No More Learning

The years which ensued were a time
singularly momentous in the history of religion, of letters, and of the
whole life of the civilized world. The eulogy of Leo with which Erasmus
ends indicates the hopes then entertained of a new Augustan age of peace
and reconciliation. The Reformation was still capable of being regarded as
an internal and constructive force, within the framework of the society
built up by the Middle Ages. The final divorce between humanism and the
Church had not yet been made. The long and disastrous epoch of the wars of
religion was still only a dark cloud on the horizon. The Renaissance was
really dead, but few yet realized the fact. The new head of the Church was
a lover of peace, a friend of scholars, a munificent patron of the arts.
This treatise shows that Erasmus, to a certain extent, shared or strove to
share in an illusion widely spread among the educated classes of Europe.
With a far keener instinct for that which the souls of men required, an
Augustinian monk from Wittenberg, who had visited Rome two years earlier,
had turned away from the temple where a corpse lay swathed in gold and
half hid in the steam of incense. With a far keener insight into the real
state of things, Machiavelli was, at just this time, composing The Prince.

In one form or another, the subject of his impassioned pleading for peace
among beings human, civilized, and Christian, had been long in Erasmus's
mind. In his most celebrated single work, the Praise of Folly, he had
bitterly attacked the attitude towards war habitual, and evilly
consecrated by usage, among kings and popes. The same argument had formed
the substance of a document addressed by him, under the title of
Anti-Polemus, to Pope Julius in 1507. Much of the substance, much even of
the phraseology of that earlier work is doubtless repeated here. Beyond
the specific reference to Pope Leo, the other notes of time in the
treatise now before us are few and faint. Allusions to Louis XII of France
(1498-1515), to Ferdinand the Catholic (1479-1516), to Philip, king of
Aragon (1504-1516), and Sigismund, king of Poland (1506-1548), are all
consistent with the composition of the treatise some years earlier. At the
end of it he promises to treat of the matter more largely when he
publishes the Anti-Polemus. But this intention was never carried into
effect. Perhaps Erasmus had become convinced of its futility; for the
events of the years which followed soon showed that the new Augustan age
was but a false dawn over which night settled more stormily and profoundly
than before.

For ten or a dozen years Erasmus had stood at the head of European
scholarship. His name was as famous in France and England as in the Low
Countries and Germany. The age was indeed one of those in which the
much-abused term of the republic of letters had a real and vital meaning.
The nationalities of modern Europe had already formed themselves; the
notion of the Empire had become obsolete, and if the imperial title was
still coveted by princes, it was under no illusion as to the amount of
effective supremacy which it carried with it, or as to any life yet
remaining in the mediaeval doctrine of the unity of Christendom whether as
a church or as a state. The discovery of the new world near the end of
the previous century precipitated a revolution in European politics
towards which events had long been moving, and finally broke up the
political framework of the Middle Ages. But the other great event of the
same period, the invention and diffusion of the art of printing, had
created a new European commonwealth of the mind. The history of the
century which followed it is a history in which the landmarks are found
less in battles and treaties than in books.

The earlier life of the man who occupies the central place in the literary
and spiritual movement of his time in no important way differs from the
youth of many contemporary scholars and writers. Even the illegitimacy of
his birth was an accident shared with so many others that it does not mark
him out in any way from his fellows. His early education at Utrecht, at
Deventer, at Herzogenbosch; his enforced and unhappy novitiate in a house
of Augustinian canons near Gouda; his secretaryship to the bishop of
Cambray, the grudging patron who allowed rather than assisted him to
complete his training at the University of Paris--all this was at the time
mere matter of common form. It is with his arrival in England in 1497, at
the age of thirty-one, that his effective life really begins.

For the next twenty years that life was one of restless movement and
incessant production. In England, France, the Low Countries, on the upper
Rhine, and in Italy, he flitted about gathering up the whole intellectual
movement of the age, and pouring forth the results in that admirable Latin
which was not only the common language of scholars in every country, but
the single language in which he himself thought instinctively and wrote
freely. Between the Adagia of 1500 and the Colloquia of 1516 comes a mass
of writings equivalent to the total product of many fertile and
industrious pens. He worked in the cause of humanism with a sacred fury,
striving with all his might to connect it with all that was living in the
old and all that was developing in the newer world. In his travels no less
than in his studies the aspect of war must have perpetually met him as at
once the cause and the effect of barbarism; it was the symbol of
everything to which humanism in its broader as well as in its narrower
aspect was utterly opposed and repugnant. He was a student at Paris in the
ominous year of the first French invasion of Italy, in which the death of
Pico della Mirandola and Politian came like a symbol of the death of the
Italian Renaissance itself. Charles VIII, as has often been said, brought
back the Renaissance to France from that expedition; but he brought her
back a captive chained to the wheels of his cannon. The epoch of the
Italian wars began. A little later (1500) Sandro Botticelli painted that
amazing Nativity which is one of the chief treasures of the London
National Gallery. Over it in mystical Greek may still be read the
painter's own words: "This picture was painted by me Alexander amid the
confusions of Italy at the time prophesied in the Second Woe of the
Apocalypse, when Satan shall be loosed upon the earth. " In November, 1506,
Erasmus was at Bologna, and saw the triumphal entry of Pope Julius into
the city at the head of a great mercenary army. Two years later the league
of Cambray, a combination of folly, treachery and shame which filled even
hardened politicians with horror, plunged half Europe into a war in which
no one was a gainer and which finally ruined Italy: "bellum quo nullum,"
says the historian, "vel atrocius vel diuturnius in Italia post exactos
Gothos majores nostri meminerunt. " In England Erasmus found, on his first
visit, a country exhausted by the long and desperate struggle of the Wars
of the Roses, out of which she had emerged with half her ruling class
killed in battle or on the scaffold, and the whole fabric of society to
reconstruct. The Empire was in a state of confusion and turmoil no less
deplorable and much more extensive. The Diet of 1495 had indeed, by an
expiring effort towards the suppression of absolute anarchy, decreed the
abolition of private war. But in a society where every owner of a castle,
every lord of a few square miles of territory, could conduct public war on
his own account, the prohibition was of little more than formal value.
Humanism had been introduced by the end of the fifteenth century in some
of the German universities, but too late to have much effect on the rising
fury of religious controversy. The very year in which this treatise
against war was published gave to the world another work of even wider
circulation and more profound consequences. The famous Epistolae
Obscurorum Virorum, first published in 1515, and circulated rapidly among
all the educated readers of Europe, made an open breach between the
humanists and the Church. That breach was never closed; nor on the other
hand could the efforts of well-intentioned reformers like Melancthon bring
humanism into any organic relation with the reformed movement. When mutual
exhaustion concluded the European struggle, civilization had to start
afresh; it took a century more to recover the lost ground. The very idea
of humanism had long before then disappeared.

