[Illustration: Frontispiece]
IN PRAISE OF FOLLY
By Erasmus
Illustrated with many curious CUTS, Designed, Drawn, and Etched by Hans
Holbein,
WITH PORTRAIT,
LIFE OF ERASMUS,
AND HIS
Epistle addressed to Sir Thomas More.
LONDON: REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, W.C.
1876.
THE LIFE OF ERASMUS.
ERASMUS, so deservedly famous for his admirable writings, the vast
extent of his learning, his great candour and moderation, and for being
one of the chief restorers of the Latin tongue on this side the Alps,
was born at Rotterdam, on the 28th of October, in the year 1467. The
anonymous author of his life commonly printed with his Colloquies (of
the London edition) is pleased to tell us that _de anno quo natus est
apud Batavos, non constat_. And if he himself wrote the life which we
find before the Elzevir edition, said to be _Erasmo autore_, he does not
particularly mention the year in which he was born, but places it _circa
annum 67 supra millesintum quadringentesimum_. Another Latin life, which
is prefixed to the above-mentioned London edition, fixes it in the year
1465; as does his epitaph at Basil. But as the inscription on his statue
at Rotterdam, the place of his nativity, may reasonably be supposed the
most authentic, we have followed that. His mother was the daughter of a
physician at Sevenbergen in Holland, with whom his father contracted an
acquaintance, and had correspondence with her on promise of marriage,
and was actually contracted to her. His father's name was Gerard; he
was the youngest of ten brothers, without one sister coming between; for
which reason his parents (according to the superstition of the times)
designed to consecrate him to the church. His brothers liked the notion,
because, as the church then governed all, they hoped, if he rose in
his profession, to have a sure friend to advance their interest; but
no importunities could prevail on Gerard to turn ecclesiastic Finding
himself continually pressed upon so disagreeable a subject, and not able
longer to bear it, he was forced to fly from his native country, leaving
a letter for his friends, in which he acquainted them with the reason of
his departure, and that he should never trouble them any more. Thus he
left her who was to be his wife big with child, and made the best of
his way to Rome. Being an admirable master of the pen, he made a very
genteel livelihood by transcribing most authors of note (for printing
was not in use). He for some time lived at large, but afterwards applied
close to study, made great progress in the Greek and Latin languages,
and in the civil law; for Rome at that time was full of learned men.
When his friends knew he was at Rome, they sent him word that the young
gentlewoman whom he had courted for a wife was dead; upon which, in a
melancholy fit, he took orders, and turned his thoughts wholly to the
study of divinity. He returned to his own country, and found to his
grief that he had been imposed upon; but it was too late to think of
marriage, so he dropped all farther pretensions to his mistress; nor
would she after this unlucky adventure be induced to marry.
The son took the name of Gerard after his father, which in German
signifies _amiable_, and (after the fashion of the learned men of that
age, who affected to give their names a Greek or Latin turn) his was
turned into Erasmus, which in Greek has the same signification. He was
chorister of the cathedral church of Utrecht till he was nine years
old; after which he was sent to Deventer to be instructed by the famous
Alexander Hegius, a Westphalian. Under so able a master he proved
an extraordinary proficient; and it is remarkable that he had such a
strength of memory as to be able to say all Terence and Horace by heart.
He was now arrived to the thirteenth year of his age, and had been
continually under the watchful eye of his mother, who died of the plague
then raging at Deventer. The contagion daily increasing, and having
swept away the family where he boarded, he was obliged to return home.
His father Gerard was so concerned at her death that he grew melancholy,
and died soon after: neither of his parents being much above forty when
they died.
Erasmus had three guardians assigned him, the chief of whom was Peter
Winkel, schoolmaster of Goude; and the fortune left him was amply
sufficient for his support, if his executors had faithfully discharged
their trust Although he was fit for the university, his guardians were
averse to sending him there, as they designed him for a monastic life,
and therefore removed him to Bois-le-duc, where, he says, he lost near
three years, living in a Franciscan convent The professor of humanity in
this convent, admiring his rising genius, daily importuned him to take
the habit, and be of their order. Erasmus had no great inclination for
the cloister; not that he had the least dislike to the severities of
a pious life, but he could not reconcile himself to the monastic
profession; he therefore urged his rawness of age, and desired farther
to consider better of the matter. The plague spreading in those parts,
and he having struggled a long time with a quartan ague, obliged him to
return home.
His guardians employed those about him to use all manner of arguments to
prevail on him to enter the order of monk; sometimes threatening, and at
other times making use of flattery and fair speeches. When Winkel, his
guardian, found him not to be moved from his resolution, he told
him that he threw up his guardianship from that moment Young Erasmus
replied, that he took him at his word, since he was old enough now to
look out for himself. When Winkel found that threats did not avail, he
employed his brother, who was the other guardian, to see what he could
effect by fair means. Thus he was surrounded by them and their agents
on all sides. By mere accident, Erasmus went to visit a religious house
belonging to the same order, in Emaus or Steyn, near Goude, where he met
with one Cornelius, who had been his companion at Deventer; and though
he had not himself taken the habit, he was perpetually preaching up the
advantages of a religious life, as the convenience of noble libraries,
the helps of learned conversation, retirement from the noise and folly
of the world, and the like. Thus at last he was induced to pitch upon
this convent. Upon his admission they fed him with great promises, to
engage him to take the holy cloth; and though he found almost everything
fall short of his expectation, yet his necessities, and the usage he was
threatened with if he abandoned their order, prevailed with him, after
his year of probation, to profess himself a member of their fraternity.
