CHAPTER XXI

CONCLUSION

Conclusion--Erasmus and the spirit of the sixteenth century--His

weak points--A thorough idealist and yet a moderate mind--The

enlightener of a century--He anticipates tendencies of two

centuries later--His influence affects both Protestantism and

Catholic reform--The Erasmian spirit in the Netherlands

Looking back on the life of Erasmus the question still arises: why has

he remained so great? For ostensibly his endeavours ended in failure. He

withdraws in alarm from that tremendous struggle which he rightly calls

a tragedy; the sixteenth century, bold and vehement, thunders past him,

disdaining his ideal of moderation and tolerance. Latin literary

erudition, which to him was the epitome of all true culture, has gone

out as such. Erasmus, so far as regards the greater part of his

writings, is among the great ones who are no longer read. He has become

a name. But why does that name still sound so clear and articulate? Why

does he keep regarding us, as if he still knew a little more than he has

ever been willing to utter?

What has he been to his age, and what was he to be for later

generations? Has he been rightly called a precursor of the modern

spirit?

Regarded as a child of the sixteenth century, he does seem to differ

from the general tenor of his times. Among those vehemently passionate,

drastically energetic and violent natures of the great ones of his day,

Erasmus stands as the man of too few prejudices, with a little too much

delicacy of taste, with a deficiency, though not, indeed, in every

department, of that _stultitia_ which he had praised as a necessary

constituent of life. Erasmus is the man who is too sensible and moderate

for the heroic.

What a surprising difference there is between the _accent_ of Erasmus

and that of Luther, Calvin, and Saint Teresa! What a difference, also,

between his accent, that is, the accent of humanism, and that of

Albrecht Duerer, of Michelangelo, or of Shakespeare.

Erasmus seems, at times, the man who was not strong enough for his age.

In that robust sixteenth century it seems as if the oaken strength of

Luther was necessary, the steely edge of Calvin, the white heat of

Loyola; not the velvet softness of Erasmus. Not only were their force

and their fervour necessary, but also their depth, their unsparing,

undaunted consistency, sincerity and outspokenness.

They cannot bear that smile which makes Luther speak of the guileful

being looking out of Erasmus's features. His piety is too even for them,

too limp. Loyola has testified that the reading of the _Enchiridion

militis Christiani_ relaxed his fervour and made his devotion grow cold.

He saw that warrior of Christ differently, in the glowing colours of the

Spanish-Christian, medieval ideal of chivalry.

Erasmus had never passed through those depths of self-reprobation and

that consciousness of sin which Luther had traversed with toil; he saw

no devil to fight with, and tears were not familiar to him. Was he

altogether unaware of the deepest mystery? Or did it rest in him too

deep for utterance?

Let us not suppose too quickly that we are more nearly allied to Luther

or Loyola because their figures appeal to us more. If at present our

admiration goes out again to the ardently pious, and to spiritual

extremes, it is partly because our unstable time requires strong

stimuli. To appreciate Erasmus we should begin by giving up our

admiration of the extravagant, and for many this requires a certain

effort at present. It is extremely easy to break the staff over Erasmus.

His faults lie on the surface, and though he wished to hide many things,

he never hid his weaknesses.

He was too much concerned about what people thought, and he could not

hold his tongue. His mind was _too_ rich and facile, always suggesting a

superfluity of arguments, cases, examples, quotations. He could never

let things slide. All his life he grudged himself leisure to rest and

collect himself, to see how unimportant after all was the commotion

round about him, if only he went his own way courageously. Rest and

independence he desired most ardently of all things; there was no more

restless and dependent creature. Judge him as one of a too delicate

constitution who ventures out in a storm. His will-power was great

enough. He worked night and day, amidst the most violent bodily

suffering, with a great ideal steadfastly before him, never satisfied

with his own achievements. He was not self-sufficient.

* * * * *

As an intellectual type Erasmus was one of a rather small group: the

absolute idealists who, at the same time, are thoroughly moderate. They

can not bear the world's imperfections; they feel constrained to oppose.

But extremes are uncongenial to them; they shrink back from action,

because they know it pulls down as much as it erects, and so they

withdraw themselves, and keep calling that everything should be

different; but when the crisis comes, they reluctantly side with

tradition and conservatism. Here too is a fragment of Erasmus's

life-tragedy: he was the man who saw the new and coming things more

clearly than anyone else--who must needs quarrel with the old and yet

could not accept the new. He tried to remain in the fold of the old

Church, after having damaged it seriously, and renounced the

Reformation, and to a certain extent even Humanism, after having

furthered both with all his strength.

[Illustration: XXV. ERASMUS AT THE AGE OF 65]

* * * * *

Our final opinion about Erasmus has been concerned with negative

qualities, so far. What was his positive importance?

Two facts make it difficult for the modern mind to understand Erasmus's

positive importance: first that his influence was extensive rather than

intensive, and therefore less historically discernible at definite

points, and second, that his influence has ceased. He has done his work

and will speak to the world no more. Like Saint Jerome, his revered

model, and Voltaire, with whom he has been occasionally compared, 'he

has his reward'. But like them he has been the enlightener of an age

from whom a broad stream of culture emanated.

[Illustration: XXVI. ERASMUS DICTATING TO HIS SECRETARY, 1530]

As historic investigation of the French Revolution is becoming more and

more aware that the true history of France during that period should be

looked for in those groups which as 'Centre' or 'Marais' seemed for a

long time but a drove of supernumeraries, and understands that it should

occasionally protect its eyes a little from the lightning flashes of the

Gironde and Mountain thunderstorm; so the history of the Reformation

period should pay attention--and it has done so for a long time--to the

broad central sphere permeated by the Erasmian spirit. One of his

opponents said: 'Luther has drawn a large part of the Church to himself,

Zwingli and Oecolampadius also some part, but Erasmus the largest'.

Erasmus's public was numerous and of high culture. He was the only one

of the Humanists who really wrote for all the world, that is to say, for

all educated people. He accustomed a whole world to another and more

fluent mode of expression: he shifted the interest, he influenced by his

perfect clarity of exposition, even through the medium of Latin, the

style of the vernacular languages, apart from the numberless

translations of his works. For his contemporaries Erasmus put on many

new stops, one might say, of the great organ of human expression, as

Rousseau was to do two centuries later.

He might well think with some complacency of the influence he had

exerted on the world. 'From all parts of the world'--he writes towards

the close of his life--'I am daily thanked by many, because they have

been kindled by my works, whatever may be their merit, into zeal for a

good disposition and sacred literature; and they who have never seen

Erasmus, yet know and love him from his books.' He was glad that his

translations from the Greek had become superfluous; he had everywhere

led many to take up Greek and Holy Scripture, 'which otherwise they

would never have read'. He had been an introducer and an initiator. He

might leave the stage after having said his say.

His word signified something beyond a classical sense and biblical

disposition. It was at the same time the first enunciation of the creed

of education and perfectibility, of warm social feeling and of faith in

human nature, of peaceful kindliness and toleration. 'Christ dwells

everywhere; piety is practised under every garment, if only a kindly

disposition is not wanting.'

In all these ideas and convictions Erasmus really heralds a later age.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries those thoughts remained an

undercurrent: in the eighteenth Erasmus's message of deliverance bore

fruit. In this respect he has most certainly been a precursor and

preparer of the modern mind: of Rousseau, Herder, Pestalozzi and of the

English and American thinkers. It is only part of the modern mind which

is represented by all this. To a number of its developments Erasmus was

wholly a stranger, to the evolution of natural science, of the newer

philosophy, of political economy. But in so far as people still believe

in the ideal that moral education and general tolerance may make

humanity happier, humanity owes much to Erasmus.

* * * * *

This does not imply that Erasmus's mind did not directly and fruitfully

influence his own times. Although Catholics regarded him in the heat of

the struggle as the corrupter of the Church, and Protestants as the

betrayer of the Gospel, yet his word of moderation and kindliness did

not pass by unheard or unheeded on either side. Eventually neither camp

finally rejected Erasmus. Rome did not brand him as an arch-heretic, but

only warned the faithful to read him with caution. Protestant history

has been studious to reckon him as one of the Reformers. Both obeyed in

this the pronouncement of a public opinion which was above parties and

which continued to admire and revere Erasmus.

To the reconstruction of the Catholic Church and the erection of the

evangelical churches not only the names of Luther and Loyola are linked.

The moderate, the intellectual, the conciliating have also had their

share of the work; figures like Melanchthon here, Sadolet there, both

nearly allied to Erasmus and sympathetically disposed towards him. The

frequently repeated attempts to arrive at some compromise in the great

religious conflict, though they might be doomed to end in failure,

emanated from the Erasmian spirit.

Nowhere did that spirit take root so easily as in the country that gave

Erasmus birth. A curious detail shows us that it was not the exclusive

privilege of either great party. Of his two most favoured pupils of

later years, both Netherlanders, whom as the actors of the colloquy

_Astragalismus_ (_The Game of Knucklebones_), he has immortalized

together, the one, Quirin Talesius, died for his attachment to the

Spanish cause and the Catholic faith: he was hanged in 1572 by the

citizens of Haarlem, where he was a burgomaster. The other, Charles

Utenhove, was sedulous on the side of the revolt and the Reformed

religion. At Ghent, in concert with the Prince of Orange, he turned

against the narrow-minded Protestant terrorism of the zealots.

A Dutch historian recently tried to trace back the opposition of the

Dutch against the king of Spain to the influence of Erasmus's political

thought in his arraignment of bad princes--wrongly as I think. Erasmus's

political diatribes were far too academic and too general for that. The

desire of resistance and revolt arose from quite other causes. The

'Gueux' were not Erasmus's progeny. But there is much that is Erasmian

in the spirit of their great leader, William of Orange, whose vision

ranged so widely beyond the limitations of religious hatred. Thoroughly

permeated by the Erasmian spirit, too, was that class of municipal

magistrates who were soon to take the lead and to set the fashion in the

established Republic. History is wont, as always with an aristocracy, to

take their faults very seriously. After all, perhaps no other

aristocracy, unless it be that of Venice, has ruled a state so long, so

well and with so little violence. If in the seventeenth century the

institutions of Holland, in the eyes of foreigners, were the admired

models of prosperity, charity and social discipline, and patterns of

gentleness and wisdom, however defective they may seem to us--then the

honour of all this is due to the municipal aristocracy. If in the Dutch

patriciate of that time those aspirations lived and were translated into

action, it was Erasmus's spirit of social responsibility which inspired

them. The history of Holland is far less bloody and cruel than that of

any of the surrounding countries. Not for naught did Erasmus praise as

truly Dutch those qualities which we might also call truly Erasmian:

gentleness, kindliness, moderation, a generally diffused moderate

erudition. Not romantic virtues, if you like; but are they the less

salutary?

