Imagine receiving the exact letter that changes the entire trajectory of your life and the course of world history.

For twenty-one-year-old Philipp Melanchthon, this is that letter. A few weeks earlier, Melanchthon had written a miserable, anxious letter to his great-uncle and mentor, Johannes Reuchlin. He was stuck in a dead-end university job in southern Germany, passed over for promotions because of his youth, and desperate for an escape route. On July 24, 1518, Reuchlin finally wrote back with the news Melanchthon had been praying for: the Prince had officially hired him.

Let’s unpack the characters, the biblical pep talk, and the frantic logistics of a sixteenth-century cross-country move to better understand the weight of this historic moment.

The Prince and the Inner Circle

The “pious Prince” Reuchlin mentions is Elector Frederick the Wise, one of the wealthiest and most powerful rulers in the Holy Roman Empire. Frederick had recently founded a startup university in the town of Wittenberg. To assure the anxious young Melanchthon that this was a prestigious offer, Reuchlin name-drops “Master Spalatin.”

Georg Spalatin was the Prince’s personal secretary and right-hand man. By including a letter from Spalatin, Reuchlin is proving to Melanchthon that the highest levels of government are eagerly awaiting his arrival.

A Biblical Pep Talk

Relocating in the 1500s was terrifying. Germany was not a unified country; it was a patchwork of distinct territories. Moving from the refined, familiar culture of southern Germany (Swabia) to the rugged, frontier-like north (Saxony) felt like moving to a different planet.

To give his young nephew courage, Reuchlin frames this career move as a divine calling. He quotes the book of Genesis, comparing Melanchthon to the biblical patriarch Abraham, whom God commanded to leave his father’s house and travel to an unknown Promised Land.

Reuchlin also brilliantly quotes Jesus’s famous saying that “a prophet is not accepted in his own hometown.” This is a direct comfort to Melanchthon, reminding him that just because his hometown university of Tübingen failed to recognize his genius, it does not mean he is worthless.

The Frantic Logistics of Moving

Today, a new hire might book a flight and hire moving vans. In 1518, relocating was a dangerous, highly coordinated physical ordeal. Reuchlin takes full control like a modern talent manager. He issues rapid-fire orders: pack your massive, heavy books in a one-horse cart, say a quick goodbye to your mother and grandmother (Reuchlin’s sister), and get to Stuttgart immediately.

Reuchlin warns Melanchthon not to “drag his feet.” The political world moved with the Prince’s traveling entourage, and if Melanchthon missed his royal travel escort in the city of Augsburg, the job opportunity might vanish. Reuchlin ends with a classic sixteenth-century rhetorical push by urging him to act “not like a woman, but like a man,” which was the era’s standard phrasing for showing unwavering, stoic courage.

With this single letter, the bags were packed, the journey began, and the quiet young scholar was sent directly into the path of the Protestant Reformation.

Here is another letter in Melanchthon’s life, entirely unedited

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To that erudite Master of the Liberal Arts, Philipp Melanchthon, my kinsman:

Behold, the letters from the most pious Prince1 have arrived, signed by his own hand, in which he promises you a faculty appointment and his favor. Therefore, I will not address you poetically right now, but rather by using the true promise God made to faithful Abraham: “Go forth from your country, and from your kindred, and from your father’s house, and come into the land which I will show you, and I will make you into a great nation, and I will bless you, and I will magnify your name, and you shall be blessed.” This is from Genesis 12.2 Thus my mind prophesies, and thus I hope it will be for you, my Philipp—my handiwork and my comfort.

Come, therefore, with a joyful and cheerful spirit. But first, have a carrier transport all your belongings in a wagon to me at Stuttgart. For there we will sort out what you will need in Wittenberg, and I will arrange everything. If you wish (and I highly advise this), go first to visit your mother by way of Pforzheim, so that you may greet all your family before returning to me.

Do this, however, in the shortest time possible, so that you do not miss out on the excellent travel arrangements made by the Prince. I have already written back to him assuring him that you will come. And so you can see how highly the courtiers and noble chamberlains value you, I am also sending you a letter from Master Spalatin,3 who customarily travels with the Prince in his carriage or litter.

Here is the plan in short: First, gather everything you need for this matter, pack it in a chest or some suitable container, and load it onto a one-horse cart bound for Stuttgart. Do this as quickly as possible. Then, bid farewell to all your friends at Tübingen and hurry back to your homeland to see your mother. On the way, pass through Pforzheim, greet Augustine and my sister,4 and from your mother’s house come straight to me—do not drag your feet, but fly!

The affairs of Princes are constantly shifting; you must not let the Prince depart from Augsburg without you.

This is my advice. Be of unbroken resolve—act not like a woman, but like a man.
A prophet is not accepted in his own hometown.5

Farewell and be happy. At Stuttgart, on the vigil of St. James the Apostle [July 24].
In the year 1518.

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Have you ever felt completely stuck in a job where your talents were being wasted, surrounded by people who didn’t understand you, wishing you could just hide away in a quiet room with a good book?

In July 1518, that’s exactly what a twenty-one-year-old Philipp Melanchthon was experiencing. He was a brilliant young professor at the University of Tübingen, but his career had hit a wall.

In this 16th letter, we get a rare, behind-the-scenes look at the anxiety of a young man waiting for the job offer that would ultimately change world history.

Here is your guide to understanding the characters, the classical jokes, and the profound internal struggle in this letter.

The Mentor and the “Workhouse”

Melanchthon is writing to Johannes Reuchlin, whom he affectionately calls his “sweetest Capnio” and “Father.” Reuchlin was actually Melanchthon’s great-uncle, but more importantly, he was Germany’s most famous intellectual and the young man’s lifelong mentor. At this moment, Reuchlin is essentially acting as Melanchthon’s career agent.

Melanchthon opens the letter by venting. He describes his current university as a “workhouse” (a term historically used for a prison or a mill where slaves labored). Despite his massive intellect, the older, traditional professors at Tübingen refused to promote him. He complains that he is “turning back into a boy among boys”—meaning he is so unchallenged that he feels his brain is actually regressing.

The “Heraclitean Cave” and the “Marpesian Crag”

Because Melanchthon and Reuchlin were both masters of ancient literature, they communicated using classical inside jokes.

• The Heraclitean Cave: Melanchthon says he wants to hide in a “Heraclitean cave.” He is referring to Heraclitus, an ancient Greek philosopher who became so disgusted with human society that he abandoned the city to live alone in the mountains. Melanchthon is playfully admitting that his frustration is making him antisocial.

• The Marpesian Crag: Later, to assure his great-uncle of his absolute loyalty, he says his resolve is like a “Marpesian crag.” This is a reference to the Roman poet Virgil, describing an immovable, solid stone mountain. Melanchthon is telling his mentor: Whatever you tell me to do, I will not budge from your command.

Waiting on the Prince

The central tension of the letter revolves around the “Prince of Saxony.” This is Elector Frederick the Wise, one of the most powerful rulers in Europe. Frederick had recently founded a new university in the town of Wittenberg, and Reuchlin had pitched young Melanchthon for a highly paid professorship there.

At the time of this letter, Frederick was attending a massive political summit in the city of Augsburg. Melanchthon is sitting at home, nervously watching the mail, desperately hoping the Prince will write to offer him the escape route he needs.

The Introvert Takes a Gamble

The most beautiful and tragic part of this letter is the ending. Melanchthon is a classic introvert. He confesses that he hates the noise of the general public and just wants to spend his life in “literary leisure” and the “sacred silences of philosophy.” He wants to be a quiet scholar left alone with his books.

However, he realizes that he cannot hide from the world forever. Quoting an ancient Greek proverb, he writes, “we must live as we can, not as we wish.” He agrees to take the “gamble of public life” and go wherever he is sent.

Here’s Melanchthon’s 16th letter, entirely unedited

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[Editorial note: To Johannes Reuchlin. July 12.]

To that most eminent man, Dr. Johannes Reuchlin, Doctor of Laws, his Lord. Greeting, my sweetest Capnio, my Father.

How anxious I am that I might be forced to languish any longer in this workhouse ), and be tormented by it! Otherwise, I would gladly remain in Swabia among the friends whom I have now proven through long experience—if I did not, finally exhausted by so many troubles, fear something even worse. And even if everything else were easy, I am turning back into a boy among boys. I would rather hide away in some Heraclitean cave1 than be occupied here doing nothing.

I hear that the Prince of Saxony arrived in Augsburg a while ago. Unless the heavens are angry with me, I do not doubt that he will write to us. Whatever you decide to do with me, you will be so far from being disappointed that I would sooner forfeit this soul to the shades of the dead than deceive you. Thus my resolve stands, firm as a Marpesian crag:2 to follow you, to obey you. To whatever nation you send me, or banish me, I must go. Trusting in my literary studies, intellect, and virtue, I shall also be a credit to you.

For these are the arts by which I advance myself—although, to tell the truth, nothing weighs more heavily on my mind than to be engaged any longer with the general public, and for the winds of the crowd to continually drown out my Muses. I have been longing to spend my life in literary leisure—even if in a rather misanthropic manner—amidst the sacred silences of philosophy, because this is most sweet to noble minds, as Plato says. But since fortune does not yet permit this, we must live as we can, not as we wish:3 let us follow the applause of men and the gamble of public life. Perhaps the day will come when leisure will spring all the more pleasantly and joyfully from this labor.

Farewell, my sweetest Father, again farewell! Tübingen, July 12, 1518. Philipp.

Imagine trying to recruit top talent for a brand new startup company. Now imagine it is the year 1518, and instead of software engineers, you are desperately searching for people who can read ancient languages.

That is exactly what is happening in the letter you are about to read.

The letter is written to Frederick the Wise. He was a very powerful German prince who had recently started a university in a small town called Wittenberg. Frederick wanted his new school to be famous. To make that happen, he decided to hire experts in the three ancient languages of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. He wrote to an older man named Johannes Reuchlin to help him find these experts. Reuchlin was essentially the most famous intellectual in Germany at the time.

You might wonder why learning Greek and Hebrew was such a big deal. Reuchlin explains that the sign nailed above Jesus on the cross was written in those specific languages along with Latin. Scholars in this era believed that studying these three sacred languages was the only way to uncover ancient wisdom and fix a broken church.