War, pestilence, the theologians: these were the three great enemies with
which Erasmus says he had throughout life to contend. It was during the
years he spent in England that he was perhaps least harassed by them. His
three periods of residence there--a fourth, in 1517, appears to have been
of short duration and not marked by any very notable incident--were of the
utmost importance in his life. During the first, in his residence between
the years 1497 and 1499 at London and Oxford, the English Renaissance, if
the name be fully applicable to so partial and inconclusive a movement,
was in the promise and ardour of its brief spring. It was then that
Erasmus made the acquaintance of those great Englishmen whose names cannot
be mentioned with too much reverence: Colet, Grocyn, Latimer, Linacre.
These men were the makers of modern England to a degree hardly realized.
They carried the future in their hands. Peace had descended upon a weary
country; and the younger generation was full of new hopes. The Enchiridion
Militis Christiani, written soon after Erasmus returned to France,
breathes the spirit of one who had not lost hope in the reconciliation of
the Church and the world, of the old and new. When Erasmus made his second
visit to England, in 1506, that fair promise had grown and spread. Colet
had become dean of Saint Paul's; and through him, as it would appear,
Erasmus now made the acquaintance of another great man with whom he soon
formed as close an intimacy, Thomas More.

His Italian journey followed: he was in Italy nearly three years, at
Turin, Bologna, Venice, Padua, Siena, Rome. It was in the first of these
years that Albert Dürer was also in Italy, where he met Bellini and was
recognized by the Italian masters as the head of a new transalpine art in
no way inferior to their own. The year after Erasmus left Italy,
Botticelli, the last survivor of the ancient world, died at Florence.

Meanwhile, Henry VIII, a prince, young, handsome, generous, pious, had
succeeded to the throne of England. A golden age was thought to have
dawned. Lord Mountjoy, who had been the pupil of Erasmus at Paris, and
with whom he had first come to England, lost no time in urging Henry to
send for the most brilliant and famous of European scholars, and attach
him to his court. The king, who had already met and admired him, needed no
pressing. In the letter which Henry himself wrote to Erasmus entreating
him to take up his residence in England, the language employed was that of
sincere admiration; nor was there any conscious insincerity in the main
motive which he urged. "It is my earnest wish," wrote the king, "to
restore Christ's religion to its primitive purity. " The history of the
English Reformation supplies a strange commentary on these words.

But the first few years of the new reign (1509-1513), which coincide with
the third and longest sojourn of Erasmus in England, were a time in which
high hopes might not seem unreasonable. While Italy was ravaged by war and
the rest of Europe was in uneasy ferment, England remained peaceful and
prosperous. The lust of the eyes and the pride of life were indeed the
motive forces of the court; but alongside of these was a real desire for
reform, and a real if very imperfect attempt to cultivate the nobler arts
of peace, to establish learning, and to purify religion. Colet's great
foundation of Saint Paul's School in 1510 is one of the landmarks of
English history. Erasmus joined the founder and the first high master,
Colet and Lily, in composing the schoolbooks to be used in it. He had
already written, in More's house at Chelsea, where pure religion reigned
alongside of high culture, the Encomium Moriae, in which all his immense
gifts of eloquence and wit were lavished on the cause of humanism and the
larger cause of humanity. That war was at once a sin, a scandal, and a
folly was one of the central doctrines of the group of eminent Englishmen
with whom he was now associated. It was a doctrine held by them with some
ambiguity and in varying degrees. In the Utopia (1516) More condemns wars
of aggression, while taking the common view as to wars of so-called
self-defence. In 1513, when Henry, swept into the seductive scheme for a
partition of France by a European confederacy, was preparing for the first
of his many useless and inglorious continental campaigns, Colet spoke out
more freely. He preached before the court against war itself as barbarous
and unchristian, and did not spare either kings or popes who dealt
otherwise. Henry was disturbed; he sent for Colet, and pressed him hard on
the point whether he meant that all wars were unjustifiable. Colet was in
advance of his age, but not so far in advance of it as this. He gave some
kind of answer which satisfied the king. The preparations for war went
forward; the Battle of Spurs plunged the court and all the nation into the
intoxication of victory; while at Flodden-edge, in the same autumn, the
ancestral allies of France sustained the most crushing defeat recorded in
Scottish history. When both sides in a war have invoked God's favour, the
successful side is ready enough to believe that its prayers have been
answered and its action accepted by God.

Erasmus was now reader in Greek and professor of divinity at Cambridge;
but Cambridge was far away from the centre of European thought and of
literary activities. He left England before the end of the year for Basel,
where the greater part of his life thenceforth was passed. Froben had made
Basel the chief literary centre of production for the whole of Europe.
Through Froben's printing-presses Erasmus could reach a wider audience
than was allowed him at any court, however favourable to pure religion and
the new learning. It was at this juncture that he made an eloquent and
far-reaching appeal, on a matter which lay very near his heart, to the
conscience of Christendom.

