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:

Juvenal:

Persius, Satyr, i.:

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 Merenda Coena Comessatio } An enumeration of different kinds.

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 shown33 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 cimici35 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:

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:

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.

Partes { Rotae, Reder. 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 Turonic40 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 German42 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.

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

Misi. With pleasure.

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.