Reuchlin was also tired of other European countries looking down on Germans as uncultured barbarians. He saw Frederick’s new school as a way to prove that Germany could produce brilliant, elegant thinkers instead of the useless chatter of older medieval teachers.

The middle of the letter reads like a modern corporate headhunter trying to fill a difficult job opening. Reuchlin is having a tough time finding a Hebrew teacher. He complains that his first choice just got poached by the city of Basel. His second choice is the personal doctor of a wealthy cardinal and makes way too much money to relocate. His third choice is a monk, which means the prince will have to negotiate with church superiors to get him to move.

When it comes to the Greek teaching position, Reuchlin has a much easier solution. Since he is too old to take the job himself, he recommends his own relative for the position. This young man is Philipp Melanchthon. Philipp was only twenty one years old, but Reuchlin promises the prince that the kid is a genius who will follow his orders and take the job.

This simple hiring recommendation would end up changing world history. By sending young Philipp to Wittenberg, Reuchlin accidentally placed him right next to a rebellious professor named Martin Luther, perfectly setting the stage for the Protestant Reformation.

The letter also gives us a fascinating look at how hard it was to relocate across the country back then. Philipp could not just rent a moving van. He owned a massive, incredibly heavy collection of books that he desperately needed to teach his classes. Reuchlin asks the prince to send merchants to the famous Frankfurt Book Fair. Philipp would meet them there so he and his heavy books could travel safely in a large group along the dangerous dirt roads.

Finally, the letter takes a dark turn at the end.

Reuchlin gives the prince an update on a massive lawsuit he is fighting in Rome against a group of Dominican monks. Reuchlin bluntly states that the monks are intentionally stalling the court system. They are simply waiting for him to die of old age so they can win the case by default.

Here is an important letter in the life of Philip Melanchthon, entirely unedited

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[May 7. Johannes Reuchlin to Elector Frederick]

Most Serene, High-Born Prince, Most Gracious Lord!

May my obedient service and dutiful will be humbly prepared for Your Electoral Grace at all times.

Most Gracious Lord and Elector!

Word recently reached me in writing, delivered to me on St. Mark’s Day, of your princely mindset and laudable will to elevate the University of Wittenberg—for the common good, honor, and praise of the entire German land—through the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew tongues.

This will endure for present and future generations as an unforgettable force for good throughout all time. To my mind, it surpasses all the noble deeds of such a mighty Elector among all virtuous endeavors, no matter how chivalrous they may be considered.

However many steadfast, manly victories Hercules of the ancient world may have won, it would have brought him no lasting glory had he not cultivated people learned in all languages who could carry his good works into the field and spread them abroad. This is indicated in Lucian’s tale of the stone pillar depicting the image of Hercules, known as Ogmios,1 which was found in German lands.

What else brought [Deucalion]2 into eternal memory, other than that he created human beings out of rough stones and jagged rocks through the academy he founded in Parnassus? The Great Prince of Assyria, Prometheus, gained nothing from all his princely works other than the fact that he was the pioneer of written instruction and the art of eloquence. For this reason, it is attributed to him that he fashioned people out of the earth.

For many long years, Most Serene Elector, the German land has been judged by other nations as barbaric and bestial—and not unjustly. Our ancestors paid little attention to the human, courtly adornment of speech and the noble customs of these essential languages. Instead, the Sophists have thus far led us around by a fool’s rope with their useless prattle, not without causing damage to the Church. Because of this, lacking the Latin, Greek, and Hebrew tongues, we have never been able to arrive at a true understanding of the ancient sages.

Yet now, by the special providence of God, Your Princely Grace has taken special consideration after founding the university at Wittenberg of how one might thoroughly master the aforementioned three languages—which, not without reason, were found written above Christ on the cross.3

Through these languages, the human reason of our forebears can properly understand experience and wisdom, speak elegantly, and write artfully. Your undertaking is undoubtedly set upon a path that will remain an everlasting memorial to You as the new founder of the humanities in the German nation.

What great good may grow from this for You and for us all, Most Gracious Lord, you can better imagine than I can express. Therefore, there was little need to so earnestly request of me that I send two excellently learned men—one experienced in the Greek language, the other in Hebrew—for Your Princely Grace’s praiseworthy undertaking. I am not only willing to do this myself, but I am doubly obligated to do so. First, it concerns the common good; second, I am daily reminded of the past graces I have found with You, for which I am bound by nature and right to offer Y.P.G. faithful repayment.

Consequently, I have applied no small diligence to procure such men. I sent for one not unskilled in the Hebrew language, named Oecolampadius,4 a preacher at Weinsberg; however, the people of Basel snatched him right out of my hands, as he allowed himself to be appointed there, so we cannot get him this time.

Otherwise, I truly know of no other secular man in the High German lands who could hold a doctoral chair in Hebrew instruction, unless it were Dr. Paulus Ricius, the personal physician of my Gracious Lord, the Cardinal of Gurk. I am too small a figure for him to yield to my request, for his position is secure and prosperous. But Y.P.G. could undoubtedly secure the man through my Gracious Lord of Gurk.

If that does not come to pass, there is still an Observant Franciscan friar named Conradus Pellicanus,5 who, I believe, is staying in Rouffach in Alsace, where he was born. He could very well lecture and teach Hebrew at the university. However, Y.P.G. could only secure him through the Franciscan superiors of these lands; I believe they would not deny him to Y.P.G., and whatever favors you extend in return would be well met. One might perhaps find baptized Jews who have good experience in it, but truly, if they are not educated in the Latin tongue, they could not teach us artfully through grammatical rules.

In the German lands, the Jews acquire their language solely through customary use—just as one of us might learn Italian6 by immersion—but this is not as feasible for us. Rather, we must master Hebrew first through rules and subsequently through extensive reading of books, exactly as we do with the Latin and Greek tongues.

Regarding the other language, namely Greek, I have undertaken to fulfill the special trust you graciously place in me. It is my intention to send to that place my kinsman and friend, whom I have instructed and taught in this language since his youth, much as I would love to keep him with me. Would to God that I were able to do it in person!

If it were not for the sake of my body and advanced age, I would personally make the beginning and draw the influx of students from other lands in both languages, Greek and Hebrew, for Y.P.G.’s honor and favor.

But since the journey is too far and too difficult for me, I will nonetheless supply Y.P.G. and the laudable university very well with my aforementioned dear cousin, Master Philipp Schwarzerd of Bretten.7 I have already denied him to the University of Ingolstadt, for he is honored and well-supplied at Tübingen, kept busy on account of his salary, and enjoys a respectable livelihood there.

Yet, regardless of all this, he has yielded to me and will do in this matter whatever I bid him. Therefore, relying on Y.P.G.’s good faith and upon my command, he will come to Wittenberg in the hope of generating great benefit and bringing honor to the city and the university.

Regarding the salary8 mentioned in Your Princely Grace’s letter, I cannot come to any agreement with him, because I have no knowledge of how much it costs to keep house with a servant in Wittenberg.

But I have concluded this with him on behalf of Y.P.G.: should he not be accepted, he will return to me, and Y.P.G. will compensate9 him for the travel costs there and back.

Now, most gracious Prince and Lord, it is quite necessary for Magister Philipp to prepare for the move and bring all his books with him; for without many books—especially at a university—no one can properly teach or lecture.

Therefore, he has decided to dispatch his books to Wittenberg with the merchants of your land at the upcoming Frankfurt Fair,10 and to ride with the merchants, since he is unfamiliar with the route and the region.

For this reason, I ask Y.P.G. to command a merchant associated with you to take charge of the young man in Y.P.G.’s name, to take him into his company for the journey, and to take good care of him and his books, so that he may arrive safely to Y.P.G. with his belongings. He can be found there at the upcoming Frankfurt Fair, around the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross,11 in the book alley at the stall of Master Thomas Anshelm, printer and bookseller of Hagenau. Whatever Y.P.G. might consider and decide in the meantime, please let me know in good time by a reliable messenger, so that we both know how to conduct ourselves accordingly.

Furthermore, since Y.P.G. asks me how my case against the Dominican friars stands,12 I am sending herewith a printed record of the legal proceedings *). From this, you will see that my case was brought to trial in Rome two years ago, and I have still been unable to obtain a final verdict.

The Dominican brothers have stalled the wheels of justice13 in the hope that I will die in the meantime, and thus the matter will be over. It is of no help to me that the Emperor, Electors, Princes, Bishops, Abbots, and Cities have all petitioned the Pope to promptly grant me justice. I pray to God that He grant us grace to better ourselves as subjects, so that we may become worthy of better leaders.

I am also sending Y.P.G. herewith, as a contribution14 to the praiseworthy beginning of the Hebrew lectureship, what I have written in that language *), so that there may be no shortage of books. May Y.P.G. graciously accept this from me as a small gift and present, for I can do no better. I would much rather be able to give you a kingdom.

Most gracious Elector and most beloved Lord, may the almighty and good God, in whom I place my hope at all times, graciously protect, shield, and preserve your body, soul, honor, and property, and sustain you long in His grace, as a special comfort to me and all lovers of the elegant arts.

Given at Stuttgart on the 7th day of May in the year 1518.

Johannes Reuchlin of Pforzheim,
Doctor of Laws.

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The War on Bad Textbooks in 1518

Have you ever tried to learn a new language, only to realize your textbook is confusing and your teacher might not actually know what they are talking about? That is exactly the problem Philipp Melanchthon was trying to solve in 1518. Melanchthon was a brilliant twenty-one-year-old professor. He was frustrated because he looked around at the German school system and realized the curriculum was completely broken.

At the time, schools were stuck in an old medieval way of teaching. Instead of teaching students how to think clearly or speak well, teachers were forcing them to argue over pointless trivia. Melanchthon calls these lessons empty trivialities from the crossroads.

To make matters worse, the people calling themselves professors often faked their knowledge. In this letter, Melanchthon makes fun of Greek teachers who throw accent marks onto words randomly, comparing them to people blindly shooting arrows at a wall and hoping one hits the target.

To fix this mess, Melanchthon decided to write his own textbook. The letter you are about to read is actually the introduction to a Greek grammar manual he published for a young student named Bernard.

During the Renaissance, scholars believed that learning ancient Greek and Latin was the ultimate key to unlocking true wisdom and fixing society. Melanchthon tells Bernard that learning Greek will make his Latin shine. But more importantly, Melanchthon promises that his new textbook will finally make the learning process logical.