The Adagia, that vast work which was, at least to his own generation,
Erasmus's foremost title to fame, has long ago passed into the rank of
those monuments of literature "dont la reputation s'affermira toujours
parcequ'on ne les lit guère. " So far as Erasmus is more than a name for
most modern readers, it is on slighter and more popular works that any
direct knowledge of him is grounded on the Colloquies, which only ceased
to be a schoolbook within living memory, on the Praise of Folly, and on
selections from the enormous masses of his letters. An Oxford scholar of
the last generation, whose profound knowledge of humanistic literature was
accompanied by a gift of terse and pointed expression, describes the
Adagia in a single sentence, as "a manual of the wit and wisdom of the
ancient world for the use of the modern, enlivened by commentary in
Erasmus's finest vein. " In its first form, the Adagiorum Collectanea, it
was published by him at Paris in 1500, just after his return from England.
In the author's epistle dedicatory to Mountjoy he ascribes to him and to
Richard Charnock, the prior of Saint Mary's College in Oxford, the
inspiration of the work. It consists of a series of between eight and nine
hundred comments in brief essays, each suggested by some terse or
proverbial phrase from an ancient Latin author. The work gave full scope
for the display, not only of the immense treasures of his learning, but of
those other qualities, the combination of which raised their author far
above all other contemporary writers, his keen wit, his copiousness and
facility, his complete control of Latin as a living language. It met with
an enthusiastic reception, and placed him at once at the head of European
men of letters. Edition after edition poured from the press. It was ten
times reissued at Paris within a generation. Eleven editions were
published at Strasburg between 1509 and 1521. Within the same years it was
reprinted at Erfurt, The Hague, Cologne, Mayence, Leyden, and elsewhere.
The Rhine valley was the great nursery of letters north of the Alps, and
along the Rhine from source to sea the book spread and was multiplied.

This success induced Erasmus to enlarge and complete his labours. The
Adagiorum Chiliades, the title of the work in its new form, was part of
the work of his residence in Italy in the years 1506-9, and was published
at Venice by Aldus in September, 1508. The enlarged collection, to all
intents and purposes a new work, consists of no less than three thousand
two hundred and sixty heads. In a preface, Erasmus speaks slightingly of
the Adagiorum Collectanea, with that affectation from which few authors
are free, as a little collection carelessly made. "Some people got hold of
it," he adds, (and here the affectation becomes absolute untruth,) "and
had it printed very incorrectly. " In the new work, however, much of the
old disappears, much more is partially or wholly recast; and such of the
old matter as is retained is dispersed at random among the new. In the
Collectanea the commentaries had all been brief: here many are expanded
into substantial treatises covering four or five pages of closely printed
folio.

The Aldine edition had been reprinted at Basel by Froben in 1513. Shortly
afterwards Erasmus himself took up his permanent residence there. Under
his immediate supervision there presently appeared what was to all intents
and purposes the definitive edition of 1515. It is a book of nearly seven
hundred folio pages, and contains, besides the introductory matter, three
thousand four hundred and eleven headings. In his preface Erasmus gives
some details with regard to its composition. Of the original Paris work he
now says, no doubt with truth, that it was undertaken by him hastily and
without enough method. When preparing the Venice edition he had better
realized the magnitude of the enterprise, and was better fitted for it by
reading and learning, more especially by the mass of Greek manuscripts,
and of newly printed Greek first editions, to which he had access at
Venice and in other parts of Italy. In England also, owing very largely to
the kindness of Archbishop Warham, more leisure and an ampler library had
been available.

Among several important additions made in the edition of 1515, this essay,
the text of which is the proverbial phrase "Dulce bellum inexpertis," is
at once the longest and the most remarkable. The adage itself, with a few
lines of commentary, had indeed been in the original collection; but the
treatise, in itself a substantial work, now appeared for the first time.
It occupied a conspicuous place as the first heading in the fourth Chiliad
of the complete work; and it was at once singled out from the rest as of
special note and profound import. Froben was soon called upon for a
separate edition. This appeared in April, 1517, in a quarto of twenty
pages. This little book, the Bellum Erasmi as it was called for the sake
of brevity, ran like wildfire from reader to reader. Half the scholarly
presses of Europe were soon employed in reprinting it. Within ten years it
had been reissued at Louvain, twice at Strasburg, twice at Mayence, at
Leipsic, twice at Paris, twice at Cologne, at Antwerp, and at Venice.
German translations of it were published at Basel and at Strasburg in 1519
and 1520. It soon made its way to England, and the translation here
utilized was issued by Berthelet, the king's printer, in the winter of
1533-4.

Whether the translation be by Richard Taverner, the translator and editor,
a few years later, of an epitome or selection of the Chiliades, or by some
other hand, there are no direct means of ascertaining; nor except for
purposes of curiosity is the question an important one. The version wholly
lacks distinction. It is a work of adequate scholarship but of no
independent literary merit. English prose was then hardly formed. The
revival of letters had reached the country, but for political and social
reasons which are readily to be found in any handbook of English history,
it had found a soil, fertile indeed, but not yet broken up. Since Chaucer,
English poetry had practically stood still, and except where poetry has
cleared the way, prose does not in ordinary circumstances advance. A few
adventurers in setting forth had appeared. More's Utopia, one of the
earliest of English prose classics, is a classic in virtue of its style as
well as of its matter. Berners's translation of Froissart, published in
1523, was the first and one of the finest of that magnificent series of
translations which from this time onwards for about a century were
produced in an almost continuous stream, and through which the secret of
prose was slowly wrung from older and more accomplished languages.
Latimer, about the same time, showed his countrymen how a vernacular
prose, flexible, well knit, and nervous, might be written without its
lines being traced on any ancient or foreign model. Coverdale, the
greatest master of English prose whom the century produced, whose name has
just missed the immortality that is secure for his work, must have
substantially completed that magnificent version of the Bible which
appeared in 1535, and to which the authorized version of the seventeenth
century owes all that one work of genius can owe to another. It is not
with these great men that the translator of this treatise can be compared.
But he wrought, after his measure, on the same structure as they.

It is then to the original Latin, not to this rude and stammering version,
that scholars must turn now, as still more certainly they turned then, for
the mind of Erasmus; for with him, even more eminently than with other
authors, the style is the man, and his Latin is the substance, not merely
the dress, of his thought. When he wrote it he was about forty-eight years
of age. He was still in the fullness of his power. If he was often
crippled by delicate health, that was no more than he had habitually been
from boyhood. In this treatise we come very near the real man, with his
strange mixture of liberalism and orthodoxy, of clear-sighted courage and
a delicacy which nearly always might be mistaken for timidity.