Not long after this, he had the honour to be known to Henry a Bergis,
bishop of Cambray, who having some hopes of obtaining a cardinal's hat,
wanted one perfectly master of Latin to solicit this affair for him; for
this purpose Erasmus was taken into the bishop's family, where he wore
the habit of his order. The bishop not succeeding in his expectation
at Rome, proved fickle and wavering in his affection; therefore Erasmus
prevailed with him to send him to Paris, to prosecute his studies in
that famous university, with the promise of an annual allowance,
which was never paid him. He was admitted into Montague College, but
indisposition obliged him to return to the bishop, by whom he was
honourably entertained. Finding his health restored, he made a journey
to Holland, intending to settle there, but was persuaded to go a second
time to Paris; where, having no patron to support him, himself says,
he rather made a shift to live, than could be said to study. He next
visited England, where he was received with great respect; and as
appears by several of his letters, he honoured it next to the place of
his nativity. In a letter to Andrelinus, inviting him to England, he
speaks highly of the beauty of the English ladies, and thus describes
their innocent freedom: "When you come into a gentleman's house you are
allowed the favour to salute them, and the same when you take leave." He
was particularly acquainted with Sir Thomas More, Colet, dean of Saint
Paul's, Grocinus, Linacer, Latimer, and many others of the most eminent
of that time; and passed some years at Gam-bridge. In his way for France
he had the misfortune to be stripped of everything; but he did not
revenge this injury by any unjust reflection on the country. Not meeting
with the preferment he expected, he made a voyage to Italy, at that time
little inferior to the Augustan age for learning. He took his doctor
of divinity degree in the university of Turin; stayed about a year
in Bologna; afterward went to Venice, and there published his book of
Adages from the press of the famous Aldus. He removed to Padua, and last
to Rome, where his fame had arrived long before him. Here he gained the
friendship of all the considerable persons of the city, nor could have
failed to have made his fortune, had he not been prevailed upon by the
great promises of his friends in England to return thither on Henry
VIIIth coming to the crown. He was taken into favour by Warham,
archbishop of Canterbury, who gave him the living of Aldington, in
Kent; but whether Erasmus was wanting in making his court to Wolsey,
or whether the cardinal viewed him with a jealous eye, because he was
a favourite of Warham, between whom and Wolsey there was perpetual
clashing, we know not; however, being disappointed, Erasmus went
to Flanders, and by the interest of Chancellor Sylvagius, was made
counsellor to Charles of Austria, afterward Charles V., emperor of
Germany. He resided several years at Basil; but on the mass being
abolished in that city by the Reformation, he retired to Friberg
in Alsace, where he lived seven years. Having been for a long time
afflicted with the gout, he left Friberg, and returned to Basil. Here
the gout soon left him, but he was seized by a dysentery, and after
labouring a whole month under that disorder, died on the 22nd of July,
1536, in the house of Jerome Frobenius, son of John, the famous printer.
He was honourably interred, and the city of Basil still pays the highest
respect to the memory of so great a man.
Erasmus was the most facetious man, and the greatest critic of his age.
He carried on a reformation in learning at the same time he advanced
that of religion; and promoted a purity of style as well as simplicity
of worship. This drew on him the hatred of the ecclesiastics, who were
no less bigotted to their barbarisms in language and philosophy, than
they were to their superstitious and gaudy ceremonies in religion; they
murdered him in their dull treatises, libelled him in their wretched
sermons, and in their last and most effectual efforts of malice, they
joined some of their own execrable stuff to his compositions: of which
he himself complains in a letter addressed to the divines of Louvain. He
exposed with great freedom the vices and corruptions of his own church,
yet never would be persuaded to leave her communion. The papal policy
would never have suffered Erasmus to have taken so unbridled a range
in the reproof and censure of her extravagancies, but under such
circumstances, when the public attack of Luther imposed on her a
prudential necessity of not disobliging her friends, that she might with
more united strength oppose the common enemy; and patiently bore what at
any other time she would have resented. Perhaps no man has obliged the
public with a greater number of useful volumes than our author; though
several have been attributed to him which he never wrote. His book of
Colloquies has passed through more editions than any of his others:
Moreri tells us a bookseller in Paris sold twenty thousand at one
impression.
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[Illustration: Erasmus 025]
E R A S M U S's
EPISTLE
TO
Sir THOMAS MORE.
