accustomed, crosswise.
  Give me that reclining chair, so that I may lose more
  peacefully.

    _a_   _b_
      \   /
       \ /
        ×
       / \
      /   \
    _b_   _a_
]

  _Tam._ Place the footstool. Let us sit down in our
  places. Draw for the lead.

  _Val._ It is my lead. You deal, Castellus.


_Modes of Distribution of Cards_

  _Cast._ How? from the left to the right, according to the
  Belgian custom? or, on the contrary, according to Spanish
  custom, from the right to the left?

  _Val._ By the latter custom, since we are playing the
  Spanish game and have thrown out the tens.

  _Cast._ Yes. How many cards do I give to each?


_The Stake_

  _Val._ Nine. But what shall the stake be?

  _Manr._ Three denarii each deal and a doubling of the
  stakes.

  _Cast._ Wait, my Manricus, you are getting on too fast!
  That would not be play, but madness, where so much money
  would be risked. How could you have pleasure in the
  anxiety lest you should lose so much money? One denarius
  would be sufficient, and the increase shall be one-half
  up to five asses.

  _Val._ You counsel rightly. For so we shall not play
  without stakes, which would be insipid, nor for what
  would grieve us, if we lost, for that is bitter.

  _Cast._ Have you all nine cards? Hearts are trumps, and
  this queen is mine.

  _Val._ What a happy omen that is! Certainly it is most
  true that the hearts of women ordinarily rule.

  _Cast._ Leave off your reflections. Answer to this: I
  increase the stake!


_The Contest_

  _Val._ I have a losing hand and haven’t good sequences. I
  pass.

  _Tam._ And I also. You deal, Manricus.

  _Val._ What are you doing? You haven’t shown the trump.

  _Manr._ I will first count my cards, so as not to have
  more or less than nine.

  _Val._ You have one too many.

  _Manr._ I will place one aside.

  _Val._ That is not the rule of the game. You ought to
  lose your turn of dealing, and pass it on to the next.
  Give me the cards!

  _Manr._ I won’t, since I haven’t yet turned up the trump.

  _Val._ Yes, you will. By God (_per Deum_)!

  _Cast._ Get away! What has come into your mind, my
  Valdaura? You swear oaths on the slightest provocation,
  which would scarcely be fitting on the most important
  affairs.

  _Manr._ What do you say, umpire?

  _Lup._ I don’t know really what should be done in this
  case.

  _Manr._ See what a judge we have appointed over us—one
  who has no judgment—a leader without eyes.

  _Val._ What, then, is to be done?

  _Manr._ What, indeed, unless we send to Paris for some
  one to bring this matter of ours forward for a decree of
  the Senate.

  _Cast._ Mix the cards, and deal again.

  _Tam._ Oh! what a good hand I lose! I shall not have
  another like it to-day!

  _Cast._ Shuffle well those cards and deal them more
  carefully, one by one.

  _Val._ Again, I increase the stakes.

  _Tam._ Didn’t I predict that I shouldn’t have such
  a chance in my hands again to-day? I am always most
  unfortunate. Why do I so much as even look at a game?

  _Cast._ This, indeed, is not playing. It is afflicting
  ourselves. Is it recreating ourselves and refreshing our
  minds, to get worried like this? Play ought to be play,
  not torment.

  _Manr._ Be a little patient; don’t throw your cards away.
  You are getting into a panic!

  _Val._ Then answer if you accept (the amount of the
  stake).

  _Manr._ I accept, and increase it again.

  _Val._ What! do you expect to put me to flight with your
  fierce words? I don’t pass.

  _Manr._ Declare, once for all, and be quick about it. Do
  you agree?

  _Val._ Yes, and with the greatest pleasure. My mind
  prompts me to contest in such play for a still greater
  stake, but this will do amongst friends.

  _Tam._ What! don’t you count me amongst the living, so
  that you leave me out of consideration?

  _Cast._ What, then, do you stake, you man of straw
  (_faenee_).

  _Tam._ I, for my part, wish to increase the stake.

  _Manr._ What do you say, Castellus?

  _Cast._ At last you consult me, after you have increased
  the stake by your own arrangements. I should not dare, on
  my hand, to stake up to such an increase.

  _Val._ Give a definite answer.

  _Cast._ I haven’t the grounds for doing so. Everything
  seems ambiguous and doubtful. Hence I answer
  hesitatingly, timidly, diffidently. Isn’t this expressed
  sufficiently clearly?

  _Manr._ Immortal God, what an abundance of words! The
  hail we lately had, did not fall so thickly! But, I beg,
  let us risk a little.

  _Cast._ Let us make the attempt when you please, but
  don’t expect a great stake from me.

  _Manr._ But you will bring what assistance you can?

  _Cast._ There is no need for you to advise me on that
  score.

  _Manr._ We have been completely beaten!

  _Tam._ We have won four denarii. Shuffle!

  _Val._ I go five asses.

  _Cast._ I don’t know whether I shall pass, for I am sure
  to be beaten.

  _Tam._ Five more!

  _Cast._ What do you reply to this call?

  _Manr._ What am I to say? I let it pass.

  _Cast._ You lost the last game. Let me lose this in
  accordance with my own ideas. I know that I am of less
  skill, but I must hold out as long as I seem to have any
  strength.

  _Val._ What, then, do you say? Do you refuse?

  _Cast._ No, certainly. I agree.

  _Tam._ Don’t you know this Castellus, Valdaura? He plays
  a better game than you, but he is thus accustomed to lure
  on rash challengers into his net. Take care not to go on
  rashly, where you will be entangled in a net.

  _Val._ God’s faith! how could you guess that I had one
  last card left of this suit (_natio_)?

  _Cast._ I knew all the cards.

  _Val._ That is quite conceivable.

  _Cast._ And that, too, without looking at them!

  _Val._ Perhaps even from the backs?

  _Cast._ You are too suspicious.

  _Val._ You make me so, if you will excuse me saying so.

  _Tam._ Let us examine if the backs of the cards have
  marks whereby they can be recognised.


_End of the Game_

  _Val._ Let us, please, make an end of playing. This game
  worries me by all going so wrongly.

  _Cast._ As you will. But perchance the fault is not
  in the game, but in your lack of skill, for you don’t
  know how to direct your steps to victory, but you throw
  away your cards without any reason, as chance happens,
  thinking that it doesn’t matter what you have played
  before, or might play later, what and in what place any
  card should be played.

  _Tam._ Of all things there is satiety, and even of
  pleasures. I am now weary of sitting. Let us get up for a
  little time.

  _Lup._ Take this lute and sing something to us.

  _Tam._ What will you have?

  _Lup._ A song on games.

  _Tam._ A song of Vergil’s?

  _Lup._ Yes; or if you prefer one of Vives, the song he
  lately sang as he wandered along the wall-promenade of
  Bruges.

  _Val._ With the voice of a goose.

  _Lup._ But you sing it with a swan’s voice!

  _Tam._ This a god would do better, for the swan only
  sings as death urges him on.

  Ludunt et pueri, ludunt juvenesque senesque
  Ingenium, gravitas, cani, prudentia, ludus,
  Denique mortalis sola virtute remota,
  Quid nisi nugatrix, et vana est fabula, vita.[79]

  _Val._ I can assure you the song is well expressed,
  though it comes as it were from a dry old stick (_ex
  spongia arida_).

  _Lup._ Does he compose a song with such great difficulty?

  _Val._ Indeed he does. Whether it is because he writes
  poetry so rarely, or because he does not do it willingly,
  or because the inclination of his genius drives him into
  other regions.




XXII

LEGES LUDI—_Laws of Playing_

A VARIED DIALOGUE ON THE CITY OF VALENCIA

BORGIA, SCINTILLA, CABANILLIUS


  Valencia is a town of Spain, the native town of Vives. To
  it Ptolemaeus gives 14° longitude, 39° latitude. _See_
  the same in the fourth map, Europe. There is another
  Valencia in France, as to which _see_ the fifth map
  of Europe. This dialogue contains, to a large extent,
  the description of the native town of Ludovicus Vives.
  There are two parts of the dialogue. In the former part
  he describes two cities: Paris with its games, and
  Valencia; in the latter part he prescribes the laws
  of play. Ammianus Marcellinus calls Paris (Lutetia)
  _Parisiorum castellum_. The Emperor Julianus in an
  oration with the title Αντιοχιὸς ἢ μισοπώγων[80] calls
  it των παρισίων την πολιχνὴν;[81] where also he shows
  for what reason he once was driven at Lutetia to vomit
  his food, viz., when impatient of the French custom,
  by which they were accustomed to heat their rooms by
  means of stoves (_fornaces_). Coal having been taken
  to the sleeping-chamber of Vives, he was almost killed
  by the fumes. _See_ Beatus Rhenanus, book 3, _rerum
  Germanicarum_, at the end; Aegydius Corrozetus, _de
  antiquitat. Parisiens._; and Zuingerus, book 3, _methodi
  Apodemicae_.


PART I. _Lutetia_

  _Borg._ Whence comest thou, most delightful Scintilla?

  _Scin._ From Lutetia.

  _Borg._ What Lutetia is that?

  _Scin._ Do you ask which Lutetia, as if there were many!

  _Borg._ If there is only one, I don’t know what it is, or
  where it is situated.

  _Scin._ It is the Parisian Lutetia (_Lutetia Parisiorum_).

  _Borg._ I have often heard the Parisians spoken of, but
  never Lutetia. It is, then, that Lutetia which we call
  Paris? This is the reason then why, for so long, no one
  has seen thee at Valencia, and especially hast thou been
  missed at the tennis court (_sphaeristerium_) of the
  nobles.

  _Scin._ I have seen at Lutetia other tennis courts,
  other gymnasia, other games, far more useful and more
  attractive than yours at Valencia.

  _Borg._ What are those, pray?

  _Scin._ There are thirty gymnasia, more or less, in that
  university (_academia_), which provides for every kind of
  erudition, knowledge, and wisdom; learned teachers, and
  most studious youths, who are thoroughly well-bred.

  _Borg._ Forsooth, a crowd of people!

  _Scin._ What do you call a crowd?

  _Borg._ The dregs of the people, sons of shoemakers,
  weavers, barbers, fullers, and every kind of operative
  artificers.

  _Scin._ I see that you people here measure the whole
  world by your city, and think that all Europe has the
  same customs which you have here. I can tell you, that
  the youth there very largely consists of princes, leaders
  of men, nobles, and the wealthiest persons, not only from
  France, but also from Germany, Italy, Great Britain,
  Spain, Belgium, marvellously devoted to the study of
  letters, obeying the precepts and instructions of their
  teachers. Their conduct is not formed through simple
  admonition merely, but by sharp reproof and, when it is
  necessary, even by punishment, by blows and lashes. All
  which they receive and bear with modest mind and the most
  collected countenance.