His text is that (in the translator's words) "nothing is either more
wicked or more wretched, nothing doth worse become a man (I will not say a
Christian man) than war. " War was shocking to Erasmus alike on every side
of his remarkably complex and sensitive nature. It was impious; it was
inhuman; it was ugly; it was in every sense of the word barbarous, to one
who before all things and in the full sense of the word was civilized and
a lover of civilization. All these varied aspects of the case, seen by
others singly and partially, were to him facets of one truth, rays of one
light. His argument circles and flickers among them, hardly pausing to
enforce one before passing insensibly to another. In the splendid
vindication of the nature of man with which the treatise opens, the tone
is rather that of Cicero than of the New Testament. The majesty of man
resides above all in his capacity to "behold the very pure strength and
nature of things;" in essence he is no fallen and corrupt creature, but a
piece of workmanship such as Shakespeare describes him through the mouth
of Hamlet. He was shaped to this heroic mould "by Nature, or rather god,"
so the Tudor translation reads, and the use of capital letters, though
only a freak of the printer, brings out with a singular suggestiveness the
latent pantheism which underlies the thought of all the humanists. To this
wonderful creature strife and warfare are naturally repugnant. Not only is
his frame "weak and tender," but he is "born to love and amity. " His chief
end, the object to which all his highest and most distinctively human
powers are directed, is coöperant labour in the pursuit of knowledge. War
comes out of ignorance, and into ignorance it leads; of war comes contempt
of virtue and of godly living. In the age of Machiavelli the word "virtue"
had a double and sinister meaning; but here it is taken in its nobler
sense. Yet, the argument continues, for "virtue," even in the Florentine
statesman's sense, war gives but little room. It is waged mainly for "vain
titles or childish wrath;" it does not foster, in those responsible for
it, any one of the nobler excellences. The argument throughout this part
of the treatise is, both in its substance and in its ornament, wholly
apart from the dogmas of religion. The furies of war are described as
rising out of a very pagan hell. The apostrophe of Nature to mankind
immediately suggests the spirit as well as the language of Lucretius.
Erasmus had clearly been reading the De Rerum Natura, and borrows some of
his finest touches from that miraculous description of the growth of
civilization in the fifth book, which is one of the noblest contributions
of antiquity towards a real conception of the nature of the world and of
man. The progressive degeneration of morality, because, as its scope
becomes higher, practice falls further and further short of it, is
insisted upon by both these great thinkers in much the same spirit and
with much the same illustrations. The rise of empires, "of which there was
never none yet in any nation, but it was gotten with the great shedding of
man's blood," is seen by both in the same light. But Erasmus passes on to
the more expressly religious aspect of the whole matter in the great
double climax with which he crowns his argument, the wickedness of a
Christian fighting against another man, the horror of a Christian fighting
against another Christian. "Yea, and with a thing so devilish," he breaks
out in a mingling of intense scorn and profound pity, "we mingle Christ. "

From this passionate appeal he passes to the praises of peace. Why should
men add the horrors of war to all the other miseries and dangers of life?
Why should one man's gain be sought only through another's loss? All
victories in war are Cadmean; not only from their cost in blood and
treasure, but because we are in very truth "the members of one body,"
"redeemed with Christ's blood. " Such was the clear, unmistakable teaching
of our Lord himself, such of his apostles. But the doctrine of Christ has
been "plied to worldly opinion. " Worldly men, philosophers following "the
sophistries of Aristotle," worst of all, divines and theologians
themselves, have corrupted the Gospel to the heathenish doctrine that
"every man must first provide for himself. " The very words of Scripture
are wrested to this abuse. Self-defence is held to excuse any violence.
"Peter fought," they say, "in the garden,"--yes, and that same night he
denied his Master! "But punishment of wrong is a divine ordinance. " In war
the punishment falls on the innocent. "But the law of nature bids us repel
violence by violence. " What is the law of Christ? "But may not a prince go
to war justly for his right? " Did any war ever lack a title? "But what of
wars against the Turk? " Such wars are of Turk against Turk; let us
overcome evil with good, let us spread the Gospel by doing what the Gospel
commands: did Christ say, Hate them that hate you?

Then, with the tact of an accomplished orator, he lets the tension relax,
and drops to a lower tone. Even apart from all that has been urged, even
if war were ever justifiable, think of the price that has to be paid for
it. On this ground alone an unjust peace is far preferable to a just war.
(These had been the very words of Colet to the king of England. ) Men go to
war under fine pretexts, but really to get riches, to satisfy hatred, or
to win the poor glory of destroying. The hatred is but exasperated; the
glory is won by and for the dregs of mankind; the riches are in the most
prosperous event swallowed up ten times over. Yet if it be impossible but
war should be, if there may be sometimes a "colour of equity" in it, and
if the tyrant's plea, necessity, be ever well-founded, at least, so
Erasmus ends, let it be conducted mercifully. Let us live in fervent
desire of the peace that we may not fully attain. Let princes restrain
their peoples; let churchmen above all be peacemakers.
So the treatise
passes to its conclusion with that eulogy of the Medicean pope already
mentioned, which perhaps was not wholly undeserved. To the modern world
the name of Leo X has come down marked with a note of censure or even of
ignominy. It is fair to remember that it did not bear quite the same
aspect to its contemporaries, nor to the ages which immediately followed.
Under Rodrigo Borgia it might well seem to others than to the Florentine
mystic that antichrist was enthroned, and Satan let loose upon earth. The
eight years of Leo's pontificate (1513-21) were at least a period of
outward splendour and of a refinement hitherto unknown. The corruption,
half veiled by that refinement and splendour, was deep and mortal, but the
collapse did not come till later. By comparison with the disastrous reign
of Clement VII, his bastard cousin, that of Giovanni de' Medici seemed a
last gleam of light before blackness descended on the world. Even the
licence of a dissolute age was contrasted to its favour with the gloom,
"tristitia," that settled down over Europe with the great Catholic
reaction. The age of Leo X has descended to history as the age of Bembo,
Sannazaro, Lascaris, of the Stanze of the Vatican, of Raphael's Sistine
Madonna and Titian's Assumption; of the conquest of Mexico and the
circumnavigation of Magellan; of Magdalen Tower and King's College Chapel.
It was an interval of comparative peace before a long epoch of wars more
cruel and more devastating than any within the memory of men. The general
European conflagration did not break out until ten years after Erasmus's
death; though it had then long been foreseen as inevitable. But he lived
to see the conquest of Rhodes by Soliman, the sack of Rome, the breach
between England and the papacy, the ill-omened marriage of Catherine de'
Medici to the heir of the French throne. Humanism had done all that it
could, and failed. In the sanguinary era of one hundred years between the
outbreak of the civil war in the Empire and the Peace of Westphalia, the
Renaissance followed the Middle Ages to the grave, and the modern world
was born.