He achieves this by cutting out all the academic fluff. He promises Bernard that his book is built entirely on usefulness. He organized the chaotic Greek language into clear rules so that students could easily memorize them. He points out that he did not write the book to show off how smart he was. Instead, he wrote it to save students from sweating endlessly over confusing lessons.

Melanchthon knew that older, traditional teachers were going to criticize his simplified textbook. His response is hilarious. He quotes an ancient Greek joke about a man named Hippocleides, which was the 1500s version of saying “haters gonna hate.” He can brush off his critics because he has the backing of the biggest intellectual celebrities in Germany. He spends the end of the letter dropping the names of wealthy politicians and famous scholars who support his mission to rebuild the education system.

Ultimately, this letter is not just a preface to a grammar book. It is a battle cry for a better way to learn. Melanchthon begs his young student to be bold, ignore the fake teachers, and study hard so that future generations will remember him.

Here’s Melanchthon’s letter, entirely unedited

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No. 13. To Bernardus Maurus. (May.)
[Editorial Note: The dedication to the Greek grammar, to which Melanchthon gave the following title page: “Institutions of Greek Grammar. An exquisite system of accents. Etymology. Extracts from Homer, Thersites, and Chelidonia with scholia.
PHILIPP MELANCHTHON: These will benefit not only those learning Greek, but also those trying to handle Latin without total disgrace.
Tübingen.”
(At the end: “Hagenau, from the Anshelmian Academy. May 1518.”)

Philipp Melanchthon sends greetings to Bernardus Maurus.

Whether it is by our own fault, or by an error handed down from our ancestors, it is a persistent reality that Germans everywhere approach the liberal arts with neither order nor moderation. True rhetoric—the very discipline that shapes minds with judgment and morals with humanity—is neglected. The traditional cycle of education has been abandoned. Instead, we weakly and softly cling to what they call “philosophy”—empty trivialities from the crossroads, the mere rudiments of quarrels and rivalries. True wisdom, sent down from heaven to compose human affections, has been exiled.

But may the gods grant better things! You, Bernard, as a boy studying with us, are engaged in those letters that will instruct you and bring your mind, duly prepared, to studies of the highest renown. You temper Latin with Greek, and Greek with Latin, because Latin cannot be fully mastered without Greek, and Greek takes on a brilliant splendor when adorned with Roman wealth. Therefore, you have a gift fitted to your undertaking: this book on grammar, which we have compiled and now publish in your name.

Whatever commentary I have provided here was written so that youth might take possession of the rich treasures of the grammarians with sharper judgment and greater care. First and foremost, as far as possible, I bound everything to rules, as is my duty as a grammarian. Thus, the things that are otherwise chaotic, devoid of method, and learned only through endless sweat, you will acquire methodically, organizing each element according to its proper analogy like data in a census. By applying yourself to these better studies, you will comfortably acclimate to a more methodical approach to wisdom. Order is what makes this possible.

Furthermore, I have made no concessions to ambition or pomp. The single guiding spirit of this work is usefulness. I decided to systematize the accents, so that alongside practicing the language, boys might grasp the tones more diligently by comparing pronunciation with the rules.

I have seen even those whom we hail as professors of Greek indiscriminately overwhelm words with a whole armory of bows, arrows, and javelins [i.e., haphazard accent marks], simply because they had not observed the tones with keen study. Grammar relies on observation, but rules assist that observation. That is the essence of my section on prosody.

In the section on declensions, I have frequently offered notes on Latin and sometimes on Greek readings, keeping it brief. After all, I am writing an introduction.

I hope the learned will not disapprove of this teaching method. If there are others who complain that I have focused on details too minute for a true grammarian, “Hippocleides doesn’t care.”1

I did not want to burden beginners with too much material; otherwise, I would have also added my commentaries on syntax concerning Greek idioms, which I wrote for the renowned Count of Neuenahr, a true specimen of nobility.

You just keep going, boy—bless your talent, be bold, press on. If this grammar proves a successful prelude, we will strive with equal zeal to restore the sincere and genuine philosophy of the Greeks, so that good minds do not constantly suffer this cheap, “Carian sacrifice”2 of unphilosophical sophisms.

Farewell.

At Hagenau of the Franks, 1518.

(At the end of the Institutions, on sheet p5a, the following is printed:)

We have treated these brief preludes to grammar in passing, hoping to assist boys eager to learn Greek. If I find that these are of use to good students, I will soon publish more examples of my studies, which will not be unworthy of attention. For we are preparing ourselves—and not in vain—to restore the works of Aristotle, so that our countrymen might finally stand shoulder to shoulder with the philosophers of other nations in this field. As for what has been written about Aristotle in Germany so far, by unknown authors scraping by as if begging for alms, it so poorly reflects Aristotle that it is a disgrace for the noble Peripatetic school to have fallen into the hands of such hack rhapsodes.

As supporters in this labor of ours, we have the most illustrious men in Germany: Capnio [Reuchlin] our glory, Willibald Pirckheimer, Georg Simler, Wolfgang of Hagenau [Capito], and Johannes Oecolampadius—all of them champions of foreign letters. Also Franciscus Stadianus, who shows incredible and careful diligence in analyzing the opinions of the philosophers. With such mentors, perhaps I will achieve something.

As for you, my Bernard, since we have dedicated this little work to your name, eagerly embrace proper studies and show that the love of virtue means something to you.
“Be valiant, so that someone even among future generations may speak well of you.” 3Farewell.

AT TÜBINGEN.

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A 500-Year-Old Warning Against “Hustle Culture”

If you have ever felt the pressure to work late into the night, skip meals to finish a project, or sacrifice your physical health to get ahead in your career, you have something in common with a 20-year-old Melanchthon.

This letter is a response to the highly flattering pitch that young Philipp Melanchthon just sent to Willibald Pirckheimer. To understand this letter, you just need to know who these two men were and why the older man is telling the younger man to go to sleep.

Here are a few key points in order to understand the humor, the humility, and the surprisingly modern medical advice in this sixteenth-century letter.

The Sender:

• The Sender: Willibald Pirckheimer is an older, incredibly wealthy politician, lawyer, and patron of the arts in Germany. He has already lived a long, successful life.

Deflating the Flattery: Elephants and Apes

In the 1500s, it was standard practice for young academics to write letters to rich men that were dripping with extreme, over-the-top praise. Melanchthon had just done exactly this, calling Pirckheimer a hero on the level of Hercules.

Pirckheimer’s response is brilliantly funny and disarming. He basically tells the young man: You are such a good writer that you could make a fly look like an elephant, or a monkey look like a philosopher.

Pirckheimer is wealthy and powerful, but he is not arrogant. He refuses to accept the excessive praise, jokingly noting that if he accepted it, he would look “completely uncivilized.” Instead, he elevates Melanchthon. He tells the young professor that he doesn’t need to suck up to him. Pirckheimer values Melanchthon simply because the young man is smart, passionate, and highly educated.

A Renaissance Warning Against Burnout

About halfway through the letter, the tone shifts from playful banter to serious, fatherly concern. Pirckheimer has heard rumors through the academic grapevine that young Melanchthon is studying day and night, losing all track of time.

Today, we talk a lot about the dangers of “hustle culture” and burnout. Pirckheimer delivers the exact same warning, using his own life as a cautionary tale. He admits that when he was a young professional trying to balance his legal career with his passion for literature, he abused his body. He ignored his friends when they quoted ancient proverbs at him about the necessity of rest. Because he was young and strong, he thought he was invincible.

The Consequence: The “Scholar’s Disease”

Pirckheimer reveals the ultimate consequence of his youthful recklessness: he ruined his mental stamina and earned himself a “magnificent case of gout.”

Today, we know that gout is a painful form of arthritis often linked to diet. But in the sixteenth century, gout was viewed as the ultimate “scholar’s disease.” Doctors back then believed that sitting at a desk all day, studying late into the night, and never exercising caused the body’s fluids to pool in the feet and joints, causing agonizing pain. Pirckheimer suffered terribly from gout in his later years. He is begging his young friend not to make the same mistake.

Here is Pirckheimer’s reply to Melanchthon’s last letter

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(Willibald Pirckheimer sends his greetings to Magister Philipp Melanchthon.)

Greetings. Who could deny, my excellent Philipp, that you are a rhetorician, and a very sharp one at that, since you know how to dress up and elevate such meager things? You clearly seem “to make an elephant out of a fly”1 or, if you prefer, “a philosopher out of an ape”! For you adorn me with such lofty proclamations and try to praise me so profusely that even if I were the most shameless man alive, I could never acknowledge “such a heap of virtues.”

You add that I have conferred some unknown benefits upon you. But truly, I am not so dense as to believe your praises over my own actual deeds. If those deeds are few, it is not because I was unwilling to perform them, but because no opportunity has yet presented itself for me to demonstrate my goodwill toward you.

As for your bringing up Oecolampadius and Capnio2—as if I had been a great benefactor to them—that is entirely “beside the point.” “For they have received nothing of true value from me, especially the most glorious Capnio,” unless you are willing to count the intention rather than the actual result!

Therefore, cease praising as “generous favors” things which, had I not done them, would have made me look completely uncivilized! Rest assured, you are exceedingly dear to me not only for their sake, but because of your own zeal, erudition, and personal mental gifts.

After all, if we customarily love those who are even moderately skilled, why shouldn’t we passionately love those who are abundantly learned? Consequently, you will not merely be numbered in the general flock of my friends, as you request, but you have already long been placed among the chief and most valued of them.

And so you might know with more certainty how much I value you, I am compelled at times to worry about your health. For I hear that you observe no limits and keep no track of time in your studies.

I learned long ago, to the great detriment of my own good health, just how dangerous that can be. Indeed, when I was a young man burning with an excessive zeal for learning, yet unable to satisfy my desire because of a multitude of professional duties, I spent indiscriminately every spare moment I had left over from public and private business on literary studies. I did this to such an extreme that I gave no thought to caring for my body, but spent day and night buried in books, especially legal ones.

And even though my friends constantly chanted that famous proverb at me—“What lacks [alternate rest is not durable]”3—I absolutely refused to listen to their warnings. Both my youth and my physical strength gave me such confidence that I didn’t think anything could possibly harm me.