One more instance. In the Republic of the Seven Provinces the atrocious

executions of witches and wizards ceased more than a century before they

did in all other countries. This was not owing to the merit of the

Reformed pastors. They shared the popular belief which demanded

persecution. It was the magistrates whose enlightenment even as early as

the beginning of the seventeenth century no longer tolerated these

things. Again, we are entitled to say, though Erasmus was not one of

those who combated this practice: the spirit which breathes from this is

that of Erasmus.

Cultured humanity has cause to hold Erasmus's memory in esteem, if for

no other reason than that he was the fervently sincere preacher of that

general kindliness which the world still so urgently needs.

SELECTION FROM THE LETTERS OF ERASMUS

_This selection from the vast correspondence of Erasmus is intended to

exhibit him at a few points in his strenuous and rather comfortless

life, always overworked, often ill, and perpetually hurried--many of his

letters have the postscript 'In haste' or 'I had no time to read this

over'--but holding always tenaciously to his aim of steering a middle

course; in religion between the corruption and fossilization of the old

and the uncompromising violence of the new: in learning between

neo-paganism on the one hand and the indolent refusal, under the pretext

of piety, to apply critical methods to sacred texts on the other. The

first letter has been included because it may provide a clue to his

later reluctance to trust his feelings when self-committal to any cause

seemed to be required of him, a reluctance not unnaturally interpreted

by his enemies as an arrogant refusal to 'yield to any'._

_The notes have been compiled from P. S. and H. M. Allen's_ Opus

epistolarum Des. Erasmi Roterodami, _Oxford, 1906-47, by the kind

permission of the Delegates of the Clarendon Press, and references are

to the numbers of the letters in that edition_.

I. TO SERVATIUS ROGER[21]

[Steyn, _c._ 1487]

To his friend Servatius, greetings:

... You say there is something which you take very hard, which torments

you wretchedly, which in short makes life a misery to you. Your looks

and your carriage betray this, even if you were silent. Where is your

wonted and beloved cheerful countenance gone, your former beauty, your

lively glance? Whence come these sorrowful downcast eyes, whence this

perpetual silence, so unlike you, whence the look of a sick man in your

expression? Assuredly as the poet says, 'the sick body betrays the

torments of the lurking soul, likewise its joys: it is to the mind that

the face owes its looks, well or ill'.[22]

It is certain then, my Servatius, that there is something which troubles

you, which is destroying your former good health. But what am I to do

now? Must I comfort you or scold you? Why do you hide your pain from me

as if we did not know each other by this time? You are so deep that you

do not believe your closest friend, or trust even the most trustworthy;

or do you not know that the hidden fire burns stronger?... And for the

rest, my Servatius, what is it makes you draw in and hide yourself like

a snail? I suspect what the matter is: you have not yet convinced

yourself that I love you very much. So I entreat you by the things

sweetest to you in life, by our great love, if you have any care for

your safety, if you want me to live unharmed, not to be at such pains to

hide your feelings, but whatever it is, entrust it to my safe ears. I

will assist you in whatever way I can with help or counsel. But if I

cannot provide either, still it will be sweet to rejoice with you, to

weep with you, to live and die with you. Farewell, my Servatius, and

look after your health.

II. TO NICHOLAS WERNER[23]

Paris, 13 September [1496]

To the religious Father Nicholas Werner, greetings:

... If you are all well there, things are as I wish and hope; I myself

am very well, the gods be thanked. I have now made clear by my

actions--if it was not clear to anyone before this--how much theology is

coming to mean to me. A somewhat arrogant claim; but it ill becomes

Erasmus to hide anything from his most loving Father. Lately I had

fallen in with certain Englishmen, of noble birth, and all of them

wealthy. Very recently I was approached by a young priest,[24] very

rich, who said he had refused a bishopric offered him, as he knew that

he was not well educated; nevertheless he is to be recalled by the King

to take a bishopric within a year, although, apart from any bishopric

even, he has a yearly income of more than 2000 _scudi_. As soon as he

heard of my learning he proceeded in unbelievably affectionate fashion

to devote himself to me, to frequent and revere me--he lived for a while

in my house. He offered 100 _scudi_, if I would teach him for a year; he

offered a benefice in a few months' time; he offered to lend me 300

_scudi_, if I should need them to procure the office, until I could pay

them back out of the benefice. By this service I could have laid all the

English in this city under an obligation to me--they are all of the

first families--and through them all England, had I so wished. But I

cared nothing for the splendid income and the far more splendid

prospects; I cared nothing for their entreaties and the tears which

accompanied them. I am telling the truth, exaggerating not at all; the

English realize that the money of all England means nothing to me. This

refusal, which I still maintain, was not made without due consideration;

not for any reward will I let myself be drawn away from theological

studies. I did not come here to teach or to pile up gold, but to learn.

Indeed I shall seek a Doctorate in Theology, if the gods so will it.

The Bishop of Cambrai is marvellously fond of me: he makes liberal

promises; the remittances are not so liberal, to tell the truth. I wish

you good health, excellent Father. I beg and entreat you to commend me

in your prayers to God: I shall do likewise for you. From my library in

Paris.

III. TO ROBERT FISHER[25]

London, 5 December [1499]

To Robert Fisher, Englishman, abiding in Italy, greetings:

... I hesitated not a little to write to you, beloved Robert, not that I

feared lest so great a sunderance in time and place had worn away

anything of your affection towards me, but because you are in a country

where even the house-walls are more learned and more eloquent than are

our men here, so that what is here reckoned polished, fine and

delectable cannot there appear anything but crude, mean and insipid.

Wherefore your England assuredly expects you to return not merely very

learned in the law but also equally eloquent in both the Greek and the

Latin tongues. You would have seen me also there long since, had not my

friend Mountjoy carried me off to his country when I was already packed

for the journey into Italy. Whither indeed shall I not follow a youth so

polite, so kindly, so lovable? I swear I would follow him even into

Hades. You indeed had most handsomely commended him and, in a word,

precisely delineated him; but believe me, he every day surpasses both

your commendation and my opinion of him.

But you ask how England pleases me. If you have any confidence in me,

dear Robert, I would have you believe me when I say that I have never

yet liked anything so well. I have found here a climate as delightful as

it is wholesome; and moreover so much humane learning, not of the

outworn, commonplace sort, but the profound, accurate, ancient Greek and

Latin learning, that I now scarcely miss Italy, but for the sight of it.

When I listen to my friend Colet, I seem to hear Plato himself. Who

would not marvel at the perfection of encyclopaedic learning in

Grocyn?[26] What could be keener or nobler or nicer than Linacre's[27]

judgement? What has Nature ever fashioned gentler or sweeter or happier

than the character of Thomas More? But why should I catalogue the rest?

It is marvellous how thick upon the ground the harvest of ancient

literature is here everywhere flowering forth: all the more should you

hasten your return hither. Your friend's affection and remembrance of

you is so strong that he speaks of none so often or so gladly. Farewell.

Written in haste in London on the 5th of December.

IV. TO JAMES BATT[28]

Orleans [_c._ 12 December] 1500

... If you care sincerely what becomes of your Erasmus, do you act thus:

plead my shyness before my Lady[29] in pleasant phrases, as if I had not

been able to bring myself to reveal my poverty to her in person. But you

must write that I am now in a state of extreme poverty, owing to the

great expense of this flight to Orleans, as I had to leave people from

whom I was making some money. Tell her that Italy is by far the most

suitable place in which to take the Degree of Doctor, and that it is

impossible for a fastidious man to go to Italy without a large sum of

money; particularly because I am not even at liberty to live meanly, on

account of my reputation, such as it is, for learning. You will explain

how much greater fame I am likely to bring my Lady by my learning than

are the other theologians maintained by her. They compose commonplace

harangues: I write works destined to live for ever. Their ignorant

triflings are heard by one or two persons in church: my books will be

read by Latins, Greeks, by every race all over the world. Tell her that

this kind of unlearned theologian is to be found in hordes everywhere,

whereas a man like myself is hardly to be found once in many centuries;

unless indeed you are so superstitious that you scruple to employ a few

harmless lies to help a friend. Then you must point out that she will

not be a whit the poorer if, with a few gold pieces, she helps to

restore the corrupt text of St. Jerome and the true Theology, when so

much of her wealth is being shamelessly dissipated. After dilating on

this with your customary ingenuity and writing at length on my

character, my expectations, my affection for my Lady and my shyness, you

must then add that I have written to say that I need 200 francs in all,

and request her to grant me next year's payment now; I am not inventing

this, my dear Batt; to go to Italy with 100 francs, no, less than 100

francs, seems to me a hazardous enterprise, unless I want to enslave

myself to someone once more; may I die before I do this. Then how little

difference it will make to her whether she gives me the money this year

or next, and how much it means to me! Next urge her to look out for a

benefice for me, so that on my return I may have some place where I can

pursue learning in peace. Do not stop at this, but devise on your own

the most convenient method of indicating to her that she should promise

me, before all the other candidates, at least a reasonable, if not a

splendid, benefice which I can change as soon as a better one appears. I

am well aware that there are many candidates for benefices; but you must

say that I am the one man, whom, compared with the rest, etc., etc. You

know your old way of lying profusely about Erasmus.... You will add at

the end that I have made the same complaint in my letter which Jerome

makes more than once in his letters, that study is tearing my eyes out,

that things look as if I shall have to follow his example and begin to

study with my ears and tongue only; and persuade her, in the most

amusing words at your command, to send me some sapphire or other gem

wherewith to fortify my eyesight. I would have told you myself which

gems have this virtue, but I have not Pliny at hand; get the information

out of your doctor.... Let me tell you what else I want you to attempt

still further--to extract a grant from the Abbot. You know him--invent

some modest and persuasive argument for making this request. Tell him

that I have a great design in hand--to constitute in its entirety the

text of Jerome, which has been corrupted, mutilated, and thrown into

disorder through the ignorance of the theologians (I have detected many

false and spurious pieces among his writings), and to restore the

Greek.[30] I shall reveal [in him] an ingenuity and a knowledge of

antiquities which no one, I venture to claim, has yet realized. Explain

that for this undertaking many books are needed, also Greek works, so

that I may receive a grant. Here you will not be lying, Batt; I am

wholly engaged on this work. Farewell, my best and dearest Batt, and put

all of Batt into this business. I mean Batt the friend, not Batt the

slowcoach.