The mere fact of this treatise having been translated into English and
published by the king's printer shows, in an age when the literary product
of England was as yet scanty, that it had some vogue and exercised some
influence. But only a few copies of the work are known to exist; and it
was never reprinted. It was not until nearly three centuries later, amid
the throes of an European revolution equally vast, that the work was again
presented in an English dress. Vicesimus Knox, a whig essayist, compiler,
and publicist of some reputation at the time, was the author of a book
which was published anonymously in 1794 and found some readers in a year
filled with great events in both the history and the literature of
England. It was entitled "Anti-Polemus: or the Plea of Reason, Religion,
and Humanity against War: a Fragment translated from Erasmus and addressed
to Aggressors. " That was the year when the final breach took place in the
whig party, and when Pitt initiated his brief and ill-fated policy of
conciliation in Ireland. It was also the year of two works of enormous
influence over thought, Paley's Evidences and Paine's Age of Reason. Among
these great movements Knox's work had but little chance of appealing to a
wide audience. "Sed quid ad nos? " the bitter motto on the title-page,
probably expressed the feelings with which it was generally regarded. A
version of the treatise against war, made from the Latin text of the
Adagia with some omissions, is the main substance of the volume; and Knox
added a few extracts from other writings of Erasmus on the same subject.
It does not appear to have been reprinted in England, except in a
collected edition of Knox's works which may be found on the dustiest
shelves of old-fashioned libraries, until, after the close of the
Napoleonic wars, it was again published as a tract by the Society for the
Promotion of Permanent and Universal Peace. Some half dozen impressions of
this tract appeared at intervals up to the middle of the century; its
publication passed into the hands of the Society of Friends, and the last
issue of which any record can be found was made just before the outbreak
of the Crimean war. But in 1813 an abridged edition was printed at New
York, and was one of the books which influenced the great movement towards
humanity then stirring in the young Republic.

At the present day, the reactionary wave which has overspread the world
has led, both in England and America, to a new glorification of war. Peace
is on the lips of governments and of individuals, but beneath the smooth
surface the same passions, draped as they always have been under fine
names, are a menace to progress and to the higher life of mankind. The
increase of armaments, the glorification of the military life, the
fanaticism which regards organized robbery and murder as a sacred imperial
mission, are the fruits of a spirit which has fallen as far below the
standard of humanism as it has left behind it the precepts of a still
outwardly acknowledged religion. At such a time the noble pleading of
Erasmus has more than a merely literary or antiquarian interest. For the
appeal of humanism still is, as it was then, to the dignity of human
nature itself.

J. W. Mackail




AGAINST WAR




DULCE BELLUM INEXPERTIS


It is both an elegant proverb, and among all others, by the writings of
many excellent authors, full often and solemnly used, Dulce bellum
inexpertis, that is to say, War is sweet to them that know it not. There
be some things among mortal men's businesses, in the which how great
danger and hurt there is, a man cannot perceive till he make a proof. The
love and friendship of a great man is sweet to them that be not expert: he
that hath had thereof experience, is afraid. It seemeth to be a gay and a
glorious thing, to strut up and down among the nobles of the court, and to
be occupied in the king's business; but old men, to whom that thing by
long experience is well known, do gladly abstain themselves from such
felicity. It seemeth a pleasant thing to be in love with a young damsel;
but that is unto them that have not yet perceived how much grief and
bitterness is in such love. So after this manner of fashion, this proverb
may be applied to every business that is adjoined with great peril and
with many evils: the which no man will take on hand, but he that is young
and wanteth experience of things.

Aristotle, in his book of Rhetoric, showeth the cause why youth is more
bold, and contrariwise old age more fearful: for unto young men lack of
experience is cause of great boldness, and to the other, experience of
many griefs engendereth fear and doubting. Then if there be anything in
the world that should be taken in hand with fear and doubting, yea, that
ought by all manner of means to be fled, to be withstood with prayer, and
to be clean avoided, verily it is war; than which nothing is either more
wicked, or more wretched, or that more farther destroyeth, or that never
hand cleaveth sorer to, or doth more hurt, or is more horrible, and
briefly to speak, nothing doth worse become a man (I will not say a
Christian man) than war. And yet it is a wonder to speak of, how nowadays
in every place, how lightly, and how for every trifling matter, it is
taken in hand, how outrageously and barbarously it is gested and done, not
only of heathen people, but also of Christian men; not only of secular
men, but also of priests and bishops; not only of young men and of them
that have no experience, but also of old men and of those that so often
have had experience; not only of the common and movable vulgar people, but
most specially of the princes, whose duty had been, by wisdom and reason,
to set in a good order and to pacify the light and hasty movings of the
foolish multitude. Nor there lack neither lawyers, nor yet divines, the
which are ready with their firebrands to kindle these things so
abominable, and they encourage them that else were cold, and they privily
provoke those to it that were weary thereof. And by these means it is come
to that pass that war is a thing now so well accepted, that men wonder at
him that is not pleased therewith. It is so much approved, that it is
counted a wicked thing (and I had almost said heresy) to reprove this one
thing, the which as it is above all other things most mischievous, so it
is most wretched. But how more justly should this be wondered at, what
evil spirit, what pestilence, what mischief, and what madness put first in
man's mind a thing so beyond measure beastly, that this most pleasant and
reasonable creature Man, the which Nature hath brought forth to peace and
benevolence, which one alone she hath brought forth to the help and
succour of all other, should with so wild wilfulness, with so mad rages,
run headlong one to destroy another? At the which thing he shall also much
more marvel, whosoever would withdraw his mind from the opinions of the
common people, and will turn it to behold the very pure strength and
nature of things; and will apart behold with philosophical eyes the image
of man on the one side, and the picture of war on the other side.

