Erasmus writes to his friend Cornelius Gerard expressing his deep affection and the joy he finds in their correspondence, which he compares to the intellectual exchanges of great Church fathers like Jerome and Augustine. He praises Gerard's literary works and discusses the revival of classical learning, mentioning contemporary humanists and criticizing the decline of eloquence before recent scholarly efforts. The letter also includes playful banter about mutual praise and requests further literary exchanges.
Erasmus of Rotterdam to Cornelius Gerard, Greetings. Since I think I have already sufficiently replied to your letters, I am moved by the vehemence of my affection for you to write something to which you in turn may respond; and indeed, I swear by Hercules, my dearest Cornelius, I do not know how it is that, contrary to custom, this frequency of letters not only does not breed weariness in me, but rather increases my desire and my fervor; the zeal for writing grows by writing. For by this art I seem to cheat our separation and, delighting in your most sweet presence, to mingle conversation with you face to face. Nor indeed would I believe myself to be so utterly deceived in this matter. For, if we trust Turpilius, the exchange of letters is the one thing that unites absent friends. No kind of intercourse can be found more pleasant or more intimate among those who are separated than that by taking turns in letters they mutually bring back an image of themselves to one another; and each presents himself as present to the other, if not in body, certainly in spirit and goodwill. By this zeal those two distinguished leaders of the Church, I speak of Jerome and Augustine, although prevented by the great interval of places and times from being together and enjoying mutual embraces as they wished, were nevertheless never absent from one another; and neither was ignorant of the other's spirit and good will. Therefore, my sweetest Cornelius, so that we may both overcome our separation and exercise our fully perfected love with due duties, let us diligently take care that either something of yours flies more frequently from your place to us, or something sets out from here to you. And let us always strive in this most pleasant contest of friendship, in which, while it will not be troublesome for me to be surpassed by you, so it will be most welcome to me to be conquered by you. For never, however much you may strive, will your letters visit me so often that they can satisfy my longing for you, let alone turn it into weariness; nor likewise, if your love for me is such as your letters proclaim (which I would not doubt in the least), will you be so easily sated with the familiarity of my letters. Indeed, to speak more plainly, if your spirit towards me is such, you will be delighted by my writings just as I am by yours. As for the pleasure with which both your *Apologeticus* and your letters have affected me, I think it is most difficult to express. Yet I would be glad to recall it, were I not afraid of seeming to speak more for the sake of flattery than from the heart. For I know, my Cornelius, I know how impatient your humility is of your own praises. Let it suffice to have said this one thing, to pass over the rest: you could have sent me no gift with which you would have conferred a more welcome benefit upon me. For such is, and has been from boyhood, my love of literature, that they seem truly worthy, which I would not undeservedly prefer to all the treasures of the Arabs, nor exchange for the whole wealth of Croesus, however great it was. And indeed, the more vehemently I love literature, the more pleasantly the studies of literary men delight me. Therefore, my Cornelius, if you love me, as you certainly do, please, I beg you, always make me a participant in your studies. Furthermore, if there are any others there not unskilled in the poetic art, I would like you to take care that some monument of theirs also be sent to us, so that we may be exceedingly delighted and also bring forth into the light here the commendations of such great men. You indeed in your poem made mention of a certain Jerome, I know not who, who spent twenty-five years in the study of poems both in the regions of Italy and in Paris; whose epitaph indeed you took care to note down, but it is briefer than one from which we might clearly perceive the man's genius. It will therefore be pleasing to us if you send to us some broader and clearer proof of his genius. I marvel greatly, however, that you have named him as the only one who 'follows in the footsteps of the ancients.' For, to pass over you, I seem to see in our own age countless most learned men who come not a little close to the eloquence of the ancients. Behold, first and foremost occurs the one-time teacher of my own teacher Alexander, Rodolphus Agricola, a man not only excellently learned in all the liberal arts, but also most skilled in oratory and poetry. Finally, he was as knowledgeable in the Greek language as in the Latin. To him is added Alexander himself, a disciple not unworthy of so great a master; who reproduces the style of speaking of the ancients with such elegance that if the title were missing from the poem, you would easily be mistaken about the author: but not even is he entirely ignorant of Greek