IN my late travels from Italy into England, that I might not trifle
away my time in the rehearsal of old wives' fables, I thought it more
pertinent to employ my thoughts in reflecting upon some past studies,
or calling to remembrance several of those highly learned, as well as
smartly ingenious, friends I had here left behind, among whom you (dear
Sir) were represented as the chief; whose memory, while absent at this
distance, I respect with no less a complacency than I was wont while
present to enjoy your more intimate conversation, which last afforded
me the greatest satisfaction I could possibly hope for. Having therefore
resolved to be a doing, and deeming that time improper for any serious
concerns, I thought good to divert myself with drawing up a panegyrick
upon Folly. How! what maggot (say you) put this in your head? Why, the
first hint, Sir, was your own surname of More, which comes as near
the literal sound of the word,* as you yourself are distant from the
signification of it, and that in all men's judgments is vastly wide.
* Mwpia.
In the next place, I supposed that this kind of sporting wit would be
by you more especially accepted of, by you, Sir, that are wont with this
sort of jocose raillery (such as, if I mistake not, is neither dull nor
impertinent) to be mightily pleased, and in your ordinary converse
to approve yourself a Democritus junior: for truly, as you do from a
singular vein of wit very much dissent from the common herd of mankind;
so, by an incredible affability and pliableness of temper, you have the
art of suiting your humour with all sorts of companies. I hope therefore
you will not only readily accept of this rude essay as a token from
your friend, but take it under your more immediate protection, as being
dedicated to you, and by that tide adopted for yours, rather than to
be fathered as my own. And it is a chance if there be wanting some
quarrelsome persons that will shew their teeth, and pretend these
fooleries are either too buffoon-like for a grave divine, or too
satyrical for a meek christian, and so will exclaim against me as if I
were vamping up some old farce, or acted anew the Lucian again with
a peevish snarling at all things. But those who are offended at the
lightness and pedantry of this subject, I would have them consider that
I do not set myself for the first example of this kind, but that the
same has been oft done by many considerable authors. For thus several
ages since, Homer wrote of no more weighty a subject than of a war
between the frogs and mice, Virgil of a gnat and a pudding-cake,
and Ovid of a nut Poly-crates commended the cruelty of Busiris; and
Isocrates, that corrects him for this, did as much for the injustice of
Glaucus. Favorinus extolled Thersites, and wrote in praise of a quartan
ague. Synesius pleaded in behalf of baldness; and Lucian defended
a sipping fly. Seneca drollingly related the deifying of Claudius;
Plutarch the dialogue betwixt Gryllus and Ulysses; Lucian and Apuleius
the story of an ass; and somebody else records the last will of a
hog, of which St. Hierom makes mention. So that if they please, let
themselves think the worst of me, and fancy to themselves that I was all
this while a playing at push-pin, or riding astride on a hobby-horse.
For how unjust is it, if when we allow different recreations to each
particular course of life, we afford no diversion to studies; especially
when trifles may be a whet to more serious thoughts, and comical matters
may be so treated of, as that a reader of ordinary sense may possibly
thence reap more advantage than from some more big and stately argument:
as while one in a long-winded oration descants in commendation of
rhetoric or philosophy, another in a fulsome harangue sets forth the
praise of his nation, a third makes a zealous invitation to a holy war
with the Turks, another confidently sets up for a fortune-teller, and a
fifth states questions upon mere impertinences. But as nothing is more
childish than to handle a serious subject in a loose, wanton style, so
is there nothing more pleasant than so to treat of trifles, as to make
them seem nothing less than what their name imports. As to what relates
to myself, I must be forced to submit to the judgment of others; yet,
except I am too partial to be judge in my own case, I am apt to believe
I have praised Folly in such a manner as not to have deserved the name
of fool for my pains. To reply now to the objection of satyricalness,
wits have been always allowed this privilege, that they might be smart
upon any transactions of life, if so be their liberty did not extend to
railing; which makes me wonder at the tender-eared humour of this age,
which will admit of no address without the prefatory repetition of all
formal titles; nay, you may find some so preposterously devout, that
they will sooner wink at the greatest affront against our Saviour, than
be content that a prince, or a pope, should be nettled with the least
joke or gird, especially in what relates to their ordinary customs. But
he who so blames men's irregularities as to lash at no one particular
person by name, does he (I say) seem to carp so properly as to teach
and instruct? And if so, how am I concerned to make any farther excuse?
Beside, he who in his strictures points indifferently at all, he seems
not angry at one man, but at all vices.
Therefore, if any singly complain they are particularly reflected upon,
they do but betray their own guilt, at least their cowardice. Saint
Hierom dealt in the same argument at a much freer and sharper rate; nay,
and he did not sometimes refrain from naming the persons: whereas I have
not only stifled the mentioning any one person, but have so tempered my
style, as the ingenious reader will easily perceive I aimed at diversion
rather than satire. Neither did I so far imitate Juvenal, as to rake
into the sink of vices to procure a laughter, rather than create a
hearty abhorrence. If there be any one that after all remains yet
unsatisfied, let him at least consider that there may be good use made
of being reprehended by Folly, which since we have feigned as speaking,
we must keep up that character which is suitable to the person
introduced.
But why do I trouble you, Sir, with this needless apology, you that are
so peculiar a patron; as, though the cause itself be none of the best,
you can at least give it the best protection. Farewell.
[Illustration: Tailpiece 033]
On the Argument and Design of the following Oration.
