Erasmus is gone. His last saying to father was, "They will have you at court yet;" and father's answer, "When Plato's year comes round."
To me he gave a copy, how precious! of his Testament. "You are an elegant Latinist, Margaret," he was pleased to say, "but, if you woulde drink deeplie of ye well-springs of wisdom, applie to Greek. The Latins have onlie shallow rivulets; the Greeks, copious rivers, running over sands of gold. Read Plato; he wrote on marble, with a diamond; but above alle, read ye New Testament. 'Tis the key to the kingdom of heaven."
To Mr. Gunnel, he said, smiling, "Have a care of thyself, dear Gonellus, and take a little wine for thy stomach's sake. The wages of most scholars nowadays, are weak eyes, ill-health, an empty purse, and shorte commons. I neede only bid thee beware of the two first."
To Bess, "Farewell, Bessy; thank you for mending my bad Latin. When I write to you, I will be sure to signe myselfe 'Roterodamius.' Farewell, sweete, Cecil; let me always continue your 'desired amiable.' And you, Jacky,—love your book a little more."
"Jack's deare mother, not content with her girls," sayth father, "was alwaies wishing for a boy, and at last she had one that means to remain a boy alle his life."
"The Dutch schoolmasters thoughte me dulle and heavie," sayth Erasmus, "soe there is some hope of Jacky yet." And soe, stepped into ye barge, which we watched to Chelsea Reach. How dulle the house has beene ever since! Rupert and William have had me into ye pavillion to hear ye plot of a miracle-play they have alreadie begunne to talk over for Christmasse, but it seemed to me downrighte rubbish. Father sleeps in towne to-nighte, soe we shall be stupid enow. Bessy hath undertaken to work father a slipper for his tender foot; and is happie, tracing for ye pattern our three moor-cocks and colts; but I am idle and tiresome.
If I had paper, I woulde beginne my projected opus; but I dare not ask Gunnel for anie more just yet; nor have anie money to buy some. I wish I had a couple of angels. I think I shall write to father for them to-morrow; he alwaies likes to heare from us if he is twenty-four hours absent, providing we conclude not with "I have nothing more to say."
I have writ my letter to father. I almoste wish, now, that I had not sent it.
Rupert and Will still full of theire moralitie, which reallie has some fun in it. To ridicule ye extravagance of those who, as the saying is, carry theire farms and fields on theire backs, William proposes to come in, all verdant, with a reall model of a farm on his back and a windmill on his head.