and as Martial says (de Notario):
Mend. Do you wish that we should imitate this blur?
Teacher. The blurs of correction certainly—and what else is marked.
Mend. In the meantime we wish you the best of health.
Bellinus, Malvenda, Joannius, Gomezulus
This dialogue (as its inscription indicates) has two divisions. The earlier part is a paraphrase of the first dialogue, for he treats of almost the same things as there, but more copiously: he describes the manner of putting on one’s clothes or dressing one’s self, and the kinds of clothes. The second part contains the morning constitutional, and includes a noteworthy description of spring as it reveals itself to all the senses.
Mal.
Nempe haec adsidue? Iam clarum mane fenestras intrat et angustas extendit lumine rimas: stertimus indomitum quod despumare Falernum sufficiat.48
(Persius, iii. 1–1.)
Bell. It is plain to be seen that you are not in possession of your senses, for if you were, you would not be awake so long before morning, nor pour out verses, like a satyr’s, by which you disclose your frenzy.
Mal. Then hear some epigrammatic verses, with no bite in them and yet full of salt (edentulos et salsos).
Bell. The call of breakfast would drive off sleep from me more quickly than any din of thine.
Mal. Most happy jester, I wish you good morning.
Bell. And I wish you good night, and a good brain to be able to sleep as well as you speak with fluent oratory.
Mal. I beg you, answer me seriously, if you are ever able to answer seriously, what o’clock do you think it is now?
Bell. Midnight, or a little after.
Mal. By what clock?
Bell. That in my house.
Mal. Where is your house-clock? You would have to get or see a clock which had every hour for sleeping, eating, and playing, but which had none for studying.
Bell. Yet I have a clock by me.
Mal. Where? Produce it.
Bell. In my eyes. See, such as cannot be opened by any force. I beg of you, fall asleep again, or at least be quiet.
Mal. What in the name of evil is this drowsiness or, more truly, lethargy, and, in a certain sense, death? How long do you think we have slept?
Bell. Two hours, or at the most three.
Mal. Three times three.
Bell. How is this possible?
Mal. Gomezulus, run along to the sun-dial of the Franciscans and see what hour it is.
Bell. Sun-dial, forsooth! When the sun has not as yet risen.
Mal. Risen, indeed! Come here, boy. Open that glass window that the sun with his beams may fall upon this fellow’s eyes. Everything is full of the sun and the shadows are getting less.
Bell. What has the rising or setting of the sun to do with you? Let it rise earlier than you, since it has a longer day’s journey to accomplish than you have.
Mal. Gomezulus, run quickly to St. Peter’s, and there look both on the mechanical clock (horologio machinali), and on the style of the sun-dial to tell what time it is.
Gom. I have looked at both. By the sun-clock the shadow is yet a little distant from the second line. By the mechanical clock the hand points to a little after the hour of five.
Bell. What do you say? What else remains for you to do but fetch me the blacksmith from Stone Street, that he may separate my eye-lids by pincers so firmly stuck together? Tell him, that he has to force a door lever, from which the key has been lost.
Gom. Where does he live?
Mal. The boy will be going in earnest. Leave off joking and get up.
Bell. Well, let us get up, since you are so obstinate in mind. Ah! what a vexatious companion you are! Rouse me up, Christ, from the sleep of sin to the watchfulness of justice! Take me from the night of death into the light of life. Amen.
Mal. May this day proceed happily for you!
Bell. And for you, too, the same, and very many more as joyful and prosperous, i.e., may you so pass through it that you neither harm the virtue of any one, nor may any one harm yours. Boy, bring me a clean shirt, for this one I have already worn for six whole days. There, snatch that flea on the leap. Now leave off the hunt. How small a matter it would be to have killed a single flea in this chamber!
Mal. As much as to take a drop of water out of the river Dilia (at Louvain).
Bell. Or yet from the ocean-sea itself. I won’t have the shirt with the creased collar, but the other one with the smooth collar. For what are these creases otherwise at this time of the year than nests or receptacles for lice and fleas.
Mal. Stupid! You will then suddenly become rich, possessing both white and black stock.
Bell. Property abounding in quantity rather than of value in itself, and companions I would rather see in the neighbourhood than in my house! Order the maid to sew again the side of this shirt, and that with silk thread.