V. TO ANTONY OF BERGEN[31]

[Paris?] [16 March? 1501]

To the most illustrious prelate Antony, Abbot of St. Bertin, greetings:

... I have accidentally happened upon some Greek books, and am busy day

and night secretly copying them out. I shall be asked why I am so

delighted with Cato the Censor's example that I want to turn Greek at my

age. Indeed, most excellent Father, if in my boyhood I had been of this

mind, or rather if time had not been wanting, I should be the happiest

of men. As things are, I think it better to learn, even if a little

late, than not to know things which it is of the first importance to

have at one's command. I have already tasted of Greek literature in the

past, but merely (as the saying goes) sipped at it; however, having

lately gone a little deeper into it, I perceive--as one has often read

in the best authorities--that Latin learning, rich as it is, is

defective and incomplete without Greek; for we have but a few small

streams and muddy puddles, while they have pure springs and rivers

rolling gold. I see that it is utter madness even to touch the branch of

theology which deals chiefly with the mysteries unless one is also

provided with the equipment of Greek, as the translators of the

Scriptures, owing to their conscientious scruples, render Greek forms in

such a fashion that not even the primary sense (what our theologians

call the _literal_ sense) can be understood by persons ignorant of

Greek. Who could understand the sentence in the Psalm [Ps. 50.4 (51.3)]

_Et peccatum meum contra me est semper_,[32] unless he has read the

Greek? This runs as follows: [Greek: kai he hamartia mou enopion mou

esti diapantos]. At this point some theologian will spin a long story of

how the flesh is perpetually in conflict with the spirit, having been

misled by the double meaning of the preposition, that is, _contra_, when

the word [Greek: enopion] refers not to _conflict_ but to _position_, as

if you were to say _opposite_, i.e., _in sight_: so that the Prophet's

meaning was that his fault was so hateful to him that the memory of it

never left him, but floated always before his mind as if it were

present. Further in a passage elsewhere [Ps. 91 (92. 14)], _Bene

patientes erunt ut annuncient_, everyone will be misled by the deceptive

form, unless he has learned from the Greek that, just as according to

Latin usage we say _bene facere_ of those who _do good to_ someone, so

the Greeks call [Greek: eupathountas] (_bene patientes_) those who

_suffer good to be done them_. So that the sense is, 'They will be well

treated and will be helped by my benefactions, so that they will make

mention of my beneficence towards them'. But why do I pick out a few

trifling examples from so many important ones, when I have on my side

the venerable authority of the papal Curia? There is a Curial Decree[33]

still extant in the Decretals, ordaining that persons should be

appointed in the chief academies (as they were then) capable of giving

accurate instruction in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin literature, since, as

they believed, the Scriptures could not be understood, far less

discussed, without this knowledge. This most sound and most holy decree

we so far neglect that we are perfectly satisfied with the most

elementary knowledge of the Latin language, being apparently convinced

that everything can be extracted from Duns Scotus, as it were from a

cornucopia.

For myself I do not fight with men of this sort; each man to his taste,

as far as I am concerned; let the old man marry the old woman. It is my

delight to set foot on the path into which Jerome and the splendid host

of so many ancients summon me; so help me God, I would sooner be mad

with them than as sane as you like with the mob of modern theologians.

Besides I am attempting an arduous and, so to say, Phaethontean task--to

do my best to restore the works of Jerome, which have been partly

corrupted by those half-learned persons, and are partly--owing to the

lack of knowledge of antiquities and of Greek literature--forgotten or

mangled or mutilated or at least full of mistakes and monstrosities; not

merely to restore them but to elucidate them with commentaries, so that

each reader will acknowledge to himself that the great Jerome,

considered by the ecclesiastical world as the most perfect in both

branches of learning, the sacred and the profane, can indeed be read by

all, but can only be understood by the most learned. As I am working

hard on this design and see that I must in the first place acquire

Greek, I have decided to study for some months under a Greek

teacher,[34] a real Greek, no, twice a Greek, always hungry,[35] who

charges an immoderate fee for his lessons. Farewell.

VI. TO WILLIAM WARHAM[36]

London, 24 January [1506]

To the Reverend Father in Christ, William, Archbishop of Canterbury,

Primate of England, many greetings from Erasmus of Rotterdam, Canon of

the Order of St. Augustine:

... Having made up my mind, most illustrious prelate, to translate the

Greek authors and by so doing to revive or, if you will, promote as far

as I could theological studies--and God immortal, how miserably they

have been corrupted by sophistical nonsensicalities!--I did not wish to

give the impression that I was attempting forthwith to learn the

potter's art on a winejar[37] (as the Greek adage goes) and rushing in

with unwashen feet, as they say, on so vast an undertaking; so I decided

to begin by testing how far I had profited by my studies in both

languages, and that in a material difficult indeed, but not sacred; so

that the difficulty of the undertaking might be useful for practice and

at the same time if I made any mistakes these mistakes should involve

only the risk of my talent and leave the Holy Scriptures undamaged. And

so I endeavoured to render in Latin two tragedies of Euripides, the

_Hecuba_ and the _Iphigeneia in Aulis_, in the hope that perchance some

god might favour so bold a venture with fair breezes. Then, seeing that

a specimen of the work begun found favour with persons excellently well

versed in both tongues (assuredly England by now possesses several of

these, if I may acknowledge the truth without envy, men deserving of the

admiration even of all Italy in any branch of learning), I brought the

work to a finish, with the good help of the Muses, within a few short

months. At what a cost in exertion, those will best feel who enter the

same lists.

Why so? Because the mere task of putting real Greek into real Latin is

such that it requires an extraordinary artist, and not only a man with a

rich store of scholarship in both languages at his fingertips, but one

exceedingly alert and observant; so that for several centuries now none

has appeared whose efforts in this field were unanimously approved by

scholars. It is surely easy then to conjecture what a heavy task it has

proved to render verse in verse, particularly verse so varied and

unfamiliar, and to do this from a writer not merely so remote in time,

and withal a tragedian, but also marvellously concise, taut and

unadorned, in whom there is nothing otiose, nothing which it would not

be a crime to alter or remove; and besides, one who treats rhetorical

topics so frequently and so acutely that he appears to be everywhere

declaiming. Add to all this the choruses, which through I know not what

striving after effect are so obscure that they need not so much a

translator as an Oedipus or priest of Apollo to interpret them. In

addition there is the corrupt state of the manuscripts, the dearth of

copies, the absence of any translators to whom one can have recourse. So

I am not so much surprised that even in this most prolific age none of

the Italians has ventured to attempt the task of translating any tragedy

or comedy, whereas many have set their hand to Homer (among these even

Politian[38] failed to satisfy himself); one man[39] has essayed Hesiod,

and that without much success; another[40] has attempted Theocritus, but

with even far more unfortunate results: and finally Francesco Filelfo

has translated the first scene of the Hecuba in one of his funeral

orations.[41] (I first learned this after I had begun my version), but

in such a way that, great as he is, his work gave me courage enough to

proceed, overprecise as I am in other respects.

Then for me the lure of this poet's more than honeyed eloquence, which

even his enemies allow him, proved stronger than the deterrent of these

great examples and the many difficulties of the work, so that I have

been bold to attack a task never before attempted, in the hope that,

even if I failed, my honest readers would consider even this poor effort

of mine not altogether unpraiseworthy, and the more grudging would at

least be lenient to an inexperienced translator of a work so difficult:

in particular because I have deliberately added no light burden to my

other difficulties through my conscientiousness as a translator, in

attempting so far as possible to reproduce the shape and as it were

contours of the Greek verse, by striving to render line for line and

almost word for word, and everywhere seeking with the utmost fidelity to

convey to Latin ears the force and value of the sentence: whether it be

that I do not altogether approve of the freedom in translation which

Cicero allows others and practised himself (I would almost say to an

immoderate degree), or that as an inexperienced translator I preferred

to err on the side of seeming over-scrupulous rather than

over-free--hesitating on the sandy shore instead of wrecking my ship and

swimming in the midst of the billows; and I preferred to run the risk of

letting scholars complain of lack of brilliance and poetic beauty in my

work rather than of lack of fidelity to the original. Finally I did not

want to set myself up as a paraphraser, thus securing myself that

retreat which many use to cloak their ignorance, wrapping themselves

like the cuttle-fish in darkness of their own making to avoid detection.

Now, if readers do not find here the grandiloquence of Latin tragedy,

'the bombast and the words half a yard long,' as Horace calls it, they

must not blame me if in performing my function of translator I have

preferred to reproduce the concise simplicity and elegance of my

original, and not the bombast to which he is a stranger, and which I do

not greatly admire at any time.

Furthermore, I am encouraged to hope with all certainty that these

labours of mine will be most excellently protected against the calumnies

of the unjust, as their publication will be most welcome to the honest

and just, if you, most excellent Father, have voted them your approval.

For me it was not difficult to select you from the great host of

illustrious and distinguished men to be the recipient of this product of

my vigils, as the one man I have observed to be--aside from the

brilliance of your fortune--so endowed, adorned and showered with

learning, eloquence, good sense, piety, modesty, integrity, and lastly

with an extraordinary liberality towards those who cultivate good

letters, that the word Primate suits none better than yourself, who hold

the first place not solely by reason of your official dignity, but far

more because of all your virtues, while at the same time you are the

principal ornament of the Court and the sole head of the ecclesiastical

hierarchy. If I have the fortune to win for this my work the

commendation of a man so highly commended I shall assuredly not repent

of the exertions I have so far expended, and will be forward to promote

theological studies with even more zeal for the future.

Farewell, and enrol Erasmus in the number of those who are

wholeheartedly devoted to Your Fathership.

[Illustration: XXVII. PORTRAIT MEDAL OF ERASMUS AT THE AGE OF 53

On the reverse his device and motto]

[Illustration: XXVIII. ERASMUS AT THE AGE OF ABOUT 57]

VII. TO ALDUS MANUTIUS[42]

Bologna, 28 October [1507]

To Aldus Manutius of Rome, many greetings:

... I have often wished, most learned Manutius, that the light you have

cast on Greek and Latin literature, not by your printing alone and your

splendid types, but by your brilliance and your uncommon learning, could

have been matched by the profit you in your turn drew from them. So far

as _fame_ is concerned, the name of Aldus Manutius will without doubt be

on the lips of all devotees of sacred literature unto all posterity; and

your memory will be--as your fame now is--not merely illustrious but

loved and cherished as well, because you are engaged, as I hear, in

reviving and disseminating the good authors--with extreme diligence but

not at a commensurate profit--undergoing truly Herculean labours,

labours splendid indeed and destined to bring you immortal glory, but

meanwhile more profitable to others than to yourself. I hear that you

are printing Plato[43] in Greek types; very many scholars eagerly await

the book. I should like to know what medical authors you have printed; I

wish you would give us Paul of Aegina.[44] I wonder what has prevented

you from publishing the New Testament[45] long since--a work which would

delight even the common people (if I conjecture aright) but particularly

my own class, the theologians.

I send you two tragedies[46] which I have been bold enough to translate,

whether with success you yourself shall judge. Thomas Linacre, William

Grocyn, William Latimer, Cuthbert Tunstall, friends of yours as well as

of mine, thought highly of them; you know yourself that they are too

learned to be deceived in their judgement, and too sincere to want to

flatter a friend--unless their affection for me has somewhat blinded

them; the Italians to whom I have so far shown my attempt do not condemn

it. It has been printed by Badius, successfully as far as he is

concerned, so he writes, for he has now sold all the copies to his

satisfaction. But my reputation has not been enhanced thereby, so full

is it all of mistakes, and in fact he offers his services to repair the

first edition by printing a second. But I am afraid of his mending ill

with ill, as the Sophoclean saying goes. I should consider my labours to

have been immortalized if they could come out printed in your types,

particularly the smaller types, the most beautiful of all. This will

result in the volume being very small and the business being concluded

at little expense. If you think it convenient to undertake the affair, I

will supply you with a corrected copy, which I send by the bearer,

_gratis_, except that you may wish to send me a few volumes as gifts for

my friends.