_Valencia_

  _Caban._ I have often heard stories told of the
  university, when I was acting as ambassador (_legatus_)
  of King Ferdinand. But please now leave this topic, or
  defer it for another time. You see that we have now
  entered the Miracle Playground (_in ludo Miraculi_),
  which lies next to the Carrossi Square. Come, now, let
  our conversation turn to the pleasurable topic of the
  playing-ball (_pila_).

  _Scin._ I should like it as long as we don’t sit down,
  but go on talking, as we walk about. Then it would be
  very agreeable. Where shall we go? Shall we take this
  way, which leads to St. Stephen’s Church, or that way to
  the Royal Gate, where we then can visit the palace of
  Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria?

  _Caban._ Don’t let us by any chance interrupt the studies
  in wisdom of that best of princes.


_Walk through the City of Valencia_

  _Borg._ It would be better if we were to get mules so
  that we might ride and talk.

  _Caban._ Don’t let us, I beg, lose the use of the feet
  and the legs; the weather is clear and bright, and the
  air cool; it will be more satisfactory to go on foot than
  on horseback.

  _Borg._ Then let us go this way by St. John’s Hospital to
  the Marine Quarter.

  _Caban._ Let us observe, by the way, the beautiful
  objects we pass by.

  _Borg._ What, on foot! This will be a disgrace.

  _Scin._ In my opinion, it is a greater disgrace if men
  hang upon the judgments of inexperienced and stupid girls.

  _Caban._ Would you like to go straight along Fig Street
  and St. Thecla Street?

  _Scin._ No, but through the quarter of the Cock Tavern
  (_tabernae gallinaceae_). For in that quarter I should
  like to see the house in which my Vives was born. It is
  situated, as I have heard, to the left as we descend,
  quite at the end of the quarter. I will take the
  opportunity to call upon his sister.

  _Borg._ Let us put aside calling on women, but if you
  wish to speak with a woman, let us go rather to Angela
  Zabata, with whom we could have a chat on questions of
  learning.

  _Caban._ If you wish to do so, would that we met the
  Marchioness Zeneti!

  _Scin._ If those reports, which I heard of her when I
  was in France, were true, then we might have a greater
  subject of discussion than could easily be treated
  especially by those busied about anything else.

  _Borg._ Let us go up to St. Martin’s or down through the
  Vallesian Quarter to the Villa Rasa Street.

  _Caban._ From that place to the tennis court
  (_sphaeristerium_) of Barzius, or, if you prefer, to that
  of the Masconi.


_Games—Ball_

  _Borg._ Have you also in France, public grounds for games
  like ours?

  _Scin._ As to other French cities, I cannot answer you.
  I know that there is none in Paris, but there are many
  private grounds, for example, in the suburbs of St.
  James, St. Marcellus, and St. Germanus.

  _Caban._ And in the city itself the most famous, which is
  called Braccha.

  _Borg._ Is the game played in the same way as here?

  _Scin._ Exactly so, except that the teacher there
  furnishes playing shoes and caps.

  _Borg._ What sort are they?

  _Scin._ The shoes are made of felt.

  _Borg._ But they would not be of any use here.

  _Caban._ That is, on a stony road. In France indeed, and
  in Belgium, they play on a pavement, covered over with
  tiles, level and smooth.

  _Scin._ The caps worn are lighter in summer, but in
  winter, thick and deep, with a band under the chin, so
  that as the player moves about, the cap shall not fall
  off the head or fall down over the eyes.

  _Borg._ We don’t here use a band, except when there is a
  pretty strong wind. But what kind of balls do they use?

  _Scin._ Not such light wind-balls as here, but smaller
  balls than yours, and much harder, made of white leather.
  The stuffing of the balls is not, as it is in yours, wool
  torn from rags, but chiefly dogs’ hair. For this reason
  the game is rarely played with the palm of the hand.

  _Borg._ In what way, then, do they strike the ball? with
  the fist, as we do the leather ball?

  _Scin._ No, but with a net.

  _Borg._ Woven from thread?

  _Scin._ From somewhat thicker strings, such as are found
  for the most part on the six-stringed lyre. They have a
  stretched rope, and, as to the rest, the game is played
  as in the houses here. To send the ball under the rope is
  a fault, or loss of a point. There are two signs or, if
  you prefer, limits. The counting goes fifteen, thirty,
  forty-five or (advantage), equality of numbers and
  victory, which is twofold, as when it is said: “We have
  won a game” or “We have won a set.” The ball, indeed,
  is either sent back whilst in its flight or thrown back
  after the first bound. For on the second bound, the
  stroke is invalid, and a mark is made where the ball was
  struck.

  _Borg._ Are there no other games there except tennis?

  _Scin._ In the city as many or more than here, but
  amongst scholars, no other is permitted by the masters.
  But sometimes, secretly, they play at cards and dice, the
  little boys with the knuckle-bones (_tali_), the worse
  sort of boys with dice (_taxilli_). We have a teacher
  Anneus who used to allow card-playing at festival times
  (_obscoeno die_). For that and for games in general, he
  composed six laws written on a tablet which he hung in
  his bed-chamber.

  _Borg._ If it is not burdensome, may I ask you to tell
  them to us, in the same way as you have told us of other
  matters.

  _Scin._ But let us continue our walk, for I am possessed
  by an inconceivably keen desire to behold my country
  which I have not seen for so long a period.

  _Borg._ Let us mount mules, so that we may move along
  pleasantly, as well as with more dignity.

  _Scin._ I would not give a snap of the fingers for this
  dignity!

  _Borg._ And I, if I may confess the truth, would not move
  my hand for it. Nor do I know why riding on mules seems
  to be more becoming for us.

  _Caban._ This is rightly said; we are three, and in the
  narrow streets or concourse of men we should get parted
  from one another, whence our talk would necessarily be
  interrupted, or many remarks made by some one of us would
  not be thoroughly heard or understood by the others.

  _Borg._ So let it be; let us proceed on foot. Enter
  through this narrow lane on to the Pegnarogii Street.


_The Market_

  _Scin._ Nothing could be better. Thence by the keysmith’s
  into the Sweetmeats Quarter (_vicum dulciarium_), then
  into the fruit market.

  _Borg._ Nay, rather the vegetable market.

  _Scin._ The market is both. Those who prefer to eat
  vegetables call it the vegetable market; those who prefer
  fruit call it the fruit market. What a spaciousness
  there is of the market, what a multitude of sellers and
  of things exposed for sale! What a smell of fruit, what
  variety, cleanliness, and brightness! Gardens could
  hardly be thought to contain fruit equal to the supply
  of what is in this market. What skill and diligence
  our inspector (_aedilis_) of public property and his
  ministers show so that no buyer shall be taken in by
  fraud. Is not he who is riding about so much, Honoratus
  Joannius?

  _Caban._ I think not, for one of my boys, who met him
  just now, left him retiring to his library. If he knew
  that we were here together then he would undoubtedly join
  us in our conversation and would postpone his serious
  studies to our play.

  _Borg._ Now at last describe the laws of play!

  _Scin._ We will withdraw from this crowd by the Street of
  the Holy Virgin the Redeemer, to the Smoky street and to
  St. Augustine’s, where there are fewer people.

  _Caban._ Let us not go down so far away from the main
  body of the city. Let us rather ascend through the
  street of Money-Purses to the Hill, then to the Soldiers’
  Quarter and the house of your family, Scintilla, whose
  walls yet seem to me to mourn over that hero, Count
  Olivanus!

  _Borg._ Nay, they have now laid aside their grief, and
  now rejoice in all seriousness that such a youth has
  stepped into the place of so great an old man.

  _Scin._ Oh, how delightful it is to look into the Senate
  House (_curia_) and the fourfold court of the governor
  of the city (_praefectus urbis_), which by now seems
  almost to have become the heritage of your family,
  Cabanillius—one part of the building for a civil, another
  for a criminal, court, and this part for the three
  hundred solidi. What buildings! what a glory of the city!


PART II. _The Laws of Play—The First Law_

  _Borg._ In no place could you more rightly enunciate laws
  than in the _forum_ and _curia_, so give them forth here!
  For some other time there will be a more fitting occasion
  of discoursing on the praise and admiration which our
  city excites.

  _Scin._ The first law treats of the time of recreation
  (_quando ludendum_). Man is constituted for serious
  affairs, not for frivolity and recreation. But we are
  to resort to games for the refreshing of our minds from
  serious pursuits. The time, therefore, for recreation
  is when the mind or body has become wearied. Nor should
  otherwise relaxation be taken, than as we take our
  sleep, food, drink, and the other means of renewal
  and recuperation. Otherwise it is deleterious, as is
  everything which takes place unseasonably.


_The Second Law_

  The second law deals with the persons with whom we are to
  take our recreation (_cum quibus ludendum_). In the same
  way as when you are about to take a journey, or to go to
  a banquet, you look about diligently to see who are to
  be your future boon companions or fellow travellers, so
  in considering your recreation, you should reflect with
  whom you will play, so that they may be men known to you.
  For there is a great danger with the unknown, and it is
  a true proverb of Plautus: “A fellow-man is a wolf to a
  man who does not know what manner of associate he has
  got.” Companions should be agreeable, festive, with whom
  there is no danger of quarrelling or fighting, of either
  doing or saying anything disgraceful or unbecoming! Let
  them not be blasphemers of God, or users of oaths! Nor
  should they be impure in speech, lest your morals should
  be rubbed against by the contagion of what is depraved
  or profligate. Lastly, they should bring to the game no
  other purpose than your own, viz., the idea of thorough
  rest from labour, and the freedom from mental strain.


_The Third Law_

  The third law concerns the kind of recreation. First
  it should be a well-known game, for there can be no
  pleasure, if it is not known by player nor colleagues,
  nor by the lookers-on. Further, it must at the same time
  refresh the mind and exercise the body, if indeed the
  season of the year and state of health are suitable. But
  if not, it must be a game in which mere chance does not
  count for everything. There must be some skill in it,
  which may balance chance.


_The Fourth Law_

  The fourth law is as to stakes. You ought not to play so
  that the game is zestless, and quickly satiates you. So a
  stake may be justifiable. But it should not be a big one,
  which may disturb the mind in the very game itself, and
  if one is beaten, may vex and torture you. That is not a
  game; it is rather the rack.