Gom. She hasn’t any.
Bell. Then with flax or with wool, or even if she pleases with hemp. Never has this maid what is necessary; of what is unnecessary she has more than enough. But you, Gomezulus, I don’t want you to be a prophet. Carry out my order and report to me. Don’t foretell what will happen. Shake the dust out of the stockings and then clean them carefully with that hard fly-brush. Give me clean socks, for these are now moist and smell of the feet. φεῦ, take them away, the smell annoys me terribly.
Gom. Do you wish an under-garment?
Bell. No, for by the light of the sun I gather that the day will be hot. But reach me that velvet doublet with the half sleeves of silken cloth, and the light tunic of British cloth with long cloth cords.
Mal. Or rather German cloth. But what is the meaning of all this, whereby you think of making yourself so extraordinarily smart, beyond your custom—especially when it is not a feast-day? And you ask also for country shoe-straps.
Bell. And you? Why have you put on your smooth silk, fresh from the tailor’s, although you have your goat’s-hair clothes and your well-worn clothes of Damascus.
Mal. I have sent them to be repaired.
Bell. I indeed rather consider ease in my clothes than ornament. These little hooks and knobs are out of their place. You always loosen them wrongly and thoughtlessly.
Mal. I rather use buttons and holes, which are more of an ornament, and less burdensome for putting on and taking off one’s clothes.
Bell. Every one has not the same judgment on this any more than on other matters. Put down this breast-covering here in the box, and don’t bring it out again during the whole of the summer. These straps have quite lost their strength. This belt is unsewn and torn to pieces. See that it is mended, but take care that no unshapely knots are sewn on.
Gom. This will not be done for at least an hour and a half.
Bell. Then stick a needle through it, so that it doesn’t hang down. Give me the garters.
Gom. Here they are! I have got ready for you your shoes and the sandals with the long latchets. I have shaken off the dust from them well.
Bell. Rather wipe off the dirt from the shoes and polish them.
Mal. Is the ligula (shoe latchet) in the shoe? Concerning this word there has been a very sharp controversy amongst grammarians, as there usually is about everything, whether it should be called ligula or lingula (a little tongue).
Bell. The strap is sewn on the Spanish shoes over the top of the sole. Here they do not wear it so.
Mal. And in Spain they have given up arranging it so, because they now wear their shoes in the French fashion.
Bell. Let me have your ivory comb.
Mal. Where is your wooden one—the one from Paris?
Bell. Did you not hear me yesterday scolding Gomezulus?
Mal. Do you call beating a person scolding him?
Bell. This was the reason. He had broken five or six of the thick and of the thin teeth of the comb—almost broken them all to pieces.
Mal. I have lately read that a certain author stated that we should comb the head with an ivory comb forty times from the forehead to the top and then to the back of the head. What are you doing? That is not combing but stroking. Let me have the comb.
Bell. Nor is that combing, but shaving or sweeping. I think your head is made of bricks.
Mal. And I think yours is of butter—so that you dare not touch it closely.
Bell. Are you willing, then, that we should have a butting match with our heads?
Mal. I am not willing to have a senseless contest with you, nor to engage my good mind against your witless one. Now at length wash well your hands and face, but especially the mouth, that you may speak more clearly.
Bell. Would that I could cleanse my mind as quickly as my hands! Give me the wash-hand-basin.
Mal. Rub together more diligently the knuckles of your hands, to which there sticks the thickest dirt.
Bell. You are mistaken, for I think it is rather discoloured and wrinkled skin. Pour the water in these hand-basins, Gomezulus, into that sink and give me that net-bag and that striped cap. Bring now my boots (ocreas, lit. greaves).
Gom. Travelling boots?
Bell. No, my city boots.
Gom. Do you wish your Spanish cap and the long mantle?
Bell. Are we going out of doors?
Mal. Why not?
Bell. Bring then the travelling cloak.
Mal. Then at last we will go out, so as not to let slip by the time for having a walk.
Bell. Lead us, Christ, in the ways which are pleasing to Thee, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Oh, how beautiful is the dawn! truly rosy and golden, as the poets call it. How I rejoice to have arisen. Let us go out of the city.
Mal. Yes, let us go. For I have not stepped foot out of the city gate for a whole week. But whither shall we first go, and after that which way shall we take?