WHATEVER the modern satyrs o' th' stage,
To jerk the failures of a sliding age,
Have lavishly expos'd to public view,
For a discharge to all from envy due,
Here in as lively colours naked lie,
With equal wit, and more of modesty,
Those poets, with their free disclosing arts,
Strip vice so near to its uncomely parts,
Their libels prove but lessons, and they teach
Those very crimes which they intend t' impeach:
While here so wholesome all, tho' sharp t' th' taste,
So briskly free, yet so resolv'dly chaste;
The virgin naked as her god of bows,
May read or hear when blood at highest flows;
Nor more expense of blushes thence arise,
Than while the lect'ring matron does advise
To guard her virtue, and her honour prize.
Satire and panegyric, distant be,
Yet jointly here they both in one agree.
The whole's a sacrifice of salt and fire;
So does the humour of the age require,
To chafe the touch, and so foment desire.
As doctrine-dangling preachers lull asleep
Their unattentive pent-up fold of sheep;
The opiated milk glues up the brain,
And th' babes of grace are in their cradles lain;
( xxiv)
While mounted Andrews, bawdy, bold, and loud,
Like cocks, alarm all the drowsy crowd,
Whose glittering ears are prick'd as bolt-upright,
As sailing hairs are hoisted in a fright.
So does it fare with croaking spawns o' th' press,
The mould o' th' subject alters the success;
What's serious, like sleep, grants writs of ease,
Satire and ridicule can only please;
As if no other animals could gape,
But the biting badger, or the snick'ring ape.
Folly by irony's commended here,
Sooth'd, that her weakness may the more appear.
Thus fools, who trick'd, in red and yellow shine,
Are made believe that they are wondrous fine,
When all's a plot t' expose them by design.
The largesses of Folly here are strown.
Like pebbles, not to pick, but trample on.
Thus Spartans laid their soaking slaves before
The boys, to justle, kick, and tumble o'er:
Not that the dry-lipp'd youngsters might combine
To taste and know the mystery of wine,
But wonder thus at men transform'd to swine;
And th' power of such enchantment to escape,
Timely renounce the devil of the grape.
So here,
Though Folly speaker be, and argument,
Wit guides the tongue, wisdom's the lecture meant.
So here, Though Folly speaker be, and argument,
Wit guides the tongue, wisdom's the lecture meant.
[Illustration: Header 036]
ERASMUS's Praise of FOLLY.
_An oration, of feigned matter, spoken by Folly in her own person_.
[Illustration: Letter H 036]
HOW slightly soever I am esteemed in the common vogue of the world, (for
I well know how disingenuously Folly is decried, even by those who are
themselves the greatest fools,) yet it is from my influence alone that
the whole universe receives her ferment of mirth and jollity: of
which this may be urged as a convincing argument, in that as soon as I
appeared to speak before this numerous assembly all their countenances
were gilded oyer with a lively sparkling pleasantness: you soon welcomed
me with so encouraging a look, you spurred me on with so cheerful a hum,
that truly in all appearance, you seem now flushed with a good dose of
reviving nectar, when as just before you sate drowsy and melancholy, as
if you were lately come out of some hermit's cell. But as it is usual,
that as soon as the sun peeps from her eastern bed, and draws back the
curtains of the darksome night; or as when, after a hard winter, the
restorative spring breathes a more enlivening air, nature forthwith
changes her apparel, and all things seem to renew their age; so at the
first sight of me you all unmask, and appear in more lively colours.
That therefore which expert orators can scarce effect by all their
little artifice of eloquence, to wit, a raising the attentions of their
auditors to a composedness of thought, this a bare look from me has
commanded. The reason why I appear in this odd kind of garb, you shall
soon be informed of, if for so short a while you will have but the
patience to lend me an ear; yet not such a one as you are wont to
hearken with to your reverend preachers, but as you listen withal to
mountebanks, buffoons, and merry-andrews; in short, such as formerly
were fastened to Midas, as a punishment for his affront to the god Pan.
For I am now in a humour to act awhile the sophist, yet not of that sort
who undertake the drudgery of tyrannizing over school boys, and teach a
more than womanish knack of brawling; but in imitation of those ancient
ones, who to avoid the scandalous epithet of wise, preferred this title
of sophists; the task of these was to celebrate the worth of gods and
heroes. Prepare therefore to be entertained with a panegyrick, yet not
upon Hercules, Solon, or any other grandee, but on myself, that is, upon
Folly.
[Illustration: Folly 038]
And here I value not their censure that pretend it is foppish and
affected for any person to praise himself: yet let it be as silly as
they please, if they will but allow it needful: and indeed what is more
befitting than that Folly should be the trumpet of her own praise, and
dance after her own pipe? for who can set me forth better than myself?
or who can pretend to be so well acquainted with my condition?
And yet farther, I may safely urge, that all this is no more than the
same with what is done by several seemingly great and wise men, who with
a new-fashioned modesty employ some paltry orator or scribbling poet,
whom they bribe to flatter them with some high-flown character, that
shall consist of mere lies and shams; and yet the persons thus extolled
shall bristle up, and, peacock-like, bespread their plumes, while the
impudent parasite magnifies the poor wretch to the skies, and proposes
him as a complete pattern of all virtues, from each of which he is yet
as far distant as heaven itself from hell: what is all this in the mean
while, but the tricking up a daw in stolen feathers; a labouring to
change the black-a-moor's hue, and the drawing on a pigmy's frock over
the shoulders of a giant.