_The Fifth Law_

  The fifth law treats of the manner of play, viz., that
  before you settle to play, you recall to mind that you
  have come for the invigoration of your mind, and for this
  object you may put a very small coin or two to stake,
  so as to purchase with them the recuperation from your
  weariness. Think that it is a chance, _i.e._, variable,
  uncertain, unstable, common to all, and that no harm
  will be done to you through it, if you lose. Thus, you
  may have equanimity in your loss, so as not to contract
  your countenance and experience sadness over it—nor
  break forth into oaths and curses, either against your
  fellow-player, or any of the spectators. If you win,
  don’t be insolently loquacious to your fellow-player! Be
  in all the game, his companion, cheerful, jovial, and
  mirthful, this side of scurrility and petulancy, nor must
  there be any trace of deceit, of sordidness or avarice.
  Don’t be obstinate in contention and, least of all, make
  use of oaths—when you remember that the whole thing,
  even if you are in the right, is not so weighty that
  you need call the name of God to witness. Remember that
  the spectators are, as it were, the judges of the game.
  If they make any pronouncement, then give in, and don’t
  offer any sign of disapprobation. In this manner the game
  will be both a delight and the noble education of an
  honest youth will be pleasing to all.


_The Sixth Law_

  The sixth law has reference to the length of time of
  playing. Play until you feel the mind renewed and
  restored for labour, and the hour for serious business
  calls you. Who does otherwise seems to do ill. “May you
  be willing to accept these laws; may you decree their
  keeping, Romans!”[82]

  _Borg._, _Caban._ “Even as he proposed” (_Sicuti
  rogavit_).




XXIII

CORPUS HOMINIS EXTERIUS—_The Exterior of Man’s Body_

DURERIUS PICTOR (the Painter, Dürer), GRYNAEUS, VELIUS


  This dialogue has two parts. The former is the Exordium.
  The second part contains an examination of Dürer’s
  painting. Albert Dürer was a remarkable German painter,
  whose works are still extant. Simon Grynaeus was renowned
  by his knowledge of literature, mathematics, and the
  sacred writings. He taught at Basle, and was married
  there. Caspar Ursinus Velius was a poet and distinguished
  historian. He was tutor to the Emperor Maximilian II., as
  Jovius writes in his _Elogia Doctorum Virorum_.


I. _Introduction (Exordium)_

  _Dürer._ Go away from here, for you will buy nothing, as
  I know full well, and you only remain in the way, and
  this keeps buyers from coming nearer.

  _Gryn._ Nay, we wish to buy, only we wish you to leave
  the price to our judgment, and that you should state the
  limit of time for payment, or, on the other hand, let us
  settle the time, and you the amount of payment.

  _Dürer._ A fine way of doing business! There is no need
  for me to have nonsense of this sort!

  _Gryn._ Whose portrait is this, and what price do you put
  on it?

  _Dürer._ It is the portrait of Scipio Africanus and I
  price it at four hundred sesterces, or not much less.


II. _Criticism_

  _Gryn._ I pray you, before you favour us with a single
  word, let us examine the art of the picture. Velius here
  is half a physicist, and very skilled in knowledge of the
  human body.

  _Dürer._ For some time I have perceived that I was in for
  being worried by you. Now whilst there are no buyers at
  hand, you may waste my time as you will.

  _Gryn._ Do you call the practical knowledge of your art a
  waste of time? What would you call that of another’s?

  _Vel._ First of all you have covered the top of this
  head with many and straight hairs when the top is called
  _vertex_, as if a vortex, from the curling round of the
  hair, as we see in rivers when the water rolls round and
  round (_convolvit_).

  _Dürer._ Stupidly spoken; you don’t reflect that it is
  badly combed, following the custom of his age.

  _Vel._ His forehead is unevenly bent.

  _Dürer._ As a soldier he had received a wound at the
  Trebia when he was saving his father.

  _Gryn._ Where did you read that?

  _Dürer._ In the lost decads of Livy.

  _Vel._ The temples are too much swollen.

  _Dürer._ Hollow temples would be the sign of madness!

  _Vel._ I should like to be able to see the back part of
  the head.

  _Dürer._ Then turn the panel round.

  _Gryn._ Why does Cato say amongst his other oracles:
  “The forehead is before the back part of the head?”

  _Dürer._ How stupid you are! Don’t you see in every man
  the forehead in front of the back part of the head?

  _Gryn._ There are some people whose backs I would rather
  see than their faces!

  _Dürer._ And I gladly, _e.g._, such buyers as you, and
  soldiers!

  _Vel._ Cato was of opinion that the presence of the
  master was more effective for the oversight of his
  affairs than his absence. For the rest, why has he such
  long forelocks?

  _Dürer._ Do you speak of these hairs over the forehead?

  _Vel._ Yes.

  _Dürer._ For many months he had no barber at hand as we
  have in Spain.

  _Vel._ Why have you covered with hair, the hairless part
  (_glabella_)[83] against its etymology?

  _Dürer._ Do you pluck out the hairs with pincers!

  _Vel._ The hairs in the nose stand out from the nose. But
  you, such is your ingenuity, will throw the fault from
  yourself on to the barber.

  _Dürer._ Ignorant that you are! Don’t you remember that
  the customs of those times were harsh, horrible, boorish?

  _Vel._ You, too, are ignorant. Have you not read that
  Scipio was one of the most cultivated and polished of
  all the men of his age, and a lover of what was elegant?

  _Dürer._ This painting gives his likeness as he was, when
  an exile, at Liternum.

  _Gryn._ The eyebrows are large, and suitable for Latium;
  the eyelids too hollow, and the cheeks too much sunk.

  _Dürer._ Naturally, from the camp-watches.

  _Gryn._ You are not only a painter, but a rhetorician,
  well versed in turning off any criticism of your work.

  _Dürer._ As far as I can see, you are well versed in
  finding faults.

  _Vel._ The picture has the cheeks and lips too much
  puffed up.

  _Dürer._ He is blowing the battle-trumpet.

  _Gryn._ And you were blowing on a goblet when you painted
  this.

  _Vel._ On the contrary, he was blowing into a bag made of
  skin. For elsewhere you have made him hairy, whilst you
  have scarcely painted any eyelashes.

  _Dürer._ They have fallen off by disease.

  _Gryn._ What was the disease?

  _Dürer._ Seek that from his physician!

  _Gryn._ Don’t you understand now that you must take off
  from your price one hundred sesterces for such lack of
  skill?

  _Dürer._ Nay, for your cavils and bothersome questions I
  ought rather to add two hundred sesterces to the price.

  _Vel._ You have made the pupils of the eyes grayish and I
  have heard that Scipio’s were blue.

  _Dürer._ And I have heard that his eyes were blue-gray
  like those of Minerva Bellatrix.

  _Vel._ You have made the corners of the eyes too fleshy
  and the hollows too moist.

  _Dürer._ He was weeping because accused by Cato.

  _Vel._ The jaws are too long, and the beard very thick
  and profuse. You would say the hairs are the bristles of
  swine.

  _Dürer._ You are beyond measure, chatterers and talkative
  cavillers. Get away with you. I won’t let you have the
  opportunity of further criticising the picture.

  _Vel._ Please, my Dürer, since you have no other clients,
  let us go on criticising here.

  _Dürer._ What is the good to me?

  _Vel._ We will each of us write a distich for you,
  whereby the picture will be more easily sold.

  _Dürer._ My art has no need of your commendation. For
  skilled buyers who understand pictures, don’t buy verses,
  but works of art.

  _Vel._ But your Scipio has his nostrils too much dilated.

  _Dürer._ He was in a state of wrath at his accusers.

  _Vel._ We see no dimple in his chin.

  _Dürer._ It is hidden in his beard. You also don’t see
  his chin nor the double-chin!

  _Gryn._ You have saved yourself the trouble of drawing
  those for the sake of painting a big beard.

  _Vel._ The straight and muscular neck pleases me, as also
  the throat.

  _Dürer._ Thank the Lord that you approve of something!

  _Vel._ But so that I should not leave something to be
  desired in this, I must also say the figure has not
  sufficient hollow in the throat. When a physiognomist
  noted this in Socrates, he pronounced it as a sign of
  slowness of mind. I should wish those shoulders to be a
  little more erect, and larger.

  _Dürer._ He was not so much a fighting soldier as a
  general. Have you not heard of his apophthegm on the
  point? When certain soldiers were saying of him, that he
  was not so valiant a soldier as he was a wise general,
  he answered: “My mother bore me to be a general, not a
  soldier.” But, depart, if you are not going to be buyers,
  for I see some tax-farmers approaching.

  _Vel._ Let us go for a walk, and let us talk on the
  way to one another, concerning the human body without
  considering Scipio, and this portrait. A flat nose does
  not befit a noble countenance.

  _Gryn._ What do you think of the noses of the Huns, then?

  _Vel._ Away with such deformities!

  _Gryn._ People with turned-up noses are not less
  deformed. The Persians honoured eagle-nosed people on
  account of Cyrus, who, they say, had such a shaped nose.

  _Vel._ The fore-arm and bend of the arm (_ancon et
  campe_) are to the arm what the ham of the knee and the
  knee are to the leg; thence the upper arm (_lacertus_)
  down to the hand, from the muscles of which also the legs
  are called muscular (_lacertosa_).

  _Gryn._ Is not this the ell (_cubitus_) as used by those
  who are measuring?

  _Vel._ Yes, and _ancon_ is another name for it.

  _Gryn._ Is not that the way the Roman king came by his
  name, Ancus?

  _Vel._ It was by his curved elbow.

  _Gryn._ The hand follows, the chief of all instruments.
  The hand is divided into fingers, thumb, forefinger, the
  middle or disreputable finger, the next to the smallest,
  and the smallest.

  _Vel._ Why has the middle finger a bad name? What crime
  has it perpetrated?

  _Gryn._ Our teacher said that he knew indeed the cause,
  yet he was not willing to explain it, because it would
  be unseemly. Don’t seek, therefore, to know, for it
  does not become a well-brought-up youth to inquire into
  disgraceful matters.

  _Vel._ The Greeks named the finger next to the smallest,
  δακτυλικόν, _i.e._ to say, the ring-finger.

  _Gryn._ Clearly so, but on the left, not the right hand,
  because on it, formerly, they were accustomed to wear
  rings.

  _Vel._ For what reason?

  _Gryn._ They say that a vein stretches from the heart
  to it. If the finger is encircled by a ring it is as if
  the heart itself is crowned. The knots on the fingers
  are called knuckles, and this word is used for a knock
  of the fist. Between the knots are joints and these are
  called by the general term, joints (_artus_) and knots
  (_articuli_). It has been handed down to memory, that
  Tiberius Caesar had such hard knots that he could bore
  through a fresh apple with his fingers.

  _Vel._ Have you learned chiromantia?

  _Gryn._ I have only heard the name. What is it?

  _Vel._ You would have been able to interpret the lines on
  the hands by it.

  _Gryn._ I have said I know nothing of it, and so it
  is. But if now I were to profess to know something and
  looked attentively on your hand, gladly you would listen
  willingly to me, and to a man utterly unskilled in this
  mode of imposture you would not altogether refuse your
  confidence!

  _Vel._ How so?

  _Gryn._ Because it is the nature of man to listen gladly
  to those who profess that they will announce secret
  things or what is about to happen.

  _Vel._ Why are the Scaevolae so called?

