Juvenal:
Persius, Satyr, i.:
Praetextatus puer is another way of referring to a noble or patrician, for his outer garment was bordered with purple, and thus worn by boys up to fourteen years of age, or as others say, up to sixteen, when such an one assumed the toga virilis in the Capitol. See Macrob. lib. i. Satur. cap. 6. Budae, in prior. annot. ad l. fin. De senator. Alexand. lib. 2, cap. 25. Baysius, de re vestiment. Sigonius, lib. 3, de judic. cap. 19. Papirius, a certain Roman, was called praetextatus because in the praetextata age he showed the height of prudence. See Macrob.
Titivillitium formerly was a word declaring nothing certain, but just an exclamation, indicating extreme uncertainty. The word was used by Plautus. See Proverb, Titivillitium.
Oluscularia, a woman selling vegetables. Λαχανοπῶλις.
Cirr. Does it seem to you to be time to go to school?
Praet. Certainly, it is time to go.
Cirr. I don’t properly remember the way; I believe we have to go through this next street.
Praet. How often have you already been to the school?
Cirr. Three or four times.
Praet. When did you first go?
Cirr. As I think, three or four days ago.
Praet. Well, now; isn’t that enough to enable you to know the way?
Cirr. No, not if it were a hundred times of going.
Praet. Why, if I were to go once, never afterwards should I miss the way. But you go, against your will, and as you go, you stop and play. You don’t look at the way, nor at the houses, nor any signs which would show you afterwards which way you should turn, or which way you should follow. But I observe all these points diligently, because I go gladly.
Cirr. This boy lives quite close to the school. Here, you, Titivillitium, which is the way to your house?
Tit. What do you want? Do you come from your mother? My mother is not at home, nor even my sister. Both have gone out to St. Anne’s.
Cirr. What then is to be done?
Tit. Yesterday was dedication festival (encaenia). Today some woman who sells cheese has invited them to a meal at the house called “Thick Milk” (lac coagulatum).
Cirr. And why haven’t you gone with them?
Tit. They have left me at home to keep house. They have taken my little brother with them, but they have promised me that they would bring back something of what was left for me in a basket.
Cirr. But why art thou then not remaining at home?
Tit. I shall return immediately, only I will now play dice a little with the son of this cobbler. Will you also come with us?
Cirr. We will go, please.
Praet. Certainly I shall not do so.
Cirr. Why not?
Praet. We don’t want to get a thrashing.
Cirr. Ah! I had not thought of that.
Tit. You won’t get thrashed.
Cirr. How do you know that?
Tit. Because your master lost his rod (ferula) to-day.
Cirr. Eh! by what means did you get to know that?
Tit. To-day we heard him from our house shouting out—and it was for his ferula he was seeking.
Cirr. I beg of you, let us play for a short time.
Praet. Play you, if you will; but I shall go on to school at once.
Cirr. I beg of you, don’t report me to the master. Say that I am kept by my father at home.
Praet. Do you wish me to tell a lie?
Cirr. Why not, for a friend’s sake?
Praet. Because I have heard a preacher in a church declare that liars are the sons of the devil, but truth-tellers, sons of God.
Cirr. Of the devil, indeed! Get away! By the sign of the holy cross, may our God free us from our enemies!
Praet. Thou canst not be freed to play when thou oughtest to go and learn.
Cirr. Let us go. Farewell.
Tit. Oh, I say! these boys dare not stay and play a moment because otherwise they would get thrashed!
Praet. This boy is a waster and will become a bad man! See how has he slipped away from us without our having asked him which is the way to the school? Let us call him back.
Cirr. Let him go his evil ways. I don’t wish him again to invite me to play. We will inquire from this old woman. Mother, do you know which is the way to the school of Philoponus?
Old Woman. I have lived near this school for six years, just opposite to it where my eldest son and two daughters were born. You cross this street (the Villa Rasa Street), then comes a narrow lane, then the Dominus Veteranus Street. Hence you turn to the right, then to the left, there you must inquire, for the school is not far from there.
Cirr. Ah! we cannot remember all that!
Old Woman. My little Teresa, lead these boys to the school of Philoponus, for the mother of this one here was she who gave us the thread for combing and spinning.
Ter. What in the name of evil have you to do with Philoponus? What sort of man is this Philoponus? As if I knew him! Do you speak of the man who mends shoes near the Green Inn (cauponam viridem) or of the herald in the Giant Street, who keeps horses on hire?
Old Woman. This I know well, that you never know those things which are wanted, but those which have nothing to do with the matter in hand. Slowest of girls, Philoponus is that old schoolmaster, tall, short-sighted man, opposite the house where we used to live.
Ter. Ah! now it comes back to my mind.
Old Woman. In returning, go across the market and buy salad, radish, and cherries. Take with you the little basket.
Cirr. Lead us also over the vegetable market.
Ter. This way is shorter.
Cirr. We don’t wish to go that way.
Ter. Why so?
Cirr. Because the dog in that street, belonging to the baker, bit me once. We would rather go with you to the market.
Ter. Returning I will make the journey through the market (for we are not far from it) and I will buy what I was told to buy, after I have left you at the school.