I should not have hesitated to attempt the publication at my own risk

and expense, were it not that I have to leave Italy within a few months:

so I should much like to have the business concluded as soon as

possible; in fact it is hardly ten days' work. If you insist on my

taking a hundred or two hundred volumes, though the god of gain does not

usually favour me and it will be most inconvenient to transport the

package, I shall not refuse, if only you fix a horse as the price.

Farewell, most learned Aldus, and reckon Erasmus as one of your

well-wishers.

If you have any rare authors in your press, I shall be obliged if you

will indicate this--my learned British friends have asked me to search

for them. If you decide not to print the _Tragedies_, will you return

the copy to the bearer to bring back to me?

VIII. TO THOMAS MORE[47]

[Paris?] 9 June [1511]

To his friend Thomas More, greetings:

... In days gone by, on my journey back from Italy into England, in

order not to waste all the time that must needs be spent on horseback in

dull and unlettered gossiping, I preferred at times either to turn over

in my mind some topic of our common studies or to give myself over to

the pleasing recollection of the friends, as learned as they are

beloved, whom I had left behind me in England. You were among the very

first of these to spring to mind, my dear More; indeed I used to enjoy

the memory of you in absence even as I was wont to delight in your

present company, than which I swear I never in my life met anything

sweeter. Therefore, since I thought that I must at all hazards do

_something_, and that time seemed ill suited to serious meditation, I

determined to amuse myself with the _Praise of Folly_. You will ask what

goddess put this into my mind. In the first place it was your family

name of More, which comes as near to the word _moria_ [folly] as you

yourself are far from the reality--everyone agrees that you are far

removed from it. Next I suspected that you above all would approve this

_jeu d'esprit_ of mine, in that you yourself do greatly delight in jests

of this kind, that is, jests learned (if I mistake not) and at no time

insipid, and altogether like to play in some sort the Democritus[48] in

the life of society. Although you indeed, owing to your incredibly sweet

and easy-going character, are both able and glad to be all things to all

men, even as your singularly penetrating intellect causes you to dissent

widely from the opinions of the herd. So you will not only gladly accept

this little declamation as a memento of your comrade, but will also take

it under your protection, inasmuch as it is dedicated to you and is now

no longer mine but yours.

And indeed there will perhaps be no lack of brawlers to represent that

trifles are more frivolous than becomes a theologian, or more mordant

than suits with Christian modesty, and they will be crying out that I am

reviving the Old Comedy or Lucian and assailing everything with biting

satire. But I would have those who are offended by the levity and

sportiveness of my theme reflect that it was not I that began this, but

that the same was practised by great writers in former times; seeing

that so many centuries ago Homer made his trifle _The Battle of Frogs

and Mice_, Virgil his _Gnat_ and _Dish of Herbs_ and Ovid his _Nut_;

seeing that Busiris was praised by Polycrates and his critic Isocrates,

Injustice by Glaucon, Thersites and the Quartan Fever by Favorinus,

Baldness by Synesius, the Fly and the Art of Being a Parasite by Lucian;

and that Seneca devised the Apotheosis of the Emperor Claudius, Plutarch

the Dialogue of Gryllus and Ulysses, Lucian and Apuleius the Ass, and

someone unknown the Testament of Grunnius Corocotta the Piglet,

mentioned even by St. Jerome.

So, if they will, let my detractors imagine that I have played an

occasional game of draughts for a pastime or, if they prefer, taken a

ride on a hobby-horse. How unfair it is truly, when we grant every

calling in life its amusements, not to allow the profession of learning

any amusement at all, particularly if triflings bring serious thoughts

in their train and frivolous matters are so treated that a reader not

altogether devoid of perception wins more profit from these than from

the glittering and portentous arguments of certain persons--as when for

instance one man eulogizes rhetoric or philosophy in a painfully

stitched-together oration, another rehearses the praises of some prince,

another urges us to begin a war with the Turks, another foretells the

future, and another proposes a new method of splitting hairs. Just as

there is nothing so trifling as to treat serious matters triflingly, so

there is nothing so delightful as to treat trifling matters in such

fashion that it appears that you have been doing anything but trifle. As

to me, the judgement is in other hands--and yet, unless I am altogether

misled by self-love, I have sung the praise of Folly and that not

altogether foolishly.

And now to reply to the charge of mordacity. It has ever been the

privilege of wits to satirize the life of society with impunity,

provided that licence does not degenerate into frenzy. Wherefore the

more do I marvel at the fastidiousness of men's ears in these times, who

by now can scarce endure anything but solemn appellations. Further, we

see some men so perversely religious that they will suffer the most

hideous revilings against Christ sooner than let prince or pope be

sullied by the lightest jest, particularly if this concerns monetary

gain. But if a man censures men's lives without reproving anyone at all

by name, pray do you think this man a satirist, and not rather a teacher

and admonisher? Else on how many counts do I censure myself? Moreover he

who leaves no class of men unmentioned is clearly foe to no man but to

all vices. Therefore anyone who rises up and cries out that he is

insulted will be revealing a bad conscience, or at all events fear. St.

Jerome wrote satire in this kind far more free and biting, not always

abstaining from the mention of names, whereas I myself, apart from not

mentioning anyone by name, have moreover so tempered my pen that the

sagacious reader will easily understand that my aim has been to give

pleasure, not pain; for I have at no point followed Juvenal's example in

'stirring up the murky bilge of crime', and I have sought to survey the

laughable, not the disgusting. If there is anyone whom even this cannot

appease, at least let him remember that it is a fine thing to be reviled

by Folly; in bringing her upon the stage I had to suit the words to the

character. But why need I say all this to you, an advocate so remarkable

that you can defend excellently even causes far from excellent?

Farewell, most eloquent More, and be diligent in defending your _moria_.

IX. TO JOHN COLET[49]

Cambridge, 29 October [1511]

To his friend Colet, greetings:

... Something came into my mind which I know will make you laugh. In the

presence of several Masters [of Arts] I was putting forward a view on

the Assistant Teacher, when one of them, a man of some repute, smiled

and said: 'Who could bear to spend his life in that school among boys,

when he could live anywhere in any way he liked?' I answered mildly that

it seemed to me a very honourable task to train young people in manners

and literature, that Christ himself did not despise the young, that no

age had a better right to help, and that from no quarter was a richer

return to be expected, seeing that young people were the harvest-field

and raw material of the nation. I added that all truly religious people

felt that they could not better serve God in any other duty than the

bringing of children to Christ. He wrinkled his nose and said with a

scornful gesture: 'If any man wishes to serve Christ altogether, let him

go into a monastery and enter a religious order.' I answered that St.

Paul said that true religion consisted in the offices of

charity--charity consisting in doing our best to help our neighbours.

This he rejected as an ignorant remark. 'Look,' said he, 'we have

forsaken everything: in this is perfection.' 'That man has not forsaken

everything,' said I, 'who, when he could help very many by his labours,

refuses to undertake a duty because it is regarded as humble.' And with

that, to prevent a quarrel arising, I let the man go. There you have the

dialogue. You see the Scotist philosophy! Once again, farewell.

X. TO SERVATIUS ROGER

Hammes Castle [near Calais],

8 July 1514

To the Reverend Father Servatius, many greetings:

... Most humane father, your letter has at last reached me, after

passing through many hands, when I had already left England, and it has

afforded me unbelievable delight, as it still breathes your old

affection for me. However, I shall answer briefly, as I am writing just

after the journey, and shall reply in particular on those matters which

are, as you write, strictly to the point. Men's thoughts are so varied,

'to each his own bird-song', that it is impossible to satisfy everyone.

My own feelings are that I want to follow what is best to do, God is my

witness. Those feelings which I had in my youth have been corrected

partly by age, partly by experience of the world. I have never intended

to change my mode of life or my habit--not that I liked them, but to

avoid scandal. You are aware that I was not so much led as driven to

this mode of life by the obstinate determination of my guardians and the

wrongful urgings of others, and that afterwards, when I realized that

this kind of life was quite unsuited to me (for not all things suit all

men), I was held back by Cornelius of Woerden's reproaches and by a

certain boyish sense of shame. I was never able to endure fasting,

through some peculiarity of my constitution. Once roused from sleep I

could never fall asleep again for several hours. I was so drawn towards

literature, which is not practised in the monastery, that I do not doubt

that if I had chanced on some free mode of life I could have been

numbered not merely among the happy but even among the good.

So, when I realized that I was by no means fit for this mode of life,

that I had taken it up under compulsion and not of my own free will,

nevertheless, as public opinion in these days regards it as a crime to

break away from a mode of life once taken up, I had resolved to endure

with fortitude this part of my unhappiness also--you know that I am in

many things unfortunate. But I have always regarded this one thing as

harder than all the rest, that I had been forced into a mode of life for

which I was totally unfit both in body and in mind: in mind, because I

abhorred ritual and loved liberty; in body, because even had I been

perfectly satisfied with the life, my constitution could not endure such

labours. One may object that I had a year of probation, as it is called,

and that I was of ripe age. Ridiculous! As if anyone could expect a boy

of sixteen, particularly one with a literary training, to know himself

(an achievement even for an old man), or to have succeeded in learning

in a single year what many do not yet understand in their grey hairs.

Though I myself never liked the life, still less after I had tried it,

but was trapped in the way I have mentioned; although I confess that the

truly good man will live a good life in any calling. And I do not deny

that I was prone to grievous vices, but not of so utterly corrupt a

nature that I could not have come to some good, had I found a kindly

guide, a true Christian, not one given to Jewish scruples.

Meanwhile I looked about to find in what kind of life I could be least

bad, and I believe indeed that I have attained this. I have spent my

life meantime among sober men, in literary studies, which have kept me

off many vices. I have been able to associate with true followers of

Christ, whose conversation has made me a better man. I do not now boast

of my books, which you at Steyn perhaps despise.

But many confess that they have become not merely more knowledgeable,

but even better men through reading them. Passion for money has never

affected me. I am quite untouched by the thirst for fame. I have never

been a slave to pleasures, although I was formerly inclined to them.

Over-indulgence and drunkenness I have ever loathed and avoided. But

whenever I thought of returning to your society, I remembered the

jealousy of many, the contempt of all, the conversations how dull, how

foolish, how un-Christlike, the feasts how unclerical! In short the

whole way of life, from which if you remove the ritual, I do not see

what remains that one could desire. Lastly I remembered my frail

constitution, now weakened by age, disease and hard work, as a result of

which I should fail to satisfy you and kill myself. For several years

now I have been subject to the stone, a severe and deadly illness, and

for several years I have drunk nothing but wine, and not all kinds of

wine at that, owing to my disease; I cannot endure all kinds of food nor

indeed all climates. The illness is very liable to recur and demands a

very careful regimen; and I know the climate in Holland and your style

of living, not to mention your ways. So, had I come back to you, all I

would have achieved would have been to bring trouble on you and death on

myself.