  _Gryn._ As if _scaevae_; from _scaea_, which is the left
  hand. They say that there are more of the female sex
  left-handed than in our sex.

  _Vel._ What is _vola_?

  _Gryn._ The hollow of the hand in which the lines are.

  _Vel._ What does _involare_ mean?

  _Gryn._ That which you are doing. Gladly to steal, to
  snatch and hide as if in the hollow of the hand, and as
  the raving Lucretia did when she snatched at the eyes of
  her serving-women.

  [Then follows the Latin for the different parts of the
  trunk of the body.]

  _Vel._ Do you know the seat of the virtues in the body?

  _Gryn._ No; where are they placed?

  _Vel._ Modesty in the forehead; in the right hand
  faithfulness; and sympathy in the knee.

  _Gryn._ The sole of the foot is not itself the base of
  the foot.

  _Vel._ So many think.

  _Gryn._ Pliny observes that there is a people who make
  for themselves at mid-day a shadow with the sole of their
  foot, so great and broad it is! How is it possible?

  _Vel._ Clearly the sole in their case reaches from the
  thigh-bone to the toes.




XXIV

EDUCATIO—_Education_

FLEXIBULUS, GRYMPHERANTES, GORGOPAS


  The last two dialogues are παραινετικοὶ or ethical, in
  the former of which he instructs the boy prince, in the
  second any one in general.

  Flexibulus is a name borrowed from Varro, who uses the
  word _flexibula_ (pliant, flexible). Gorgopas is a name
  derived from the idea of a stern countenance, such as
  that of Gorgon is said to have been. Hence γοργωπὸς,
  having the eyes or face of Gorgon. Eurip. in _Hercules
  furens_. The precepts in this dialogue of Vives are
  sacred and most wise. They should be known thoroughly
  by all sons of princes, for without doubt they would
  act much better in human affairs if they kept them in
  view. There are three parts in this dialogue, Exordium,
  Contentio, and Epilogus. The Exordium contains the
  “occasion” and “final cause.”


I. _Introduction (Exordium)_

  _Flex._ Wherefore did your father send you here to me?

  _Grym._ He said that you were a man unusually well
  instructed, wisely educated, and for that reason
  well-pleasing to the state. He desired that I, walking in
  your steps, might reach a like popularity.

  _Flex._ How do you think that you will secure this?

  _Grym._ Through the noble education which all say that
  you have yourself. My father added that this education
  would become me better than any other person.


II. _The Controversy_

  _Flex._ Tell me, my boy, how you came to be instructed on
  this matter by your father?

  _Grym._ It was not so much my father who instructed me
  by his precepts as my uncle, an old man, versed in many
  things, and long in the counsels of kings.

  _Flex._ What then did they teach you, my son and friend?

  _Gorg._ Most wise man, look to it that by chance you
  don’t slip through ignorance into some foolish word or
  deed, or into something boorish, by which you would lose
  that name of being educated in the best manner.

  _Flex._ What! is that name so lightly lost by you?

  _Gorg._ Even through single words, with the single
  bending of the knee, with a single inclination of the
  head.

  _Flex._ Ah! you have matters too delicate and feeble with
  you—but with us we have much more robust and vigorous
  standards!

  _Gorg._ Our judgments are like our bodies, which can put
  up with no tripping.

  _Flex._ On the contrary, as is easily seen, it is your
  bodies, rather than your minds, which can bear labour.

  _Gorg._ Perhaps you don’t know who it is whom you call
  son and friend.

  _Flex._ Are not these honourable names, and full of
  benevolence?

  _Gorg._ Full of benevolence, perhaps, which we don’t
  count much of, but not of dignity and respect, which
  we seek as being important. For this gentleman is
  not accustomed to be called “friend.” And don’t you
  understand that he has the prefix of “sir” (_domine_)
  when he is addressed, and that he has a retinue of
  varied-coloured liveried men? Have you not further
  noticed that there were so many wax-tapers, so many
  badges of honour, so many mourners at the parental
  ceremonies of his grandfather’s funeral?

  _Flex._ What then? Do you aim at being a lord over
  everybody and to have no friends?

  _Grym._ So my relations have taught me!

  _Flex._ Then may your excellence, my lord (_mi domine_),
  present some overwhelming proof of the right teaching of
  your relatives!

  _Gorg._ You seem to me to sneer at this boy. He is not a
  common boy, so don’t treat him so!


_Family Teaching_

  _Grym._ In the first place, they have taught me that I
  am of most honourable lineage, which yields to none in
  this province, and, on that account, I must take care
  diligently, and strive earnestly, not to degenerate
  from the rank of my ancestors; that they have won great
  honour to themselves by yielding to no one in position,
  dignity, authority, in name, and that I ought to do the
  same. If any one should wish to detract from that honour,
  immediately I must fight him. It behoves me to be lavish
  with money, and even profuse, but sparing and frugal
  in paying honour to others. That it behoves me, and
  those like me, by no means to rise up in the presence of
  others, nor to make way for them, nor to let them lead
  me, hither and thither, nor to bare the head or bow the
  knee to them; not as if any one could deserve to be shown
  such honours from me, but that so I shall conciliate
  to myself the favour of men, shall catch the breeze of
  popularity, and shall obtain that honour which we always
  so greatly have borne in men’s mouths and hearts! It is
  in this education that the difference exists between
  those who are nobles, and those who are not; since the
  noble has been rightly accustomed to be educated to
  excel in all these matters, whilst the common people
  (_ignobiles_), trained to rustic manners, in none of
  these things.

  _Flex._ And what thinks your excellency, my lord, of such
  a method of education?

  _Grym._ What indeed! Why, it is by far the highest, and
  worthy of my race.

  _Flex._ What else then do you seek to learn from me?

  _Grym._ In my opinion, nothing further would remain to be
  learned, had not my father hurried me hither to you. My
  father ordered me, or rather rigidly enjoined me, to come
  to you; so that if there was anything of a more hidden
  kind, and more sacred as if of mysteries, by which I
  might get more honour for myself, then that you might, as
  a favour to him, not feel it a burden to expound it, that
  thus our family, so honourable and exalted, may ascend
  still higher, since there are not a few new men who,
  relying on their opulence, have come to light, and seized
  upon dignities and honours so that they even dare to vie
  with the old standing and honours of our race.

  _Flex._ Shameful thing!

  _Grym._ Is it not?

  _Flex._ This would be visible to a blind man!

  _Grym._ Certainly. These new men march about with a long
  company of followers, themselves in gold-decked clothes
  or clothes of flowered velvet, or clothes gay as those
  of Attalus, so that we seem nothing before them, for we
  are clothed in velvet to hide our poverty. If you will
  undertake this labour, the reward for thy labour will be
  that thou wilt be received by my father in the number of
  our family, and wilt be admitted to his favour and mine,
  and in process of time, wilt receive some promotion from
  us. Thou wilt always be amongst our clients and, as it
  were, under our protection.

  _Flex._ What could be a greater reward or more to be
  desired? But tell me now, if thou uncoverest the head or
  givest way or addressest any one blandly, why art thou
  pleasing to them with whom thou hast dealings?

  _Grym._ Just because I meet them in this way.

  _Flex._ All these externalities are only the signs
  which denote that there is something in the heart, on
  account of which they love you, for no one loves them for
  themselves.

  _Grym._ Why should not everybody love those things which
  are of honourable bearing, especially in my grade of
  nobility?

  _Flex._ Thou hast not yet advanced to that degree that it
  should be permitted to thee to say so, and thou thinkest
  that thou hast arrived at the very highest.

  _Grym._ I have no necessity to get knowledge and
  education. My forefathers have left me enough to live
  upon. And even if this were lacking, I should not seek my
  living by those arts, or by any means so low, but with
  the point of the lance and with drawn sword.

  _Flex._ This is high-spirited and fierce, as if indeed
  because you are of noble rank you would not be a man.

  _Grym._ Fine words, those!

  _Flex._ Which part of you is it that makes you a man!

  _Grym._ Myself as a whole.

  _Flex._ Is it by your body, in having which you don’t
  differ from a beast?

  _Grym._ By no means.

  _Flex._ Not then yourself as a whole, but therefore by
  your reason and your mind?

  _Grym._ What then?

  _Flex._ If, therefore, you permit your mind to be
  uncultivated and boorish but cherish your body and
  take thought for it alone, don’t you transfer yourself
  from the human, into the brute, condition? But let us
  return to the topic on which we began to speak, for this
  digression, if I gave way to it, would lead us a long
  way from our purpose. If thou, therefore, yieldest place,
  and uncoverest thy head, for what do others take you?

  _Grym._ For a noble, nobly instructed and brought up.

  _Flex._ You are too uncouth. Did you hear nothing at
  home about the mind, about honesty, about modesty, and
  moderation?

  _Grym._ In the church, sometimes, I have heard of these
  things from preachers.

  _Flex._ When those who meet you see what is done by you,
  they judge that you are a modest, honest young man,
  approving of your actions towards them, judging modestly
  and thinking humbly of yourself. Thence the opinion of
  benevolence and graciousness is formed of you.

  _Grym._ Please be more explicit.

  _Flex._ If people knew that you were so proud that you
  looked down on them all with contempt, that you bared
  your head and bent your knee to them, not because that
  honour was due to them, but because it redounded to your
  honour to do it, do you think there would be any one who
  would take pleasure in you, or would love you for your
  honours sprung from such false dissimulation?

  _Grym._ For why?

  _Flex._ Because you do honour to yourself, and take
  pleasure in it—not to them. For who will consider himself
  indebted to you for that which you do for your sake?
  Or shall I receive your honour not for itself, but as
  an outlay which thou offerest for a good opinion of
  thyself, not as due to my merits?

  _Grym._ So it seems.


_The Teaching of the Better View of Education—Right Government of
Oneself_

  _Flex._ Therefore, benevolence is won if people believe
  that honour is paid to _them_, not that _thou_ shouldst
  be held more courtly and noble. This will not happen,
  unless they have the opinion of thee, that thou esteemest
  them higher than thyself and holdest them worthy of thy
  honour.

  _Grym._ But this does not happen.

  _Flex._ If it does not happen, then they must be deceived
  on this point, or else thou wilt never obtain what thou
  so keenly desirest.

  _Grym._ By what way can you persuade me to think so?

  _Flex._ Easily. Apply your mind carefully to what I say.

  _Grym._ Go on, I beg. For I am sent on this very account
  to you, and you shall always be amongst our _clientèle_.

  _Flex._ Ah, that apple is too raw for me!

  _Grym._ What do you whisper?

  _Flex._ I say the only way will be for you _to be_ what
  you wish to be thought to be.

  _Grym._ How so?

  _Flex._ If you wish to make anything warm, do you then
  bring it to an imaginary fire?

  _Grym._ No, but to a real fire.

  _Flex._ If you wish to cleave anything in two, will you
  use a picture of a sword depicted on tapestry?