Cirr. We desire to see how much you give for the cherries.
Ter. We buy them at six farthings a pound; but what is that to you?
Cirr. Because my sister ordered me this morning to inquire. She particularly mentioned there is an old woman in the market who sells vegetables. If you buy of her, I know that she will sell you at a less price than they will elsewhere, and she will give us a few cherries or thyrsus of lettuce, for her daughter formerly served my mother and sister.
Ter. I hope that this roundabout way may not let you in for some lashes.
Cirr. Not at all. For we shall have plenty of time.
Ter. Let us go. I get so little chance of walks, wretched that I am, for my time is all taken up sitting at home.
Praet. What do you do? Do you merely sit idly at home?
Ter. Idly, indeed! Not at any rate that! I spin, I gather (wool) into a ball, wind, weave. Do you think our old woman would let me sit idle? She curses feast-days, on which there must be a stoppage of work.
Praet. Are not feast-days holy? How can she curse what is holy? Does she wish to curse what has been ordained as holy?
Ter. Do you think that I have learned geometry that I should be able to explain these things to you?
Cirr. What do you mean by geometry?
Ter. I don’t know. We had a neighbour who was called Geometria. She was always either in church with priests, or the priests were with her at her house. And so she was, as they said, very wise.—But we have come into the vegetable market. Where is now your old woman?
Cirr. I was looking round about for her. But buy of her only on the condition that she gives us something as a present. Ah! great-aunt (amita). This girl will buy cherries of you, if you will give us some.
Vegetable Woman. We are given nothing; we have to buy everything.
Cirr. That dirt which you have on your hands and neck was not given to you, was it?
Vegetable Woman. Unless you take yourself off, you impudent boy, your cheeks will feel some of this dirt on them.
Cirr. How will my cheeks feel, when you have it on your hands?
Vegetable Woman. Give those cherries back, you young rogue.
Cirr. I am merely sampling, for I wish to buy.
Vegetable Woman. Then buy.
Cirr. Provided they have pleased me. How do you sell them?
Vegetable Woman. A sesterce a pound.
Cirr. Ah! they are bitter, you old poisoner! You are selling here cherries to people to choke them.
Ter. Let us go away to the school. For you will get me involved in difficulties with your subtleties, and you will detain me too long. Now, as I think, my old woman is raging at home, on account of my delay in returning. There is the door. Knock at it.
Praeceptor, Lusius, Aeschines, Pueri—Teacher, Lusius, Aeschines, Boys
Lusius, so called from playing (ludendo).
Aeschines, proper name of the Greek orator, who shamelessly declaimed against Demosthenes.
Cotta, proper name of a Roman citizen, so called from his anger.
This dialogue contains a division of the letters into vowels and consonants.
Praec. Take the A B C tablet in your left hand, and this pointer in the right hand, so that you can point out the letters one by one. Stand upright; put your cap under your arm-pit. Listen most attentively how I shall name these letters. Look diligently how I move my mouth. See that you return what I say immediately in the same manner, when I ask for it again. Attention (sis mecum)! Now you have heard it. Follow me now as I say it before you, letter by letter. Do you clearly understand?
Lus. It seems to me I do, fairly well.
Letters—Syllables—Vowel—Speech
Praec. Every one of these signs is called a letter. Of these, five are vowels, A, E, I, O, U. They are in the Spanish oveia, which signifies sheep. Remember that word! These with any letter you like, or more than one, make up syllables. Without a vowel there is no syllable and sometimes the vowel itself is a syllable. Therefore all the other letters are called consonants, because they don’t constitute sounds by themselves unless a vowel is joined to them. They have some imperfect, maimed (mancum) sound, e.g. b, c, d, g, which without e cannot be sounded. Out of syllables we get words, and from words connected speech, which all beasts lack. And you would not be different from the beasts, if you could not converse properly. Be watchful and perform your work diligently. Go out with your fellow-pupils and learn what I have set.
Lus. We are not playing to-day.
Aesch. No, for it is a work-day. What, do you think you have come here to play? This is not the place for playing, but for study.
Lus. Why, then, is a school called ludus?
True Leisure
Aesch. It is indeed called ludus, but it is ludus literarius, because here we must play with letters as elsewhere with the ball, hoop, and dice. And I have heard that in Greek it is called schola, as it were a place of leisure, because it is true ease and quiet of mind, when we spend our life in studies. But we will learn thoroughly what the teacher has bidden us, quite in soft murmur, so that we don’t become a hindrance to one another.
Lus. My uncle, who studied letters some time in Bologna, has taught me that you better fix anything you wish in the memory if you pronounce it aloud. This is also confirmed by the authority of one called Pliny—I don’t know who he was.
Aesch. If, then, any one should wish to learn his formulae, he should go off into the garden or into the churchyard. There he can shout aloud as if he would rouse the dead.
Cotta. You boys, do you call this learning thoroughly? I call it prattling and disputing! Up, now go all of you to the teacher, as he commanded.
Tulliolus, Corneliola, Lentulus, Scipio
This dialogue contains an account of different kinds of boys’ games; the names of the interlocutors are taken from appellations of the Romans. Concerning which, see Valer. Maximus and Sigonius.