But perhaps you think it a great part of happiness to die amid one's

fellow-brethren? This belief deceives and imposes not on you alone but

on nearly everyone. We make Christian piety depend on place, dress,

style of living and on certain little rituals. We think a man lost who

changes his white dress for black, or his cowl for a cap, or

occasionally moves from place to place. I should dare to say that

Christian piety has suffered great damage from these so-called religious

practices, although it may be that their first introduction was due to

pious zeal. They then gradually increased and divided into thousands of

distinctions; this was helped by a papal authority which was too lax and

easy-going in many cases. What more defiled or more impious than these

lax rituals? And if you turn to those that are commended, no, to the

most highly commended, apart from some dreary Jewish rituals, I know not

what image of Christ one finds in them. It is these on which they preen

themselves, these by which they judge and condemn others. How much more

in conformity with the spirit of Christ to consider the whole Christian

world one home and as it were one monastery, to regard all men as one's

fellow-monks and fellow-brethren, to hold the sacrament of Baptism as

the supreme rite, and not to consider where one lives but how well one

lives! You want me to settle on a permanent abode, a course which my

very age also suggests. But the travellings of Solon, Pythagoras and

Plato are praised; and the Apostles, too, were wanderers, in particular

Paul. St. Jerome also was a monk now in Rome, now in Syria, now in

Antioch, now here, now there, and even in his old age pursued literary

studies.

But I am not to be compared with St. Jerome--I agree; yet I have never

moved unless forced by the plague or for reasons of study or health, and

wherever I have lived (I shall say this of myself, arrogantly perhaps,

but truthfully) I have been commended by the most highly commended and

praised by the most praised. There is no land, neither Spain nor Italy

nor Germany nor France nor England nor Scotland, which does not summon

me to partake of its hospitality. And if I am not liked by all (which is

not my aim), at all events I am liked in the highest places of all. At

Rome there was no cardinal who did not welcome me like a brother; in

particular the Cardinal of St. George,[50] the Cardinal of Bologna,[51]

Cardinal Grimani, the Cardinal of Nantes,[52] and the present Pope,[53]

not to mention bishops, archdeacons and men of learning. And this honour

was not a tribute to wealth, which even now I neither possess nor

desire; nor to ambition, a failing to which I have ever been a stranger;

but solely to learning, which our countrymen ridicule, while the

Italians worship it. In England there is no bishop who is not glad to be

greeted by me, who does not desire my company, who does not want me in

his home. The King himself, a little before his father's death, when I

was in Italy, wrote a most affectionate letter to me with his own hand,

and now too speaks often of me in the most honourable and affectionate

terms; and whenever I greet him he welcomes me most courteously and

looks at me in a most friendly fashion, making it plain that his

feelings for me are as friendly as his speeches. And he has often

commissioned his Almoner[54] to find a benefice for me. The Queen sought

to take me as her tutor. Everyone knows that, if I were prepared to live

even a few months at Court, he would heap on me as many benefices as I

cared for; but I put my leisure and my learned labours before

everything. The Archbishop of Canterbury, the Primate of all England and

Chancellor of the Realm, a good and learned man, could not treat me with

more affection were I his father or brother. And that you may understand

that he is sincere in this, he gave me a living of nearly 100 nobles,

which afterwards at my wish he changed into a pension of 100 crowns on

my resignation; in addition he has given me more than 400 nobles during

the last few years, although I never asked for anything. He gave me 150

nobles in one day. I received more than 100 nobles from other bishops in

freely offered gifts. Mountjoy, a baron of the realm, formerly my pupil,

gives me annually a pension of 100 crowns. The King and the Bishop of

Lincoln, who has great influence through the King, make many splendid

promises. There are two universities in England, Oxford and Cambridge,

and both of them want me; at Cambridge I taught Greek and sacred

literature for several months, for nothing, and have resolved always to

do this. There are colleges here so religious, and of such modesty in

living, that you would spurn any other religious life, could you see

them. In London there is John Colet, Dean of St. Paul's, who has

combined great learning with a marvellous piety, a man greatly respected

by all. He is so fond of me, as all know, that he prefers my company

above all others'; I do not mention many others, lest I doubly vex you

with my loquacity as well as my boasting.

Now to say something of my works--I think you have read the

_Enchiridion_,[55] through which not a few confess themselves inspired

to the study of piety; I make no claim for myself, but give thanks to

Christ for any good which has come to pass through me by His giving. I

do not know whether you have seen the _Adagia_,[56] printed by Aldus. It

is not a theological work, but most useful for every branch of learning;

at least it cost me countless labours and sleepless nights. I have

published a work _De rerum verborumque copia_,[57] dedicated to my

friend Colet, very useful for those who desire to speak in public; but

all these are despised by those who despise all good learning. During

the last two years, apart from much else, I have emended the _Letters_

of St. Jerome, obelizing what was false and spurious and explaining the

obscure passages with notes. I have corrected the whole of the New

Testament from collations of the Greek and ancient manuscripts, and have

annotated more than a thousand passages, not without some benefit to

theologians. I have begun commentaries on the _Epistles_ of St. Paul,

which I shall complete when I have published these. For I have resolved

to live and die in the study of the Scriptures. I make these my work and

my leisure. Men of consequence say that I can do what others cannot in

this field; in your mode of life I shall be able to do nothing. Although

I have been intimate with so many grave and learned men, here and in

Italy and France, I have not yet found anyone who advised me to return

to you or thought this the better course. Nay, even Nicholas Werner of

blessed memory, your predecessor, would always dissuade me from this,

advising me to attach myself rather to some bishop; he would add that he

knew my mind and his little brothers' ways: those were the words he

used, in the vernacular. In the life I live now I see what I should

avoid, but do not see what would be a better course.

It now remains to satisfy you on the question of my dress. I have always

up to now worn the canon's dress, and when I was at Louvain I obtained

permission from the Bishop of Utrecht to wear a linen scapular instead

of a complete linen garment, and a black capuce instead of a black

cloak, after the Parisian custom. But on my journey to Italy, seeing the

monks all along the way wearing a black garment with a scapular, I there

took to wearing black, with a scapular, to avoid giving offence by any

unusual dress. Afterwards the plague broke out at Bologna, and there

those who nurse the sick of the plague customarily wear a white linen

cloth depending from the shoulder--these avoid contact with people.

Consequently when one day I went to call on a learned friend some

rascals drew their swords and were preparing to set about me, and would

have done so, had not a certain matron warned them that I was an

ecclesiastic. Again the next day, when I was on my way to visit the

Treasurer's sons, they rushed at me with bludgeons from all directions

and attacked me with horrible cries. So on the advice of good men I

concealed my scapular, and obtained a dispensation from Pope Julius II

allowing me to wear the religious dress or not, as seemed good, provided

that I wore clerical garb; and in this document he condoned any previous

offences in the matter. In Italy I continued to wear clerical garb, lest

the change cause offence to anyone. On my return to England I decided to

wear my usual dress, and I invited to my lodging a friend of excellent

repute for his learning and mode of life and showed him the dress I had

decided to wear; I asked him whether this was suitable in England. He

approved, so I appeared in public in this dress. I was at once warned by

other friends that this dress could not be tolerated in England, that I

had better conceal it. I did so; and as it cannot be concealed without

causing scandal if it is eventually discovered, I stored it away in a

box, and up to now have taken advantage of the Papal dispensation

received formerly. Ecclesiastical law excommunicates anyone who casts

off the religious habit so as to move more freely in secular society. I

put it off under compulsion in Italy, to escape being killed; and

likewise under compulsion in England, because it was not tolerated

there, although myself I should much prefer to have worn it. To adopt it

again now would cause more scandal than did the change itself.

There you have an account of my whole life, there you have my plans. I

should like to change even this present mode of life, if I see a better.

But I do not see what I am to do in Holland. I know that the climate and

way of living will not agree with me; I shall have everyone looking at

me. I shall return a white-haired old man, having gone away as a

youth--I shall return a valetudinarian; I shall be exposed to the

contempt of the lowest, used as I am to the respect of the highest. I

shall exchange my studies for drinking-parties. As to your promising me

your help in finding me a place where I can live with an excellent

income, as you write, I cannot conjecture what this can be, unless

perhaps you intend to place me among some community of nuns, to serve

women--I who have never been willing to serve kings nor archbishops. I

want no pay; I have no desire for riches, if only I have money enough to

provide for my health and my literary leisure, to enable me to live

without burdening anyone. I wish we could discuss these things together

face to face; it cannot be done in a letter conveniently or safely. Your

letter, although it was sent by most reliable persons, went so far

astray that if I had not accidentally come to this castle I should never

have seen it; and many people had looked at it before I received it. So

do not mention anything secret unless you know for certain where I am

and have a very trustworthy messenger. I am now on my way to Germany,

that is, Basle, to have my works published, and this winter I shall

perhaps be in Rome. On my return journey I shall see to it that we meet

and talk somewhere. But now the summer is nearly over and it is a long

journey. Farewell, once my sweetest comrade, now my esteemed father.

XI. TO WOLFGANG FABRICIUS CAPITO[58]

Antwerp, 26 February 1516/17

To the distinguished theologian Wolfgang Fabricius Capito of Hagenau,

skilled in the three languages, greetings:

... Now that I see that the mightiest princes of the earth, King Francis

of France, Charles the Catholic King, King Henry of England and the

Emperor Maximilian have drastically cut down all warlike preparations

and concluded a firm and, I hope, unbreakable treaty of peace, I feel

entitled to hope with confidence that not only the moral virtues and

Christian piety but also the true learning, purified of corruption, and

the fine disciplines will revive and blossom forth; particularly as this

aim is being prosecuted with equal zeal in different parts of the world,

in Rome by Pope Leo, in Spain by the Cardinal of Toledo,[59] in England

by King Henry VIII, himself no mean scholar, here by King Charles, a

young man admirably gifted, in France by King Francis, a man as it were

born for this task, who besides offers splendid rewards to attract and

entice men distinguished for virtue and learning from all parts, in

Germany by many excellent princes and bishops and above all by the

Emperor Maximilian, who, wearied in his old age of all these wars, has

resolved to find rest in the arts of peace: a resolve at once more

becoming to himself at his age and more fortunate for Christendom. It is

to these men's piety then that we owe it that all over the world, as if

on a given signal, splendid talents are stirring and awakening and

conspiring together to revive the best learning. For what else is this

but a conspiracy, when all these great scholars from different lands

share out the work among themselves and set about this noble task, not

merely with enthusiasm but with a fair measure of success, so that we

have an almost certain prospect of seeing all disciplines emerge once

more into the light of day in a far purer and more genuine form? In the

first place polite letters, for long reduced almost to extinction, are

being taken up and cultivated by the Scots, the Danes and the Irish. As

for medicine, how many champions has she found! Nicholas Leonicenus[60]

in Rome, Ambrose Leo of Nola[61] at Venice, William Cop[62] and John

Ruell[63] in France, and Thomas Linacre in England. Roman law is being

revived in Paris by William Budaeus[64] and in Germany by Ulrich

Zasius,[65] mathematics at Basle by Henry Glareanus.[66]