  _Grym._ No, an iron sword.

  _Flex._ Is there not the same strength with real things
  as with artificial ones?

  _Grym._ Apparently there is a difference.

  _Flex._ Nor wilt thou effect the same with a simulated
  moderation as with real modesty, for falsity at some time
  or other shows itself for what it is; truth is always the
  same. In fictitious modesty you say something sometimes
  or do something, publicly or privately, when you forget
  yourself (for you are not able always and everywhere
  to be on your guard), whereby you are caught in your
  pretences. And as formerly men loved you, since they
  did not yet know you, afterwards, and for a long time
  afterwards, they hate you when they have got to know you.

  _Grym._ How shall I note this modesty so as to be able to
  appropriate it as thou teachest?

  _Flex._ If thou wilt persuade thyself of what is actually
  the case, that other people are better than thou art.

  _Gorg._ Better indeed! Where are these people? I suppose
  in Heaven, for on earth there are very few equal; better,
  no one!

  _Grym._ So I have heard often of my father and my uncle.

  _Flex._ The circumstance that you do not understand the
  significance of words leads you far from the knowledge
  of truth. Tell us, what do you call good, so that we may
  know if there is a better than thyself?

  _Grym._ What do I know of the good? The good comes from
  being the offspring of good parents.


_The Real “Good”_

  _Flex._ This, therefore, is not yet known to thee, what
  it is to be good, and yet you talk about what being
  “better” means. How hast thou reached to the comparative,
  when as yet thou hast not learned the positive? But how
  dost thou know that thy forefathers were good? By what
  mark canst thou make that clear?

  _Grym._ What! do you deny that they were good?

  _Flex._ I did not know them! How can I then assert
  anything of their goodness either way? By what method of
  reasoning canst thou prove that they were good?

  _Grym._ Because every one says so of them; but why, I
  beg, do you ask me all these vexatious questions?

  _Flex._ These questions are not vexatious, but necessary,
  so that thou canst understand what thou art inquiring
  from me.

  _Grym._ Confine your answer, I beg, to a few words.

  _Flex._ Many words are necessary to explain that of which
  you have so crass an ignorance. But since you are so
  fastidious, I will speak more briefly than the matter,
  in itself so great, demands to have said of it. Look at
  me whilst I expound it. Who are the people who are to be
  called learned? Are they not those who have learning? or
  are they the rich? or those who have money?

  _Grym._ Undoubtedly, those who have learning.

  _Flex._ Who, then, are the good? Are they not those who
  have what is good?

  _Grym._ Clearly so.

  _Flex._ Let us dismiss now the idea of riches, for they
  are not in themselves really good. If they were, then
  many people would be found to be better than your father.
  Merchants and usurers would then surpass honest and wise
  men in goodness.

  _Grym._ Thus it seems, as you say.


_The Statement of the Problem (Propositio)_

  _Flex._ Now, further, weigh what I am about to add in
  points one by one. Is there not something good in a keen
  intellect, a wise, mature judgment, whole and sound; in
  a varied knowledge about all kinds of great and useful
  affairs; in wisdom; and in carrying into practice these
  qualities; in determination; in dexterity in pursuing
  one’s business. What do you say of these things?

  _Grym._ The very names of these qualities seem to me
  beautiful and magnificent. So much more are the things
  themselves great!

  _Flex._ Well, then, what shall we say of wisdom, what
  of religion, piety towards God, to one’s country,
  parents, dependants, of justice, temperance, liberality,
  magnanimity, equability of mind towards calamity in human
  affairs, and brave minds in adversity?

  _Grym._ These things also are most excellent.

  _Flex._ These things alone are _the good_ for men. All
  the remaining “goods” which can be mentioned are common
  to the good and to the bad, and therefore are not true
  “goods.” Observe this, please, well!

  _Grym._ I will do so.


_Assumptio (Hypothesis)—Complexio (Conclusion)_

  _Flex._ I wish thou wouldst, for thy disposition is
  not bad, but is not well cultivated—as yet. Think now
  well over this matter, whether thou possessest those
  goods, and, if thou dost, how few thou hast, and in what
  slender proportions! And if thou examine this question
  acutely and subtly, then wilt thou eventually see that
  thou art not yet adorned and provided with goods, great
  and many, and that no one amongst the mass of people
  is less provided with them than thyself. For among the
  multitude are old people, who have seen and heard much,
  and persons experienced in most things. Others there are,
  devoting themselves to studies, who sharpen their wits
  by learning, and become cultured men; others engage in
  public affairs; others occupy themselves with authors,
  who will give them the knowledge they want. Others are
  industrious fathers of families. Others follow various
  arts and excel in them. Even peasants themselves—how many
  of the secrets of nature they possess! Sailors, too, know
  of the course of day and night, the nature of winds,
  the position of lands and seas. Some of the people are
  holy and religious men, who serve the Deity with devotion
  and worship Him. Others enjoy success with moderation
  and bear adversity with bravery. What dost thou know of
  these? What energy like theirs dost thou practise? In
  what dost thou excel? In nothing at all except that “No
  one is better than me: I am of a good stock.” How canst
  thou be better, when as yet thou art not _good_? Neither
  thy father nor thy relations or ancestors have been good,
  unless they had these things which I have recounted. If
  they had them, you can tell. But I doubt it much. You
  certainly will not be good, unless you become like those
  I have described.

  _Grym._ You have quite given me a shock, and made me
  ashamed. I cannot find anything to even mutter in reply!

  _Gorg._ I have understood none of these things. You have
  cast darkness before my eyes.

  _Flex._ Naturally. For you came to these considerations
  too uncouth, too long infected and enslaved in contrary
  opinions. But you are a young man. How do you think you
  are going to be classed? as a master (_dominus_) or as a
  slave?

  _Grym._ As a slave. For if it is as you have expounded,
  and I know nothing which seems truer than what you say,
  there are very many much greater and more distinguished
  than I am, who are slaves.

  _Flex._ Don’t be lightly disgusted at what I have said.
  Betake yourself home. Alone, think over what I have
  said. Examine my statements, ponder over them. The more
  you turn them over in mind, the more you will recognise
  they are true and certain.

  _Grym._ I beseech you proceed, if you yet have further to
  add, for I feel that at this moment I am a changed man.
  For the future I shall seem to be another person from my
  former self.

  _Flex._ Would that it may happen to thee as it did to the
  philosopher Polaemon!

  _Grym._ What happened to him?[84]

  _Flex._ Owing to a single oration of Xenocrates, from
  being one of the worst and most incorrigible, he turned
  out most studious of wisdom and the seeker of every
  virtue, and was the successor of Xenocrates in the
  Academy. But thou, my son, now openly hast recognised to
  how great a degree is lacking in thee the goodness, which
  others have in an overflowing measure. Now truly, and of
  thine own good will, thou yieldest place to others and
  honourest the good in them where thou seest them well
  furnished, and where thou seest thyself to be deficient.
  And if thou thus humblest thyself, and seemest to be of
  slight attainments, thou wilt meet no one for whom thou
  feelest abject contempt, and whom thy conscience in thy
  heart does not place before thyself. For thou wilt not
  be led away to believe any one to be worse than thyself,
  unless his badness and malice manifest themselves
  openly, whilst thine own evil carefully skulks within and
  is ashamed.

  _Grym._ And what follows?


III. _Epilogue_

  _Flex._ If thou doest these things, then wilt thou
  get the real, solid, noble education itself, and true
  urbanity; and if, as we are supposing now, thou followest
  after a courtly life, thou wilt be pleasing to all and
  dear to all. But even this thou wilt not set at high
  value, but what will then be the sole care to thee will
  be, to be acceptable to the Eternal God.




XXV

PRAECEPTA EDUCATIONIS—_The Precepts of Education_

BUDAEUS, GRYMPHERANTES


  There are three parts to this dialogue: Exordium,
  Narratio, and Epilogus.


I. _Introductory (Exordium)_

  _Bud._ What is this so great and so sudden a change in
  you? It might be included in Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_.

  _Grym._ Is it a change for the better or the worse?

  _Bud._ For the better, in my opinion, at least, if one
  may argue and estimate as to the goodness of a mind from
  outward countenance, bearing, words, and actions.

  _Grym._ Can you then, my most delightful friend,
  congratulate me?

  _Bud._ I do indeed congratulate you and exhort you to go
  on, and I pray God and all the saints, that you may have
  just increase day by day of such fruitfulness. But please
  don’t grudge so dear a friend as I am, to impart the art
  so distinguished and glorious, which could in so short a
  time infuse so much virtue in a man’s heart.


II. _The Exposition (Narratio)_

  _Grym._ The art and the fountain of this stream is that
  very man who is so fruitful in goodness—Flexibulus, if
  you know him.

  _Bud._ Who does not know the man? He, as I have heard
  from my father and my cousins, is a man of great wisdom
  and experience of things, not only known to this city,
  but also generally beloved and honoured as only few
  are. Oh, fortunate that you are! to have heard him more
  closely and to have conversed with him familiarly, and
  thereby to have gained so great a fruit in the forming of
  manliness!

  _Grym._ By so much the happier art thou, to have had all
  this born with you in your home, as they tell me, and to
  be able, not once and again as I, but every day, as often
  as you pleased, to listen to such a father, holding forth
  wisely on the greatest and most useful topics.

  _Bud._ Stop this, please, and let the conversation
  proceed, with which we started, about thee and Flexibulus.

  _Grym._ Let us then be silent with regard to your father
  since this is your desire: let us return to Flexibulus;
  nothing is sweeter to me than his discourse, nothing
  more sagacious than his counsels, nothing more weighty
  than his precepts, or more holy. So by this foretaste
  of himself which he has provided me, the thirst has
  been stimulated and increased in a wonderful degree, to
  draw further from that sweet fountain of wisdom. Those
  who describe the earth tell us that the streams are of
  wonderful formation and nature; some inebriate, others
  take away drunkenness; some send stupor, others sleep. I
  have experienced that this fountain has the property of
  making a man of a brute, a useful person of a wastrel,
  and of a man an angel.

  _Bud._ Might I not be able also to draw something from
  this fountain, though it be with the tip of my lips?

  _Grym._ Why shouldst thou not? I will show you the house
  where he dwells.

  _Bud._ Another time! But do thou, whilst we are walking
  along (or let us sit down, if you like), tell me
  something of his precepts, those which thou considerest
  to be his best and most potent.