Bell. To the citadel, or to the Carthusian Monastery?
Mal. Or to the meadows of St. James?
Bell. No, not there in the morning; rather in the evening.
Mal. To the Carthusian Monastery, then, past the Franciscan Monastery and the Recreation Grounds, thence through the Brussels gate, then we will return by the Carthusian Monastery to divine service. See, here is Joannius. A greeting to you, Joannius!
Joan. The warmest of greetings to you! What an unusual thing is this that you should be stirring so early?
Bell. I was bound in the deepest sleep, but Malvenda here, by shouting and pinching me, tore me from my bed.
Joan. He did rightly, for this walk in the country will revive you and freshen you up. Let us go on the green walk (the Pomerium). O marvellous and adorable Creator of beauty so great; this world is not inappropriately called Mundus and by the Greeks Κόσμος, as if it were decked and made elegant with beauty.
Mal. Don’t let us take our walk as if in a rush, but slowly and gently. Please let us make the circuit of the city walls twice or three times so that we may contemplate so splendid a view the more peacefully and freely.
Joan. Observe, there is no sense which has not a lordly enjoyment! First, the eyes! What varied colours, what clothing of the earth and trees, what tapestry! What paintings are comparable with this view? Here are natural and real things; the representations are artificial and false. Not without truth has the Spanish poet, Juan de Mena, called May the painter of the Earth. Then, the ear. How delightful to hear the singing of birds, and especially the nightingale! Listen to her as she sings in the thicket, from whom, as Pliny says, issues the modulated sound of the completed science of music. Attend accurately and you will note all varieties of sounds. At one time there is no pause in them, but continuously, with breath held equably over a long time without change, the bird sings on. Now it changes tone! Now it sings in shorter and sharper tones! Now it draws in its tones and, as it were, makes its voice tremulous! Now it stretches out its voice and now it calls it back! At other times it sings long and, as it were, heroical verses; at other times, short sapphics, and at intervals very short, as in adonics. In very fact you have, as it were, the whole study and school of music in the nightingale. The little ones ponder and listen to the verses, which they imitate. The little bird listens with keen intentness (would that our teachers received like attention!) and gives back the sound. And then, again, they are silent.
The correction by example and a certain criticism from the teacher-bird are closely observed. But Nature leads them aright, whilst human beings exercise their will wrongly. Add to this there is a sweet scent breathing in from every side, from the meadows, from the crops, and from the trees, even from the fallow-land and neglected fields! Whatsoever you lift to your mouth has its relish, as even from the very air itself, like the earliest and softest honey.
Mal. This seems to me to be accounted for by what I have heard said by some, that in the month of May, bees are wont to gather their honey from celestial dew.
Joan. This was the opinion of many. If you wish anything to be offered to the touch, what softer or more healthful than the air we breathe on every side? For by its bracing breath it infuses itself through the veins and the whole body. Some verses of Vergil on spring come into my mind which I will hum to you, if you can listen to my voice, which I am afraid sounds more like that of a goose than of a swan—although, for my part, I would rather have a goose’s voice than that of a swan, who only sings sweetly if he is just approaching his fate.
Bell. I, indeed, as far as I may answer on my own behalf, have a keen desire to hear the verses, with any voice you like, if only you will give us an explanation of the verses.
Mal. My opinion is not otherwise from that of Bellinus.
Joan.
Bell. I have not quite followed it.
Mal. And I still less, as I think.
Joan. Learn the verses thoroughly, or you won’t understand them, for they are taken from the depths of philosophy, as are very many others of that poet.
Mal. We will question the schoolmaster Orbilius about them, for here he is coming to meet us.
Joan. He is by no means the man to meet the difficulty. Let us just salute him and let him go his way, for he is a fierce man, fond of flogging (plagosus), imbued with a vast haughtiness, instead of being learned in literature, although he has seriously persuaded himself that he is the Alpha of learned teachers. Moreover, we have only spoken of the body. How greatly are the soul and mind exhilarated and aroused by such an early morning as this! There is no time so suitable for good learning, for observing things, and for attentively listening to what is said, and whatever you read; nor is it otherwise with reflection and with thinking a problem out, whatever it may be. You can give your mind to it. Not undeservedly has it been said: “The dawn (Aurora) is most pleasing to the Muses.”