Corn. Welcome home, Tulliolus, shall we have some games?
Tull. Not just now.
Corn. What is there to prevent us playing?
Tull. We must go over again what the master set, and commit it to memory, as he bade us.
Corn. What then?
Tull. You just look at this.
Corn. I say, what are those pictures? I believe they are pictures of ants. Mother mine, Tulliolus is bringing a lot of ants and gnats painted on a writing-tablet.
Tull. Be quiet, you silly thing, they are letters.
Corn. What do you call this first one?
Tull. A.
Corn. Why is this first one rather than the next called A?
Mother. Why art thou Corneliola and not Tulliolus?
Corn. Because I am so called.
Mother. And it is just the same way with those letters. But go and play now, my boy.
Tull. I am putting my tablet and pencil (style) down here. If anybody disturbs them, he will be beaten by mother. Won’t he, mammy? (mea matercula.)
Mother. Yes, my boy.
Tull. Scipio, Lentulus! Come and play.
Sci. What shall we play at?
Tull. Let us play at nuts, at throwing them in holes.
Lent. I have only a few nuts and those squashed and smelly.
Sci. Well then, we will play with the shells of nuts.
Tull. But what good would they be to me even if I were to win twenty? There would be no kernels in the nuts for me to eat.
Sci. Why, I don’t eat when I am playing. If I want to eat, I go to the mater. Nut-shells are good for making little houses to put ants into.
Lent. Let us play odd and even with little pins (lit. small pins for a head-dress—acicula).
Tull. Let’s have dice instead.
Sci. Fetch them, Lentulus.
Lent. Here are the dice.
Tull. How grubby and dirty they are. They are not free from fluff. Nor are they polished. Cast!
Sci. For the first throw!
Tull. I am first. What are we playing?
Sci. We are playing for trousers buttons (astrigmenta—lit. points).
Lent. I don’t want to lose mine, for if I did I should be beaten at home by my tutor.
Tull. What are you willing to lose then, if you are beaten?
Lent. Some good raps with the fingers on me.
Mother. What is that lying on the ground? You are spoiling all your clothes and boots on the dirtiest of the ground. Why don’t you first sweep the floor and then sit down? Bring the broom here!
Tull. What have we decided on?
Sci. One needle for each point in the game.
Tull. Certainly it should be two.
Lent. I have no needles. If you like I will deposit cherry-stones instead of needles.
Tull. Get away. Let me and you play, Scipio.
Sci. I will risk it—to cast my needle on luck.
Tull. Give me the dice in my hand, so that I may cast first. Look, I have won the stake.
Sci. You haven’t. For you were not playing then in serious.
Tull. Whoever plays seriously? It is as if you spoke of a white Moor.
Sci. You may cavil as much as you like. At any rate you are not going to have my nuts.
Tull. Come now, I will let you have the throw. Let us play now for the stake, and may you have good luck!
Sci. You are beaten.
Tull. Take it.
Lent. Let me have the dice.
Tull. Let’s stake all on this throw.
Lent. I don’t mind.
A Servant. To your meal, boys. Will you never make an end of your games?
Tull. Now just as we are getting started, she talks of stopping!
Corn. I am sick of this game. Let us play with the two-coloured draughtsmen.
Tull. You paint for us squares on this surface with charcoal and with white lime.
Sci. I prefer to go and have my supper to playing any more, and I go with all my needles collared by your fraud.
Tull. Don’t you remember that yesterday you plundered Cethegus. “There is no one who can always have luck in play.”
Corn. Please get the playing cards which you will find on the left hand under the writing table.
Sci. Some other time. Now I haven’t time. If I delay any longer, I fear that my teacher will send me to bed, in his anger, without food. You get the cards ready for to-morrow evening, Corneliola.
Corn. If mother permits, it would be better to play now when we have the chance.
Sci. It is better to go to eat when we are called.
Servant. And don’t you give me anything for looking on?
Corn. We would give you something if you had acted as umpire. You ought rather to give us something, as things are, for having had the enjoyment of our play.
Servant. You boys, then, when are you coming? The meal-time is half over; soon we shall take the meat away, and set the cheese and fruit on the table.
Nepotulus, Piso, Magister, Hypodidascalus
In this dialogue Vives treats of a banquet. The division into five parts:—
| Jentaculum Prandium Merenda Coena Comessatio |
} | An enumeration of different kinds. |
| See Grap. lib. 2, cap. 3. | ||
He describes convivial disputations.
Nepotulus is a diminutive from nepos, used for one who drinks.
Piso is a young nobleman.
Hypodidascalus, ὁ ὑπώ τὲ διδασκαλον, provisor, cantor.
In the beginning of this dialogue there are three αμφιβολίας or ambiguities. The first is in the adverb lautè, the signification of which is twofold, one proper, the other improper and metaphorical.
Nep. Are you bathed in luxury (vivitisne lautè?) living here?
Piso. What do you mean by that? Do we wash ourselves (an lavamur)? Every day, hands and face, and indeed, frequently, for cleanliness of body is conducive to health and to nurture.
Nep. That is not what I ask—but whether you get food and drink to your mind?