Then first of all if one would consider well but the behaviour and shape
of man's body shall he not forthwith perceive that Nature, or rather God,
hath shaped this creature, not to war, but to friendship, not to
destruction, but to health, not to wrong, but to kindness and benevolence?
For whereas Nature hath armed all other beasts with their own armour, as
the violence of the bulls she hath armed with horns, the ramping lion with
claws; to the boar she hath given the gnashing tusks; she hath armed the
elephant with a long trump snout, besides his great huge body and hardness
of the skin; she hath fenced the crocodile with a skin as hard as a plate;
to the dolphin fish she hath given fins instead of a dart; the porcupine
she defendeth with thorns; the ray and thornback with sharp prickles; to
the cock she hath given strong spurs; some she fenceth with a shell, some
with a hard hide, as it were thick leather, or bark of a tree; some she
provideth to save by swiftness of flight, as doves; and to some she hath
given venom instead of a weapon; to some she hath given a much horrible
and ugly look, she hath given terrible eyes and grunting voice; and she
hath also set among some of them continual dissension and debate--man
alone she hath brought forth all naked, weak, tender, and without any
armour, with most soft flesh and smooth skin. There is nothing at all in
all his members that may seem to be ordained to war, or to any violence. I
will not say at this time, that where all other beasts, anon as they are
brought forth, they are able of themselves to get their food. Man alone
cometh so forth, that a long season after he is born, he dependeth
altogether on the help of others. He can neither speak nor go, nor yet
take meat; he desireth help only by his infant crying: so that a man may,
at the least way, by this conject, that this creature alone was born all
to love and amity, which specially increaseth and is fast knit together by
good turns done eftsoons of one to another. And for this cause Nature
would, that a man should not so much thank her, for the gift of life,
which she hath given unto him, as he should thank kindness and
benevolence, whereby he might evidently understand himself, that he was
altogether dedicate and bounden to the gods of graces, that is to say, to
kindness, benevolence, and amity. And besides this Nature hath given unto
man a countenance not terrible and loathly, as unto other brute beasts;
but meek and demure, representing the very tokens of love and benevolence.
She hath given him amiable eyes, and in them assured marks of the inward
mind. She hath ordained him arms to clip and embrace. She hath given him
the wit and understanding to kiss: whereby the very minds and hearts of
men should be coupled together, even as though they touched each other.
Unto man alone she hath given laughing, a token of good cheer and
gladness. To man alone she hath given weeping tears, as it were a pledge
or token of meekness and mercy. Yea, and she hath given him a voice not
threatening and horrible, as unto other brute beasts, but amiable and
pleasant. Nature not yet content with all this, she hath given unto man
alone the commodity of speech and reasoning: the which things verily may
specially both get and nourish benevolence, so that nothing at all should
be done among men by violence.

She hath endued man with hatred of solitariness, and with love of company.
She hath utterly sown in man the very seeds of benevolence. She hath so
done, that the selfsame thing, that is most wholesome, should be most
sweet and delectable. For what is more delectable than a friend? And
again, what thing is more necessary? Moreover, if a man might lead all his
life most profitably without any meddling with other men, yet nothing
would seem pleasant without a fellow: except a man would cast off all
humanity, and forsaking his own kind would become a beast.

Besides all this, Nature hath endued man with knowledge of liberal
sciences and a fervent desire of knowledge: which thing as it doth most
specially withdraw man's wit from all beastly wildness, so hath it a
special grace to get and knit together love and friendship. For I dare
boldly say, that neither affinity nor yet kindred doth bind the minds of
men together with straiter and surer bands of amity, than doth the
fellowship of them that be learned in good letters and honest studies.
And above all this, Nature hath divided among men by a marvellous variety
the gifts, as well of the soul as of the body, to the intent truly that
every man might find in every singular person one thing or other, which
they should either love or praise for the excellency thereof; or else
greatly desire and make much of it, for the need and profit that cometh
thereof. Finally she hath endowed man with a spark of a godly mind: so
that though he see no reward, yet of his own courage he delighteth to do
every man good: for unto God it is most proper and natural, by his
benefit, to do everybody good. Else what meaneth it, that we rejoice and
conceive in our minds no little pleasure when we perceive that any
creature is by our means preserved.

Moreover God hath ordained man in this world, as it were the very image of
himself, to the intent, that he, as it were a god on earth, should provide
for the wealth of all creatures. And this thing the very brute beasts do
also perceive, for we may see, that not only the tame beasts, but also the
leopards, lions, and other more fierce and wild, when they be in any great
jeopardy, they flee to man for succour. So man is, when all things fail,
the last refuge to all manner of creatures. He is unto them all the very
assured altar and sanctuary.

I have here painted out to you the image of man as well as I can. On the
other side (if it like you) against the figure of Man, let us portray the
fashion and shape of War.

Now, then, imagine in thy mind, that thou dost behold two hosts of
barbarous people, of whom the look is fierce and cruel, and the voice
horrible; the terrible and fearful rustling and glistering of their
harness and weapons; the unlovely murmur of so huge a multitude; the eyes
sternly menacing; the bloody blasts and terrible sounds of trumpets and
clarions; the thundering of the guns, no less fearful than thunder indeed,
but much more hurtful; the frenzied cry and clamour, the furious and mad
running together, the outrageous slaughter, the cruel chances of them that
flee and of those that are stricken down and slain, the heaps of
slaughters, the fields overflowed with blood, the rivers dyed red with
man's blood. And it chanceth oftentimes, that the brother fighteth with
the brother, one kinsman with another, friend against friend; and in that
common furious desire ofttimes one thrusteth his weapon quite through the
body of another that never gave him so much as a foul word. Verily, this
tragedy containeth so many mischiefs, that it would abhor any man's heart
to speak thereof. I will let pass to speak of the hurts which are in
comparison of the other but light and common, as the treading down and
destroying of the corn all about, the burning of towns, the villages
fired, the driving away of cattle, the ravishing of maidens, the old men
led forth in captivity, the robbing of churches, and all things
confounded and full of thefts, pillages, and violence. Neither I will not
speak now of those things which are wont to follow the most happy and most
just war of all.