In theology there was more to do, for up till now its professors have

almost always been men with an ingrained loathing for good learning, men

who conceal their ignorance the more successfully as they do this on

what they call a religious pretext, so that the ignorant herd is

persuaded by them to believe it a violation of religion if anyone

proceeds to attack their barbarism; for they prefer to wail for help to

the uneducated mob and incite it to stone-throwing if they see any

danger of their ignorance on any point coming to light. But I am

confident that here, too, all will go well as soon as the knowledge of

the three languages [Greek, Latin and Hebrew] becomes accepted publicly

in the schools, as it has begun to be.... The humblest share in this

work has fallen on me, as is fitting; I know not whether I have

contributed anything of value; at all events I have infuriated those who

do not want the world to come to its senses, so that it seems as if my

poor efforts also have not been ineffective: although I have not

undertaken the work in the belief that, I could teach anything

magnificent, but I wanted to open a road for others, destined to attempt

greater things, that they might with greater ease ascend the shining

heights without running into so many rough and quaggy places. Yet this

humble diligence of mine is not disdained by the honest and learned, and

none complain of it but a few so stupid that they are hissed off the

stage by even ordinary persons of any intelligence. Here not long ago

someone complained tearfully before the people, in a sermon of course,

that it was all over with the Scriptures and the theologians who had

hitherto upheld the Christian faith on their shoulders, now that men had

arisen to emend the Holy Gospel and the very words of Our Lord: just as

if I was rebuking Matthew or Luke instead of those whose ignorance or

negligence had corrupted what they wrote correctly. In England one or

two persons complain loudly that it is a shameful thing that _I_ should

dare to teach a great man like St. Jerome: as if I had changed what St.

Jerome wrote, instead of restoring it!

Yet those who snarl out suchlike dirges, which any laundryman with a

little sense would scoff at, think themselves great theologians ... Not

that I want the kind of theology which is customary in the schools

nowadays consigned to oblivion; I wish it to be rendered more

trustworthy and more correct by the accession of the old, true learning.

It will not weaken the authority of the Scriptures or theologians if

certain passages hitherto considered corrupt are henceforth read in an

emended form, or if passages are more correctly understood on which up

till now the mass of theologians have entertained delusions: no, it will

give greater weight to their authority, the more genuine their

understanding of the Scriptures. I have sustained the shock of the first

meeting, which Terence calls the sharpest.... One doubt still troubles

me; I fear that under cover of the rebirth of ancient learning paganism

may seek to rear its head, as even among Christians there are those who

acknowledge Christ in name only, but in their hearts are Gentiles; or

that with the renascence of Hebrew studies Judaism may seek to use this

opportunity of revival; and there can be nothing more contrary or more

hostile to the teaching of Christ than this plague. This is the nature

of human affairs--nothing good has ever so flourished but some evil has

attempted to use it as a pretext for insinuating itself. I could wish

that those dreary quibblings could be either done away with or at least

cease to be the sole activity of theologians, and that the simplicity

and purity of Christ could penetrate deeply into the minds of men; and

this I think can best be brought to pass if with the help provided by

the three languages we exercise our minds in the actual sources. But I

pray that we may avoid this evil without falling into another perhaps

graver error. Recently several pamphlets have been published reeking of

unadulterated Judaism.

XII. TO THOMAS MORE

Louvain, 5 March 1518

To his friend More, greeting:

... First of all I ask you to entrust to the bearer, my servant John,

any letters of mine or yours which you consider fit for publication with

the alteration of some passages; I am simply compelled to publish my

letters whether I like it or not. Send off the lad so that he returns

here as quickly as possible. If you discover that Urswick is

ill-disposed towards me perhaps he should not be troubled; otherwise,

help me in the matter of a horse--I shall need one just now when I am

about to go to Basle or Venice, chiefly for the purpose of bringing out

the New Testament.[67] Such is my fate, dear More. I shall enact this

part of my play also. Afterwards, I almost feel inclined to sing 'for

myself and the Muses'; my age and my health, which grows daily worse,

almost require this. Over here scoundrels in disguise are so

all-powerful, and no one here makes money but innkeepers, advocates, and

begging friars. It is unendurable when many speak ill and none do good.

At Basle they make the elegant preface added by Budaeus the excuse for

the delay over your Utopia. They have now received it and have started

on the work. Then Froben's father-in-law Lachner died. But Froben's

press will be sweating over our studies none the less. I have not yet

had a chance of seeing Linacre's _Therapeutice_,[68] through some

conspiracy of the Parisians against me. Inquire courteously of Lupset on

the Appendix[69] to my _Copia_ and send it.

The Pope and the princes are up to some new tricks on the pretext of the

savagery of the war against the Turks. Wretched Turks! May we Christians

not be too cruel! Even wives are affected. All married men between the

ages of twenty-six and fifty will be compelled to take up arms.

Meanwhile the Pope forbids the wives of men absent at the war to indulge

in pleasure at home; they are to eschew elegant apparel, must not wear

silk, gold or any jewellery, must not touch rouge or drink wine, and

must fast every other day, that God may favour their husbands engaged in

this cruel war. If there are men tied at home by necessary business,

their wives must none the less observe the same rules as they would have

had to observe if their husbands had gone to the war. They are to sleep

in the same room but in different beds; and not a kiss is to be given

meanwhile until this terrible war reaches a successful conclusion under

Christ's favour. I know that these enactments will irritate wives who do

not sufficiently ponder the importance of the business; though I know

that your wife, sensible as she is, and obedient in regard to a matter

of Christian observance, will even be glad to obey.

I send Pace's pamphlet, the _Conclusions on Papal Indulgences_,[70] and

the _Proposal for Undertaking a War against the Turks_,[71] as I suspect

that they have not yet reached England. They write from Cologne that

some pamphlet about an argument between Julius and Peter at the gates of

Paradise[72] has now been printed; they do not add the author's name.

The German presses will not cease from their mad pranks until their

rashness is restrained by some law; this does me much harm, who am

endeavouring to help the world....

I beg you to let my servant sleep one or two nights with yours, to

prevent his chancing on an infected house, and to afford him anything he

may need, although I have supplied him with travelling money myself. I

have at last seen the _Utopia_ at Paris printed, but with many

misprints. It is now in the press at Basle; I had threatened to break

with them unless they took more trouble with that business than with

mine. Farewell, most sincere of friends.

XIII. TO BEATUS RHENANUS[73]

Louvain [_c._ 15 October] 1518

To his friend Rhenanus, greetings:

... Let me describe to you, my dear Beatus, the whole tragi-comedy of my

journey. I was still weak and listless, as you know, when I left Basle,

not having come to terms with the climate, after skulking at home so

long, and occupied in uninterrupted labors at that. The river voyage was

not unpleasant, but that around midday the heat of the sun was somewhat

trying. We had a meal at Breisach, the most unpleasant meal I have ever

had. The smell of food nearly finished me, and then the flies, worse

than the smell. We sat at table doing nothing for more than half an

hour, waiting for them to produce their banquet, if you please. In the

end nothing fit to eat was served; filthy porridge with lumps in it and

salt fish reheated not for the first time, enough to make one sick. I

did not call on Gallinarius. The man who brought word that he was

suffering from a slight fever also told me a pretty story; that Minorite

theologian with whom I had disputed about _heceitas_[74] had taken it on

himself to pawn the church chalices. Scotist ingenuity! Just before

nightfall we were put out at a dull village; I did not feel like

discovering its name, and if I knew I should not care to tell you it. I

nearly perished there. We had supper in a small room like a

sweating-chamber, more than sixty of us, I should say, an indiscriminate

collection of rapscallions, and this went on till nearly ten o'clock;

oh, the stench, and the noise, particularly after they had become

intoxicated! Yet we had to remain sitting to suit their clocks.

In the morning while it was still quite dark we were driven from bed by

the shouting of the sailors. I went on board without having either

supped or slept. We reached Strasbourg before lunch, at about nine

o'clock; there we had a more comfortable reception, particularly as

Schuerer produced some wine. Some of the Society[75] were there, and

afterwards they all came to greet me, Gerbel outdoing all the rest in

politeness. Gebwiler and Rudolfingen did not want me to pay, no new

thing with them. Thence we proceeded on horseback as far as Speyer; we

saw no sign of soldiers anywhere, although there had been alarming

rumours. The English horse completely collapsed and hardly got to

Speyer; that criminal smith had handled him so badly that he ought to

have both his ears branded with red-hot iron. At Speyer I slipped away

from the inn and took myself to my neighbour Maternus. There Decanus, a

learned and cultivated man, entertained me courteously and agreeably for

two days. Here I accidentally found Hermann Busch.

From Speyer I travelled by carriage to Worms, and from there again to

Mainz. There was an Imperial secretary, Ulrich Varnbueler,[76] travelling

by chance in the same carriage. He devoted himself to me with incredible

assiduity over the whole journey, and at Mainz would not allow me to go

into the inn but took me to the house of a canon; on my departure he

accompanied me to the boat. The voyage was not unpleasant as the weather

was fine, excepting that the crew took care to make it somewhat long; in

addition to this the stench of the horses incommoded me. For the first

day John Langenfeld, who formerly taught at Louvain, and a lawyer friend

of his came with me as a mark of politeness. There was also a

Westphalian, John, a canon at St. Victor's outside Mainz, a most

agreeable and entertaining man.

After arriving at Boppard, as I was taking a walk along the bank while a

boat was being procured, someone recognized me and betrayed me to the

customs officer, 'That is the man.' The customs officer's name is, if I

mistake not, Christopher Cinicampius, in the common speech Eschenfelder.

You would not believe how the man jumped for joy. He dragged me into his

house. Books by Erasmus were lying on a small table amongst the customs

agreements. He exclaimed at his good fortune and called in his wife and

children and all his friends. Meanwhile he sent out to the sailors who

were calling for me two tankards of wine, and another two when they

called out again, promising that when he came back he would remit the

toll to the man who had brought him a man like myself. From Boppard John

Flaminius, chaplain to the nuns there, a man of angelic purity, of sane

and sober judgement and no common learning, accompanied me as far as

Coblenz. At Coblenz Matthias, Chancellor to the Bishop, swept us off to

his house--he is a young man but of staid manners, and has an accurate

knowledge of Latin, besides being a skilled lawyer. There we supped

merrily.