Piso. We don’t eat according to our desire, but according to the call of the palate.
Nep. I ask, if you eat, as you wish.
Piso. Certainly, forsooth, as hunger dictates. Who wishes to eat, eats; who does not wish, abstains.
Nep. Do you go from the table hungry?
Piso. By no means sated. For this is not wise. For it is the part of beasts, not men, to glut themselves. They say that a certain wise king never sat down to table without hunger, and never stood up sated.
Nep. What do you eat, then?
Piso. What there is.
Nep. Oh! I was thinking that you eat what you hadn’t got! But what is there, then?
Piso. Troublesome questioner! What they give us.
Nep. But what do they give you, then?
Piso. We have breakfast an hour and a half after we have got up.
Nep. When do you get up?
Piso. Almost with the sun, for he is the leader of the Muses and the Muses are gracious to the dawn. Our early breakfast is a piece of coarse bread and some butter or some fruit as the time of the year supplies. For lunch, there are cooked vegetables or pottage in pottage-vessels, and meat with relishes. Sometimes turnips, sometimes cabbages, starch-food, wheat-meal, or rice. Then on fish-days, buttermilk from butter which has been turned out in deep dishes, with some cakes of bread, and a fresh fish, if it can be bought fairly cheap in the fish-market, or if not, a salt-fish, well soaked. Then pease, or pulse, or lentils, or beans, or lupines.
Nep. How much of these does each get?
Piso. Bread as much as he wishes; of viands as much as is necessary not for satiety, but for nourishment. For elaborate feasts, you must seek elsewhere, not in the school, where the aim is to form minds to the way of virtue.
Nep. What, then, do you drink?
Piso. Some drink fresh, clear water; others light beer; some few, but only seldom, wine, well diluted. The afternoon meal (merenda) or before-meal consists of some bread and almonds or nuts, dried figs and raisins; in summer, of pears, apples, cherries, or plums.
But when we go into the country for the sake of our minds (recreation), then we have milk, either fresh or congealed, fresh cheese, cream, horse-beans soaked in lye, vine-leaves, and anything else which the country house affords. The chief meal begins with a salad with closely-cut bits, sprinkled with salt, moistened with drops of olive-oil, and with vinegar poured on it.
Nep. Can you have nut or turnip oil?
Piso. Ugh! the unsavoury and unhealthy stuff! Then there is in a great vessel a concoction of mutton broth with sauce, and to it, dried plums, roots, or herbs as supplements, and at times a most savoury pie.
Nep. What sort of sauces do you have?
Piso. The best and wisest of sauces, hunger. Besides, on appointed week-days we get roasted meat—as a rule, veal; in spring sometimes, some young kid. As an after-dish a little bit of radish and cheese, not old and decayed, but fresh cheese, which is more nourishing than the old, pears, peaches, and quinces. On the days on which no meat may be eaten, we have eggs instead of meat, either broiled, fried, or boiled, either singly by themselves or mingled in one pan with vinegar or oil, not so much poured on as dropped in; sometimes a little fish, and nuts follow on cheese.
Nep. How much does every one get.
Piso. Two eggs and two nuts.
Nep. What! do you never have a sleeping draught after supper?
Piso. Pretty often.
Nep. What do you have, I beg? for that is most delightful.
Piso. We prepare a banquet such as that of Syrus mentioned by Terence, or of one of the lordly people mentioned by Athenaeus or of the like, of which the record has been handed down in history. Do you think us swine or men? What stomach would preserve its soundness of health if after four meals it were to add a drinking-bout? Observe you are in a school, not in an eating-house. For they say there is nothing more ruinous to health than to drink immediately before going to bed.
Nep. May I be allowed to be present at meal-time?
Piso. Certainly. Only I must first beg permission from the teacher, who will, I am sure, give it without difficulty, as is usual with him.
To take you to the banquet, without the master’s permission, would be ill breeding; and he who should so bring you would draw on himself from his fellow-disciples nothing less than reproach and shame. Stop a minute. Will you, sir, permit with your good favour, that a certain boy known to me should be present at our meal?
Praec. Certainly. There will be no harm in it.
Piso. Thank you. He whom thou seest there, who has a napkin in place of a neck-cloth is the feast-master of the dining-room (architriclinus) this week—for here we have weekly feast-masters, like kings.
Feast-Master. Lamia, what time is it?
Lamia. I have not heard the hours since the third, being intent on the composition of a letter. Florus will know this better than I, for he has not seen book or paper the whole of the afternoon.
Florus. This is friendly testimony, and if the teacher were angry, it would have great weight. But how couldst thou observe me, being immersed, as thou sayest, in the composition of a letter? Clearly ill-will has driven thee to telling a lie. I rejoice, indeed, that my enemy is held to be a liar. If after this he shall wish to say evil of me, such statements will not be believed.
Feast-Master. Can I not then, elsewhere, get to know as to the time? Anthrax, run across to St. Peter’s and look at the time.
Anthrax. The pointer shows that it is now six o’clock.