Bell. But let me tell you I’m famishing with hunger. Let us get back home to breakfast.
Mal. What then will you have?
Bell. Bread, butter, cherries, waxen-coloured prunes, which so greatly seem to have pleased our Spaniards that they call all plums by this name.51 Or should they not have such food at home, we will pluck some leaves of the ox-tongue (buglossa), and we will add some sage in place of butter.
Mal. Shall we have wine to drink?
Bell. By no means—but beer, and that of the weakest, of yellow Lyons, or else pure and liquid water, drawn from the Latin or Greek well.
Mal. Which do you call the Latin well and the Greek well?
Bell. Vives is accustomed to call the well close to the gate the Greek well; that one farther off he calls the Latin well. He will give you his reasons for the names when you meet him.
Jocundus, Leo, Vitruvius
In this dialogue Vives describes the whole house and its parts, one by one, through the logical form of distribution of the whole into its parts. Concerning the details, see the books of Vitruvius on architecture, and Grapaldus.
The interlocutors were distinguished architects. Vitruvius is an author of antiquity; the other two are more recent. The one, Johannes Jocundus Veronensis, wrote, amongst other monuments of a not inelegant mind, a work on the Commentaries of Julius Caesar. The other, Baptista Albertus Leo, distinguished himself in an equally great degree.
Joc. Have you any knowledge of the occupier of this spacious and elegant house?
Leo. Most certainly; for he is a relation of the man-servant of my father.
Joc. We will ask him to open the whole house to us, for they say that nothing could be more pleasant and delightful.
Leo. Let us go to it, and ring the little bell at the door, so as not to burst in unexpected. (Tat-tat.)
Vitruvius Insularius.52 Who is there?
Leo. It is I.
Vitr. Hail! most welcome, sweetest boy! What brings you here now?
Leo. I come from school.
Vitr. But for what reason are you here?
Leo. My friend here and I would very much like to see over your house.
Vitr. Why, haven’t you seen it before now?
Leo. No, not all of it.
Vitr. Come in. Eh! boy, bring me the key for the doors of the house. First, this is the entrance-hall (vestibulum). It stands open the whole day, without guard, for it is not within the house, yet also it is not outside, though it is closed at night. Observe the magnificent door, the leaves of which are of oak and fitted with brass, and both the foot-piece and head-piece of the doorway are made of alabaster marble. In former times Hercules was set up at the door of the house to ward off mischief (ἀλεξίκακος). But here we place Christ, the true God, for Hercules was but a cruel and evil man. With Christ as guard no evil will enter into the house.
Joc. Οὐδὲ οὖν δεσπότης αὐτός (so not even its master).
Vitr. What is that he said in Greek?
Joc. Why should so many evil persons enter in?
Vitr. Well, if evil persons do get in, they can then bring nothing evil in with them.
Leo. Don’t you have any door-angels?
Vitr. The custom has gone out in some nations.
Next comes the door of the entrance hall, which the hall servant (atriensis servus) answers. He is the chief of the servants, as the house-boy (mediastinus) is the least in position. Then comes the spacious hall for walking in, and in it are numerous and varied pictures.
Joc. Please, what are they all about?
Vitr. That is a representation of the foundations of the heavens (coeli facies ichnographica). That shows the plan of the earth and sea. There you have the world newly discovered by Spanish navigations. In that picture you see Lucretia as she is killing herself.53
Joc. Please, what is she saying, for even as she is dying she seems to say something?
Vitr. “Many are astounded at my deed because it is not every one who has suffered such a grief.”
Joc. I understand what she says.
Leo. What is the meaning of this picture delineated with such varied figures?
Vitr. It is a sketch of this house. Draw back the covering from that picture. There!
Joc. What does it represent? A little old man who is sucking his wife’s breast?
Vitr. Hast thou not read of this subject in the chapter on Piety in Valerius Maximus.54
Joc. What does she say?
Vitr. “I do not yet pay back as much as I have received.”
Joc. What does the old man say?
Vitr. “I rejoice that I have been born.” Let us step up these winding-stairs. The steps one by one, as you see, are broad and were made of whole pieces of basalt-marble. This first story is the dwelling of the master, the upper story is for guests; not as if my master had a garret on lease far away, but there it is furnished for his guest friends always in order and free, unless filled already with guests. This is the dining-room.