At Bonn the canon left us, to avoid Cologne: I wanted to avoid Cologne

myself, but the servant had preceded me thither with the horses, and

there was no reliable person in the boat whom I could have charged with

the business of calling back my servant; I did not trust the sailors. So

we docked at Cologne before six o'clock in the morning on a Sunday, the

weather being by now pestilential. I went into an inn and gave orders to

the ostlers to hire me a carriage and pair, ordering a meal to be made

ready by ten o'clock. I attended Divine Service, the lunch was delayed.

I had no luck with the carriage and pair. I tried to hire a horse; my

own were useless. Everything failed. I realized what was up; they were

trying to make me stop there. I immediately ordered my horses to be

harnessed, and one bag to be loaded; the other bag I entrusted to the

innkeeper, and on my lame horse rode quickly to the Count of

Neuenahr's[77]--a five-hour journey. He was staying at Bedburg.

With the Count I stayed five days very pleasantly, in such peace and

quiet that while staying with him I completed a good part of the

revision--I had taken that part of the New Testament with me. Would that

you knew him, my dear Beatus! He is a young man but of rare good sense,

more than you would find in an old man; he speaks little, but as Homer

says of Menelaus, he speaks 'in clear tones,' and intelligently too; he

is learned without pretentiousness in more than one branch of study,

wholly sincere and a good friend. By now I was strong and lusty, and

well pleased with myself, and was hoping to be in a good state when I

visited the Bishop of Liege and to return hale and hearty to my friends

in Brabant. What dinner-parties, what felicitations, what discussions I

promised myself! But ah, deceptive human hopes! ah, the sudden and

unexpected vicissitudes of human affairs! From these high dreams of

happiness I was hurled to the depths of misfortune.

I had hired a carriage and pair for the next day. My companion, not

wanting to say goodbye before night, announced that he would see me in

the morning before my departure. That night a wild hurricane sprang up,

which had passed before the next morning. Nevertheless I rose after

midnight, to make some notes for the Count: when it was already seven

o'clock and the Count did not emerge, I asked for him to be waked. He

came, and in his customary shy and modest way asked me whether I meant

to leave in such bad weather, saying he was afraid for me. At that

point, my dear Beatus, some god or bad angel deprived me, not of the

half of my senses, as Hesiod says, but of the whole: for he had deprived

me of half my senses when I risked going to Cologne. I wish that either

my friend had warned me more sharply or that I had paid more attention

to his most affectionate remonstrances! I was seized by the power of

fate: what else am I to say? I climbed into an uncovered carriage, the

wind blowing 'strong as when in the high mountains it shivers the

trembling holm-oaks.' It was a south wind and blowing like the very

pest. I thought I was well protected by my wrappings, but it went

through everything with its violence. Towards nightfall a light rain

came on, more noxious than the wind that preceded it: I arrived at

Aachen exhausted from the shaking of the carriage, which was so trying

to me on the stone-paved road that I should have preferred sitting on my

horse, lame as he was. Here I was carried off from the inn by a canon,

to whom the Count had recommended me, to Suderman's house. There several

canons were holding their usual drinking-party. My appetite had been

sharpened by a very light lunch; but at the time they had nothing by

them but carp, and cold carp at that. I ate to repletion. The drinking

went on well into the night. I excused myself and went to bed, as I had

had very little sleep the night before.

On the following day I was taken to the Vice-Provost's house; it was his

turn to offer hospitality. As there was no fish there apart from eel

(this was certainly the fault of the storm, as he is a magnificent host

otherwise) I lunched off a fish dried in the open air, which the Germans

call _Stockfisch_, from the rod used to beat it--it is a fish which I

enjoy at other times: but I discovered that part of this one had not

been properly cured. After lunch, as the weather was appalling, I took

myself off to the inn and ordered a fire to be lit. The canon whom I

mentioned, a most cultured man, stayed talking with me for about an hour

and a half. Meanwhile I began to feel very uncomfortable inside; as this

continued, I sent him away and went to the privy. As this gave my

stomach no relief I inserted my finger into my mouth, and the uncured

fish came up, but that was all. I lay down afterwards, not so much

sleeping as resting, without any pain in my head or body; then, having

struck a bargain with the coachman over the bags, I received an

invitation to the evening compotation. I excused myself, without

success. I knew that my stomach would not stand anything but a few sups

of warmed liquor.... On this occasion there was a magnificent spread,

but it was wasted on me. After comforting my stomach with a sup of wine,

I went home; I was sleeping at Suderman's house. As soon as I went out

of doors my empty body shivered fearfully in the night air.

On the morning of the next day, after taking a little warmed ale and a

few morsels of bread, I mounted my horse, who was lame and ailing, which

made riding more uncomfortable. By now I was in such a state that I

would have been better keeping warm in bed than mounted on horseback.

But that district is the most countrified, roughest, barren and

unattractive imaginable, the inhabitants are so idle; so that I

preferred to run away. The danger of brigands--it was very great in

those parts--or at least my fear of them, was driven out of my mind by

the discomfort of my illness.... After covering four miles on this ride

I reached Maastricht. There after a drink to soothe my stomach I

remounted and came to Tongres, about three miles away. This last ride

was by far the most painful to me. The awkward gait of the horse gave me

excruciating pains in the kidneys. It would have been easier to walk,

but I was afraid of sweating, and there was a danger of the night

catching us still out in the country. So I reached Tongres with my whole

body in a state of unbelievable agony. By now, owing to lack of food and

the exertion in addition, all my muscles had given way, so that I could

not stand or walk steadily. I concealed the severity of my illness by my

tongue--that was still working. Here I took a sup of ale to soothe my

stomach and retired to bed.

In the morning I ordered them to hire a carriage. I decided to go on

horseback, on account of the paving stones, until we reached an unpaved

road. I mounted the bigger horse, thinking that he would go better on

the paving and be more sure-footed. I had hardly mounted when I felt my

eyes clouding over as I met the cold air, and asked for a cloak. But

soon after this I fainted; I could be roused by a touch. Then my servant

John and the others standing by let me come to myself naturally, still

sitting on the horse. After coming to myself I got into the carriage....

By now we were approaching the town of St. Trond. I mounted once more,

not to appear an invalid, riding in a carriage. Once again the evening

air made me feel sick, but I did not faint. I offered the coachman

double the fare if he would take me the next day as far as Tirlemont, a

town six miles from Tongres. He accepted the terms. Here a guest whom I

knew told me how ill the Bishop of Liege had taken my leaving for Basle

without calling on him. After soothing my stomach with a drink I went to

bed, and had a very bad night.... Here by chance I found a coach going

to Louvain, six miles away, and threw myself into it. I made the journey

in incredible and almost unendurable discomfort; however we reached

Louvain by seven o'clock on that day.

I had no intention of going to my own room, whether because I had a

suspicion that all would be cold there, or that I did not want to run

the risk of interfering with the amenities of the College in any way, if

I started a rumour of the plague. I went to Theodoric the printer's....

During the night a large ulcer broke without my feeling it, and the pain

had died down. The next day I called a surgeon. He applied poultices. A

third ulcer had appeared on my back, caused by a servant at Tongres when

he was anointing me with oil of roses for the pain in the kidneys and

rubbed one of my ribs too hard with a horny finger.... The surgeon on

his way out told Theodoric and his servant secretly that it was the

plague; he would send poultices, but would not come to see me

himself.... When the surgeon failed to return after a day or two, I

asked Theodoric the reason. He made some excuse. But I, suspecting what

the matter was, said 'What, does he think it is the plague?'

'Precisely,' said he, 'he insists that you have three plague-sores.' I

laughed, and did not allow myself even to imagine that I had the plague.

After some days the surgeon's father came, examined me, and assured me

that it was the true plague. Even so, I could not be convinced. I

secretly sent for another doctor who had a great reputation. He examined

me, and being something of a clown said, 'I should not be afraid to

sleep with you--and make love to you too, if you were a woman....'

[Still another doctor is summoned but does not return as promised,

sending his servant instead.] I dismissed the man and losing my temper

with the doctors, commended myself to Christ as my doctor.

My appetite came back within three days.... I then immediately returned

to my studies and completed what was still wanting to my New

Testament.... I had given orders as soon as I arrived that no one was to

visit me unless summoned by name, lest I should frighten anyone or

suffer inconvenience from anyone's assiduity; but Dorp forced his way in

first of all, then Ath. Mark Laurin and Paschasius Berselius, who came

every day, did much to make me well with their delightful company.

My dear Beatus, who would have believed that this meagre delicate body

of mine, weakened now by age also, could have succeeded, after all the

troubles of travel and all my studious exertions, in standing up to all

these physical ills as well? You know how ill I was not long ago at

Basle, more than once. I was beginning to suspect that that year would

be fatal to me: illness followed illness, always more severe. But, at

the very time when this illness was at its height, I felt no torturing

desire to live and no trepidation at the fear of death. My whole hope

was in Christ alone, and I prayed only that he would give me what he

judged most salutary for me. In my youth long ago, as I remember, I

would shiver at the very name of death. This at least I have achieved as

I have grown older, that I do not greatly fear death, and I do not

measure man's happiness by number of days. I have passed my fiftieth

year; as so few out of so many reach this age, I cannot rightly complain

that I have not lived long enough. And then, if this has any relevance,

I have by now already prepared a monument to bear witness to posterity

that I have lived. And perhaps if, as the poets tell, jealousy falls

silent after death, fame will shine out the more brightly: although it

ill becomes a Christian heart to be moved by human glory; may I have the

glory of pleasing Christ! Farewell, my dearest Beatus. The rest you will

learn from my letter to Capito.

XIV. TO MARTIN LUTHER

Louvain, 30 May 1519

Best greetings, most beloved brother in Christ. Your letter was most

welcome to me, displaying a shrewd wit and breathing a Christian spirit.

I could never find words to express what commotions your books have

brought about here. They cannot even now eradicate from their minds the

most false suspicion that your works were composed with my aid, and that

I am the standard-bearer of this party, as they call it. They thought

that they had found a handle wherewith to crush good learning--which

they mortally detest as threatening to dim the majesty of theology, a

thing they value far above Christ--and at the same time to crush me,

whom they consider as having some influence on the revival of studies.

The whole affair was conducted with such clamourings, wild talk,

trickery, detraction and cunning that, had I not been present and

witnessed, nay, _felt_ all this, I should never have taken any man's

word for it that theologians could act so madly. You would have thought

it some mortal plague. And yet the poison of this evil beginning with a

few has spread so far abroad that a great part of this University was

running mad with the infection of this not uncommon disease.

I declared that you were quite unknown to me, that I had not yet read

your books, and accordingly neither approved nor disapproved of anything

in them. I only warned them not to clamour before the populace in so

hateful a manner without having yet read your books: this matter was

_their_ concern, whose judgement should carry the greatest weight.