Feast-Master. Six? Eh! boys, eh! Come, rouse yourselves; throw your books aside, even as the stag seeks a corner to hide his horns. Prepare the table, cover it, place seats, napkins, round and square plates, bread; fly, quicker than the word. Let not our teacher complain of our slowness. Bring beer, one of you; another, draw water from the well and place the cups. What is the meaning of this—bringing them so unclean? Take them back into the kitchen so that the maid may rub them clean and wipe them thoroughly, whereby they may be bright and shining.
Piso. Never will you accomplish this, so long as we have that monkey of a kitchen-maid. For she never dares to rub determinedly so as to clean, for she is afraid of her fingers. Nor does she rinse things more than once and that with tepid water.
Arch. Why don’t you report this to the teacher?
Piso. It would be better to ask the housekeeper (famulam atriensem) for it is in her hands to change the kitchen-maids. But there is the teacher. Do you yourself wash these cups out, and rub them with a fig or nettle-leaf, or with sand and water, so that our schoolmaster to-day shall have no cause for blame.
Praec. Is all ready? Is there anything to delay you?
Arch. Nothing at all.
Praec. So that afterwards between the courses we need not have to make any break!
Feast-Master. Between the courses! Rather say the course and that a meagre one.
Praec. What are you murmuring?
Feast-Master. I say that you should sit down, that it is meal-time, and that the food will soon get spoilt!
Praec. You boys, wash your hands and mouth. Eh! what napkin is this? When did they clean themselves who wiped themselves dry on this? Run, fetch another cleaner than this. Let us sit down in our usual order. Is this the boy who is to be our guest?
Piso. Yes, this is he.
Master. Of what country is he?
Piso. A Fleming.
Master. Of what city in that province?
Piso. From Bruges.
Master. Let him sit in the seat close to you. Let every one take his knife and clean his bread, if there should stick any ashes or coal on the crust. Whose turn is it this week to say grace (sacret mensam)?
Florus. Feed our hearts with Thy love, O Christ, who through Thy goodness nourishest the lives of all living beings. Blessed be these Thy gifts to us who partake of them so that Thou who providest them may be blessed.30 Amen.
Master. Sit as far apart as possible, so as not to press against one another’s sides, since there is sufficient room for each. And you, Brugensian, have you a knife?
Piso. This is a wonder! A Fleming without a knife, and he, too, a Brugensian, where the best knives are made.
Nep. I don’t need a knife. I can part my food into pieces by biting it with the teeth, and tear it into bits by my fingers.
Usher. They say that biting is very useful both for the gums and also for the surface of the teeth.
Master. Where didst thou receive early instruction in the Latin tongue, for thou appearest to me not badly taught?
Nep. At Bruges, under John Theodore Nervius.
Master. An industrious, learned, and honest man. Bruges is a most elegant city, but it is to be regretted that owing to the changing of the population from day to day, it is going down. When did you leave it?
Nep. Six days ago.
Master. When did you begin to study?
Nep. Three years ago.
Master. You have not got on badly.
Nep. Deservedly; for I have had a master I am not ashamed of.
Master. But what is our Vives doing?
Nep. They say that he is training as an athlete, yet not by athletics.
Master. What is the meaning of that?
Nep. He is always wrestling, but not bravely enough.
Master. With whom?
Nep. With his gout (morbo articulari).
Master. O mournful wrestler, which first of all attacks the feet.
Usher. Nay, rather cruel victor which fetters the whole body. But what are you doing? Why do you stop eating? You would seem to have come here not to eat, but to stare around. Let nobody during the meal disturb his cap lest any hair fall into the dishes. Why don’t you treat your guest as a comrade? Nepotulus, I drink to you.
Nep. Sir, your toast is most welcome.
Usher. Empty your cup, since so meagre a draught remains in it.
Nep. This would be new to me.
Praec. What! not empty it? But you, Usher, what do you say? What have you new to give us at our meal?
Usher. I say nothing indeed, but I have thought much during the last two hours on the art of grammar.
Master. And what of that now?
Usher. On very hidden things and the penetration of learning: first, why the grammarians have placed in their art three genders when there are merely two in nature? again, why nature does not produce things of the neuter gender as it does of the masculine and feminine? I cannot find out the cause of this great mystery. So, too, the philosophers say that there are three tenses, but our art demands five, therefore our art is outside the nature of things.
Master. Nay, rather thou art thyself outside of the nature of things, for art is in the nature of things.
Usher. If I am outside the nature of things, how can I eat this bread and meat, which are in the nature of things?
Master. Thou art so much the worse to belong to another nature whilst you eat what belongs to this our nature.
Nep. Παράφθεγμα ἀπροσδιόνυσον. I would wish another solution of my questions. Would that we had now some Palaemon or Varro who could resolve these questions.
Master. Why not rather another, an Aristotle or Plato? Have you not something further to say?
Usher. Yesterday I saw committed a crime of deepest dye (scelus capitale). The schoolmaster of the Straight Street (vicus rectus), who smells worse than a goat, and instructs his threepenny classes in his school, which abounds in dirt and filth, pronounced three or four times volucres with the accent on the penultimate. I indeed was astounded that the earth did not at once gulp him up.