Joc. Good Christ! what transparent window panes these are and how artistically painted they are in shaded outlines! What colours! How life-like! What pictures, what statues, what wainscoting! What is the story pourtrayed on the panes?
Vitr. The fall of Griselda, which John Boccaccio wrote so aptly and skilfully; but my master has decided to add a true story to this fiction, which excels the story of Griselda, viz., that of Godelina of Flanders and the English Queen Catharine of Aragon. The first of the statues is the Apostle Paul.
Joc. What is the inscription of the sculpture?
Vitr. “How much we owe thee, O Christ.”
Joc. What does he say himself?
Vitr. “By the grace of God I am what I am and His grace which was bestowed on me, was not in vain.” The other statue is Mutius Scaevola.
Joc. But he is not mute even if he is called Mutius. What is the inscription on his statue?
Vitr. “This fire will not burn me up because another greater one burns in me.” The third statue is Helen; the writing states: “Oh, would that I always had been such a statue, then should I have wrought less harm.”
Joc. What is the meaning of the old blind bald-headed man who points his finger at Helen?
Vitr. That is Homer, who says to Helen: “Thy ill deed has been well sung by me.”
Joc. Look, the wainscoting is gilded, and here and there decked with pearls.
Vitr. There are all kinds of pearls, but of small worth.
Joc. What do we look on from the windows?
Vitr. These windows look into the gardens, those into the court. This is the summer-house or garden dining-room. Here you see a sleeping-room or chamber. The sleeping-room is furnished with tapestry, with a pavement wainscoted and covered with rush-mats. There are some pictures of the Holy Virgin, of Christ the Saviour, and there are others of Narcissus, Euryalus, Adonis, Polyxena, who are said to have been of the highest beauty.
Joc. What is written on the upper lintel of the door?
Vitr. “Withdraw from your troubles and enter the haven of peace.”
Joc. What is written inside the door-post?
Vitr. “Bring into this haven no tempest.” The most necessary house utensils are kept in that closed chamber. The other is the winter chamber. As you see, everything there is darker and better covered. Then there is a sweating chamber.
Joc. It is bigger in my opinion than the dining-room would lead one to expect.
Vitr. Don’t you notice that the inner sleeping-room is heated by the same steam-pipe?
Joc. They say that if sleeping-rooms had no chimney flue they would be warmer.
Vitr. It is not usual to have them in the air-holes.
Joc. What is that room, so elegantly vaulted?
Vitr. It is the chapel (lararium) or sanctuary (sacellum) in which divine service (res divina) is held.
Joc. Where is the latrina?
Vitr. We have it up in the granary out of the way. In the sleeping-rooms my master uses basins, pans, and chamber-crockery.
Joc. How beautifully and artistically made are all these little towers and pyramids and columns and weathercocks!
Vitr. We will now go down. This is the kitchen; this the eating-chamber; here is the wine-cellar and the larder, where we are annoyed by the attempts of thieves to get in.
Joc. How can thieves get in here? It is, as it seems to me, so carefully closed in, and the windows have iron gratings?
Vitr. Through chinks and borings.
Leo. There are also mice and weasels who strip you of all kinds of food!
Vitr. This is the back-door of the house, which, when the master is not at home, is always fastened with two bars, both locked and bolted.
Leo. Why have these windows no iron bars?
Vitr. Because they are only rarely open and they abut, as you see, on a narrow and dark by-street. Rarely any one puts his head out of the window. Therefore my master has decided that he will have them latticed.
Leo. With what kind of bars?
Vitr. Perhaps with wooden bars. It is not yet certain. In the meantime this fastening suffices.
Joc. What high columns and a portico full of majesty! See how these Atlantides and Caryatides seem to strive to support the building against falling, whilst really they are doing nothing.
Leo. There are many people like them, who appear to accomplish great things when they are in reality leading leisurely and sluggish lives; drones who enjoy the fruits of the labours of others. But what is that house there below, adjoining this, but badly built and full of cracks?
Vitr. It is the old house. Because it had cracks and had great lack of repair, my master decided to have this new one built, from the foundation. That old one is now a resting-place for birds and the habitation of rats, but we shall soon take it down.
