Erasmus is Not Very Good at Predicting his Near Future, for such a Smart Guy

So, last time I decided to offer up to the Internet a bit of my diligent study, I went with one of the most absurd “tragic” stories in existence.

Today, then, is very different. Because today is some real tragedy, in the form of Desiderius Erasmus’s letters, where we learn that for a Very Smart Guy, Erasmus really had no handle on what England was about to be dealing with when it came to Henry VIII: Terrifying Egomaniac.

Before I dive into the first of two letters I eventually want to look at, I first want to note one absolutely crazy thing: “Erasmists have traced 2500 letters from the Dutch Humanist to friends and correspondents all over Europe” (Clements and Levant, 1976). 2500. That we have been able to trace some 500 years, give or take, later.

Guys, it’s January, and I still haven’t written my thank you cards from Christmas. It’s 2014, we have an exceptional mail system, and I couldn’t even manage to get my best friend’s birthday card in the mail on time. (I didn’t have a stamp, ok? Jeez.)

So, Erasmus was Amazingly Prolific in his letter writing, especially if we take just a second to remember that he was also, ya know, creating Latin and Greek editions of the New Testament, writing several of the most important Humanist treatises, and traveling, attending universities, and lecturing like it was his job. (Interestingly, only possible because he was granted an official papal dispensation from his actual job: priest.)

Pictured: A Priest, but also Not a Priest. Discuss.
(Unabashed credit to Wikipedia, because if I know it’s the right image, why should I go gallivanting around the Internet to find some other source?)

But now to these specific letters, because you may not know it, but you need more Early Modern Letters in your life.

First, Erasmus’s February 26, 1517 letter to Wolfgang Fabritius Capito (often more simply known as Wolfgang Capito, a priest who would eventually join and champion the Reformation, making his relationship with Erasmus…complicated).

Erasmus is writing this letter to express to Wolfgang how wonderful everything is under the new Pope and the new Kings, saying that

I could almost wish to be young again, for no other reason but this, that I anticipate the near approach of a golden age, so clearly do we see the minds of princes, as if changed by inspiration, devoting all their energies to the pursuit of peace.

Erasmus goes on to name Francis I and Pope Leo as the main movers and shakers, which – well, the political and military messes the Pope got into were Not His Fault, mostly. But Francis…was not Devoting All of his Energies to the Pursuit of Peace, is sufficient.

Still, that’s got nothing on what he’s about to say about Henry VIII:

When I see that the highest sovereigns of Europe – Francis of France, Charles the King Catholic, Henry of England, and the Emperor Maximilian – have set all their warlike preparations aside and established peace upon solid…foundations, I am led to a confident hope that not only morality and Christian piety, but also a genuine and purer literature, may come to renewed life…

In the theological sphere there was no little to be done…the unlearned vulgar being induced to believe that violence is offered to religion if anyone begins an assault upon their barbarism…But even here I am confident of success…

So, the First Part Last – man, good luck with that. Setting aside the classism of “unlearned” and “vulgar” being joined, we’ll all agree to alert one another if barbaric people ever stop believing that an assault on ignorance is also an assault on religion.

But. There’s a more directly, immediately failed prediction here: By 1519, Maximilian is dead. Charles is the new Emperor, which, since Francis was in the running, means they aren’t so much Devoted to Peace as they are Already on the Warpath. The actual war starts in 1521.

And Henry. Oh man, Henry is just…really not going to live up to Erasmus’s expectations. Of peace, or piety, or fidelity, or, really, finally, even of just Being a Good Person.

(Henry, by the by, accomplished hundreds of things that allowed the English Empire to eventually be created. That may be a good or bad thing, or too nuanced to be either. But it got us where we are (again, good or bad), so we oughtn’t let his personal life overshadow that. Still, doesn’t mean he wasn’t a Pretty Terrible and Breathtakingly Selfish Person by the end.)

This is apparently what Erasmus thought was happening. It is not, in fact, what was happening.
I also just get sick of seeing the same fatty fat Henry. He couldn’t walk properly, of course he got bigger – but he was apparently quite the fox in his younger days. He also had an ongoing, transcontinental argument with Francis about who had the better calves.
I don’t know anything about Charles’s calves. Or Pope Leo’s. I am assuming the dragon is an allegorical figure for either war or for heresy, as I have not heard any accounts of Henry and Charles killing dragons in St. Peter’s. Unfortunately.
(Wikipedia credit, again.)