_The Precepts_

  _Grym._ I will gladly recall them to memory as far as I
  am able if it will give you pleasure and be of use. First
  of all he taught me that no one ought to think highly
  of himself, but moderately or, more truly, humbly; that
  this was the solid and special foundation of the best
  education, and truly of society. Hence to exercise all
  diligence to cultivate the mind, and to adorn it with
  the knowledge of things by the knowledge and exercise of
  virtue. Otherwise, that a man is not a man but as cattle.
  That one should be interested in sacred matters and
  regard them with the greatest attention and reverence.
  Whatsoever on those matters you either hear, or see, to
  regard it as great, wonder-moving, and as things which
  surpass your power of comprehension. That you should
  frequently commend yourself to Christ in prayers, have
  your hope and all your trust placed in Him. That you
  should show yourself obedient to parents, serve them,
  minister to them and, as each one has power, be good
  and useful to them. That we should honour and love the
  teacher even as the parent, not of our body but (what is
  greater) of our mind. That we should revere the priests
  of the Lord, and show ourselves attentive to their
  teaching, since they are to us in place of the Apostles
  and even of the Lord Himself. That we should stand up
  before the old, uncovering our heads, and attentively
  listen to them, from whom, through their long experience
  of life, wisdom may be gathered. That we should honour
  magistrates, and that when they order anything we should
  listen to what they say—since God has committed us to
  their care. That we should look for, admire, honour,
  and wish all good to, men of great ability, of great
  learning, and to honest men, and seek the friendship
  and intimacy of those from whom so great fruits can be
  obtained, and that we attend to it especially that we
  turn out like them. And in the last place, that reverence
  is due to those who are in places of dignity, and
  therefore it should be given freely and gladly. What do
  you say as to these precepts?

  _Bud._ So far as I can form a judgment regarding them,
  they are taken out from some rich storehouse of wisdom.
  But tell me if many people do not come to honour, who
  don’t deserve it, _e.g._, priests who don’t act in
  accordance with so great a title, depraved magistrates,
  and foolish and delirious old men? What is the opinion of
  Flexibulus of these? Are they to be honoured as greatly
  as the more capable men?

  _Grym._ Flexibulus knew very well that there are many
  such, but he did not allow that those of my age could
  judge in matters of this kind. We had not yet obtained
  such insight and wisdom, that we could judge with regard
  to them. That forming of opinion in these matters must
  be left over to wise men, and to those who are placed in
  authority over us.

  _Bud._ Therein he was right, as it seems to me.

  _Grym._ He used to add: that a youth ought not to be
  slow in baring his head, in bending his knee, nor in
  calling any one by his most honoured titles, nor remiss
  in pleasant and modest discourse. Nor does it become him
  to speak much amongst his elders or superiors. For it
  would not otherwise agree with the reverence due from
  him. Silent himself, he should listen to them, and drink
  in wisdom from them, knowledge of varied kinds, and a
  correct and ready method of speaking. The shortest way
  to knowledge is diligence in listening. It is the part
  of a prudent and thoughtful man to form right judgments
  about things, and in every instance of that about which
  he clearly knows. Therefore a youth ought not to be
  tolerated, who speaks hastily and judges hastily, nor
  one who is inclined to asserting and deciding hastily;
  that he ought to be reluctant to argue and judge on even
  small and slight questions of any kind, or, at any rate,
  rather timid, _i.e._, conscious of his own ignorance. But
  if this is true in slight matters, what shall we say of
  literature, of the branches of knowledge? of the laws of
  the country, of rites, of the customs and institutions
  of our ancestors? Concerning these, Flexibulus said, it
  was not permissible in the youth to urge an opinion or
  to dispute or to call in question; not to cavil, nor to
  demand the grounds, but quietly and modestly, to obey
  them. He supported his opinion by the authority of Plato,
  a man of great wisdom.

  _Bud._ But if the laws are depraved in their morality,
  unjust, tyrannical?

  _Grym._ As to this Flexibulus expressed himself as he
  had done with regard to old men. “I know full well,”
  said he, “there are many customs in the state which are
  not suitable, that whilst some laws are sacred, some
  are unjust, but you are unskilled, inexperienced in the
  affairs of life, how should you form an opinion? Not as
  yet have you reached that stage in erudition, in the
  experience of things, that you should be able to decide.
  Perchance, such is your ignorance or licence of mind, you
  would judge those laws to be unjust which are established
  most righteously and with great wisdom. But who could
  render manifest those laws which should be abrogated
  without inquiring, discussing, and deciding on points
  one by one? For this, you are not yet capable.”

  _Bud._ That is clearly so. Go on to other points.


III. _Epilogue_

  _Grym._ No ornament is more becoming or pleasing in the
  youth than modesty. Nothing is more offensive and hateful
  than impudence. There is great danger to our age from
  anger. By it we are snatched to disgraceful actions, of
  which afterwards we are most keenly ashamed. And so we
  must struggle eagerly against it, until it is entirely
  overcome, lest it overcome us. The leisurely man, badly
  occupied, is a stone, a beast; a well-occupied man is in
  truth a man. Men, by doing nothing, learn to do evil.
  Food and drink must be measured by the natural desire of
  hunger and thirst, not by gluttony, and not by brute-lust
  of stuffing the body. What can be more loathsome to be
  said than that a man wages war on his own body by eating
  and drinking, which strip him of his humanity, and hand
  him over to the beasts, or make him even as it were a log
  of wood. The expression of the face and the whole body
  show in what manner the mind within is trained. But from
  the whole exterior appearance, no mirror of the mind is
  more certain than the eyes, and so it is fitting that
  they should be sedate and quiet, not elated nor dejected,
  neither mobile nor stiff, and that the face itself
  should not be drawn into severity or ferocity, but into
  a cheerful and affable cast. Sordidness and obscenity
  should be far absent from clothing, nurture, intercourse,
  and speech. Our speech should be neither arrogant nor
  marked by fear, nor (would he have it by turns) abject
  and effeminate, but simple and by no means captious;
  not twisted to misleading interpretations, for if that
  happens, nothing can be safely spoken, and a noble nature
  in a man is broken, if his speech is met by foolish and
  inane cavils. When we are speaking, the hands should not
  be tossed about, nor the head shaken, nor the side bent,
  nor the forehead wrinkled, nor the face distorted, nor
  the feet shuffling. Nothing is viler than lying, nor is
  anything so abhorrent. Intemperance makes us beasts;
  lying makes us devils; the truth makes us demigods. Truth
  is born of God; lying of the Devil, and nothing is so
  harmful for the communion of life. Much more ought the
  liar to be shut out from the concourse of men than he who
  has committed theft, or he who has beaten another, or he
  who has debased the coinage. For what intercourse in the
  affairs or business of life or what trustful conversation
  can there be with the man, who speaks otherwise than
  as he thinks? With other kinds of vices, this may be
  possible; but not with lying. Concerning companions and
  friendship of youths he said much and to the purpose,
  that this was not a matter of slight moment to the
  honesty or else the shame of our age, that the manners
  of our friends and companions are communicated to us as
  if by contagion, and we become almost such as those are,
  with whom we have intimate dealings; and therefore in
  that matter, there should be exercised great diligence
  and care. Nor did he permit us to seek friendships and
  intimacies ourselves, but that they should be chosen by
  parents or teachers or educators, and he taught that
  we should accept them, and honour them as they were
  recommended. For parents, in choosing for us, are guided
  by reason, whilst we may be seized by some bad desire or
  lust of the mind. But if, by any chance, we should find
  ourselves in useless or harmful circumstances, then it
  behoves us as soon as possible to seek advice from our
  superiors, and to lay our cares before them. He said,
  from time to time, indeed, very many other weighty and
  admirable things, and these things also he explained with
  considerable fullness and exactness. But these points
  which I have already stated were, on the whole, the most
  important on the subject of the right education of youth.

  BREDA, IN BRABANT; _the Day of the Visitation of the Holy
  Virgin_, 1538.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] From the same _Institution of a Christian Woman_ (Richard Hyrde’s
translation).

[2] J. L. Vives: _Ausgeswählte pädagogische Schriften_. Leipzig.

[3] _De Causis Corruptarum Artium_, book ii.

[4] The _De Disciplinis_ consists of two parts—1. _De Causis
Corruptarum Artium_, in seven books; 2. _De Tradendis Disciplinis_ in
five books.

[5] _Dissertation on Romance and Minstrelsy_, by Joseph Ritson, 1891.

[6] Bömer, _Die Lateinischen Schülergespräche der Humanisten_ (1899),
p. 182.

[7] Vives deals with this question in his _De Tradendis Disciplinis_,
and it is highly probable that Mulcaster had read that book before
he treated on the subject of conferences of parents and teachers.
(_Positions_, p. 284).

[8] It should be remembered, in connection with these dates, that Queen
Mary was eleven years older than Philip. Mary was Philip’s second wife;
his first wife was Mary of Portugal, whom he married in 1543. She died
in 1546.

[9] _See_ p. 174.

[10] This edition is not mentioned by Bömer.

[11] _See_ p. xxvi.

[12] _See_ p. 196–196.

[13] p. 21.

[14] p. 18.

[15] p. 65.

[16] In the eighteenth century, the Nonconformist academies, which are
of the first significance as educational institutions, probably, in
many cases, already associated the stages of elementary, secondary, and
university education in one institution.

[17] The grammar school was called in Latin _Ludus literarius_.

[18] _E.g._, John Northbrooke: _Treatise wherein Dicing, etc., ...
are reproved ... Dialogue-wise_, 1579 (Reprinted by the Shakespeare
Society); Gilbert Walker: _A Manifest Detection of the most Vyle and
Detestable Use of Dice-play_, 1552 (Reprinted by the Percy Society);
and by educational writers, _e.g._, Roger Ascham: _Toxophilus_ (1545),
and Laurence Humphrey: _The Nobles_ (1560). William Horman, headmaster
of Eton College School, in his _Vulgaria_ (in 1519) holds the opinion:
“It is a shame that young gentlemen should lose time at the dice and
tables, cards and hazard.”

[19] As to charts, _e.g._, Sir Thomas Elyot, in the _Gouvernour_
(1531), says: “I cannot tell what more pleasure should happen to a
gentle wit than to behold in his own house (_i.e._, in pictures and
maps) everything that within all the world is contained.”

[20] _See_ p. 95.

[21] Dialogue IX.

[22] Dialogue VIII.

[23] Which J. T. Freigius duly notes is taken from Ovid:
_Metamorphoses_, liber vi., and Vergil: _Eclogues_, vi.

[24] Vives gives an example in Pandulphus (Dialogue IX.).

[25] _De Tradendis Disciplinis_, book iii. chap. 3.

[26] _De Tradendis Disciplinis_, book iii. chap. 3.

[27] _De Tradendis Disciplinis_, book i. chap. 2.

[28] _Mémoire sur la vie et les écrits de J. L. Vives_, p. 87.

[29] _Die lateinischen Schülergespräche der Humanisten_, pp. 163–163.

[30] Pasce animos nostros Christe caritate tua, qui benignitate tua
alis vitas animantium: sancta sint, Domine, haec tua munera nobis
sumentibus, ut tu, qui ea largiris, sanctus es. Amen.