Tyro, Spudaeus
In this dialogue the school is described in six parts, as teachers, honours, hours of learning and repetition, books, library, the disputation. The name Tyro is that of the crude novice, a metaphor taken from military affairs of those as yet unskilled in war, to whom are opposed the veterani. Spudaeus is in Greek the diligent and industrious person, a name worthy of one who is studious.
Tyro. What a delightful and magnificent school! I suppose there is not in the whole academy any part more excellent.
Spud. You judge rightly; add, also, what is of more importance, that elsewhere there are no more cultured and prudent teachers, who with such dexterity pass on their learning.
Tyro. It behoves us then to repay their trouble by attaining great knowledge.
Spud. And this indeed by great shortening of the labour of learning!
Tyro. What does the schooling cost?
Spud. You can at once give up so base and unreasonable a question. Can one in a matter of so great moment inquire as to payment? The very teachers themselves do not bargain for reward, nor is it suitable for their pupils to even think about it. For what reward could be adequate? Have you never heard the declaration of Aristotle that gods, parents, and masters can never be sufficiently recompensed? God created the whole man, the parents gave the body birth, the masters form the mind.
Tyro. What do those masters teach, and for how long?
Spud. Each one has his separate class-room and the masters are for various subjects. Some impart with labour and drudgery the whole day long the elements of the art of grammar; others take more advanced work in the same subject; others propound rhetoric, dialectic, and the remaining branches of knowledge, which are called liberal or noble arts.
Tyro. Why are they so-called?
Spud. Because every noble-minded person must be instructed in them. They are in contrast to the illiberal subjects of the market-place which are practised by the labour of the body or hands, which pertain to slaves and men who have but little wit. Amongst scholars some are “tyrones” and others “batalarii.”
Tyro. What do these names signify?
Spud. Both these names are taken from the art of warfare. “Tyro” is an old word used with regard to the one who is beginning the practice of war. “Batalarius” is the French name of the soldier who has already once been in a fight (which they call a battle) and has engaged in a close fight and has raised his hand against the foe, and so in the literary contests at Paris, “batalarius” has begun to signify the man who has disputed publicly in any art. Teachers are chosen from them, and are called “licentiates,” because it is permitted them to teach, or, better still, they might be termed “designate,” i.e., the men marked out. At least they have taken the doctorate. Before the whole university, a hat is placed on their head as a sign that they have had their freedom conferred on them, and become emeriti. This is the supreme honour and the highest grade of dignity.
Tyro. Who is that with so great a company round him, before whom march staff-bearers with silver staffs?
Spud. That is the Principal (Rector) of the Academy. Many are drawn to him because of the honour they bear him in his office.
Tyro. How often in the day are the boys taught?
Spud. Several times. One hour before sunrise; two hours in the morning; two hours in the afternoon.
Tyro. So often?
Spud. An old custom of the Academy so establishes it. And in addition the scholars repeat and think over what they have received in instruction from their masters, like as if they were chewing the cud of their lessons.
Tyro. With so much noise over it?
Spud. Such is now their practice!
Tyro. To what purpose?
Spud. So as to learn.
Tyro. On the contrary, so as to shout. For they don’t seem to meditate on their studies, but to be preparing themselves for the office of public crier. That one there is clearly raving. For if he had a sound brain, he would neither so call out, nor gesticulate, nor so distort himself.
Spud. They are Spaniards and Frenchmen, somewhat impetuous, and as they hold divers opinions, they contend the more warmly as if for their hearths and altars, as it is said.
Tyro. What! are the teachers here of different opinions?
Spud. Sometimes they teach contradictory views.
Tyro. What authors are they interpreting?
Spud. Not all the same, but each one as he is furnished with skill and knowledge. The most erudite teachers take to themselves the best authors with the sharpest judgment, those whom you grammarians call classics. There are those who, on account of their ignorance of what is better, descend to the lowest (ad proletarios) and are worthy of condemnation.
Let us enter. I will show you the public library of this school. It looks, according to the precept of great men, to the east.
Tyro. Wonderful! How many books, how many good authors, Greek and Latin orators, poets, historians, philosophers, theologians, and the busts of authors!
Spud. And indeed, as far as could be done, delineated to the life and so much the more valuable! All the book-cases and book-shelves are of oak or cypress and with their own little chains. The books themselves for the most part are bound in parchment and adorned with various colours.