One last note from this letter, just because it’s important to sometimes see how much a particular culture can limit even the Most Exceptional human beings:

One doubt still possesses my mind. I am afraid that, under cover of a revival of ancient literature, paganism may attempt to rear its head…or, on the other hand, that the restoration of Hebrew learning may give occasion to a revival of Judaism. That would be a plague as much opposed to the doctrine of Christ as anything that could happen.

Oh, Eramus. Here’s the thing, guys: as awful as that is, he’s crippled by his culture. Erasmus was Incredibly Learned, Very Intelligent, and, at the end of the day, a Very Good Person – he was kind to  and engaged with others, he maintained Cordial Conversation even with those with whom he disagreed, and he more than earned the title Prince of the Humanists.

But man – he has really, seriously Misidentified the Problem.

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More soon on the even sadder letter Eramus writes describing Thomas More. Spoiler: Early Modern Men had some really Appalling Ideas about Marriage.

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All citations and quotations from the edited collection Renaissance Letters: Revelations of a World Reborn. Eds. Robert J. Clements and Lorna Levant. New York: New York UP, 1976.

Early Modern Revelry: That Foxe Has a Lamb on His Back

For my first of this sort of post, I want to share a passage from N. Breton, Gentleman’s Miseries of Mavillia. This, as the title suggests, is the story of “the most unfortunate lady that ever lived,” (language modernized, all citations from the 1599 edition available on Early English Books Online). But the passage I love most is not about one of Mavillia’s miseries, but instead about one of the bright spots.

The Story So Far: As a child, Mavillia is orphaned when her parents are killed by invading soldiers. Then, she’s raised by a laundress who follows the camp of those invading soldiers. AND THEN the town is counter-invaded – and the man leading those troops happens to know Mavillia’s uncle, so he’s sending her along that way. Or, at least, probably it’s her uncle. Maybe it’s actually his uncle. Either way, this guy is supposed to take care of Mavillia.

UNFORTUNATELY, everyone in the company meant to take Mavillia to her new home dies in an ambush, where the ambushers are also killed. Everyone, that is, except the page. Well, and Mavilla. She’s got a lot of misfortune still to go. So the page and Mavillia are now wandering around the countryside. Except that the page, apparently, is sort of accident-prone. Because he manages to shoot himself, or, to quote the text “his leaning on it, made it of itself discharge a bullet into his right hip.” So there you go. Guns shoot people, even in 1599.  (When, yes, that would have been deeply difficult.) And this is where we get to this really amazing passage:

In this misery, as we sat sighing to think how we should do for meat, there came by a fox with a little lamb on his back, whom first the boy espied, and cried, “Mistress, look! Yonder is a fox with a lamb on his back! For God’s sake run to him, and cry ‘now, now,’ and the fox will be afraid, and leave the lamb behind him!”

And as the boy said, it happened. The weight of the lamb was too much for the fox to run with, and so I overtook him, and, frightening him with a loud cry, he let fall the lamb, and away he went! Think how glad I was to have this lamb. Which, when I brought to the boy, “Good Mistress,” he said, “Let me help to slay him.”

And so kindly together we sat, plucking off the skin, and cutting the quarters one from another, which, with the boy’s device of powder and match, and the fire-lock of his pistol, we made a fire and roasted finely.

I’ll be honest, I think it loses a little something when modernized, but I’m pretty sure this is still amazing. Now, I get that what Breton means is that the fox had the lamb slung over his back – which I believe is a thing foxes do, though I’m having trouble seeing even a rather large fox carry a lamb that way. HOWEVER – that is neither here nor there, because that is NOT what Breton actually wrote. No – he wrote that the fox had a lamb on his back. Which I, of course, picture as a lamb just cruising around on the back of a fox – which is even better because those two animals are essentially the same size. And my imagined scenario with the live lamb is reinforced by the fact that the boy asks to be allowed to “help to slay him.”

Further, I LOVE that apparently all you have to do to get a fox to drop his prey is to yell “Now, Now!” And the boy is very specific. He doesn’t say, “Run up and yell loudly.” He says, “Run up and yell ‘now, now!'” This is clearly an important detail. And I love it. Because that’s the most ridiculous thing to yell at a wild animal. Ever.

I don’t want to ruin the ending, even if I also feel fairly confident that no one reading this is planning on reading a moderately successful text from 414 years ago. So I will just tell you that there is a Boar Goring. And a False Accusation. AND SOMEONE GETS HER NOSE BITTEN OFF BY A SPURNED SUITOR.

Just…you know…someone. No one in particular.