letters. Finally, Antonius Gang along with his Frederic Morman—what dignity they have brought to Westphalia by their singular expertise, no one could easily say; each, in my opinion, is clearly worthy of being remembered forever by posterity. Besides, I would by no means judge Bartholomew of Cologne to be excluded from the number of literary men. I would also not pass over our own William of Gouda, your kinsman, in silence, were he not most closely connected to me by both familiarity and scholarly pursuit. I prefer, however, to hear his praises from you, lest I be thought misled by affection. All these men our own age has seen and sees, and our Germany has produced; if you are curious about their poems, we shall take care that they fly to you as soon as possible. But to come to the Italians, what is more observant of ancient eloquence than Lorenzo Valla, than Filelfo? What more eloquent than Aeneas Silvius, than Agostino Dati, than Guarino, than Poggio, than Gasparino? And that all these men lived almost into our own times, no one can doubt. But this, dearest Cornelius, seems to me to be the vicissitude of letters which exists also in the other works of craftsmen, whom they call mechanical. For in ancient times, the poems of almost all the poets bear witness that craftsmen of every kind flourished most brilliantly. But now, if you inspect engravings, paintings, sculptures, buildings, constructions, and monuments of all trades from more than three or two hundred years ago, I think you will both admire and laugh at the excessive rusticity of the craftsmen, while in our own age again there is no art which the industry of craftsmen has not perfected. In much the same way, it is established that in ancient times the studies of all arts, but especially of eloquence, flourished exceedingly; and from there, with the increasing obstinacy of the barbarians, they so vanished that not a trace was left to be seen. Then all the most illiterate, who had never learned, began to teach what they did not know; to teach, I say, for a great price, to know nothing, making their pupils more foolish than they had received them, indeed reducing them to the point that they did not even know themselves. Then, casting behind them the precepts of the ancients, they went to certain recent precepts of ignorance, namely the modes of signifying, verbose commentaries, and to the ridiculous rules and innumerable absurdities of grammatical discipline. And when they had already learned everything with the greatest sweat, they had ascended to such a pinnacle of letters and eloquence that they did not know how to deliver a single speech in Latin. And truly, as far as I can see, if that barbarous race had continued on the course on which it had begun, I do not know into what new form of speech they would have turned our Thalia. But her, then, both our Lorenzo and Filelfo, already nearly extinct, rescued from destruction by their admirable excellence of erudition. With what zeal Lorenzo strove, both to refute the ineptitudes of the barbarians and to bring back into the open the observances of the orators and poets, long covered over by the mold of oblivion, his books which they call the *Elegantiae* will teach you. If you have already read them, as I indeed suspect, there is no need for me to persuade you. But if you have not read them at all, I not only urge but also earnestly beg you to begin reading them; you will never regret having spent effort on them. If you wish to seek them out, have your most affectionate John make inquiries. So much for that. Furthermore, you write indeed that from the title, which I had printed in Greek characters, you guessed that our ode was written to a Cornelius; but since you do not find in yourself at all the praise with which he honors you, you ask that if there is some other person whom I have adorned with my commendations, I point him out to you, lest the genius of so great a man lie hidden in darkness any longer. But in turn, my most loving Cornelius (to return jest for jest), from the frequent repetition of my name I too suspected that your letters were addressed to me; but since I see in myself no learning that answers to such great praises, I most earnestly ask that whoever it is whom you have adorned with your commendations, he be made better known to me through you. When you have presented me with another Erasmus, I will point out what other Cornelius I meant. We have jested in your manner. For the rest (to speak seriously), I am not in doubt that your letters were addressed to me, nor do I wish you to be in doubt that our ode was written to you. But just as you, in your singular humility, judge yourself (by no means) deserving of my praises, which I consider far unequal to your merits; so those which you bestow upon me, undeserving, I have no reason to doubt have proceeded from the blindness of love, which you would have heaped up even more, had you not perhaps feared that the breeze of vanity might steal over me. And I certainly would heap up yours, did I not understand you to be so utterly impatient of your own praise. Farewell, most distinguished father; as for what disposition William holds towards you, you will perceive from his letter. If there are any there who love us along with you, I ask you most earnestly to greet them in our name, and again farewell.