[31] In John Conybeare’s _Collection of Proverbs_ (1580–1580) the
following rendering is given: “One knave will kepe another companye,
one pratteler wille with another, like will to like.” _Letters and
Exercises of John Conybeare_, p. 42. London: Henry Frowde, 1905.

[32] _Audire male._ To have an evil reputation. Lewis and Short aptly
quote from Milton’s _Areopagitica_: “For which England hears ill
abroad.”

[33] On a tombstone. Dr. Bröring quotes from Guicciardini, _Belgicae
Descriptio_, 1635, where an account is given of the tombstone to a
daughter of the Countess Mathilde of Holland in a Cloister near the
Hague.

[34] _Amphora_ is a measure for liquids. It was equal to six gallons
seven pints. The _congius_, in the _Tri-congius_, was a measure of
one-eighth of an _amphora_.

[35] _I.e._ of the nature of bugs.

[36] _Decoxisse_ from _decoquere_—which means both to cook and to
become bankrupt.

[37] Dr. Bröring quotes from Erasmus’s _Adages_, Chil. I. Cent. viii.
Prov. 86, to show that formerly men of obscure birth were termed
_terrae filii_.

[38] _Capitulum lepidissimum_—a term of endearment used by Terence.

[39] Freigius notes that Jubellius Taurea was by far the strongest
horse of the Campanians, whilst Claudius Asellus was a horseman of
equally renowned horsemanship. The steed challenged the rider to a
contest. _See_ Livy, Bk. 3, Decad. 3.

[40] Of the town of Tours, in France.

[41] It is explained by Vives, as a note in the margin, that Curio is
the priest of the parish, commonly called curate.

[42] As Dr. Bröring remarks, “German” is used in the sense of
“brethren.”

[43] With dust in winter and mud in spring, you will reap great grain,
Camillus. Macrobius, _Satur._ v. 20; cf. Vergil, _Georgics_, i. 101.

[44] Happy is the man in his heart, and approaching to the happiness
of the gods themselves, whom glory does not agitate, dazzling with its
lying gloss, nor the evil allurements of haughty luxury, but who lets
the days pass peacefully by and silently, and with the labour of the
poor man wins the peace of the blameless life.

[45] _I.e._, shop packing-paper.

[46] But dispatch now, don’t put off to future hours. Who does not do a
thing to-day may be less able to do it to-morrow.

[47] Let words run, the hand is quicker than they; not as yet has the
tongue done its work until the right hand has accomplished its task.

[48] Is this always the order of the day, then? Here is full morning
coming through the window-shutters, and making the narrow crevices look
larger with the light; yet we go on snoring, enough to carry off the
fumes of that unmanageable Falernian.—(Conington’s Translation.)

[49] Arise, already the baker sells breakfast to boys. On every side,
already, the birds announce the dawn by their chirping.

[50]

  “Such days, I trow, at the infancy of earth,
  Shone forth, and kept the tenor of their birth;
  True spring was that, the world was bent on spring,
  And eastern breezes check’d their wintry wing:
  While cattle drank new light, and man was shown,
  A race of iron from a land of stone;
  Then savage beasts were launch’d upon the grove,
  And constellations on the heaven above;
  Nor could young Nature have achieved the birth,
      Unless a period of repose so sweet
      Had come to pass, betwixt the cold and heat,
  And heaven’s indulgence greeted the new earth.”

  R. D. Blackmore’s Translation.

[51] As did Columella, _i.e._, _pruna cereola_. Pliny calls them
_cerina_.

[52] Freigius’s note: _Insularius_ is equivalent to French _concierge_.

[53] Livy, book i.

[54] Book v. cap. 4, de Cimone; Ovid, _Fasti_, book ii.

[55] _I.e._, the beggar in the house of Ulysses at Ithaca. See Martial,
5, 41, 9.

[56] _Georgics_, i. 392. The oil (of lamps is seen) to sparkle and
crumbling fungus to form.

[57] Sleep, the rest of things, sleep, most gracious of the gods, peace
of the mind, whom anxiety shuns, thou who soothest the weary bodies
from their hard duties and restorest them for their labour.

[58] This is a mark of refinement and seemly in one who is cultured—not
to be ignorant of the names of the utensils that are in daily use in
the house.

[59] _Athen._ 12. That he was the first to set the Romans the example
of luxury in all things.

[60] That Apicius exceeded all men in prodigality.

[61] Cooking vessel with feet for coals.

[62] I am not willing to be Caesar, to march through the Britons and to
suffer Scythian frosts.

[63] So says Aelius Spartianus in _Life of Hadrian Florus_ as quoted by
Freigius. See _Crinitus_, book 15, cap. 5.

[64] How often the cook seeks pepper and wine for the breakfasts of the
Fabii to smack of the simple beet.

[65] And heavily used to hang on his arm a bowl with a worn-out handle.

[66] Tell me why does the lettuce, which used to finish off the meals
of our ancestors, now begin _our_ meals?

[67] When I, the Lucanian sausage, come, daughter of the swine of
Picenum, then will the crown be given gladly to the snowy pottage.

[68] As he passed by one day, Diogenes, who was washing vegetables,
scoffed at him and said: “If you had learnt to live on these, you would
not frequent the courts of kings;” and he said: “If you knew how to
associate with your fellow men, you would not be washing vegetables.”

[69] _See_ Cicero, _De Oratore_, iii. (near the end); Quintilian, i.
10; Gellius, _Noctes Atticae_, i. 11.

[70] _Graculus_ is a jackdaw. Aesop has a story of the jackdaw with
borrowed plumes. Juvenal iii. 78 refers to the _Graeculus_, the Roman
attempting to play the Greek.

[71] A red colouring matter.

[72] On what has been set and is set before us, may Christ deign to
give his blessing.

[73] Even with three guests, each seems to me to have a different
taste, each requiring quite different foods with his quite different
palate. HORACE, _Epistles_, ii. 2, 61, 62.

[74] _Georgics_, i. 57.

[75] We should give little to pleasure, as its due; but all the more to
health. CATO, _Disticha de Moribus_, ii. 28.

[76] _See_ Varro, _De re rustica_, III. vi. 6.

[77] We render thanks to Thee, Father, who has provided so many things
for the enjoyment of men: Grant that, by Thy good-will, we may come to
the feast of Thy Blessedness.

[78] For getting well from the bite of dog at night, take from the
dog’s hair your remedy.

[79] Boys play, and play, also, youth and age. Play is the wit,
seriousness, and wisdom of old age. Also human life, what is it but
trifling and empty fable, when virtue is not its sole guiding principle?

[80] Viz., _The Antiochian; or, The Beard-hater_.

[81] _I.e._, the small town of the Parisians.

[82] Vives uses the Roman formula for the passing of laws: “_Velitis,
Quirites, jubeatis._” The response of acceptance being: “_Uti rogas._”

[83] Dr. Bröring renders _glabella_, “the space between the eyebrows.”
_Glabellus_ is derived from _glaber_, the root of which is γλαφ—cf.
_scalpo_, to hollow out—_i.e._, smooth, without hair (Lewis and Short).

[84] _See_ _Valerius Maximus_, book vi. chap. vi.




INDEX


  [_Large Roman numerals refer to the number of the
  Dialogue; small Roman numerals refer to the pages of the
  Introduction; Arabic numerals refer to the pages of the
  text._]

  A B C tablet, 18

  Academy, the, xxxix.

  Agonotheta, 106

  Alarum-clock, 116

  Anneus, a teacher, xliii., 204

  Apparel, court, 163

  Architriclinus (feast-master), 30

  Aristotle, 36, 47, 102, 147

  Ascham, Roger, xli.

  Atlantides, 98


  Bacchus, 151, 156

  Baldus, 106

  Banquet, 126, 132

  “Baptising” wine, 139

  Bardus, 107

  Bartolus, 106

  Batalarii, 102, 103, 106

  Beer, 92, 141

  Beggar, 43

  Bird, the teacher, 89

  Birds, different kinds of, 144

  Blacksmith, 82

  Boatmen, the scum of the sea, 59

  Boccaccio, 96

  Bömer, Dr., xxii.

  Book-gluer, 114

  Books, 179

  Boorish youth, 52

  Boulogne, 56

  Bread, different kinds of, 134

  Breakfast, 8, 27

  Bruges, 33, 34

  Budaeus (William Budé), vii.

  Buffoons, 170

  Busts of authors in library, 105


  Candles, 110

  Card-playing, XXI.

  Catharine of Aragon, xv., xvi., xxviii., 96

  _Catholicon, The_, 105

  Cato’s distichs quoted, 137

  Caryatides, 98

  Cervent, Clara, mother of Vives’ wife, xi.

  Chancellor, the, 167

  Characteristics of the _Dialogues_, xxxvii.

  Charts or maps, 186

  Cheese, 12, 145

  Cherries, buying of, 17;
    cherry-stones as stakes, 23

  Child, and rattle, 53

  Chrysostom, homilies of, 151

  _Chytropus_, 120

  Cicero, 113;
    _Tusculanae Questiones_, 42, 114

  Circe, cup of, 170

  Clock, 81; mechanical, 82

  Clothes, 84 _sqq._

  Comb, 4;
    ivory, 85

  Constable, the, 165

  “Cooking” accounts, 50

  Cook-shop, 118

  Copies, writing, 74

  Copper-knobs on books, 113

  Counsellors of the king, 166

  Courtiers of the king, 167

  Cuckoo, the, 46

  Cups, 31, 51, 128


  Dauphin, the, 165

  Dead men can speak, 178

  Deafness, 42

  de Croy, Cardinal, Vives’ pupil, xii.

  Dedication of Vives’ _School Dialogues_, xxi.

  Delights of Sight, 88;
    of Hearing, 89;
    of Smell, 89;
    of Taste, 89;
    of Touch, 90

  Demosthenes, 113

  Dialectic, 102

  Dice-player, Curius the, 44

  Dignitaries of the court, 165

  Dilia, river, 83

  Dining-room, 96, 128

  Diogenes, 125, 136

  Discovery of the New World, 95

  Disease of thirst, 161

  Disputing, 20

  Dog, 7, 15, 41, 44

  Door-angels, 94

  Drama, and the _Dialogues_, xxxvii.

  Drawing lots, 189

  Dressing, 2 _sqq._

  Drinking, 27, 28, 30, 45;
    water, 28, 42;
    wine, 28, 42;
    beer, 31

  Drivers, the scum of the earth, 59

  Drunkenness, xlvi., XVIII.;
    effects of, 160

  Dullard, John, xi.

  Dürer, Albrecht, 210

  Dury, John, and the Academy, xl.


  Earth, the, a fruitful mother, 53

  Eating, 27

  Education, XXIV.;
    noble, 233

  Elegance of clothes as well as words, 47

  Elyot, Sir Thomas, xxxv., xli.

  Erasmus, vii., xi.