Praec. What otherwise ought one to expect such a schoolmaster to say? He is in other parts of the grammatical rules thoroughly worn out (detritus). But you are disturbed over a very small matter and make a tragedy out of a comedy, or still more truly a farce.
Usher. I have finished my task. Now it is your turn. You now keep the conversation going.
Praec. I don’t wish to give you the chance to answer me what I don’t ask (παραφθέγγης). This broth is getting cold. Bring a table fire-pan. Heat it up a little before you dip your bread in it. This radish is not eatable, it is so tough—and so are the rootlets in the broth.
Usher. They certainly have not brought the toughness from the market, but they have acquired it here in our store-room in which the pantry is quite unsuited for provisions. I don’t know why it is we always have brought to us here bones without marrow in them.
Praec. Bones have but little marrow in them at the new moon (sub lunam silentem).
Usher. What when it is full moon?
Praec. Then there is plenty.
Usher. But our bones have little, or more truly no, marrow.
Praec. It is not the moon that bereaves us of marrow but our Lamia. She has here put in too much pepper and ginger, and in the soup and particularly in the salad there is also too much mint, rock-parsley, sage, cole-wort, cress, hyssop. Nothing is more harmful to the bodies of boys and youths than foods which make the stomach hot.
Arch. What kinds of herbs then would you wish to be used for food?
Praec. Lettuce, garden-oxtongue, purslain, mixed with some rock-parsley.
Here, you, Gangolfus, don’t wipe your lips with your hand or on your cuff, but wipe both lips and hands with your napkin, which has been provided you for the purpose. Don’t touch the meat, except on that side which you are about to take yourself. You, Dromo, don’t you observe that you are putting your coat-sleeves into the fat of the meat? If they are open, tuck them up to the shoulders. If they are not, turn them or fold them to the elbow. If they slip back again, fix them firm with a needle, or what would be still more suitable for you, with a thorn. You, delicate little lordling, you are reclining on the table. Where did you learn to do that? In some hog-stye? Eh! you there, put him a little cushion for him to lean on. Prefect of the table, see that the remains of the dinner don’t get wasted. Put them away in the store-room. Take away first of all the salt-cellar, then the bread, then the dishes, plates, napkins, and lastly the table-cloth. Let each one clean his own knife and put it away in its sheath. You there, Cinciolus, don’t scrape your teeth with your knife, for it is injurious. Make for yourself a tooth-pick of a feather or of a thin sharp piece of wood, and scrape gently, so as not to scar the gum or draw blood. Stand up all of you and wash your hands before thanks are returned. Move the table away, call the maid that she may sweep the floor with the broom. Let us thank Christ. Let him who said grace return thanks.
Florus. For this timely meal, we render Thee timely thanks, Lord Christ. Grant that we may for eternity render immortal thanks. Amen.
Praec. Now go and play, and have your talk, and walk about wherever you please, whilst the light permits.
Nugo, Graculus, Turdus, Bambalio
In this dialogue Vives puts forth nineteen little narratives suited to the age of childhood and as it were the progymnasmata of eloquence. The names also of the interlocutors are neatly fabled.
Nugo is so called from nugae, as if a small retailer of trifles (nugivendulus).
Graculus and Turdus are feigned names from the loquacity of those birds. Compare the Proverbs, Graculus graculo assidet (one jackdaw resembles another),31 surdior turdo (deafer than a thrush).
Bambalio is a man of worthlessness and of stammering speech as Cicero interprets it. Philip. 3. Compare the Proverb Bambylius homo.
Nugo. Let us sit on this trunk, and you, Graculus, on that stone facing us, so that without anything to hinder us we may observe all who pass by. We shall keep ourselves warm near this wall, which is excellently exposed to the sun. What a fine trunk is this and how enjoyable it is!
Turd. For us to sit on it!
Nugo. It must have been a very high and thick tree from which it was cut.
Turd. Such as there are in India.
Grac. How do you know! Have you been in India with the Spaniards?
Turd. As if one could know nothing of a district without having been in it! But I will give you my authority. Pliny writes that trees in India grow to such a height that a man cannot shoot a dart over them, and the people there are not to seek in shooting their arrows, as Vergil says.
Nugo. Pliny also says that a company of horsemen could be hidden under the branches.
Turd. No one can wonder at that who considers the rushes of that district, which the infirm people, at any rate the rich, use to support them in walking.
Grac. Eh! what hour is it?
Nugo. No hour at all, for the hour-bell is now thrown down to the ground. Haven’t you been to see it?
Grac. I did not dare, for they say that it is dangerous.
Nugo. I have been there and saw no end of women with child spring across the channel for the molten metal, which is dug in the earth.
Turd. I heard that this was beneficial for them.
Grac. This is distaff philosophy, as they say, but I was inquiring as to the hour.
Nugo. What need have you to know the time? If you wish to do anything, while there is opportunity, there is the time for it. But where is your watch (horologium viatorium)?
Grac. I let it fall lately, when I was escaping the dog belonging to the gardener, whose plums I had plucked.
Turd. From the window I saw you running, but I could not see where you fled because the view was blocked by the fruit garden, which my mother has planted there, against the will of my father, and in spite of his many protests. But my mother, indeed, in the beginning was persistent in getting her own way, so that it could scarcely be borne.