Lastly, I verify the old observation, that allows him a right of
praising himself, who has nobody else to do it for him: for really, I
cannot but admire at that ingratitude, shall I term it, or blockishness
of mankind, who when they all willingly pay to me their utmost
devoir, and freely acknowledge their respective obligations; that
notwithstanding this, there should have been none so grateful or
complaisant as to have bestowed on me a commendatory oration, especially
when there have not been wanting such as at a great expense of sweat,
and loss of sleep, have in elaborate speeches, given high encomiums to
tyrants, agues, flies, baldness, and such like trumperies.
I shall entertain you with a hasty and unpremeditated, but so much the
more natural discourse. My venting it _ex tempore_, I would not have
you think proceeds from any principles of vain glory by which ordinary
orators square their attempts, who (as it is easy to observe) when they
are delivered of a speech that has been thirty years a conceiving, nay,
perhaps at last, none of their own, yet they will swear they wrote it in
a great hurry, and upon very short warning: whereas the reason of my
not being provided beforehand is only because it was always my humour
constantly to speak that which lies uppermost. Next, let no one be
so fond as to imagine, that I should so far stint my invention to
the method of other pleaders, as first to define, and then divide
my subject, i.e., myself. For it is equally hazardous to attempt the
crowding her within the narrow limits of a definition, whose nature
is of so diffusive an extent, or to mangle and disjoin that, to the
adoration whereof all nations unitedly concur. Beside, to what purpose
is it to lay down a definition for a faint resemblance, and mere shadow
of me, while appearing here personally, you may view me at a more
certain light? And if your eye-sight fail not, you may at first
blush discern me to be her whom the Greeks term _Mwpia_, the Latins
_stultitia_.
[Illustration: Folly 044]
But why need I have been so impertinent as to have told you this, as if
my very looks did not sufficiently betray what I am; or supposing any be
so credulous as to take me for some sage matron or goddess of wisdom, as
if a single glance from me would not immediately correct their mistake,
while my visage, the exact reflex of my soul, would supply and supersede
the trouble of any other confessions: for I appear always in my natural
colours, and an unartificial dress, and never let my face pretend one
thing, and my heart conceal another; nay, and in all things I am so true
to my principles, that I cannot be so much as counterfeited, even by
those who challenge the name of wits, yet indeed are no better than
jackanapes tricked up in gawdy clothes, and asses strutting in lions'
skins; and how cunningly soever they carry it, their long ears appear,
and betray what they are. These in troth are very rude and disingenuous,
for while they apparently belong to my party, yet among the vulgar they
are so ashamed of my relation, as to cast it in others' dish for a shame
and reproach: wherefore since they are so eager to be accounted wise,
when in truth they are extremely silly, what, if to give them their due,
I dub them with the title of wise fools: and herein they copy after
the example of some modern orators, who swell to that proportion of
conceitedness, as to vaunt themselves for so many giants of eloquence,
if with a double-tongued fluency they can plead indifferently for either
side, and deem it a very doughty exploit if they can but interlard a
Latin sentence with some Greek word, which for seeming garnish they
crowd in at a venture; and rather than be at a stand for some cramp
words, they will furnish up a long scroll of old obsolete terms out of
some musty author, and foist them in, to amuse the reader with, that
those who understand them may be tickled with the happiness of being
acquainted with them: and those who understand them not, the less they
know the more they may admire; whereas it has been always a custom to
those of our side to contemn and undervalue whatever is strange and
unusual, while those that are better conceited of themselves will nod
and smile, and prick up their ears, that they may be thought easily to
apprehend that, of which perhaps they do not understand one word. And so
much for this; pardon the digression, now I return.
Of my name I have informed you, Sirs; what additional epithet to give
you I know not; except you will be content with that of most foolish;
for under what more proper appellation can the goddess Folly greet
her devotees? But since there are few acquainted with my family and
original, I will now give you some account of my extraction:
[Illustration: Grandsire Gods 048]
First then, my father was neither the chaos, nor hell, nor Saturn, nor
Jupiter, nor any of those old, worn out, grandsire gods, but Plutus, the
very same that, maugre Homer, Hesiod, nay, in spite of Jove himself, was
the primary father born amongst these delights, I did not, like
other infants, come crying into the world, but perked up, and laughed
immediately in my mother's face. And there is no reason I should envy
Jove for having a she-goat to his nurse, since I was more creditably
suckled by two jolly nymphs; the name of the first drunkenness, one
of Bacchus's offspring, the other ignorance, the daughter of Pan;
both which you may here behold among several others of my train and
attendants, whose particular names, if you would fain know, I will give
you in short This, who goes with a mincing gait, and holds up her head
so high, is Self-Love. She that looks so spruce, and makes such a noise
and bustle, is Flattery. That other, which sits hum-drum, as if she were
half asleep, is called Forgetfulness. She that leans on her elbow, and
sometimes yawningly stretches out her arms, is Laziness. This, that
wears a plighted garland of flowers, and smells so perfumed, is
Pleasure. The other, which appears in so smooth a skin, and pampered-up
flesh, is Sensuality. She that stares so wildly, and rolls about her
eyes, is Madness. As to those two gods whom you see playing among the
lasses the name of the one is Intemperance, the other Sound Sleep. By
the help and service of this retinue I bring all things under the verge
of my power, lording it over the greatest kings and potentates.