Tyro. What is that first one with rustic face and nose turned-up?
Spud. Read the inscription.
Tyro. It is Socrates and he says: “Why do I appear in this library when I have written nothing?”
Spud. Those who follow him, Plato and Xenophon, answer: “Because thou hast said what others wrote.” It would take long to go through the things here, one by one.
Tyro. Pray what are those books thrown on a great heap there?
Spud. The Catholicon, Alexander, Hugutio, Papias, disputations in dialectics, and books of sophistries in physics. These are the books which I called “worthy of condemnation.”
Tyro. Nay rather, they are condemned to violent death!
Spud. They are all thrown out. Let him take them who will; he will free us of a troublesome burden.
Tyro. Oh, how many asses would be necessary for carrying them away! I am astonished that they have not been taken away, when there is so great an assembly of asses everywhere. Somewhere in that heap the books of Bartolus and Baldus are lying together and others of that quality (hujus farinae).
Spud. Say rather of that coarseness (furfuris). The loss would not be hurtful to the tranquillity of mankind.
Tyro. Look, who are those with those flowing hoods?
Spud. Let us go down. They are “batalarii,” going to the disputation.
Tyro. Please lead us thither.
Spud. Step in, but quietly and reverently. Uncover your head and watch attentively all, one by one, for there is a discussion beginning on weighty matters which will conduce greatly to one’s knowledge. That one whom you see sitting alone in the highest seat is the president (praeses) of the disputation and the judge of the disputes, so to say, the Agonotheta. His first duty is to appoint the place for each of the contenders, lest there should be any disorder or confusion, if one or other should want to take precedence.
Tyro. What is the meaning of the skin-covering of his toga?
Spud. It is his doctor’s robe, the emblem of his position and dignity. He is a man of whom there are few so learned, who, by the choice of the candidates in theology, carried off the first prize, and by the most learned of the faculty is regarded as the first among them.
Tyro. They say that Bardus was the first choice in his year.
Spud. He beat all his competitors by canvassing and craft, not by his knowledge.
Tyro. Who is that thin and pallid man they all rush upon?
2. The Propugnator. 3. The Oppugnator (a smart man)—The Vapid Man—The Smooth Man.
Spud. He is the propugnator, who will receive the attack of all, and who has become thin and pale by his immoderate night-watches. He has done great things in philosophy and is advanced in theology. But now you must be quiet and listen, for he who is now making the attack is accustomed to think out his arguments most acutely and subtly, and presses most keenly the propugnator, and, in the opinion of all, is compared with the very highest in this discipline, and often compels his antagonist to recant. Notice how the latter has tried to elude him, but how the oppugnator has met him effectively by his irrefutable reasoning, and how the propugnator cannot escape him! This arrow cannot be avoided. His argument is like an invincible Achilles. It enters the neck of the opponent. The propugnator cannot protect himself and soon will give in (manus dabit) unless some god suggests a subterfuge to his mind. Behold, the question is brought to an end by the decision of the judge (decretor). Now I loosen your tongue to speak as you wish. For he who now attacks is as vapid wine, and contends as with a leaden dagger, yet he shouts louder than the rest. Notice, and you will see that he grows hoarse from the encounter. Though his weapons are repulsed, he presses on none the less pertinaciously, but without effect; nor does any one wish to have the reversion to his argument, or to have him assuaged by the answer of the defender or the president. He who now enters the contest effeminately begs the judge for his permission, and speaks with courtesy, though he argues ineffectively and always leaves off tired, even gasping, as if he had gone through the unpleasant business with fortitude. Let us depart.