  _Exercitatio_, the Latin title for the _Dialogues_, vii.


  Fish, different kinds of, 143

  “Flat” wine, 139

  Flea, 83, 115

  Fleming, 33;
    without a knife, 33

  Florus quoted, 122

  Foods, 37, VII., 92, XV.

  Freigius, J. T., editor of _Dialogues_, xxxiv., li.

  Frenchmen, 104

  Friendships arranged for children by parents, 242

  Fruits, 135 _sqq._


  Games, xli.;
    ball, 2;
    dice-playing, 2, 13, 23;
    nuts, 22;
    odd and even, 22;
    draughts, 24;
    playing-cards, 24;
    tennis, 202

  Genders, number of, 35

  German, 120

  Geometry, 16

  Getting up, 1

  Godelina of Flanders, 96

  Goldfinch, 127

  Good, the real, 228 _sqq._

  Governing, art of, 177

  Grace before meat, 33, 131;
    after meat, 38, 148

  Grammar, 2, 35, 102

  Grammarians, asses, 119, 120

  Greek in the _Dialogues_, xxxv.

  Greetings, morning, 6

  Griselda, 96

  Guest, school-boy, 32


  Helen, 97

  Holiday from school, 56

  Holocolax, 165

  Home and school life, xxiii.

  Homer, 97

  Horace quoted, 53, 135

  Horses, and their trappings, IX.

  Host, a kindly, 153

  Hour-bells, 40

  Hours of teaching, 103

  House, the new, 93;
    keeper, 32

  Housteville, Aegidius de, xxxvi.

  Hugutio, 105

  Hunter, Mannius the, 44


  Ink, 72

  Inscriptions in houses, 97

  Intemperance, 241

  Isocrates quoted, 177


  Joannius, Honoratus, learned man of Valencia, 205

  Joviality, the gate of drunkenness, 161

  Jugglers, 170


  Keeper of Archives, the, 167

  King, the, 165;
    the palace of the, 163

  Kitchen, the, XV., 31;
    maid, 31


  Ladies’ quarters in the court, 169

  Lapinius, Euphrosynus, xxxvi.

  Latin speaking, xxx., 34

  Laws of play, xliii., 206–9

  Lebrija (or Nebrissensis), Antonio de, x., 65

  Lecture-room, 65

  Letter-carrier, 51, 70

  Letters, 18, 21

  Library, school, 105

  Licentiates, 103

  Lie-telling, 13

  Life, a journey, 179

  Literature out of the class-room, 188

  Litigants of the king’s court, 167

  Livy, lost decads, 211

  Logic, 2

  Louvain, inhabitants of (Lovanians), 47

  Lover, the, 48

  Lucretia, picture of, 95

  _Ludus literarius_, a playing with letters, the Latin for a school, 19

  Lunch, 27

  Lutetia (Paris), 199

  Lying, 241

  Lyons, 116


  Magistrates, honour due to, 237

  Maid-servants, I., VI., VII., 52, 83

  Manners, at table, 37

  Maps, xlii.

  March, family name of Vives’ mother, vii.

  Market, the, at Valencia, 205

  Martial quoted, 45, 79, 81, 122, 123

  Master of the feast, the king’s, 168

  Master of the horse, 165

  Market, 36

  Meals, 24

  Meats, 137

  Mena, Juan de, quoted, xlv., 88

  Merchant, the, 49

  Miller, the, 134

  Milton, John, xxvii., xl.

  Mimus quoted, 156

  Modesty, real and fictitious, 227

  Monastery, Carthusian, 87;
    Franciscan, 87

  Moor, a white, 23

  Morning best for learning, 92

  Mortar, 122

  Mosquito-net, 115

  Motta, Peter, xxxv., xxxvi.

  Mountebank, 3

  Mulcaster, Richard, xxiv., xli.

  Muses, number of the, 136

  Music of birds, 89

  Mysteries, study of, by nobles, 222


  Names of Vives’ friends in the _Dialogues_, xxxiii.

  Napkin, 32, 130, 131

  Nature, in the _Dialogues_, xliv.

  Nazianzenus, 113

  Neapolitan horse, 176

  Nebrissensis, Antonius, _see_ Lebrija

  Nightingale, the, 45, 88–88

  Night-studies, 110, 111, 112

  Noah, 157

  Nobility, ignorance of writing, 67;
    contempt of knowledge, 69

  Nobles and education, XXIV.

  Nut-shells, used by boys for ants’ houses, 22


  Obedience to the laws, 239

  Occupation of courtiers, 170

  Old men, 180, 228

  One-eyed carpenter, 52

  Opinions of Vives held by Budé, Erasmus, xii.;
    and Sir Thomas More, xiii.

  Oppugnator, 107

  Orbilius, the schoolmaster, 91

  Ovid quoted, 78, 116, 234


  Painting, XXIII.

  Palimpsist, 71

  Pantry, 36

  Paper, 73

  Papias, 105

  Paris, 116;
    University of, 199

  Parts of the body, XXIII.

  Pastry-cook, 147

  Paul, the Apostle, 96

  Pauline precept, 141

  Persians, 136, 215

  Persius quoted, 80

  Pestle, 122

  Philip, Prince, xxii., xxvii., xxviii., XX.;
    “the darling of Spain,” 176

  Philosophers, 46

  Physicians and wine, 140

  Pictures, 95

  _Pietas literata_, ideal of, xlviii.

  Piety, 145

  Plato, 36, 105;
    authority of, 239

  Plautus quoted, 152, 207

  Play of being king, 175

  Playing with dog, 7

  Pliny, 20, 40, 46, 88, 149

  Points, 2, 23

  Polaemon, 232

  Popularity-hunting, 222

  Pottage, 142

  Prayer, 5;
    the Lord’s, 5;
    morning, 1, 83, 87;
    to the saints, 234;
    to Christ, 237

  Preachers in churches, 225

  Precepts of education, l., XXV.

  Priests and literature, 173

  Principal (_gymnasiarcha_), 43

  Propugnator, 107

  Pythagoras, 116


  Quills, 70;
    quill-sheath, 70;
    goose-quills, 71;
    hen’s quills, 71;
    making of quill-pens, 71

  Quintilian quoted, 65


  Reading, 18 _sqq._

  Recreation, grounds, 87;
    in bad weather, 185

  Reeds (pens), 70, 113

  Respect to the old, 237

  Reverence of priests, 237

  Rhetoric, 102

  River, 61, 183

  Rome, 118

  Rope-dancer (_funambulus_), 51

  Rush-mats, 97


  Saviour, our, quoted, 141

  Scaevola, Mutius, 97

  Scaevolae, 217

  Scholarship ill-esteemed in Belgium, 154

  School, 2, 8, 9, 10, 11, 19;
    Vives’ idea of the, xxxix.

  School-fees, 10

  Schoolmasters, 9, 15, 36, 122, 123, 136

  Scipio Africanus, 210

  Seal, of letters, 70

  Secretaries to nobles, 70

  Silence before elders and superiors, 238

  Siliceus, literary tutor of Prince Philip, 173

  Sister, Vives’, 201

  Sky, the open, 64

  Slavery of ignorance, 174

  Sluggishness, danger of, 184

  Socrates, 105

  Sophocles, 114

  Spaniards, 92, 104

  Spanish cap, 87

  Spanish inn, 126

  Spanish navigations, 95

  Spanish triumph (in cards), 189

  Spring, 88

  Stakes, 23, 191

  Statues in a house, 96 _sqq._

  Statutes of schools enjoining Vives’ _Dialogues_, xxxiv.

  “Still” wine, 139

  Stories, nineteen, told by students, VIII.

  Stunica, educator of Prince Philip, 173

  Style of _Dialogues_, xxxvi.

  Styles (pens), 70

  Subject-matter and style of _Dialogues_, xxxii.

  Suits in cards, names of, 189

  Summer-house, 97

  Sun-dial, 82

  Syracusans, 111


  Tapestry, 97

  Teacher, 54, 101;
    choice of, 9, 19, 25, 31

  Teachers in Belgium, 154;
    Pandulfus, 56;
    the best living, 179;
    clients of nobles, 223

  Tennis in France and Belgium, 202;
    in Valencia, 203

  “Thanks” to a host, 148–148

  Thrashing by teachers, 70

  Tongs, 119

  Trunk, story arising from the, 39

  Truth and flattery at court, 170–170

  Truth-speaking, 241

  Tumbler, the, 51

  Turkey-carpets, 130

  Twins, 43

  Tyrones, 102


  Umpire, 25

  Urbanity, 233

  Ushers’ conversation at school-meal, 35 _sqq._


  Valdaura, Margaret, wife of Vives, xi., xxxiii.

  Valencia, city of, XXII.

  Valerius Maximus, 95

  Valla, Laurentius, xx., 47

  Vegetables, selling of, 15

  Vergil, 40, 54, 91, 112, 123, 136

  Vernacular, in education, xlvi.-xlviii.

  Vernacular literature before the Renascence, xviii.

  Verse-maker, Mannius the, 44

  Verse-making, 123

  Vives, J. L., at school at Valencia, ix.;
    his schoolmasters, x.;
    one of the Renascence triumvirate, vii.;
    his parents, vii.-ix.;
    and scholasticism, ix.;
    at Paris, xi.;
    at Bruges, xi.;
    at Louvain, xi.;
    at Lyons, xi.;
    and Princess Mary, xiv.;
    life in London, xv.;
    his wife, Margaret Valdaura, xv.;
    and boys, xxxvii., l.;
    his _De Tradendis Disciplinis_, vii., x., xvi.;
    his _De Institutione Feminae Christianae_, viii., xiv.;
    commentary on St. Augustine’s _Civitas Dei_, xiii.;
    his _Introductio ad Sapientiam_, xv.;
    his _De Officio Mariti_, xvi.;
    his _De Europae Dissidiis et Bello Turico_, xvi.;
    his _De Veritate Fidei Christianae_, xvi.;
    his _De Anima_, xvi.

  Vives, J. L., references to himself in the _Dialogues_: a sufferer
      from gout, 34;
    names wells in the city of Louvain, 92;
    his verse-writing, 196–196;
    his father’s house in Valencia, 201


  Wainscoting, 97

  Wash-basins, 129

  Washing, 4, 86

  Watch (_horologium viatorium_), 40

  Water, 92, 141

  Water-drinking, xlv.

  Well, the Latin and the Greek at Louvain, 92

  Whist, French and Spanish, 189

  Wife of a drunkard, 151

  Winding-stairs, 96

  Window-panes, 96

  Windows, wooden and glass, 1

  Wine, 137

  Wine-cellar, 98

  Wine-drinking, xlv.

  Writing, X.;
    usefulness of, 66;
    writing-master, 68

  Writing-tablet, 21


  Xenocrates, 232

  Xenophon, 105, 113


  Zabatta, Angela, learned lady of Valencia, 201


THE END


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