Nugo. What is amiss with you? You are becoming silent.
Turd. I was weeping and said nothing, for what should I otherwise do when my dearest ones disagree? To be sure my mother ordered me to stand by her as she called lustily; but I had not the heart to mutter a word against my father. Therefore I was sent to school four days running without breakfast by my enraged mother, and she swore I was not her son, but had been changed by the nurse, for which she would have the nurse summoned before the Praetor capitalis.
Nugo. Who is the Praetor capitalis? Hasn’t every Praetor got a head on?
Turd. How am I to know? So she said.
Grac. Look there! Who are those people with mantles, and armour for the legs.
Nugo. They are Frenchmen.
Grac. What, is there then peace?
Turd. They said that there was to be war and a dire war too.
Grac. What are they carrying?
Turd. Wine.
Nugo. Then they will give pleasure to many.
Grac. Of a surety. For not only does wine cheer in drinking, but there is also the thought and recollection of it.
Nugo. At any rate for wine-drinkers. It matters nothing to me, for I drink water.
Grac. Then you will never write a good poem.
Turd. Do you know that woman there?
Grac. No, who is she?
Turd. She has her ears stopped up against gossip.
Grac. Why so?
Turd. So as to hear nothing; because she hears ill of herself.32
Nugo. How many “hear ill of themselves” who have unstopped and normal ears?
Turd. I believe that it is to the point to quote the passage in Cicero’s Tusculanae Quaestiones. M. Crassus was somewhat deaf—but what was worse, he “heard ill.”
Nugo. There is no doubt that this must be traced back to slander. But, I say, Bambalio, have you found your Tusculanae Quaestiones?
Bamb. Yes, at the huckster’s, but so interpolated that I did not at first recognise it.
Nugo. Who had stolen it?
Bamb. Vatinius. And may he be repaid for his misdeed!
Grac. Ah! that man with the hook-like and pitch-black hands! Never let such a man have access to your book-cases, nor to your manuscript-boxes if you wish all your things to be safe and sound. Don’t you know that every one holds Vatinius for a thief of purses and he has been accused of thieving purses before the Principal (gymnasiarcha).
Nugo. The sister of the girl there yesterday gave birth to twins.
Grac. What is there wonderful in that? A woman living in Salt Street at the Helmeted Lion six days ago had a triplet.
Nugo. Pliny says that there have been as many as seven at a birth.
Turd. Who of you has heard of the wife of the Count of Holland who is said to have had at a birth as many children as there are days in the year, owing to the curse of a certain beggar?
Grac. What was the story of this beggar?
Turd. This beggar was laden with children and begged an alms of the countess. But when she saw so many children, she drove the beggar away by her reproaches, calling her a harlot. She said she could not possibly have had from one man so great a family. The innocent beggar prayed the gods that as they knew she was chaste and pure, they would give the countess from her husband at one birth as many children as there are days in the year. So it happened, and the numerous posterity is shown33 in a certain town in that island to-day.
Grac. I will rather believe this than investigate it.
Nugo. All things are possible with God.
Grac. And, moreover, easy of accomplishment.
Nugo. Don’t you know that man there laden with nets accompanied by dogs? He wears a summer hat and soldier’s boots, and rides on the lankest of mules.
Turd. Isn’t it Mannius the verse-maker?
Nugo. Clearly it is.
Turd. Why has he made such a metamorphosis?
Nugo. From Minerva he has gone over to Diana, i.e., from a most honourable occupation to an empty and foolish labour. His father had increased his possessions by his ability in business. He thinks his father’s skill is a dishonour to himself, and turns himself to keeping horses and following the chase, having thought that not otherwise than by hunting can he acquire nobility of race. For if he were to do anything useful, he would not be held of noble family. Curius follows him to the hunt—with dice. He is a very accomplished man, a very well-known dice-player, who understands how to throw the dice in the right way for himself. At home he has for companion Tricongius.
Turd. Say rather an amphora.34
Grac. Or indeed a sponge.
Nugo. Better still, the driest sand of Africa.
Bamb. They say that he is always thirsty.
Nugo. Whether he is always thirsty or not, I don’t know. But certainly he is always ready to drink.
Bamb. Listen, there is the nightingale!
Grac. Where is she?
Bamb. Don’t you see her there, sitting on that branch? Listen how ardently she sings; and how she goes on and on!
Nugo. (As Martial says) Flet Philomela nefas. (The nightingale weeps at injustice.)
Grac. What a wonder she carols so sweetly when she is away from Attica where the very waves of the sea dash upon the shore not without rhythm (non sine numero).
Nugo. Pliny observes that they sing with more exactitude when men are near them.
Turd. What is the reason for that?
Nugo. I will declare unto you the reason. The cuckoo and the nightingale sing at the same time, that is, from the middle of April till the end of May or thereabouts. These two birds once met in a contest of sweetness of song, when a judge was sought, and because it was a trial concerning sound, an ass seemed the most suitable for this decision, since he of all the animals had the longest ears. The ass rejected the nightingale, because he could not understand her harmony, and awarded the victory to the cuckoo. The nightingale appealed to men, and when she sees a man she immediately pours forth her song, and sings with zest so as to approve herself to him, so as to avenge the wrong which she received from the ass.
