The “Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum,” or letters of obscure men, are supposed to be addressed to Ortuinus Gratius, mentioned above, by various individuals, some his scholars, others his friends, but all belonging to the bigoted party opposed to Reuchlin, and they were designed to throw ridicule on the ignorance, bigotry, and immorality of the clergy of the Romish church. The old scholastic learning had become debased into a heavy and barbarous system of theology, literary composition consisted in writing a no less barbarous Latin, and even the few classical writers who were admitted into the schools, were explained and commented upon in a strange half-theological fashion. These old scholastics were bitterly opposed to the new learning, which had taken root in Italy, and was spreading abroad, and they spoke contemptuously of it as “secular.” The letters of the obscure individuals relate chiefly to the dispute between Reuchlin and Pfeffercorn, to the rivalry between the old scholarship and the new, and to the low licentious lives of the theologists; and they are written in a style of Latin which is intended for a parody on that of the latter, and which closely resembles that which we call “dog-Latin.”[97] They are full of wit and humour of the most exquisite description, but they too often descend into details, treated in terms which can only be excused by the coarse and licentious character of the age. The literary and scientific questions discussed in these letters are often very droll. The first in order of the correspondents of Ortuinus Gratius, who boasts of the rather formidable name, Thomas Langschneiderius, and addresses master Ortuinus as “poet, orator, philosopher, and theologist, and more if he would,” propounds to him a difficult question:—
“There was here one day an Aristotelian dinner, and doctors, licenciates, and masters too, were very jovial, and I was there too, and we drank at the first course three draughts of Malmsey, ... and then we had six dishes of flesh and chickens and capons, and one of fish, and as we passed from one dish to another, we continually drunk wine of Kotzburg and the Rhine, and ale of Embeck, and Thurgen, and Neuburg. And the masters were well satisfied, and said that the new masters had acquitted themselves well and with great honour. Then the masters in their hilarity began to talk learnedly on great questions, and one asked whether it were correct to say magister nostrandus, or noster magistrandus, for a person fit to be made doctor in theology.... And immediately Master Warmsemmel, who is a subtle Scotist, and has been master eighteen years, and was in his time twice rejected and thrice delayed for the degree of master, and he went on offering himself, until he was promoted for the honour of the university, ... spoke, and held that we should say noster magistrandus.... Then Master Andreas Delitsch, who is very subtle, and half poet, half artist (i.e. one who professed in the faculty of arts), physician, and jurist; and now he reads ordinarily ‘Ovid on the Metamorphoses,’ and expounds all the fables allegorically and literally, and I was his hearer, because he expounds very fundamentally, and he also reads at home Quintillian and Juvencus, and he held the opposite to Master Warmsemmel, and said that we ought to say magister nostrandus. For as there is a difference between magister noster and noster magister, so also there is a difference between magister nostrandus and noster magistrandus; for a doctor in theology is called magister noster, and it is one word, but noster magister are two words, and it is taken for any master; and he quoted Horace in support of this. Then the masters much admired his subtlety, and one drank to him a cup of Neuburg ale. And he said, ‘I will wait, but spare me,’ and touched his hat, and laughed heartily, and drank to Master Warmsemmel, and said, ‘There, master, don’t think I am an enemy,’ and he drank it off at one draught, and Master Warmsemmel replied to him with a strong draught. And the masters were all merry till the bell rang for Vespers.”
Master Ortuin is pressed for his judgment on this weighty question. A similar scene described in another letter ends less peacefully. The correspondent on this occasion is Magister Bornharddus Plumilegus, who addresses Ortuinus Gratius as follows:—
“Wretched is the mouse which has only one hole for a refuge! So also I may say of myself, most venerable sir, for I should be poor if I had only one friend, and when that one should fail me, then I should not have another to treat me with kindness. As is the case now with a certain poet here, who is called George Sibutus, and he is one of the secular poets, and reads publicly in poetry, and is in other respects a good fellow (bonus socius). But as you know these poets, when they are not theologists like you, will always reprehend others, and despise the theologists. And once in a drinking party in his house, when we were drinking Thurgen ale, and sat until the hour of tierce, and I was moderately drunk, because that ale rose into my head, then there was one who was not before friendly with me, and I drank to him half a cup, and he accepted it. But afterwards he would not return the compliment. And thrice I cautioned him, and he would not reply, but sat in silence and said nothing. Then I thought to myself, Behold this man treats thee with contempt, and is proud, and always wants to confound you. And I was stirred in my anger, and took the cup, and threw it at his head. Then that poet was angry at me, and said that I had caused a disturbance in his house, and said I should go out of his house in the devil’s name. Then I replied, ‘What matter is it if you are my enemy? I have had as bad enemies as you, and yet I have stood in spite of them. What matters it if you are a poet? I have other poets who are my friends, and they are quite as good as you, ego bene merdarem in vestram poetriam! Do you think I am a fool, or that I was born under a tree like apples?’ Then he called me an ass, and said that I never saw a poet. And I said, ‘You are an ass in your skin, I have seen many more poets than you.’ And I spoke of you.... Wherefore I ask you very earnestly to write me one piece of verse, and then I will show it to this poet and others, and I will boast that you are my friend, and you are a much better poet than he.”