But by operating so recklessly, and preferring to follow my own desires rather than the advice of my friends, I reaped rewards that were by no means healthy, but utterly destructive: I wore down my mental stamina, and I earned myself a magnificent case of gout.4 Lest that happen to you... [text breaks off]

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The Fine Art of Sixteenth-Century Networking

If you were a brilliant scholar in the early 1500s, you faced a distinctly modern problem: figuring out how to pay your rent. Without government research grants, massive university endowments, or publishing royalties, a life spent translating ancient Greek required a wealthy patron. You needed a nobleman or a wealthy merchant to fund your work, protect you from political rivals, and buy your books.

A surviving letter from Philipp Melanchthon, a young professor at the University of Tübingen, to Willibald Pirckheimer, a powerful politician in the German city of Nuremberg, serves as a masterclass in securing that essential funding. Reading it today feels exactly like reading a highly sophisticated business pitch.

Melanchthon opens with glowing flattery. He dubs Pirckheimer the “Father of his Country” and compares him to the ancient heroes Mercury and Hercules. This is not just polite conversation. He gets right to the point, stating that academics rely entirely on the favor of men in Pirckheimer’s social class to sustain their studies.

After apologizing for a hasty letter, Melanchthon presents a clear offer. If Pirckheimer ever wants to commission a literary task, Melanchthon promises an elegant, carefully considered product. Hire me, fund my work, and I will make you look incredible.

To prove his talent, Melanchthon attaches a custom poem packed with mythological references that decode into a true historical narrative.

In 1453, the Ottoman Empire conquered Constantinople, forcing Greek scholars to flee into Western Europe with their precious ancient manuscripts. Melanchthon poetically calls this disaster the baneful Fury of Greece, which forces the Muses, goddesses of literature and science, to run away in search of sanctuary.

As they wander the earth looking for a new home, Zeus guides them directly into Pirckheimer’s house in Nuremberg. Inside the mansion, the Muses are fed the food of the gods and entertained wonderfully by their generous host.

Beneath the talk of Zeus and the Muses, Melanchthon delivers the ultimate intellectual compliment. He tells his prospective investor that his vast wealth, massive library, and generous funding have turned Nuremberg into the new safe haven for ancient wisdom.

The vocabulary has certainly changed over the last five hundred years, but the art of pitching an investor remains exactly the same.

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To the Magnificent man, Lord Willibald Pirckheimer,1
Jurisconsult, Father of his Country, his Lord, Philipp Melanchthon sends greetings.

All of us who profess letters are absolutely indebted to you, magnificent sir, as to a common Mercury or Hercules, if I may allude to that phrase of the Old Lyric Poet:2 “Dumb is the man who does not lend his mouth in praise to Hercules.” Therefore, it seemed right that I should send you my greetings, since I am accustomed to value nothing higher than the favor of men of your station; for by such favor our studies are both nourished and, once nourished, sustained.

I ask, therefore, that you take in good part whatever has spilled from my pen as if extemporaneously, offered in the simplicity of writing—whatever has pleased a mind that clearly burns to sing your praises. If you should ever rouse us with some literary task in the future, we will provide you with something either more elegant, or certainly more carefully considered.

Farewell. From Tübingen.

Philipp to Willibald the Norican:3
When Cyllenian Hermes long ago
Brought abundance into Germany,
The revered Muses arrived,
Fleeing the baneful Fury of Greece.4
As they wandered there, greatest Zeus
Brought them into the home of the blessed Willibald the Norican.
And the Muses—entertained as guests alongside the chorus
Of the gracious Graces, those goddesses,
By eloquent Persuasion, upon whose lips
Nectar and ambrosia drop in abundance—
Commanded that their host be hymned in the Olympian halls.
And the choruses of Muses and Graces fittingly
Sing at home of Willibald, their host.

Philipp Melanchthon.

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Setting the Scene: 1518

The Dawn of a Revolution

To fully appreciate this letter, we have to travel back to January 1518. This is a moment of intense electric energy in Europe. Just a few months earlier, a monk named Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses to a church door, though the world was only just beginning to notice. But for the 20-year-old author of this letter, Philipp Melanchthon, there was another massive culture war dominating his thoughts—one involving his beloved great-uncle, Johannes Reuchlin.

Melanchthon would soon become Luther’s closest friend and the brilliant co-founder of the Protestant Reformation. But at the time of this letter, he is simply a brilliant young college professor in southern Germany, writing to his older relative.

The Great Book War and the “Astarothians”

In the opening of the letter, Melanchthon complains that the booksellers haven’t brought him any pamphlets from “Astaroth,” and he promises to write refutations against the “Astarothians.” To a modern reader, this sounds like fantasy fiction, but it is actually highly educated trash-talk.

Johannes Reuchlin (the recipient of the letter) was Europe’s greatest Christian expert on the Hebrew language. A few years prior, a group of conservative churchmen had launched a campaign to confiscate and burn all Jewish religious books in Germany. Reuchlin bravely stood up and argued that Jewish books should be preserved and studied, not burned.

Because of this, the conservative churchmen put Reuchlin on trial for heresy. This sparked a massive culture war across Europe known as the “Reuchlin Affair.” The bright young scholars of Europe—known as Humanists, who believed in studying ancient Greek, Roman, and Hebrew texts to improve society—rallied to defend Reuchlin.

When Melanchthon refers to “Astaroth,” he is using the name of an ancient, ugly demon to insult Reuchlin’s enemies. By promising to “never desert our ranks” or “throw away his shield,” the young Melanchthon is swearing absolute loyalty to his uncle in this intellectual war.

The 16th-Century “Internet”: Trading Rare Books

In 1518, there were no public libraries or digital downloads. Printing presses existed, but ancient books were still incredibly rare and expensive. Scholars relied on a network of friends to mail books back and forth across Europe. Much of this letter is essentially Melanchthon managing his “library card” with his uncle.

Melanchthon mentions returning books by Simplicius, Ammonius, and Philoponus. These were ancient Greek philosophers who wrote commentaries on Aristotle. The fact that Melanchthon and Reuchlin are casually mailing these rare Greek texts back and forth shows just how elite their education was.

Geeking Out Over the “Rock Stars” of the Era

Melanchthon also name-drops a few famous people, promising to send Reuchlin their newest works:

• Willibald Pirckheimer: A wealthy, famous scholar from Nuremberg. He had just translated a satirical play by an ancient Greek writer named Lucian (called The Fisherman), bound together with works by Gregory of Nazianzus (an early church father).

• Erasmus of Rotterdam: Erasmus was the undisputed “king” of the European intellectuals. He had just published a new, easy-to-read explanation (a paraphrase) of the Apostle Paul’s letters.

Melanchthon is so excited to send Erasmus’s new book to Reuchlin that he playfully predicts his uncle will shout, “O Zeus! O thunders!” when he reads it. This is an inside joke between two men who loved ancient Greek mythology—the 16th-century equivalent of a nerd geeking out over a highly anticipated movie release.

The Meaning of the “Little Tree”

At the end of the letter, Melanchthon passes on a greeting from a mutual friend, Franciscus. To express his loyalty to Reuchlin, Franciscus uses a legal metaphor. In ancient property law, if a stray ram wandered onto your land, you didn’t really own it; it could wander off again. But if a tree put down roots in your field, it belonged to your land forever.

By saying Franciscus wants to be “a little tree that has finally taken root in your field,” Melanchthon is offering a beautiful, poetic pledge of permanent friendship and loyalty to his uncle during a time of intense stress and trial.

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To Johannes Reuchlin. 1518. (January.)

Philipp Melanchthon of Bretten, a Swabian, sends his greetings to his relative, Johannes Reuchlin.1

I am writing to you later than I intended, as I had to wait for the shipments from our booksellers to see if they might happen to bring any pamphlets from “Astaroth,” or anything else that might be useful for our cause. They brought nothing, a fact I endure most bitterly, since I had already begun the argument I promised to compose: refutations against the Astarothians.2

Perhaps you are wondering about my love, zeal, and devotion toward you. Do not doubt it: I will never desert our ranks, nor will I ever be a coward who throws away his shield.3 Willibald Pirckheimer’s translation of the Fisherman4 is currently being printed alongside the booklets of the Nazarene; I will send a copy to you. Erasmus has also published a paraphrase on the Epistle of Paul, which I will send as well if you would like—though you might exclaim, “O Zeus! O thunders!”5

Herewith you have your Simplicius returned to you, along with Ammonius and Philoponus.6 I thank you for so graciously lending such excellent books for our use for a time. I beg you, if you have any works by Albertus that you are no longer using, please send them to me. I will dedicate my translation of Plutarch’s On Listening to whomever you wish. Our friend Franciscus7 writes that he considers himself bound to you and wishes to be legally claimed by you—not like a ram wandering into your flock, as the jurists say,8 but rather like a little tree that has finally taken root in your field.

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We have all heard the advice that you become the people you spend the most time with. It turns out that this piece of wisdom is thousands of years old.

Melanchthon passes this exact advice down to a student named Bernard in this 10th letter.

Who is Bernard?

This letter is addressed to Bernardus Maurus, who appears to be a young student or a junior scholar under Melanchthon’s guidance.

Melanchthon mentions that Bernard is practicing the “genre of declamation.” In the 16th century, education was very different from today. There were no multiple-choice tests or fill-in-the-blank worksheets. The ultimate test of a student’s education was declamation—the art of public speaking and persuasive argument.

Students were required to stand up and deliver elegant, convincing speeches in Latin or ancient Greek. Melanchthon is offering this newly translated text to Bernard as practice material for his speeches.

Translating Ancient Riddles

In the letter, Melanchthon mentions that he has just translated a text by Plutarch about the precepts of Pythagoras. Let’s break down who these men were:

• Plutarch (c. 46–119 AD) was a famous ancient Greek biographer and philosopher whose writings were incredibly popular during the Renaissance for their moral lessons.

• Pythagoras (c. 570–495 BC) is someone you might remember from math class (the Pythagorean theorem). But in the ancient world, he was also known as a mystical religious leader. He often taught his followers using short, cryptic rules or sayings (precepts).

Melanchthon says that Plutarch interprets Pythagoras’s sayings as “hieroglyphs.” He doesn’t mean literal Egyptian picture-writing. Rather, in the 1500s, the word “hieroglyph” was used metaphorically to describe a riddle, a symbol, or a secret code that hides a deeper moral truth. Melanchthon tells Bernard that he translated this ancient Greek text into Latin just as a “warm-up” exercise before tackling heavier work!

Melanchthon was one of the greatest translators of his generation.