Grac. This is a subject worthy of a poet.
Nugo. Why, don’t you think it worthy of a philosopher? Ask the question of our new masters from Paris.
Grac. Many of them are philosophers in their clothes, not in their brains.
Nugo. Why do you say on account of their dress? For you should rather say that they seem to be cooks or mule-drivers.
Grac. I say so because they wear clothes which are clumsy, worn out, torn, muddy, dirty, and full of lice in them.
Nugo. Why this almost constitutes them cynic philosophers!
Grac. Nay, they are rather cimici35 but not what they desire to seem, viz., peripatetics, for Aristotle, the leader of this sect, was a most polished man. But I have long since bidden farewell to philosophy, if I cannot any other way than theirs become a philosopher. For what is more comely and worthy in a man than cleanliness and a certain refinement in bearing and in dress? In this respect I consider the Lovanians are superior to the Parisians.
Turd. But don’t you think that too much attention to cleanliness and elegance is a hindrance to studies?
Grac. I certainly believe in cleanliness, but I don’t think there should be an anxious and morose absorption in it.
Nugo. Do you then condemn elegance, on which Laurentius Valla has written so diffusely and which our teachers so diligently commend to us? There is an elegance, e.g., of words, in speaking, and there is an elegance of clothes in dressing.
Turd. Do you know what was told me by the letter-carrier at Louvain?
Nugo. What was that?
Turd. That Clodius fell in love madly with some girl and Lusco transferred himself from letters to merchandise, that is, from horseback to mule-back.
Nugo. What do I hear?
Turd. You all knew Clodius, full of vigour, rubicund, well-clothed, cheerful, with shining countenance, affable, genial teller of stories. Now it is said of him that he is without vigour, bloodless, of pallid colour, sallow, witless, wild-looking, stern, taciturn, one who shuns the light and human society. No one who knew him formerly would now recognise him.
Nugo. O wretched young man! Whence has this evil befallen him?
Turd. He is in love.
Nugo. But whence his love?
Turd. As far as I could gather from the speech of the letter-carrier he had given up solid and serious studies and had devoted himself entirely to the looser Latin poets—those of the vernacular; thence he got the first preparation of his mind. So that if by any means any spark of fire, however slight it might be, should fall on him he was as kindling-wood ready for it and would flare up suddenly like lit flax. So he gave himself up to sleep and idleness.
Nugo. What need is there further to relate more or greater causes of his falling in love?
Turd. Now he is beside himself, going about here, there, and everywhere alone, but always either silent, or singing something and dancing, and writing verses in the vernacular.
Nugo. Which, forsooth, his Lycoris herself may read.
Grac. O Christ, preserve our hearts from so pernicious a disease!
Turd. Unless I am deceived as to the character of Clodius, he will return some time to a better and more fruitful life. His mind wanders into the foreign lands of evil; it does not take up its residence in them.
Grac. And that other one—what is the kind of commerce in which he engages?
Turd. He has sent his father a letter written in a weeping strain concerning the sad state of his studies. The letter-carrier himself read the letter since it was left open. The father, a man impervious to culture (crassae Minervae), has handed him over from MSS. to wools, cloths, dyes, pepper, ginger, and cinnamon. Now girt as to his arms, wonderfully diligent and sedulous in his odorous shop, he invites his customers, receives them blandly, climbs up and comes down most unsafe ladders, produces his goods, shows them this way and that, tells lies, perjures himself. Everything is easier to him than studying.
Nugo. From a boy I have known him intent on business, and to delight in money, and so he has held business in higher esteem than letters, and he has preferred filthy lucre to the excellency of erudition. Some time he will repent it.
Turd. But too late!
Nugo. Without doubt. May he take care that it does not happen to him as it did to his cousin.
Turd. Which?
Nugo. Antonius in Fruit Lane, near the Three Jackdaws. Haven’t you heard that in a former year he “cooked”?36
Grac. What did he cook, please? Is this so great an evil? Doesn’t it go on in every kitchen daily?
Turd. He “cooked” his accounts (rem decoxit).
Grac. What accounts?
Turd. His business with others, and couldn’t meet his creditors.
Grac. Hasn’t he paid back his creditors?
Turd. He has betaken himself to a place of retreat, and made over his books one by one at a quarter of their cost price.
Grac. Is this what you call “cooking,” when nothing could be more raw. But how did he lose the money?
Turd. I have heard lately from his father with regard to that, but I have not yet fully understood the matter. The father said that he had made most prodigal borrowings, which would skin him and swallow him up to the bones.
Grac. What do you mean by “borrowings” and what by “skinning”?
Turd. I don’t quite know, but I believe it has something to do with theft.
Nugo. Do you see, there, that fat man? You would scarcely think it possible to move him. Yet he is a tumbler and rope-dancer (funambulus).
Grac. Ah! be quiet! You are saying something which is incredible.
Turd. He does not indeed dance with his body, but he makes drinking-cups dance.
Grac. Did the letter-carrier bring any news of our companions?