The war against the secular poets, or advocates of the new learning, is kept up with spirit through this ludicrous correspondence. One correspondent presses Ortuinus Gratius to “write to me whether it be necessary for eternal salvation that scholars learn grammar from the secular poets, such as Virgil, Tullius, Pliny, and others; for,” he adds, “it seems to me that this is not a good method of studying.” “As I have often written to you,” says another, “I am grieved that this ribaldry (ista ribaldria), namely, the faculty of poetry, becomes common, and is spread through all provinces and regions. In my time there was only one poet, who was called Samuel; and now, in this city alone, there are at least twenty, and they vex us all who hold with the ancients. Lately I thoroughly defeated one, who said that scholaris does not signify a person who goes to the school for the purpose of learning; and I said, ‘Ass! will you correct the holy doctor who expounded this word?’” The new learning was, of course, identified with the supporters of Reuchlin. “It is said here,” continues the same correspondent, “that all the poets will side with doctor Reuchlin against the theologians. I wish all the poets were in the place where pepper grows, that they might let us go in peace!”
Master William Lamp, “master of arts,” sends to Master Ortuinus Gratius, a narrative of his adventures in a journey from Cologne to Rome. First he went to Mayence, where his indignation was moved by the open manner in which people spoke in favour of Reuchlin, and when he hazarded a contrary opinion, he was only laughed at, but he held his tongue, because his opponents all carried arms and looked fierce. “One of them is a count, and is a long man, and has white hair; and they say that he takes a man in armour in his hand, and throws him to the ground, and he has a sword as long as a giant; when I saw him, then I held my tongue.” At Worms, he found things no better, for the “doctors” spoke bitterly against the theologians, and when he attempted to expostulate, he got foul words as well as threats, a learned doctor in medicine affirming “quod merdaret super nos omnes.” On leaving Worms, Lamp and his companion, another theologist, fell in with plunderers who made them pay two florins to drink, “and I said occulte, Drink what may the devil bless to you!” Subsequently they fell into low amours at country inns, which are described coarsely, and then they reached Insprucken, where they found the emperor, and his court and army, with whole manners and proceedings Magister Lamp became sorely disgusted. I pass over other adventures till they reach Mantua, the birthplace of Virgil, and of a late mediæval Latin poet, named from it Baptista Mantuanus. Lamp, in his hostile spirit towards the “secular poets,” proceeds,—“And my companion said, ‘Here Virgil was born.’ I replied, ‘What do I care for that pagan? We will go to the Carmelites, and see Baptista Mantuanus, who is twice as good as Virgil, as I have heard full ten times from Ortuinus;’ and I told him how you once reprehended Donatus, when he says, ‘Virgil was the most learned of poets, and the best;’ and you said, ‘If Donatus were here, I would tell him to his face that he lies, for Baptista Mantuanus is above Virgil.’ And when we came to the monastery of the Carmelites, we were told that Baptista Mantuanus was dead; then I said, ‘May he rest in peace!’” They continued their journey by Bologna, where they found the inquisitor Jacob de Hochstraten, and Florence, to Siena. “After this there are small towns, and one is called Monte-flascon, where we drunk excellent wine, such as I never drank in my life. And I asked the host what that wine is called, and he replied that it is lachryma Christi. Then said my companion, ‘I wish Christ would cry in our country!’ And so we drank a good bout, and two days after we entered Rome.”