[Illustration: Forebearers 048]
[Illustration: Forebearers 051]
[Illustration: Forebearers 052]
[Illustration: Forebearers 055]
[Illustration: Forebearers 057]
You have now heard of my descent, my education, and my attendance; that
I may not be taxed as presumptuous in borrowing the title of a goddess,
I come now in the next place to acquaint you what obliging favours I
everywhere bestow, and how largely my jurisdiction extends: for if,
as one has ingenuously noted, to be a god is no other than to be a
benefactor to mankind; and if they have been thought deservedly deified
who have invented the use of wine, corn, or any other convenience for
the well-being of mortals, why may not I justly bear the van among the
whole troop of gods, who in all, and toward all, exert an unparalleled
bounty and beneficence?
[Illustration: 060]
[Illustration: 063]
[Illustration: 064]
For instance, in the first place, what can be more dear and precious
than life itself? and yet for this are none beholden, save to me alone.
For it is neither the spear of throughly-begotten Pallas, nor the
buckler of cloud-gathering Jove, that multiplies and propagates mankind:
but my sportive and tickling recreation that proceeded the old crabbed
philosophers, and those who now supply their stead, the mortified monks
and friars; as also kings, priests, and popes, nay, the whole tribe of
poetic gods, who are at last grown so numerous, as in the camp of heaven
(though ne'er so spacious), to jostle for elbow room. But it is not
sufficient to have made it appear that I am the source and original
of all life, except I likewise shew that all the benefits of life are
equally at my disposal. And what are such? Why, can any one be said
properly to live to whom pleasure is denied? You will give me your
assent; for there is none I know among you so wise shall I say, or so
silly, as to be of a contrary opinion. The Stoics indeed contemn, and
pretend to banish pleasure; but this is only a dissembling trick, and
a putting the vulgar out of conceit with it, that they may more quietly
engross it to themselves: but I dare them now to confess what one stage
of life is not melancholy, dull, tiresome, tedious, and uneasy, unless
we spice it with pleasure, that hautgoust of Folly. Of the truth whereof
the never enough to be commended Sophocles is sufficient authority, who
gives me the highest character in that sentence of his,
To know nothing is the sweetest life.
[Illustration: 068]
[Illustration: 070]
Yet abating from this, let us examine the case more narrowly. Who
knows not that the first scene of infancy is far the most pleasant and
delightsome? What then is it in children that makes us so kiss, hug, and
play with them, and that the bloodiest enemy can scarce have the heart
to hurt them; but their ingredients of innocence and Folly, of which
nature out of providence did purposely compound and blend their tender
infancy, that by a frank return of pleasure they might make some sort
of amends for their parents' trouble, and give in caution as it were for
the discharge of a future education; the next advance from childhood is
youth, and how favourably is this dealt with; how kind, courteous, and
respectful are all to it? and how ready to become serviceable upon all
occasions? And whence reaps it this happiness? Whence indeed, but from
me only, by whose procurement it is furnished with little of wisdom, and
so with the less of disquiet? And when once lads begin to grow up,
and attempt to write man, their prettiness does then soon decay, their
briskness flags, their humours stagnate, their jollity ceases, and their
blood grows cold; and the farther they proceed in years, the more they
grow backward in the enjoyment of themselves, till waspish old age
comes on, a burden to itself as well as others, and that so heavy and
oppressive, as none would bear the weight of, unless out of pity to
their sufferings. I again intervene, and lend a helping-hand, assisting
them at a dead lift, in the same method the poets feign their gods to
succour dying men, by transforming them into new creatures, which I do
by bringing them back, after they have one foot in the grave, to their
infancy again; so as there is a great deal of truth couched in that old
proverb, _Once an old man, and twice a child_. Now if any one be curious
to understand what course I take to effect this alteration, my method is
this: I bring them to my well of forgetfulness, (the fountain whereof is
in the Fortunate Islands, and the river Lethe in hell but a small stream
of it), and when they have there filled their bellies full, and washed
down care, by the virtue and operation whereof they become young again.
Ay, but (say you) they merely dote, and play the fool: why yes, this is
what I mean by growing young again: for what else is it to be a child
than to be a fool and an idiot? It is the being such that makes that age
so acceptable: for who does not esteem it somewhat ominous to see a boy
endowed with the discretion of a man, and therefore for the curbing
of too forward parts we have a disparaging proverb, _Soon ripe, soon
rotten?_ And farther, who would keep company or have any thing to do
with such an old blade, as, after the wear and harrowing of so many
years should yet continue of as clear a head and sound a judgment as
he had at any time been in his middle-age; and therefore it is great
kindness of me that old men grow fools, since it is hereby only that
they are freed from such vexations as would torment them if they were
more wise: they can drink briskly, bear up stoutly, and lightly pass
over such infirmities, as a far stronger constitution could scarce
master. Sometime, with the old fellow in Plautus, they are brought back
to their horn-book again, to learn to spell their fortune in love.