Melanchthon’s Core Lesson: The Danger of “Swallows”

The real heart of this letter is the life advice Melanchthon gives to this young student. To a Renaissance humanist like Melanchthon, the whole point of reading ancient Greek philosophy was to become a better, more virtuous person.

Melanchthon urges Bernard to surround himself with good people, drawing on wisdom from three ancient Greek figures:

Plato (the famous philosopher),
Diogenes (a philosopher famous for his extreme, minimalist lifestyle),
Theognis (an ancient poet).

Quoting these figures was Melanchthon’s way of passing down the greatest wisdom of the past.

He specifically warns Bernard to avoid being “drawn away by the habits of the swallows.” To a modern reader, this sounds bizarre.

Why swallows?

• The Historical Context: One of the most famous cryptic sayings of Pythagoras was, “Do not receive swallows into your house.” Swallows are birds known for their constant, noisy chattering and for leaving messes wherever they nest. Ancient philosophers interpreted this “hieroglyph” to mean: Do not let gossips, chatterboxes, or people of bad character into your inner circle.

Melanchthon is using this ancient proverb to tell Bernard to watch the company he keeps. He concludes with a famous ancient Greek poem by Theognis, which perfectly summarizes the humanist view of education and friendship: hanging around good, moral people will teach you goodness, but hanging around foolish or wicked people will eventually destroy your own mind.

Here is Melanchthon’s 10th letter, unedited:

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Philipp Melanchthon sends his greetings to Bernardus Maurus.

I have managed to translate into Latin1 Plutarch’s brief convivial question, in which he interprets several sacred precepts of Pythagoras as hieroglyphs. This serves clearly as an extemporaneous preface, allowing me to warm up for other works I frequently have in hand. I thought it proper to dedicate it to you, most elegant Bernard, because it is well suited to the genre of declamation in which you are now practicing as a beginner (whether you prefer to do so in Greek or in Latin) and because it serves as a necessary exhortation for navigating your youth.

For what should you excel at more than “associating nobly with good men,” to borrow the words of Plato? That is to say, take care lest you be drawn away by the habits of the swallows.2

Believe me, nothing is more effective for shaping one’s morals and forming one’s education than honorable fellowship3 with good men. You surely remember the short verses of Theognis that Diogenes wrote to Dionysius, which he notes were famous throughout all of Greece: “For from good men you will learn what is good; but if you mingle with the bad, you will destroy even the mind you currently possess.”4

Farewell.

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In the year 1517, waiting for a reply from a friend was an agonizing process.

Without phones or the internet, you had to rely on traveling merchants or couriers to carry a handwritten letter across the country. If a close friend moved away, weeks or months could pass in total silence.

In Melanchthon’s letter below, we find a twenty year old college professor struggling with a very relatable problem. His friend Paulus has left town, and Philipp is starting to worry that he has been ghosted.

To fully appreciate this letter, we need to understand three main dynamics at play between Philipp and his friends.

First, there is the anxiety of
a long distance friendship.

Philipp is writing to Paulus von Belsberg alongside a mutual friend named Franciscus. Philipp complains that he and Franciscus are practically losing their minds waiting to hear back from Paulus. Philipp then drops a surprisingly modern guilt trip. He tells Paulus that he knows Paulus probably remembers Franciscus, but he worries Paulus might have completely forgotten about him. It is a moment of insecurity and vulnerability from a young man who would soon become one of the most famous thinkers in European history.

Second, the intense and
passionate language in this letter.

Philipp says he loses awareness of his surroundings just hearing his friend’s name, and he claims that Paulus and Franciscus share one single soul. Today, we usually reserve this kind of talk for romantic relationships. However, in the 1500s, educated men known as Humanists spent their time studying ancient Greek and Roman philosophy. They adopted the ancient view that a deep, platonic male friendship was the highest and purest form of love a person could experience. It was perfectly normal, and even expected, for friends to write to each other with this level of burning emotional intensity.

Finally, there is a massive social and
economic divide between the two men.

Philipp makes a point to call himself a lowly man from the common classes while referring to Paulus as a Noble Lord. Philipp was a brilliant scholar, but his family was middle class. Paulus was an aristocrat with money, land, and political influence. In the sixteenth century, smart people without money desperately needed wealthy protectors to fund their writing and keep them safe.

Philipp is definitely expressing genuine love for his friend here. At the same time, he is making sure he stays in the good graces of a powerful man who has treated him with unexpected kindness. In return for this kindness, Philipp promises to use his future academic success to make Paulus famous. He offers to act as a herald for his name, ensuring that the nobleman will be remembered in history.

Here is Melanchthon’s 9th letter, unedited

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(To the Noble Lord Paulus von Belsberg, his friend.)

Greetings, my Paulus.

There is absolutely nothing we ache for more, O Paulus, you hope and glory of outstanding nobility than a letter from you. Both our friend Franciscus and I feel this way. He loves you with such deep friendship, and I revere not only you (though you most of all), but that very virtue which you constantly radiate. How often, at the mere mention of your name, do we practically lose all awareness of our surroundings? When is Paulus, our delight, not right before our faces and our eyes? Our sole hope, our unique glory?

O Paulus, please make sure we know everything that is going on with you. How are things with you these days? Meanwhile, knowing your character, I have no doubt that you remember Franciscus in friendship. Perhaps Philippus has somewhat slipped your mind Philippus, who is destined, if the fates allow, to be both a companion to your virtues and a herald of your name, should my studies ever earn any honor in the future. For to whom should I rather owe all that I have (if indeed I have anything at all), than to the man who has so openly embraced me, a most lowly man from the common classes1 with perpetual kindness and perpetual love? Furthermore, who is so devoted to Franciscus that it would be a sin to think anyone anywhere could be more closely bound to another? And who gets along so amicably with Philippus, through no merit of my own, that I owe absolutely everything to Franciscus? Why should I not owe everything to you as well? For Franciscus and Paulus share one and the same soul.

I beg both of you, entrust Philippus to your kindness. 2

Farewell and be happy.

Johannes Merzger wishes you well.

The 16th-Century Guilt Trip and the Art of Long-Distance Friendship

Imagine moving away from your best friend in a world without text messages, social media, or even a reliable postal service. In the year 1517, if a friend moved to a different city, the only way to keep the relationship alive was through the difficult, expensive, and slow process of writing and delivering letters by hand or traveling merchants.

Because communication was so hard, people were highly sensitive to being “ghosted.”

This short, emotional letter from July 1517 gives us a hilarious and deeply relatable glimpse into Renaissance friendship. A 20-year-old college professor Philipp Melanchthon is writing to a wealthy nobleman friend named Paulus von Belsberg. Paulus had recently left the university town of Tübingen, and it seems Paulus complained that Philipp was being a bad friend by not writing to him right away.

This letter is Philipp’s defensive, highly affectionate, and beautifully crafted response to a reformation style guilt trip.

Here are the three main concepts to understand as you read it:

1. “Out of Sight, Out of Mind?”

The letter opens with Philipp defending his honor as a friend. He asks Paulus, essentially: “Do I seem like such a flake to you that I only care about my friends when they are standing right in front of me?”

In the 16th century, the ultimate test of true friendship was whether it survived physical absence. Philipp assures Paulus that, far from forgetting him, distance has actually made Philipp appreciate his friend’s virtues even more. They used to have wonderful conversations when Paulus was around, and now that he is gone, Philipp looks back on those memories with intense admiration.

2. The Rich Kid Who Actually Cared

There is a major class difference between the two men. Philipp is a brilliant middle-class academic. Paulus is a nobleman.

When Philipp greets Paulus, he calls him “noble in ancestral images and virtue.” In ancient Rome and Renaissance Europe, having “images” meant your family was old, rich, and powerful enough to have marble busts and painted portraits of your ancestors lining the halls of your estate.

But Philipp makes a crucial distinction. He points out that most noblemen only use their “virtues” (their good manners, charm, and wealth) to climb the political ladder—what Philipp calls using virtue for “ambition.” Paulus, however, is different. He didn’t use his charm just to get ahead; he used it to genuinely connect with people. As Philipp writes, Paulus used his money (”magnificence”) and his charm (”urbanity”) to make everyone feel special, and he bound Philipp to him with pure, genuine love (”charity”).

3. Friendship as a Sacred, Spiritual Bond

Today, we tend to reserve highly emotional, passionate language for romantic relationships. But in the Renaissance, “Humanists” (scholars devoted to reviving the wisdom of the ancient world) viewed male friendship as one of the highest, most sacred forms of love a human could experience.

Philipp doesn’t just say, “I miss you, bro.” He begs his friend to keep their mutual affection alive, declaring that their love for one another was quite literally poured into their hearts by the Holy Spirit. To let the friendship die because of distance wouldn’t just be sad; to Philipp, it would be a spiritual tragedy.

This letter is about a busy young Melanchthon reassuring an insecure friend. It is a testament to the fact that while technology has changed over the last five centuries, the anxiety of missing our friends and the joy of reassuring them that they are loved has not changed one bit.

Here is Melanchthon’s 8th letter unedited:

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No. 7. (July 26) To Paul von Belsberg (or von Welsperg).
From Epistles, Book VI, page 11.

To the noble man, Lord Paul von Belsberg, his friend.

Greetings, Paul, noble by ancestry and by virtue.1 Do I seem so neglectful of my duty2 to you that I do not hold the same regard for an absent friend as for a present one? Nay, indeed, in your absence we hold the regard for your virtues far more honorably than was previously permitted. Through several intimate conversations, we and many others have so linked these virtues together in seemly order, and have so admired them thus linked, that it would be a sin to seek so great a specimen in anyone else.

Naturally, human affairs are such that one does not always live for each individual in the honor of virtue, a thing one uses more frequently for ambition than for the practical conduct of life. You, on the other hand, have applied individual virtues to individual characters; you have bound this man fast with urbanity, that man with magnificence, and me, certainly, with love3—not to mention anything more glorious for now regarding the rest.

Therefore I beseech you, my Paul, allow us to enjoy some part of you: that is, by mutual graces, nourish that love which the Holy Spirit has infused into our breasts; love the one who loves you. Perhaps my circumstances will be such that I may be able to breathe forth something worthy of the name of Paul.4

Farewell, and hold me commended to you.
Tübingen, July 26, 1517.