In the course of these letters the theologists, the poets especially, the character of the clergy, and particularly Reuchlin and Pfeffercorn, afford continual subjects for dispute and pleasantry. The last mentioned individual, in the opinion of some, had merited hanging for theft, and it was pretended that the Jews had expelled him from their society for his wicked courses. One argued that all Jews stink, and as it was well known that Pfeffercorn continued to stink like a Jew, it was quite evident that he could not be a good Christian. Some of Ortuinus’s correspondents consult him on difficult theological questions. Here is an example in a letter from one Henricus Schaffmulius, another of his scholars who had made the journey to Rome:—
“Since, before I journeyed to the Court, you said to me that I am to write often to you, and that sometimes I am to send you any theological questions, which you will solve for me better than the courtiers of Rome, therefore now I ask your mastership what you hold as to the case when any one on a Friday, or any other fast day, eats an egg, and there is a chicken inside. Because the other day we sat in a tavern in the Campo-flore, and made a collation, and eat eggs, and I, opening an egg, saw that there was a young chicken in it, which I showed to my companion, and then he said, ‘Eat it quickly before the host sees it, for if he sees it, then you will be obliged to give a carlino or a julio for a hen, because it is the custom here that, when the host places anything on the table, you must pay for it, for they will not take it back. And when he sees there is a young hen in the egg, he will say, Pay me for the hen, because he reckons a small one the same as a large one.’ And I immediately sucked up the egg, and with it the chicken, and afterwards I bethought me that it was Friday, and I said to my companion. ‘You have caused me to commit a mortal sin, in eating flesh on Friday.’ And he said that it is not a mortal sin, nor even a venial sin, because that embryo of a chicken is not reckoned other than an egg till it is born; and he told me that it is as in cheeses, in which there are sometimes worms, and in cherries, and fresh peas and beans, yet they are eaten on Fridays, and also in the vigils of the apostles. But the hosts are such rogues, that they say that they are flesh, that they may have more money. Then I went away, and thought about it. And, per Deum! Magister Ortuinus, I am much troubled, and I know not how I ought to rule myself. If I went to ask advice of a courtier [of the papal court], I know that they have not good consciences. It seems to me that these young hens in the eggs are flesh, because the matter is already formed and figured in members and bodies of an animal, and it has life; it is otherwise with worms in cheeses and other things, because worms are reputed for fishes, as I have heard from a physician, who is a very good naturalist. Therefore I ask you very earnestly, that you will give me your reply on this question. Because if you hold that it is a mortal sin, then I will purchase an absolution here, before I return to Germany. Also you must know that our master Jacobus de Hochstraten has obtained a thousand florins from the bank, and I think that with these he will gain his cause, and the devil confound that John Reuchlin, and the other poets and jurists, because they will be against the church of God, that is, against the theologists, in whom is founded the church, as Christ said: Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church. And so I commend you to the Lord God. Farewell. Given from the city of Rome.”
While in Italy macaronic literature was reaching its greatest perfection, there arose in the very centre of France a man of great original genius, who was soon to astonish the world by a new form of satire, more grotesque and more comprehensive than anything that had been seen before. Teofilo Folengo may fairly be considered as the precursor of Rabelais, who appears to have taken the Italian satirist as his model. What we know of the life of François Rabelais is rather obscure at best, and is in some parts no doubt fabulous. He was born at Chinon in Touraine, either in 1483 or in 1487, for this seems to be a disputed point, and some doubt has been thrown on the trade or profession of his father, but the most generally received opinion is that he was an apothecary. He is said to have shown from his youth a disposition more inclined to gaiety than to serious pursuits, yet at an early age he had made great proficiency in learning, and is said to have acquired a very sufficient knowledge of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, two of which, at least, were not popular among the popish clergy, and not only of the modern languages and literature of Italy, Germany, and Spain, but even of Arabic. Probably this estimate of his acquirements in learning is rather exaggerated. It is not quite clear where the young Rabelais gained all this knowledge, for he is said to have been educated in convents and among monks, and to have become at a rather early age a Franciscan friar in the convent of Fontenai-le-Compte, in Lower Poitou, where he became an object of jealousy and ill-feeling to the other friars by his superior acquirements. It was a tradition, at least, that the conduct of Rabelais was not very strictly conventual, and that he had so far shown his contempt for monastic rule, and for the bigotry of the Romish church, that he was condemned to the prison of his monastery, upon a diet of bread and water, which, according to common report, was very uncongenial with the tastes of this jovial friar. Out of this difficulty he is said to have been helped by his friend the bishop of Maillezais, who obtained for him the pope’s licence to change the order of St. Francis for the much more easy and liberal order of St. Benedict, and he became a member of the bishop’s own chapter in the abbey of Maillezais. His unsteady temper, however, was not long satisfied with this retreat, which he left, and, laying aside the regular habit, assumed that of a secular priest. In this character he wandered for some time, and then settled at Montpellier, where he took a degree as doctor in medicine, and practised for some time with credit. There he published in 1532 a translation of some works of Hippocrates and Galen, which he dedicated to his friend the bishop of Maillezais. The circumstances under which he left Montpellier are not known, but he is supposed to have gone to Paris upon some business of the university, and to have remained there. He found there a staunch friend in Jean de Bellay, bishop of Paris, who soon afterwards was raised to the rank of cardinal. When the cardinal de Bellay went as ambassador to Rome from the court of France, Rabelais accompanied him, it is said in the character of his private medical adviser, but during his stay in the metropolis of Christendom, as Christendom was understood in those days by the Romish church, Rabelais obtained, on the 17th of January, 1536 the papal absolution for all his transgressions, and licence to return to Maillezais, and practise medicine there and elsewhere as an act of charity. Thus he became again a Benedictine monk. He, however, changed again, and became a secular canon, and finally settled down as the curé of Meudon, near Paris, with which he also held a fair number of ecclesiastical benefices. Rabelais died in 1553, according to some in a very religious manner, but others have given strange accounts of his last moments, representing that, even when dying, he conversed in the same spirit of mockery, not only of Romish forms and ceremonies, but of all religions whatever, which was ascribed to him during his life, and which are but too openly manifested in the extraordinary satirical romance which has given so much celebrity to his name.