Further I begged them to consider also whether it were expedient to

traduce before a mixed multitude views which were more properly refuted

in books or discussed between educated persons, particularly as the

author's way of life was extolled by one and all. I failed miserably; up

to this day they continue to rave in their insinuating, nay, slanderous

disputations. How often have we agreed to make peace! How often have

they stirred up new commotions from some rashly conceived shred of

suspicion! And these men think themselves theologians! Theologians are

not liked in Court circles here; this too they put down to me. The

bishops all favour me greatly. These men put no trust in books, their

hope of victory is based on cunning alone. I disdain them, relying on my

knowledge that I am in the right. They are becoming a little milder

towards yourself. They fear my pen, because of their bad conscience; and

I would indeed paint them in their true colours, as they deserve, did

not Christ's teaching and example summon me elsewhere. Wild beasts can

be tamed by kindness, which makes these men wild.

There are persons in England, and they in the highest positions, who

think very well of your writings. Here, too, there are people, among

them the Bishop of Liege, who favour your followers. As for me, I keep

myself as far as possible neutral, the better to assist the new

flowering of good learning; and it seems to me that more can be done by

unassuming courteousness than by violence. It was thus that Christ

brought the world under His sway, and thus that Paul made away with the

Jewish Law, by interpreting all things allegorically. It is wiser to cry

out against those who abuse the Popes' authority than against the Popes

themselves: and I think that we should act in the same way with the

Kings. As for the schools, we should not so much reject them as recall

them to more reasonable studies. Where things are too generally accepted

to be suddenly eradicated from men's minds, we must argue with repeated

and efficacious proofs and not make positive assertions. The poisonous

contentions of certain persons are better ignored than refuted. We must

everywhere take care never to speak or act arrogantly or in a party

spirit: this I believe is pleasing to the spirit of Christ. Meanwhile we

must preserve our minds from being seduced by anger, hatred or ambition;

these feelings are apt to lie in wait for us in the midst of our

strivings after piety.

I am not advising you to do this, but only to continue doing what you

are doing. I have looked into your Commentaries on the Psalms;[78] I am

delighted with them, and hope that they will do much good. At Antwerp we

have the Prior of the Monastery,[79] a Christian without spot, who loves

you exceedingly, an old pupil of yours as he says. He is almost alone of

them all in preaching Christ: the others preach human trivialities or

their own gain.

I have written to Melanchthon. The Lord Jesus impart you His spirit each

day more bountifully, to His own glory and the good of all. I had not

your letter at hand when writing this.

XV. TO ULRICH HUTTEN[80]

Antwerp, 23 July 1519

To the illustrious knight Ulrich Hutten, greetings:

... As to your demand for a complete portrait, as it were, of More,

would that I could execute it with a perfection to match the intensity

of your desire! It will be a pleasure, for me as well, to dwell for a

space on the contemplation of by far the sweetest friend of all. But in

the first place, it is not given to every man to explore all More's

gifts. And then I wonder whether he will tolerate being depicted by an

indifferent artist; for I think it no less a task to portray More than

it would be to portray Alexander the Great or Achilles, and they were no

more deserving of immortality than he is. Such a subject requires in

short the pencil of an Apelles; but I fear that I am more like Horace's

gladiators[81] than Apelles. Nevertheless, I shall try to sketch you an

image rather than a full portrait of the whole man, so far as my

observation or recollection from long association with him in his home

has made this possible. If ever you meet him on some embassy you will

then for the first time understand how unskilled an artist you have

chosen for this commission; and I am downright afraid of your accusing

me of jealousy or blindness, that out of so many excellences so few have

been perceived by my poor sight or recorded by my jealousy.

But to begin with that side of More of which you know nothing, in height

and stature he is not tall, nor again noticeably short, but there is

such symmetry in all his limbs as leaves nothing to be desired here. He

has a fair skin, his complexion glowing rather than pale, though far

from ruddy, but for a very faint rosiness shining through. His hair is

of a darkish blond, or if you will, a lightish brown, his beard scanty,

his eyes bluish grey, with flecks here and there: this usually denotes a

happy nature and is also thought attractive by the English, whereas we

are more taken by dark eyes. It is said that no type of eyes is less

subject to defects. His expression corresponds to his character, always

showing a pleasant and friendly gaiety, and rather set in a smiling

look; and, to speak honestly, better suited to merriment than to

seriousness and solemnity, though far removed from silliness or

buffoonery. His right shoulder seems a little higher than the left,

particularly when he is walking: this is not natural to him but due to

force of habit, like many of the little habits which we pick up. There

is nothing to strike one in the rest of his body; only his hands are

somewhat clumsy, but only when compared with the rest of his appearance.

He has always from a boy been very careless of everything to do with

personal adornment, to the point of not greatly caring for those things

which according to Ovid's teaching should be the sole care of men. One

can tell even now, from his appearance in maturity, how handsome he must

have been as a young man: although when I first came to know him he was

not more than three and twenty years old, for he is now barely

forty.[82]

His health is not so much robust as satisfactory, but equal to all tasks

becoming an honourable citizen, subject to no, or at least very few,

diseases: there is every prospect of his living long, as he has a father

of great age[83]--but a wondrously fresh and green old age. I have never

yet seen anyone less fastidious in his choice of food. Until he grew up

he liked water to drink; in this he took after his father. But so as to

avoid irritating anyone over this, he would deceive his comrades by

drinking from a pewter pot ale that was very nearly all water, often

pure water. Wine--the custom in England is to invite each other to drink

from the same goblet--he would often sip with his lips, not to give the

appearance of disliking it, and at the same time to accustom himself to

common ways. He preferred beef, salt fish, and bread of the second

quality, well risen, to the foods commonly regarded as delicacies:

otherwise he was by no means averse to all sources of innocent pleasure,

even to the appetite. He has always had a great liking for milk foods

and fruit: he enjoys eating eggs. His voice is neither strong nor at all

weak, but easily audible, by no means soft or melodious, but the voice

of a clear speaker; for he seems to have no natural gift for vocal

music, although he delights in every kind of music. His speech is

wonderfully clear and distinct, with no trace of haste or hesitation.

He likes to dress simply and does not wear silk or purple or gold

chains, excepting where it would not be decent not to wear them. It is

strange how careless he is of the formalities by which the vulgar judge

good manners. He neither insists on these from any, nor does he

anxiously force them on others whether at meetings or at entertainments,

although he knows them well enough, should he choose to indulge in them;

but he considers it effeminate and not becoming masculine dignity to

waste a good part of one's time in suchlike inanities.

Formerly he disliked Court life and the company of princes, for the

reason that he has always had a peculiar loathing for tyranny, just as

he has always loved equality. (Now you will hardly find any court so

modest that has not about it much noisy ostentation, dissimulation and

luxury, while yet being quite free of any kind of tyranny.) Indeed it

was only with great difficulty that he could be dragged into the Court

of Henry VIII, although nothing more courteous and unassuming than this

prince could be desired. He is by nature somewhat greedy of independence

and leisure; but while he gladly takes advantage of leisure when it

comes his way, none is more careful or patient whenever business demands

it.

He seems born and created for friendship, which he cultivates most

sincerely and fosters most steadfastly. He is not one to be afraid of

the 'abundance of friends' which Hesiod does not approve; he is ready to

enter into friendly relations with any. He is in no way fastidious in

choosing friends, accommodating in maintaining them, constant in keeping

them. If he chances on anyone whose defects he cannot mend, he dismisses

him when the opportunity offers, not breaking but gradually dissolving

the friendship. Whenever he finds any sincere and suited to his

disposition he so delights in their company and conversation that he

appears to make this his chief pleasure in life. He loathes ball-games,

cards and gambling, and the other games with which the ordinary run of

men of rank are used to kill time. Furthermore, while he is somewhat

careless of his own affairs, there is none more diligent in looking

after his friends' affairs. Need I continue? Should anyone want a

finished example of true friendship he could not do better than seek it

in More.

In social intercourse he is of so rare a courtesy and charm of manners

that there is no man so melancholy that he does not gladden, no subject

so forbidding that he does not dispel the tedium of it. From his boyhood

he has loved joking, so that he might seem born for this, but in his

jokes he has never descended to buffoonery, and has never loved the

biting jest. As a youth he both composed and acted in little comedies.

Any witty remark he would still enjoy, even were it directed against

himself, such is his delight in clever sallies of ingenious flavour. As

a result he wrote epigrams as a young man, and delighted particularly in

Lucian; indeed he was responsible for my writing the _Praise of Folly_,

that is for making the camel dance.

In human relations he looks for pleasure in everything he comes across,

even in the gravest matters. If he has to do with intelligent and

educated men, he takes pleasure in their brilliance; if with the

ignorant and foolish, he enjoys their folly. He is not put out by

perfect fools, and suits himself with marvellous dexterity to all men's

feelings. For women generally, even for his wife, he has nothing but

jests and merriment. You could say he was a second Democritus, or

better, that Pythagorean philosopher who saunters through the

market-place with a tranquil mind gazing on the uproar of buyers and

sellers. None is less guided by the opinion of the herd, but again none

is less remote from the common feelings of humanity.

He takes an especial pleasure in watching the appearance, characters and

behaviour of various creatures; accordingly there is almost no kind of

bird which he does not keep at his home, and various other animals not

commonly found, such as apes, foxes, ferrets, weasels and their like.

Added to this, he eagerly buys anything foreign or otherwise worth

looking at which comes his way, and he has the whole house stocked with

these objects, so that wherever the visitor looks there is something to

detain him; and his own pleasure is renewed whenever he sees others

enjoying these sights.

When he was of an age for it, he was not averse to love-affairs with

young women, but kept them honourable, preferring the love that was

offered to that which he must chase after, and was more drawn by

spiritual than by physical intercourse.

He had devoured classical literature from his earliest years. As a lad

he applied himself to the study of Greek literature and philosophy; his

father, so far from helping him (although he is otherwise a good and

sensible man), deprived him of all support in this endeavour; and he was

almost regarded as disowned, because he seemed to be deserting his

father's studies--the father's profession is English jurisprudence. This

profession is quite unconnected with true learning, but in Britain those

who have made themselves authorities in it are particularly highly

regarded, and this is there considered the most suitable road to fame,

since most of the nobility of that island owe their origin to this

branch of study. It is said that none can become perfect in it without

many years of hard work. So, although the young man's mind born for

better things not unreasonably revolted from it, nevertheless, after

sampling the scholastic disciplines he worked at the law with such

success that none was more gladly consulted by litigants, and he made a

better living at it than any of those who did nothing else, so quick and

powerful was his intellect.

He also devoted much strenuous attention to studying the ecclesiastical

writers. He lectured publicly to a crowded audience on Augustine's _City

of God_ while still little more than a lad; and priests and elderly men

were neither sorry nor ashamed to learn sacred matters from a youthful

layman. For a time he gave his whole mind to the study of piety,

practising himself for the priesthood in watchings, fastings and prayer,

and other like preliminary exercises; in which matter he was far more

sensible than most of those who rashly hurl themselves into this arduous

calling without having previously made any trial of themselves. The only

obstacle to his devoting himself to this mode of life was his inability

to shake off his longing for a wife. He therefore chose to be a chaste

husband rather than an unchaste priest.