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Imagine stepping onto the campus of the University of Tübingen in Germany in July of 1517. It is a time of incredible intellectual excitement. The Renaissance is in full swing, the printing press is spreading new ideas like wildfire, and scholars are obsessed with rediscovering the lost wisdom of the ancient world.

In this letter, we get to eavesdrop on a conversation between two men at opposite ends of their careers. One is a brilliant, 20-year-old rising star; the other is a 65-year-old veteran science professor.

You don’t need a degree in history or classical literature to understand this letter. You just need a quick introduction to how universities worked back then, who these two men were, and the ancient inside joke Melanchthon uses at the very end.

Here is your guide to understanding this letter.

The Characters: The Language Genius and the Star-Gazer

The Sender: Philipp Melanchthon. At this time, Melanchthon is a 20-year-old prodigy. He is a master of ancient Greek and Latin, and he teaches rhetoric (the art of public speaking and writing). He will soon become one of the most famous men in Europe, but right now, he is a young professor trying to prove himself and show respect to his elders.

The Recipient: Johannes Stöffler. Stöffler is the older, beloved professor of Mathematics at the university. But in the 16th century, “mathematics” didn’t just mean algebra; it meant studying the stars, astronomy, and map-making. Stöffler was famous across Europe for building astronomical clocks and predicting planetary movements. As Melanchthon says in the letter, Stöffler is a generous mentor who “embraces all students... and thereby spurs us on toward glory.”

The Occasion: The “Liberal Arts”

Melanchthon is writing this letter as a dedication to be printed at the front of his newly published speech (an “oration”). The speech is about the “Liberal Arts.”

Today, we often think of the “liberal arts” as just literature, history, and the humanities—as opposed to STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math). But in 1517, the liberal arts included the sciences. A true university education meant studying grammar and rhetoric, but also geometry, music, and astronomy.

Melanchthon is dedicating his speech to Stöffler because he wants to make a point: the humanities (words, language, speaking) and the sciences (math, the stars) belong together.

The Big Project: Translating the Stars (Aratus)

In the middle of the letter, Melanchthon mentions that Stöffler gave him a “weighty task”—translating a man named Aratus.

Aratus was an ancient Greek poet who wrote a famous book about the stars and constellations. For a 16th-century astronomy teacher like Stöffler, this ancient book was incredibly valuable. But Stöffler needed it translated from ancient Greek into beautiful, readable Latin so his students could use it. So, the veteran science professor teamed up with the young language genius. Melanchthon writes that he is working on this translation with “great pleasure” to honor his mentor.

Before that massive translation is finished, however, Melanchthon is sending Stöffler this short printed speech as a placeholder gift—a “token of my dutiful affection.”

The Inside Joke: “A Camel Among the Egyptians”

At the very end of the letter, Melanchthon apologizes for his speech. He says he had to cram so much information into such a short amount of time that it might feel messy and lack “decorum” (elegance).

To make his point, he quotes an ancient proverb from a Greek satirist named Lucian: “A camel among the Egyptians.”

According to the ancient story, the people of Egypt had never seen a camel before. When someone finally brought one into a theater to show it off, the crowd didn’t think it was majestic; they were terrified and thought it was an awkward, clunky, ugly monster.

Melanchthon is using clever, self-deprecating humor. He is essentially saying to his mentor: “I tried to pack so many big ideas into this tiny speech that it might look as awkward and clunky as a camel walking onto a stage. Please forgive my messiness!”

Here is Melanchthon’s 7th letter, unedited:

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No. 7. To Johannes Stöffler.1 (July 1517.)

The preface to the oration entitled: “An Oration on the liberal arts delivered by Philipp Melanchthon at Tübingen. From the press of Thomas Anshelm.” At the front of the oration, the following distich is read by Caspar Churrer,2 who also appended the Orphic hymn to the Muses in both Greek and Latin at the end: “Come, zealous youths, and toil at these playthings of the Muses. The struggle is sweet.”

To the man of outstanding virtue, Johannes Stöffler of Justingen, professor of Mathematics, Philipp Melanchthon sends his greetings.

I recently delivered a discourse concerning the liberal arts, most distinguished sir, following the custom of those who practice rhetoric in the schools of the philosophers. I thought it proper to dedicate it to you, both because the subject is of such a nature that you can rightfully claim it for your own name, and because through this gift I strive to prove my devotion3 to you. Indeed, I owe a debt to your kindness—not merely as much as I currently acknowledge, but as much as I desire to have fully acknowledged. And I desire to acknowledge as much as is fitting!

Now, what badges of highest praise would not befit you, who for so many years and with such great zeal have unlocked the hidden mysteries of mathematics? You are accustomed to embracing all students—and myself especially—with such great favor, and thereby spurring us on toward glory as if with a goad. This is exactly what I felt internally when you entrusted us with the weighty task of translating Aratus.4 I have never begun anything more ardently or with greater pleasure, and I hope the endeavor will not turn out unfruitfully, provided you continue to look favorably upon it. We have translated a portion of the work into a Latin poem, but truly not in the manner of the ancients, who seem to have imitated it rather than translated it.

In the meantime, until that project is finished, please accept this brief little oration as a token of my dutiful affection.5 Perhaps you would prefer something more sumptuous and elegant, but it could not be done; the sheer accumulation of material is such that I have had to cram a great many things into a very short space. I fear the resulting variety may lack proper decorum, much like the proverb Lucian quotes: “A camel among the Egyptians.”6

Farewell. From Tübingen.

The Ultimate 16th-Century Souvenir

Imagine it is the year 1517. You are a wealthy, highly educated German nobleman returning home from a trip abroad. You cannot bring back photographs or a t-shirt as a souvenir. Instead, the ultimate luxury item—the absolute best gift you can give to your smartest friend—is a rare, newly discovered book.

This short letter by a young Philipp Melanchthon (who was only about 20 years old at the time) is essentially a highly formal, public “Thank You” note for just such a souvenir.

To understand what is happening in this letter, you don’t need a degree in history or theology. You just need to understand the 16th-century “Republic of Letters”—a massive social network of nerds, nobles, and writers who were obsessed with reviving the lost wisdom of ancient Greece and Rome.

Here is your guide to the characters, the backstory, and the ancient mythology packed into this short letter.

The Cast of Characters

There are three people involved in the story of this letter:

1. Hermann, Count of Neuenahr (The Recipient): Hermann is a powerful German nobleman and a high-ranking official in the Catholic Church (a Canon and a Legate). But more importantly, he is a “Humanist.” Humanists were people who believed that studying ancient classical literature was the key to improving society. Hermann used his vast wealth and influence to protect and sponsor smart people.

2. Johannes Reuchlin (The Uncle): Reuchlin is Germany’s most famous living scholar at this time, an absolute rockstar in the academic world. He is also Philipp Melanchthon’s great-uncle.

3. Philipp Melanchthon (The Sender): Philipp is a teenage prodigy and a rising star in the academic world. (In the opening poem, he playfully uses the name “Philipp Melas,” which is just a Greek translation of his German birth name, Schwartzerdt, meaning “black earth”).

The Backstory: The Journey of a Book

In the 1500s, there were no copyright laws, and books didn’t just appear in stores. Manuscripts had to be physically carried across borders and handed to printers. In the text of this letter, Melanchthon reveals the exact journey of the book he is publishing:

• Step 1: Count Hermann travels abroad (likely to Italy) and finds a cool new manuscript about the ancient Romans.

• Step 2: Hermann returns to Germany and gives the manuscript to his famous friend, Johannes Reuchlin, calling it “a gift both small and dear” (a famous quote from the ancient Greek poet Homer).

• Step 3: Reuchlin hands the book to his brilliant young nephew, Philipp Melanchthon, and tells him to take it to a printing press so that students all over Germany can buy it and read it.

• Step 4: Melanchthon prints the book. But printing is expensive, and scholars need wealthy protectors. So, Melanchthon prints a dedication at the very front of the book, dedicating it right back to Count Hermann.

Melanchthon cleverly calls this the “grace of mutual giving.” Hermann gave the book to them privately; Melanchthon is giving the printed book back to Hermann publicly, cementing their friendship and giving Hermann good PR.

What is the Book Actually About?

The book Hermann brought back is called The Dialogue of the Osci and Volsci. (The Osci and Volsci were two ancient Italian tribes). Melanchthon describes it as a “charming and festive” debate about “the custom of speaking and the selection of words.”

Why would anyone care about a book on selecting words? During the Renaissance, all educated people spoke and wrote in Latin. But there was a fierce, almost comical debate about how to speak it. Some scholars were massive snobs, claiming you could only use words that the ancient Roman politician Cicero had used. This book was actually a witty comedy (a satire) making fun of those snobby grammar nerds. Melanchthon loved it, knowing his students would find it hilarious and educational.

Unpacking the Flattery: Muses, Hermes, and Hercules

To wrap up his letter, Melanchthon heaps massive praise on Count Hermann using imagery from ancient Greek and Roman mythology. Since Hermann loves the classics, this is exactly the kind of flattery he wants to hear.

• Hermes / Muses: In ancient mythology, the Muses were the nine goddesses of the arts, literature, and science. Hermes was the messenger god of communication. Melanchthon uses them to say, “This book is a divine gift of communication and art.”

• Musagetes (Leader of the Muses): Usually, the god Apollo was called the “Leader of the Muses.” Melanchthon is saying that Hermann is so cultured and supportive of the arts that he is basically Apollo.

• A Hercules among the Muses: This is the ultimate compliment for a nobleman. Hercules represents raw, muscular power and political might. The Muses represent soft, intellectual poetry. By calling Hermann “Hercules among the Muses,” Melanchthon is saying: You aren’t just a dumb jock with political power, and you aren’t just a weak nerd reading books. You are the perfect combination of powerful strength and beautiful intellect.

The Takeaway

What you are actually witnessing is a brilliant young college professor networking with a wealthy politician. By publishing this book and writing this letter, Melanchthon is spreading the joy of literature while ensuring that the powerful Count Hermann continues to support and fund the next generation of students.

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To Hermann, Count of Neuenahr.

The Preface to the booklet:
“The Dialogue of the Osci and Volsci, acted at the Roman games.”1

By Philipp Melas:2 Hermes established these graceful gifts of the Muses, A well-spoken fable, crowns for clever orators.

To the illustrious Lord Hermann, Count of Neuenahr,3 Canon of the Metropolitan Church of Cologne and the Cathedral of Liège, Legate of the Archbishop of Cologne, Philipp Melanchthon sends his commendations.