The poor commons pillaged, the nobles overcharged; so many old men of
their children bereaved, yea, and slain also in the slaughter of their
children; so many old women destitute, whom sorrow more cruelly slayeth
than the weapon itself; so many honest wives become widows, so many
children fatherless, so many lamentable houses, so many rich men brought
to extreme poverty. And what needeth it here to speak of the destruction
of good manners, since there is no man but knoweth right well that the
universal pestilence of all mischievous living proceedeth at once from
war. Thereof cometh despising of virtue and godly living; thereof cometh,
that the laws are neglected and not regarded; thereof cometh a prompt and
a ready stomach, boldly to do every mischievous deed. Out of this fountain
spring so huge great companies of thieves, robbers, sacrilegers, and
murderers. And what is most grievous of all, this mischievous pestilence
cannot keep herself within her bounds; but after it is begun in some one
corner, it doth not only (as a contagious disease) spread abroad and
infect the countries near adjoining to it, but also it draweth into that
common tumult and troublous business the countries that be very far off,
either for need, or by reason of affinity, or else by occasion of some
league made. Yea and moreover, one war springeth of another: of a
dissembled war there cometh war indeed, and of a very small, a right great
war hath risen. Nor it chanceth oftentimes none otherwise in these things
than it is feigned of the monster, which lay in the lake or pond called
Lerna.

For these causes, I trow, the old poets, the which most sagely perceived
the power and nature of things, and with most meet feignings covertly
shadowed the same, have left in writing, that war was sent out of hell:
nor every one of the Furies was not meet and convenient to bring about
this business, but the most pestilent and mischievous of them all was
chosen out for the nonce, which hath a thousand names, and a thousand
crafts to do hurt. She being armed with a thousand serpents, bloweth
before her her fiendish trumpet. Pan with furious ruffling encumbereth
every place. Bellona shaketh her furious flail. And then the wicked
furiousness himself, when he hath undone all knots and broken all bonds,
rusheth out with bloody mouth horrible to behold.

The grammarians perceived right well these things, of the which some will,
that war have his name by contrary meaning of the word Bellum, that is to
say fair, because it hath nothing good nor fair. Nor bellum, that is for
to say war, is none otherwise called Bellum, that is to say fair, than
the furies are called Eumenides, that is to say meek, because they are
wilful and contrary to all meekness. And some grammarians think rather,
that bellum, war, should be derived out of this word Belva, that is for to
say, a brute beast: forasmuch as it belongeth to brute beasts, and not
unto men, to run together, each to destroy each other. But it seemeth to
me far to pass all wild and all brute beastliness, to fight together with
weapons.

First, for there are many of the brute beasts, each in his kind, that
agree and live in a gentle fashion together, and they go together in herds
and flocks, and each helpeth to defend the other. Nor is it the nature of
all wild beasts to fight, for some are harmless, as does and hares. But
they that are the most fierce of all, as lions, wolves, and tigers, do not
make war among themselves as we do. One dog eateth not another. The lions,
though they be fierce and cruel, yet they fight not among themselves. One
dragon is in peace with another. And there is agreement among poisonous
serpents. But unto man there is no wild or cruel beast more hurtful than
man.

Again, when the brute beasts fight, they fight with their own natural
armour: we men, above nature, to the destruction of men, arm ourselves
with armour, invented by craft of the devil. Nor the wild beasts are not
cruel for every cause; but either when hunger maketh them fierce, or else
when they perceive themselves to be hunted and pursued to the death, or
else when they fear lest their younglings should take any harm or be
stolen from them. But (O good Lord) for what trifling causes what
tragedies of war do we stir up? For most vain titles, for childish wrath,
for a wench, yea, and for causes much more scornful than these, we be
inflamed to fight.

Moreover, when the brute beasts fight, then war is one for one, yea, and
that is very short. And when the battle is sorest fought, yet is there not
past one or two, that goeth away sore wounded. When was it ever heard that
an hundred thousand brute beasts were slain at one time fighting and
tearing one another: which thing men do full oft and in many places? And
besides this, whereas some wild beasts have natural debate with some other
that be of a contrary kind, so again there be some with which they
lovingly agree in a sure amity. But man with man, and each with other,
have among them continual war; nor is there league sure enough among any
men. So that whatsoever it be, that hath gone out of kind, it hath gone
out of kind into a worse fashion, than if Nature herself had engendered
therein a malice at the beginning.

Will ye see how beastly, how foul, and how unworthy a thing war is for
man? Did ye never behold a lion let loose unto a bear? What gapings, what
roarings, what grisly gnashing, what tearing of their flesh, is there? He
trembleth that beholdeth them, yea, though he stand sure and safe enough
from them. But how much more grisly a sight is it, how much more
outrageous and cruel, to behold man to fight with man, arrayed with so
much armour, and with so many weapons? I beseech you, who would believe
that they were men, if it were not because war is a thing so much in
custom that no man marvelleth at it? Their eyes glow like fire, their
faces be pale, their marching forth is like men in a fury, their voice
screeching and grunting, their cry and frenzied clamour; all is iron,
their harness and weapons jingling and clattering, and the guns
thundering. It might have been better suffered, if man, for lack of meat
and drink, should have fought with man, to the intent he might devour his
flesh and drink his blood: albeit, it is come also now to that pass, that
some there be that do it more of hatred than either for hunger or for
thirst. But now this same thing is done more cruelly, with weapons
envenomed, and with devilish engines. So that nowhere may be perceived any
token of man. Trow ye that Nature could here know it was the same thing,
that she sometime had wrought with her own hands? And if any man would
inform her, that it were man that she beheld in such array, might she not
well, with great wondering, say these words?