During the greater part of his life, Rabelais was exposed to troubles and persecutions. He was saved from the intrigues of the monks by the friendly influence of popes and cardinals; and the favour of two successive kings, François I. and Henri II., protected him against the still more dangerous hostility of the Sorbonne and the parliament of Paris. This high protection has been advanced as a reason for rejecting the anecdotes and accounts which have been commonly received relating to the personal character of Rabelais, and his irregularities may possibly have been exaggerated by the hatred which he had drawn upon himself by his writings. But nobody, I think, who knows the character of society at that time, who compares what we know of the lives of the other satirists, and who has read the history of Gargantua and Pantagruel, will consider such an argument of much weight against the deliberate statements of those who were his contemporaries, or be inclined to doubt that the writer of this history was a man of jovial character, who loved a good bottle and a broad joke, and perhaps other things that were equally objectionable. His books present a sort of wild riotous orgy, without much order or plan, except the mere outline of the story, in which is displayed an extraordinary extent of reading in all classes of literature, from the most learned to the most popular, with a wonderful command of language, great imagination, and some poetry, intermixed with a perhaps larger amount of downright obscene ribaldry, than can be found in the macaronics of Folengo, in the “Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum,” or in the works of any of the other satirists who had preceded him, or were his contemporaries. It is a broad caricature, poor enough in its story, but enriched with details, which are brilliant with imagery, though generally coarse, and which are made the occasions for turning to ridicule everything that existed. The five books of this romance were published separately and at different periods, apparently without any fixed intention of continuing them. The earlier editions of the first part were published without date, but the earliest editions with dates belong to the year 1535, when it was several times reprinted. It appeared as the life of Gargantua. This hero is supposed to have flourished in the first half of the fifteenth century, and to have been the son of Grandgousier, king of Utopia, a country which lay somewhere in the direction of Chinon, a prince of an ancient dynasty, but a jovial fellow, who loved good eating and drinking better than anything else. Grandgousier married Gargamelle, daughter of the king of the Parpaillos, who became the mother of Gargantua. The first chapters relate rather minutely how the child was born, and came out at its mother’s ear, why it was called Gargantua, how it was dressed and treated in infancy, what were its amusements and disposition, and how Gargantua was put to learning under the sophists, and made no progress. Thereupon Grandgousier sent his son to Paris, to seek instruction there, and he proceeds thither mounted on an immense mare, which had been sent as a present by the king of Numidia—it must be borne in mind that the royal race of Utopia were all giants. At Paris the populace assembled tumultuously to gratify their curiosity in looking at this new scholar; but Gargantua, besides treating them in a very contemptuous manner, carried off the great bells of Notre Dame to suspend at the neck of his mare. Great was the indignation caused by this theft. “All the city was risen up in sedition, they being, as you know, upon any slight occasions, so ready to uproars and insurrections, that foreign nations wonder at the patience of the kings of France, who do not by good justice restrain them from such tumultuous courses.” The citizens take counsel, and resolve on sending one of the great orators of the university, Master Janotus de Bragmardo, to expostulate with Gargantua, and obtain the restoration of the bells. The speech which this worthy addresses to Gargantua, in fulfilment of his mission, is an amusing parody on the pedantic style of Parisian oratory. The bells, however, are recovered, and Gargantua, under skilful instructors, pursues his studies with credit, until he is suddenly called home by a letter from his father. In fact, Grandgousier was suddenly involved in a war with his neighbour Picrocole, king of Lerné, caused by a quarrel about cakes between some cake-makers of Lerné and Grandgousier’s shepherds, in consequence of which Picrocole had invaded the dominions of Grandgousier, and was plundering and ravaging them. His warlike humour is stirred up by the counsels of his three lieutenants, who persuade him that he is going to become a great conqueror, and that they will make him master of the whole world. It is not difficult to see, in the circumstances of the time, the general aim of the satire contained in the history of this war. It ends in the entire defeat and disappearance of king Picrocole. A sensual and jovial monk named brother Jean des Entommeurs, who has first distinguished himself by his prowess and strength in defending his own abbey against the invaders, contributes largely to the victory gained by Gargantua against his father’s enemies, and Gargantua rewards him by founding for him that pleasant abbey of Thélème, a grand establishment, stored with everything which could contribute to terrestrial happiness, from which all hypocrites and bigots were to be excluded, and the rule of which was comprised in the four simple words, “Do as you like.”