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.