[Illustration: 075]
Most wretched would they needs be if they had but wit enough to be
sensible of their hard condition; but by my assistance, they carry
off all well, and to their respective friends approve themselves good,
sociable, jolly companions. Thus Homer makes aged Nestor famed for
a smooth oily-tongued orator, while the delivery of Achilles was but
rough, harsh, and hesitant; and the same poet elsewhere tells us of old
men that sate on the walls, and spake with a great deal of flourish and
elegance. And in this point indeed they surpass and outgo children, who
are pretty forward in a softly, innocent prattle, but otherwise are too
much tongue-tied, and want the other's most acceptable embellishment of
a perpetual talkativeness. Add to this, that old men love to be playing
with children, and children delight as much in them, to verify the
proverb, that _Birds of a feather flock together_. And indeed what
difference can be discerned between them, but that the one is more
furrowed with wrinkles, and has seen a little more of the world than
the other? For otherwise their whitish hair, their want of teeth,
their smallness of stature, their milk diet, their bald crowns, their
prattling, their playing, their short memory, their heedlessness, and
all their other endowments, exactly agree; and the more they advance
in years, the nearer they come back to their cradle, till like children
indeed, at last they depart the world, without any remorse at the loss
of life, or sense of the pangs of death.
[Illustration: 079]
And now let any one compare the excellency of my metamorphosing power
to that which Ovid attributes to the gods; their strange feats in some
drunken passions we will omit for their credit sake, and instance
only in such persons as they pretend great kindness for; these they
transformed into trees, birds, insects, and sometimes serpents; but
alas, their very change into somewhat else argues the destruction of
what they were before; whereas I can restore the same numerical man to
his pristine state of youth, health and strength; yea, what is more,
if men would but so far consult their own interest, as to discard all
thoughts of wisdom, and entirely resign themselves to my guidance and
conduct, old age should be a paradox, and each man's years a perpetual
spring. For look how your hard plodding students, by a close sedentary
confinement to their books, grow mopish, pale, and meagre, as if, by a
continual wrack of brains, and torture of invention, their veins were
pumped dry, and their whole body squeezed sapless; whereas my followers
are smooth, plump, and bucksome, and altogether as lusty as so many
bacon-hogs, or sucking calves; never in their career of pleasure to be
arrested with old age, if they could but keep themselves untainted from
the contagiousness of wisdom, with the leprosy whereof, if at any time
they are infected, it is only for prevention, lest they should otherwise
have been too happy.
For a more ample confirmation of the truth of what foregoes, it is on
all sides confessed, that Folly is the best preservative of youth,
and the most effectual antidote against age. And it is a never-failing
observation made of the people of Brabant, that, contrary to the proverb
of _Older and wiser_, the more ancient they grow, the more fools
they are; and there is not any one country, whose inhabitants enjoy
themselves better, and rub through the world with more ease and quiet.
To these are nearly related, as well by affinity of customs, as of
neighbourhood, my friends the Hollanders: mine I may well call them, for
they stick so close and lovingly to me, that they are styled fools to
a proverb, and yet scorn to be ashamed of their name. Well, let fond
mortals go now in a needless quest of some Medea, Circe, Venus, or
some enchanted fountain, for a restorative of age, whereas the accurate
performance of this feat lies only within the ability of my art and
skill.
It is I only who have the receipt of making that liquor wherewith
Memnon's daughter lengthened out her grandfather's declining days: it is
I that am that Venus, who so far restored the languishing Phaon, as to
make Sappho fall deeply in love with his beauty. Mine are those herbs,
mine those charms, that not only lure back swift time, when past and
gone, but what is more to be admired, clip its wings, and prevent all
farther flight. So then, if you will all agree to my verdict, that
nothing is more desirable than the being young, nor any thing more
loathed than contemptible old age, you must needs acknowledge it as
an unrequitable obligation from me, for fencing off the one, and
perpetuating the other.
But why should I confine my discourse to the narrow subject of mankind
only? View the whole heaven itself, and then tell me what one of that
divine tribe would not be mean and despicable, if my name did not lend
him some respect and authority. Why is Bacchus always painted as a young
man, but only because he is freakish, drunk, and mad; and spending his
time in toping, dancing, masking, and revelling, seems to have nothing
in the least to do with wisdom? Nay, so far is he from the affectation
of being accounted wise, that he is content, all the rights of devotion
which are paid unto him should consist of apishness and drollery.
Farther, what scoffs and jeers did not the old comedians throw upon him?
_O swinish punch-gut god_, say they, _that smells rank of the sty he was
sowed up in_, and so on. But prithee, who in this case, always merry,
youthful, soaked in wine, and drowned in pleasure, who, I say, in such
a case, would change conditions, either with the lofty menace-looking
Jove, the grave, yet timorous Pan, the stately Pallas, or indeed any
one other of heaven's landlords? Why is Cupid feigned as a boy, but only
because he is an under-witted whipster, that neither acts nor thinks any
thing with discretion? Why is Venus adored for the mirror of beauty, but
only because she and I claim kindred, she being of the same complexion
with my father Plutus, and therefore called by Homer the Golden Goddess?