Plinius, Epictetus, Celsus, Dydimus
In this dialogue Vives treats of two matters: in the first place he describes night-studies with adjuncts of time, causes, and subjects; then the bed, its apparatus and adjuncts. The assisting causes (causae adjuvantes) of night-study are lights, the night-study gown, Minerva or Christ, table, bookcase, reader (anagnostes), a scribe (exceptor), pens, sand-case (theca pulveraria). The subjects are Cicero, Demosthenes, Nazianzenus, Xenophon. The apparatus of the bed consists in a mattress, a bolster, cushions, sheets, coverlets, curtains, mosquito-curtain, hangings, rugs. Adjuncts are—gnats, fleas, lice, bugs, a striking clock, a folding seat, a pot, a lyre. The names of the persons are aptly allotted, for they were the four most learned and studious men, concerning whom Volaterranus has written in his Anthropologia. Plinius wrote De Historia Naturali, in xxxvii. books. He was the uncle of the other Pliny whose letters are still extant. The latter writes thus to Marcus, of his uncle: “He was sharp-witted, of incredible studiousness, of the highest vigilance, most sparing of sleep. After food (which he used to take in the daytime, of a light and easily digestible kind, according to the custom of the ancients), if he had leisure, often in the summer, he would lie in the sun. Then read his book, annotate it, and make extracts. He never read without making extracts. He was even accustomed to say that no book was so bad as not to be profitable in some part of it. I remember once when a reader had pronounced something wrongly, one of his friends had the man called up and made him repeat it, whereupon my uncle said: ‘You understood, forsooth?’ He nodded. ‘Then why have the passage recalled? We have lost more than ten verses by this interruption.’ So great was his economy of time. This, too, in the midst of his labours in the noise of the town. Even in the retirement of his bath he spent his time in studies. When I say the bath, I speak of the inner parts of the house generally. For whilst he was stretching himself or drying himself, he used to listen to reading or to dictate. On a journey, as if relieved from other cares, he occupied himself in study only. At his side was an amanuensis with a book and writing tablets, whose hands were furnished in winter with gloves, so that by no roughness of weather should any time be snatched from studies. For the same reason, when at Rome, he was carried about in a chair. I recall that I was reproved by him when I went for a walk. ‘Are you not able,’ said he, ‘not to waste your time?’ For he thought all time wasted which was not devoted to studies.” For an account of his death, see an epistle by the same writer to Tacitus.
Epictetus (as the epigram concerning him testifies) was both a slave and lame. He was poorer than Irus.55 But in wisdom and equanimity of mind and constancy (as records about him testify) he was admirable and almost divine. But he was the servant of Epaphroditus the freedman of the Emperor Nero. Celsus was a renowned physician, whose works are still extant, whose excellent dictum was: “That many grave diseases are cured by abstinence and quiet.”
Dydimus, the grammarian, on account of the almost incredible number of books which he is said to have written, is called χαλκέντερος, as if having intestines of brass, i.e., he was remarkably patient and indefatigable in labour. He (as also Origen) was called Adamantinus. On this same matter see Proverb: Adamantinus and Chalcenterus and the lamp of Aristophanes and Cleanthes.
Plin. It is five o’clock in the afternoon. Epictetus, shut me the window and bring me light. I will work with a light.
Epict. What light do you wish?
Plin. For the time being, whilst others are present, tallow or wax candles; when they have retired, take them away and place here for me the lampstand.
Cels. What for?
Plin. For working.
Cels. Don’t you study better in the morning? Then it seems to me the season of the time and the condition of the body invite study, since at that time there is the least exhalation from the brain, digestion having been completed.
Plin. But this hour is very quiet, when every one has gone to rest and everything is silent, and for those who eat at mid-day and morning it is not inconvenient. Some follow the old custom and only eat one meal and that in the evening; others merely at mid-day, according to the advice of the new doctors; and again others both mid-day and evening, according to the usage of the Goths.
Cels. But were there no mid-day meals before the Goths?
Plin. There were, but light meals. The Goths introduced the custom of eating to satiety twice a day.
Cels. On that account Plato condemned the meal-times of the Syracusans, who had two good meals every day.
Plin. For that very reason you may conclude that people like the Syracusans were very rare.
Cels. Enough of them! Why do you prefer to work with a lamp than a candle?
Plin. On account of the equable flame, which less tries the eyes, for the flicker of the wick injures the eyes and the odour of the tallow is unpleasant.
Cels. Then use wax candles, the odour of which is not displeasing.
Plin. In them the wick is more flickering and the vapour is no more healthy. In the tallow lights the wick is for the most part of linen and not of cotton, as the tradesmen seek to make a profit on all these things by fraud. Pour oil into this lamp, bring a candle and take out the wick and clean it.
Epict. Notice how the lampblack sticks to the needle. They say this is a sign of rain, in the same manner as we find in Vergil:—