Behold, O Prince, that Roman debate—surely a charming and festive one—concerning the custom of speaking and the selection of words. Upon your recent return to Germany, you presented it to our relative Johannes Reuchlin as a gift, “a gift both small and dear.”4 He, in turn, handed this little book over to us to be printed as a testimony to your goodwill and singular devotion toward him, as well as his own gratitude and clear sense of duty. Thus, under the pretext of your highly celebrated name, students of literature might embrace it as their shared property.

For your virtue, illuminated by such great splendor of birth and the wondrous grace of fortune, deserves this: that you be revered with all the ardor of scholars as a true Musagetes [Leader of the Muses], like a shared Hercules among the Muses.5

Therefore, most adorned Patron of letters, willingly accept this little book ascribed to your titles, your own gift returned “in the grace of mutual giving.”6 By this, I may simultaneously understand that our service meets with your rightful approval, and judge that the hope for scholarship I place in you is not entirely in vain.

Why a 16th-Century Genius
Assigned Ancient “Sitcoms” for Homework

Imagine you are a university student in Germany in the year 1516. The printing press has recently revolutionized the world, making books widely available for the first time. Education is undergoing a massive shift. Instead of just memorizing dry, medieval rulebooks, a new movement of teachers called “Humanists” believes that the best way to learn how to be a good, smart, and effective human is to read the brilliant authors of ancient Greece and Rome.

One of the brightest stars of this educational revolution is a teenage prodigy named Philipp Melanchthon. Even though he is only about 19 years old when he writes this letter, he is already a respected professor at the University of Tübingen.

He is publishing a newly edited textbook for his students, and he writes this preface (dedicated to his friend Paulus) to explain exactly why this specific book is so important.

But the book he is assigning isn’t a Bible, a math textbook, or a list of strict rules. It is a collection of comedies written by an ancient Roman playwright named Terence.

Why would a brilliant professor assign ancient sitcoms as essential reading? In this fascinating letter, Melanchthon walks his readers through the history of human education to explain why comedy is the ultimate teaching tool.

Here are the three main concepts to understand as you read his letter:

1. A Brief History of “How to Be a Good Human”

Melanchthon begins by asking a basic question: How have humans historically taught each other right from wrong?

He traces a timeline.

First, the ancient Greeks used fables (like Aesop’s stories about talking animals) and mysterious riddles. Later, the philosophers came along. Melanchthon mentions famous figures like Socrates and Diogenes. While they had good ideas, Melanchthon points out that Diogenes was harsh, grumpy, and spent his time barking insults at people. Philosophy, while useful, could be dry, isolating, or combative.

Eventually, Melanchthon argues, society realized that the best way to teach people how to live wasn’t by shouting rules at them, but by telling them stories. The job of teaching morals was handed over to the poets and playwrights.

2. Comedy as the “Mirror of Life”

Today, we think of comedy simply as a way to get a laugh. But Melanchthon explains that ancient Greek and Roman comedy was invented for a much deeper purpose. He calls comedy a “mirror for governing life.”

When you watch or read a comedy, you are watching a safe simulation of the real world. Melanchthon points out the exact types of characters students will encounter in Terence’s plays: teenagers making foolish mistakes for love, arrogant soldiers, tricky servants trying to outsmart their bosses, and fathers debating the best way to raise their kids (whether through strictness or gentle kindness).

By reading these plays, a student learns how the real world operates. They can laugh at a foolish character on the page, and in doing so, learn how to avoid making that exact same embarrassing mistake in their own lives.

3. Terence: The Master of Words

Finally, Melanchthon focuses on the star of the textbook: Terence. Terence was a playwright in ancient Rome (originally hailing from North Africa, which is why Melanchthon praises his “African genius”).

In the 1500s, Latin was the universal language of business, law, science, and diplomacy. If you wanted to be successful, you had to speak and write Latin flawlessly. Melanchthon and his fellow scholars didn’t just want their students to write correct Latin; they wanted them to write beautiful, persuasive, and conversational Latin.

For this, Terence was the undisputed heavyweight champion. Because his plays were scripts of people actually talking to one another, his writing was incredibly elegant and natural. Melanchthon quotes his own intellectual hero, the famous scholar Erasmus, who called Terence the “ultimate artificer [craftsman] of speaking.”

As you read this letter, don’t get bogged down by the long list of ancient Greek names (like Thespis, Aristarchus, or Menander). Melanchthon is simply showing off his historical knowledge to build a “family tree” of literature.

Here is Melanchthon’s 3rd letter, entirely unedited:

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Those Greek men who first established the customs of public and private life (for I judge that we must begin with them as the first authors of the human arts) accomplished their task partly by fables (such as the Aesopic tales in circulation), partly by riddles (like the sharp sayings of Cleobulus of Lindos written in epic verse), and partly by what were reported to be sacred oracles of the gods.

Soon, the earliest age of philosophers ordered human pursuits through a small handful of maxims, sometimes even adopting them from a poet.

Add to this later era, beyond the common crowd of philosophers, the moral exemplars of Socrates and Diogenes. Both were less observed abroad through lived experience than they were approved at home by the zeal of the schools, even though their methods were directed toward vastly different ends.

Socrates, being more civil in his manner of living, possessed a speech full of modesty and humanity. Diogenes, on the other hand, was harsh in both life and speech: rigid and sharp in his criticisms. Although he was entirely alien to the brawling discipline that began in his time, I consider the insults hurled against him to be mere trifles: “What I am, you are not; I am a man, therefore you are not a man.”1 To these institutions of the wise, sophistry was added, not the trifling sort, but the kind that was later coupled with history, proving exceptionally useful for shaping human morals.

Even earlier, by virtue of artistic reputation, by far the greatest share of establishing the rules of life had been yielded to the poets. Very many of them, enriched by the patronage of princes, offered only heroic praises as examples, I mean the Homeric kings and tragic assemblies. To these, the Pindaric poems will not be unsuitably added. The rest, engaged in common affairs, described the care of the household and the state of the city. To them, Comedy owes its particular existence.

I pass over the very many things that friends sometimes transmitted to one another even in verse: Hesiod’s Works and Days written to his brother might be counted as such a work; as might the so-called “Golden Verses” of Pythagoras (by an author not bad, but unknown); the poetry of Theognis and Phocylides, comparable to the maxims of the Hebrew Solomon; and the innumerable exhortations of Solon of Athens. Whatever lacked public favor and applause still earned no small praise simply through its private use.

I return to those things which, exhibited in frequent public spectacles, displayed all of life depicted as though in its own distinct roles. To recount these in order, we must trace our steps a little further back. Once the state of Athens was settled, when the pursuits of peace and leisure had begun to be cultivated as if by fate (and before the common title of “philosopher” existed), certain poets elevated themselves by the strength of their intellect.

These great men, elegantly expressing the form of living by applying the graces, attempted both to benefit good minds and to delight and stir the people through the portrayal of virtue. They were called Tragic poets; imitating Homeric heroes, they bound their speech in meter with a somewhat more relaxed foot. It was considered not dissimilar to prose.

They say the first was Thespis of Athens, who, wearing a mask, captivated the minds of the multitude with his produced tragedy; he was famous even for this: that in his extreme old age, he had Solon2 in his audience.

At that time, the arts experienced such growth that Pisistratus, the prince of the Athenians, soon took care to have Homer’s poems properly arranged. Whoever it was that undertook the matter by the tyrant’s command (for Aristarchus belonged to a later age) gave great volumes of verses to the Homerids and Rhapsodes. Enticed by the desire for reward or glory, those wanderers used to sing parts of the Homeric poems.

This pursuit grew through emulation, and a few years later, beyond the many authors of tragedy, the causes of private individuals were captured in varied dramas and acted everywhere. Eventually, the task was given to poets who, with a bit more festivity suited to the elegance of their genius, would mock the foolish quarrels of the common people, without keeping silent about certain names.

These jokes, celebrated in public spectacles just like tragedies, yielded great praise for the poet and provided an even greater method for the hearer to order their life.

And these are the beginnings of Comedy; this is also its end:
that we might use it as a mirror for governing life.

We hear that this was observed to such an extent in those times that for many years afterward, Comedy was never absent from the eyes of the Athenians. It continued, though with somewhat less license, since the remaining works of the bards were already being heard on all sides. For, as Athenaeus writes, Demetrius of Phalerum was the first to bring the Homerids or Rhapsodes into the theaters; and by the diligence of Aristarchus, the Homeric books were kept intact in almost that same century. The works of Demetrius, and the poems of Hesiod, Archilochus, and Phocylides are likewise reported to have been published with the highest honors.

Thus far I have spoken of Greek comedy: how it began for the sake of morals, and how this new thing was first produced to immense admiration. Concerning the stage or the remaining types of performing a play, whoever desires to know more should seek out the dissertations of Athenaeus and the commentaries of Julius Pollux.

Now, since we are dealing with a Latin, namely, Terentian poem, although several things can be gathered from the prefaces of Donatus and Benedictus, I still thought it proper to recount how comedy was introduced into the city of Rome. For if you return to the earliest origins of the city, as if by right of return, in the games (and these were few), the circenses are named among the established ones, along with some unknown sacred rites; beyond the venerable custom of antiquity, there is nothing you would admire.

But these customs, handed down to posterity, rendered the celebration of the games more frequent, just as they did the wealth of the city of Rome, I suppose because it was viewed as an act of piety. From this, quite a few meters composed for gesticulation (like Dithyrambs) were received, alongside Etruscan arts decorated by their own players. The zeal of Livius Andronicus, who combined Etruscan disciplines with Greek knowledge, later polished these forms. He was the first in the city to produce varied poetry for the spectacles: epic, Comedy, Satire, an imitation of old comedy, and Tragedy. Then came Q. Ennius, M. Plautus, Cn. Naevius, M. Pacuvius, Statius Caecilius, and L. Accius, some illustrious in comedy, some in tragedy, and many praised for other kinds of poetry.

But I do not know whether the proper decorum for each genre of writing was maintained among them. For they say that the “fitting” [πρέπον]3 is sometimes lacking in the comedy of Plautus. Yet those who immediately followed them (Terence and Lucilius) are considered superior in their art, with Quintilian as our witness. But they confer the entire genius of all comedy upon our Terence.