Beside, she imitates me in being always a laughing, if either we believe
the poets, or their near kinsmen the painters, the first mentioning, the
other drawing her constantly in that posture. Add farther, to what deity
did the Romans pay a more ceremonial respect than to Flora, that bawd of
obscenity? And if any one search the poets for an historical account
of the gods, he shall find them all famous for lewd pranks and
debaucheries. It is needless to insist upon the miscarriages of others,
when the lecherous intrigues of Jove himself are so notorious, and
when the pretendedly chaste Diana so oft uncloaked her modesty to run
a hunting after her beloved Endimion. But I will say no more, for I
had rather they should be told of their faults by Momus, who was want
formerly to sting them with some close reflections, till nettled by his
abusive raillery, they kicked him out of heaven for his sauciness
of daring to reprove such as were beyond correction: and now in his
banishment from heaven he finds but cold entertainment here on
earth, nay, is denied all admittance into the court of princes, where
notwithstanding my handmaid Flattery finds a most encouraging welcome:
but this petulant monitor being thrust out of doors, the gods can now
more freely rant and revel, and take their whole swinge of pleasure.
[Illustration: 85-86]
[Illustration: 89-90]
Now the beastly Priapus may recreate himself without contradiction in
lust and filthiness; now the sly Mercury may, without discovery, go on
in his thieveries, and nimble-fingered juggles; the sooty Vulcan may now
renew his wonted custom of making the other gods laugh by his hopping so
limpingly, and coming off with so many dry jokes, and biting repartees.
Silenus, the old doting lover, to shew his activity, may now dance a
frisking jig, and the nymphs be at the same sport naked. The goatish
satyrs may make up a merry ball, and Pan, the blind harper may put up
his bagpipes, and sing bawdy catches, to which the gods, especially when
they are almost drunk, shall give a most profound attention. But why
would I any farther rip open and expose the weakness of the gods, a
weakness so childish and absurd, that no man can at the same time keep
his countenance, and make a relation of it? Now therefore, like Homer's
wandering muse, I will take my leave of heaven, and come down again
here below, where we shall find nothing happy, nay, nothing tolerable,
without my presence and assistance. And in the first place consider how
providently nature has took care that in all her works there should
be some piquant smack and relish of Folly: for since the Stoics define
wisdom to be conducted by reason, and folly nothing else but the being
hurried by passion, lest our life should otherwise have been too dull
and inactive, that creator, who out of clay first tempered and made
us up, put into the composition of our humanity more than a pound of
passions to an ounce of reason; and reason he confined within the narrow
cells of the brain, whereas he left passions the whole body to range
in. Farther, he set up two sturdy champions to stand perpetually on the
guard, that reason might make no assault, surprise, nor in-road: anger,
which keeps its station in the fortress of the heart; and Just, which
like the signs Virgo and Scorpio, rules the belly and secret members.
Against the forces of these two warriors how unable is reason to bear up
and withstand, every day's experience does abundantly witness; while let
reason be never so importunate in urging and reinforcing her admonitions
to virtue, yet the passions bear all before them, and by the least offer
of curb or restraint grow but more imperious, till reason itself, for
quietness sake, is forced to desist from all further remonstrance.
But because it seemed expedient that man, who was born for the
transaction of business, should have so much wisdom as should fit and
capacitate him for the discharge of his duty herein, and yet lest such
a measure as is requisite for this purpose might prove too dangerous
and fatal, I was advised with for an antidote, who prescribed this
infallible receipt of taking a wife, a creature so harmless and silly,
and yet so useful and convenient, as might mollify and make pliable
the stiffness and morose humour of man. Now that which made Plato
doubt under what genus to rank woman, whether among brutes or rational
creatures, was only meant to denote the extreme stupidness and Folly of
that sex, a sex so unalterably simple, that for any of them to thrust
forward, and reach at the name of wise, is but to make themselves the
more remarkable fools, such an endeavour, being but a swimming against
the stream, nay, the turning the course of nature, the bare attempting
whereof is as extravagant as the effecting of it is impossible: for
as it is a trite proverb, _That an ape will be an ape, though clad in
purple_; so a woman will be a woman, a fool, whatever disguise she takes
up. And yet there is no reason women should take it amiss to be thus
charged; for if they do but righdy consider they will find it is to
Folly they are beholden for those endowments, wherein they so far
surpass and excel man; as first, for their unparalleled beauty, by the
charm whereof they tyrannize over the greatest tyrants; for what is
it but too great a smatch of wisdom that makes men so tawny and
thick-skinned, so rough and prickly-bearded, like an emblem of winter
or old age, while women have such dainty smooth cheeks, such a low
gende voice, and so pure a complexion, as if nature had drawn them for a
standing pattern of all symmetry and comeliness? Beside, what live, but
to be wound up as it were in a winding-sheet before we are dead, and so
to be shuffled quick into a grave, and buried alive.
[Illustration: 097]