"What new manner of pageant is this that I behold? What devil of hell hath
brought us forth this monster. There be some that call me a stepmother,
because that among so great heaps of things of my making I have brought
forth some venomous things (and yet have I ordained the selfsame venomous
things for man's behoof); and because I have made some beasts very fierce
and perilous: and yet is there no beast so wild nor so perilous, but that
by craft and diligence he may be made tame and gentle. By man's diligent
labour the lions have been made tame, the dragons meek, and the bears
obedient. But what is this, that worse is than any stepmother, which hath
brought us forth this new unreasonable brute beast, the pestilence and
mischief of all this world? One beast alone I brought forth wholly
dedicate to be benevolent, pleasant, friendly, and wholesome to all other.
What hath chanced, that this creature is changed into such a brute beast?
I perceive nothing of the creature man, which I myself made. What evil
spirit hath thus defiled my work? What witch hath bewitched the mind of
man, and transformed it into such brutishness? What sorceress hath thus
turned him out of his kindly shape? I command and would that the wretched
creature should behold himself in a glass. But, alas, what shall the eyes
see, where the mind is away? Yet behold thyself (if thou canst), thou
furious warrior, and see if thou mayst by any means recover thyself again.
From whence hast thou that threatening crest upon thy head? From whence
hast thou that shining helmet? From whence are those iron horns? Whence
cometh it, that thine elbows are so sharp and piked? Where hadst thou
those scales? Where hadst thou those brazen teeth? Of whence are those
hard plates? Whence are those deadly weapons? From whence cometh to thee
this voice more horrible than of a wild beast? What a look and countenance
hast thou more terrible than of a brute beast? Where hast thou gotten this
thunder and lightning, both more fearful and hurtful than is the very
thunder and lightning itself? I formed thee a goodly creature; what came
into thy mind, that thou wouldst thus transform thyself into so cruel and
so beastly fashion, that there is no brute beast so unreasonable in
comparison unto man? "

These words, and many other such like, I suppose, the Dame Nature, the
worker of all things, would say. Then since man is such as is showed
before that he is, and that war is such a thing, like as too oft we have
felt and known, it seemeth to me no small wonder, what ill spirit, what
disease, or what mishap, first put into man's mind, that he would bathe
his mortal weapon in the blood of man. It must needs be, that men mounted
up to so great madness by divers degrees. For there was never man yet (as
Juvenal saith) that was suddenly most graceless of all. And always things
the worst have crept in among men's manners of living, under the shadow
and shape of goodness. For some time those men that were in the beginning
of the world led their lives in woods; they went naked, they had no walled
towns, nor houses to put their heads in: it happened otherwhile that they
were sore grieved and destroyed with wild beasts. Wherefore with them
first of all, men made war, and he was esteemed a mighty strong man, and a
captain, that could best defend mankind from the violence of wild beasts.
Yea, and it seemed to them a thing most equable to strangle the
stranglers, and to slay the slayers, namely, when the wild beast, not
provoked by us for any hurt to them done, would wilfully set upon us. And
so by reason that this was counted a thing most worthy of praise (for
hereof it rose that Hercules was made a god), the lusty-stomached young
men began all about to hunt and chase the wild beasts, and as a token of
their valiant victory the skins of such beasts as they slew were set up in
such places as the people might behold them. Besides this they were not
contented to slay the wild beasts, but they used to wear their skins to
keep them from the cold in winter. These were the first slaughters that
men used: these were their spoils and robberies. After this, they went so
farforth, that they were bold to do a thing which Pythagoras thought to be
very wicked; and it might seem to us also a thing monstrous, if custom
were not, which hath so great strength in every place: that by custom it
was reputed in some countries a much charitable deed if a man would, when
his father was very old, first sore beat him, and after thrust him
headlong into a pit, and so bereave him of his life, by whom it chanced
him to have the gift of life. It was counted a holy thing for a man to
feed on the flesh of his own kinsmen and friends. They thought it a goodly
thing, that a virgin should be made common to the people in the temple of
Venus. And many other things, more abominable than these: of which if a
man should now but only speak, every man would abhor to hear him. Surely
there is nothing so ungracious, nor nothing so cruel, but men will hold
therewith, if it be once approved by custom. Then will ye hear, what a
deed they durst at the last do? They were not abashed to eat the carcases
of the wild beasts that were slain, to tear the unsavoury flesh with their
teeth, to drink the blood, to suck out the matter of them, and (as Ovid
saith) to hide the beasts' bowels within their own. And although at that
time it seemed to be an outrageous deed unto them that were of a more mild
and gentle courage: yet was it generally allowed, and all by reason of
custom and commodity. Yet were they not so content. For they went from the
slaying of noisome wild beasts, to kill the harmless beasts, and such as
did no hurt at all. They waxed cruel everywhere upon the poor sheep, a
beast without fraud or guile. They slew the hare, for none other offence,
but because he was a good fat dish of meat to feed upon. Nor they forbare
not to kill the tame ox, which had a long season, with his sore labour,
nourished the unkind household. They spared no kind of beasts, of fowls,
nor of fishes. Yea, and the tyranny of gluttony went so farforth that
there was no beast anywhere that could be sure from the cruelty of man.
Yea, and custom persuaded this also, that it seemed no cruelty at all to
slay any manner of beast, whatsoever it was, so they abstained from
manslaughter. Now peradventure it lieth in our power to keep out vices,
that they enter not upon the manners of men, in like manner as it lieth in
our power to keep out the sea, that it break not in upon us; but when the
sea is once broken in, it passeth our power to restrain it within any
bounds. So either of them both once let in, they will not be ruled, as we
would, but run forth headlong whithersoever their own rage carrieth them.
And so after that men had been exercised with such beginnings to
slaughter, wrath anon enticed man to set upon man, either with staff, or
with stone, or else with his fist. For as yet, I think they used no other
weapons. And now had they learned by the killing of beasts, that man also
might soon and easily be slain with little labour. But this cruelty
remained betwixt singular persons, so that yet there was no great number
of men that fought together, but as it chanced one man against another.
And besides this, there was no small colour of equity, if a man slew his
enemy; yea, and shortly after, it was a great praise to a man to slay a
violent and a mischievous man, and to rid him out of the world, such
devilish and cruel caitiffs, as men say Cacus and Busiris were. For we see
plainly, that for such causes, Hercules was greatly praised. And in
process of time, many assembled to take part together, either as affinity,
or as neighbourhood, or kindred bound them. And what is now robbery was
then war. And they fought then with stones, or with stakes, a little
burned at the ends. A little river, a rock, or such other like thing,
chancing to be between them, made an end of their battle.

In the mean season, while fierceness by use increaseth, while wrath is
grown great, and ambition hot and vehement, by ingenious craft they arm
their furious violence. They devise harness, such as it is, to fence them
with. They invent weapons to destroy their enemies with. Thus now by few
and few, now with greater company, and now armed they begin to fight.