Thus we have spoken briefly about Latin comedy. I would deal far more extensively with Terentian comedy if the commentaries of others were not already at hand. Nor, indeed, will I say anything else about the craftsmanship of the poet than what Erasmus of Rotterdam, the supreme president of letters, says: that Terence is the ultimate artificer of speaking.4

I will not discuss with what figures, with what elegance, and with what decorum he elevated his speech beyond the common capacity of intellects. I will not discuss how purely the youths of the first comedy love, or conversely how foolish Phaedria, Chaerea, and the soldier Thraso of the second play are, or how imprudently Menedemus tortures himself in the third when deserted by a bad son.

Nor will I discuss how urbanely Mitio demonstrates what liberality and clemency can achieve in the education of youth. I omit the manifold and, if it can be called such, foolish craftiness of the women in the Hecyra. I omit how wickedly the parasite Phormio plays the fox. There are many things of this kind in this poet which are suited to preparing one’s life and morals, and suited to the elegance of diction; so deeply has the nature of the matter been investigated, and so perfectly have the habit, age, and condition of the characters been observed.

Whether this is due to his emulation of the Greeks, or to Latin art, or rather to his African genius, can perhaps be somewhat debated. But I will say freely: since his genius deserves its own praise, a great part of these qualities belongs to Menander, whom he used as his model.

These virtues of his are praised among the highest by Plutarch: “But Menander so exhibited his diction that it is proportionate to every nature, disposition, and age.”5 From this, I believe Menander both pleased his own people by his art (since such is the economy within him) and served as the chief example for our Terence, which he imitated with care and zeal.

Furthermore, in this poem, you will observe maxims worthy of a free man, pleasant and easy jokes, and urbane, elegant wit not inept, not envious, and plainly Menandrian. As the Greek says: “The comedies of Menander partake of abundant and sacred wit, as if born from that very sea from which Aphrodite was born.”6

The iambic meter, familiar to Terence, contributes to this elegance with a peculiar grace. It consists chiefly of trimeters, and occasionally longer verses, so that it does not seem entirely alien to prose speech. And so that the system of the poem might be recognized, the meters have been inscribed for each scene, and the verses distinguished and arranged as the law demands (a diligence that first yielded to the praises of the Philologist Benedictus).7

Would that our own little books could procure such grace, so that the meters might be judged by collating the copy! The rest of the diligence will be apparent even without a guide. A compendium on metrical feet by Benedictus is also appended, so that the absolute system of the poetry might be readily available. Whoever desires a richer storehouse of this subject should seek out the metrical commentaries of Aldus Manutius.

Perhaps in the future, we will provide what Priscian composed on iambic poetry, if we ever publish them slightly more corrected than the common editions, which are currently read in such a corrupted state that the notes Baptista Pius added to the codices of Plautus (copied from Priscian on iambs) seem like nothing at all. There, I know not what owl is substituted for Homeric passages, nothing to the point [οὐδὲν πρὸς ἔπος].8 But more on these matters abundantly elsewhere.

This Terence is a Comic Poet upon whom the Latins turn their faces and their eyes. He is a master of both speech and life, to be read by almost every age, but certainly with every ounce of zeal. He goes forth into the public joyfully under your auspices, my excellent Paulus, both because he seems to himself more corrected by your labor, and because, through your most happy zeal, he is uniquely cultivated as a prince with such decorum that you have joined all humanity (the well-rounded education) [τὴν ἐγκύκλιον παιδείαν]9 to him.

And I would wish that the German youth, following your example, might apply themselves to this poet, gaining an image of the studies which you received from Marcus Cicero and the rest of the great men, for whom the Terentian plays were so frequently in their hands that they sometimes illuminated or defended the weightiest causes using a Terentian verse.

I suppose this is because the Greek orators were formerly accustomed to recite from memory [ἀποστοματίζοντες]10 many parts of good poems, for the sake of proving their genius and honoring the matter at hand.

Farewell, my Paulus Geraeander, and consider the poet Terence truly yours.

From Tübingen, Year 1516.
H. and L.11

A Letter Between Two Book-Loving Friends

If you have ever sent a text to an old college roommate saying, “I miss you, please just send a quick reply so I know we’re still good,” then you will perfectly understand the heart of this letter.

Written by a young, brilliant college professor named Philipp Melanchthon to his dear friend Ambrosius Blarer, this letter gives us a beautiful peek into personal relationships during the 1500s. Blarer had recently moved to a quiet monastery in the Black Forest to become a monk. Melanchthon, meanwhile, was teaching at the bustling University of Tübingen.

Though separated by distance and different career paths, this letter shows how deeply connected they remained. To fully appreciate what Melanchthon is saying here, it helps to look at three main themes hidden in this short, affectionate note:

1. A Surprisingly Vulnerable Friendship

We often imagine historical figures as stiff, serious people in old paintings. But in this letter, Melanchthon is wonderfully human and emotionally open. He admits to his friend that he is a “people pleaser”—he desperately wants to be approved of and loved by good men like Blarer.

When a messenger arrives bringing greetings from Blarer, Melanchthon is overjoyed. He writes this letter to say, essentially, “I love you, please let me love you, and please write me back.” He even gives Blarer an easy out, saying that even the “briefest of letters” will be enough to keep their friendship alive.

2. Monks, Muses, and “Good Literature”

You might assume that a monk in the 1500s spent all his time praying in silence or reading only the Bible. But this was an era of massive educational excitement. Scholars across Europe were rediscovering ancient Greek, Roman, and Hebrew writings.

Melanchthon playfully teases his friend about this. He tells Blarer to mix his “sacred duties” at the monastery with the “Muses” (the ancient Greek goddesses of inspiration and art). He jokes that Blarer will be joined by “Hebrew, Greek, and Latin soldiers”—meaning the ancient texts and languages he is studying. When Melanchthon talks about being born for “good literature,” he isn’t just talking about reading good books; he is talking about a cultural revolution where studying ancient poetry, myths, and history was seen as a way to build personal honor and virtue.

3. An Intellectual Support System

Melanchthon is a professor teaching classic Greek texts like Homer (who wrote the Iliad and Odyssey) and ancient poetry, sometimes lecturing “off the cuff” without prepared notes. But he doesn’t want his friend in the monastery to feel left out of this vibrant academic world.

He offers a beautiful lifeline: “Make use of our books and our minds.” He playfully calls himself and his fellow professors Blarer’s “reserves” or backup soldiers. If Blarer gets stuck in his studies out in the quiet countryside, his friends back at the university are ready to help him.

Here is Melanchthon’s Letter, entirely unedited:

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To the reverend father,

Magister Ambrosius Blarer at Alpirsbach1, his lord:

Greetings, excellent man and most beloved brother! You will easily recognize how much I love you, whether from the intimacy of our earlier life together or from these new letters I am writing right now. Come now, as soon as I received your messenger bearing greetings (τοῦ ἀσπαζομένου)2 today, I was as overjoyed as I ought to be at the name of an old friend. And I would profess that joy of heart more profusely, did you not already know your Philipp—how much he wishes to find approval with his friends, and good ones at that, which is to say, men like you.

Therefore, I beg you to look favorably upon whatever service I can offer. First, understand from this letter that I love you directly and sincerely, and second, allow yourself to be loved in return. The proof of this will be established if you reply occasionally, even with the briefest of letters.

Meanwhile, busy yourself with your sacred duties among the Muses in that council of the gods. Hebrew, Greek, and Latin soldiers will join you. See who you are, take the measure of your own intellect—”Know thyself”—for you consider yourself born for good literature3 and for honor. Virtue is its own reward and has praises as its companions; you know what that ancient lyric poet says: “A hymn for good deeds makes a man equal to kings.”4

Through such pursuits, you will keep us, the professors of good literature, as your reserves5. Make use of our books and our minds. For now, I consider Lucian’s Hercules6 a short rhetorical preface; besides grammar, we are currently reading selections from Homer and Hesiod, and we shall very soon commence the Magic of Theocritus7, to which we will add the preface that we are doing so “off the cuff.”8

Live well, farewell, and write back. “For I delight in hearing your words.” Enclosed with this rough draft.

From Tübingen. Farewell once more, the day after the Feast of St. James.9

Your Philipp.

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Making Education Beautiful

Imagine being a teenager sent off to a university in early 16th-century Germany. Education at the time was often grueling, consisting of dry lectures, strict discipline, and endless memorization of complex rules. But in this letter, we see Philipp Melanchthon trying to change that.

Written around 1514 when Melanchthon was just a teenager himself (yet already a university instructor!), this preface introduces a newly printed textbook for his students. The book, written by a scholar named Bartholomew of Cologne, was called the Mythological Dialogue. As the title suggests, it was a story told through a conversation between characters, filled with ancient myths, jokes, and clever sayings.

Melanchthon essentially stumbled upon this book, loved it, and rushed it to the printing press so his students could have copies. To understand why he was so excited about it, it helps to look at three main themes in his short introductory letter:

1. Learning Should Be Enjoyable

Melanchthon knew that “tender minds” (young students) easily get burnt out by overly dense material. He praises the dialogue format because it feels “familiar”—it reads like a script or a conversation rather than a textbook. By using a book filled with “sweet jokes” and “pleasant witticisms,” Melanchthon is trying to make the hard work of learning an ancient language engaging. He wants students to color their studies with beautiful stories so that the process of education becomes something they actually enjoy.

2. The “River to the Sea”

Why would a teacher who eventually became a famous Christian reformer encourage his students to read pagan myths and fables? Melanchthon answers this by borrowing an idea from the ancient Greek writer Plutarch.

He argues that myths and fables are not meant to be the final destination of a student’s education, but rather the starting point. He uses a beautiful metaphor: fables are like a “companion river” that gently guides a person out to the deep, vast “sea” of more rigorous, difficult subjects. By wrestling with the morals and vocabulary found in simple myths, young minds are trained to handle deeper philosophical and religious truths later on in life.

3. Eloquence as a Divine Gift

In Melanchthon’s world, “eloquence”—the ability to speak and write beautifully, clearly, and persuasively—wasn’t just a neat party trick or a way to get a good job. He viewed it as a sacred gift.

He points out to his students that the ancient world viewed the inventor of speech (the god Mercury) as the messenger of the heavens. Melanchthon tells his students that God gave humans the gift of clear speech so that we could actually comprehend and discuss the magnificence of the universe. Therefore, practicing grammar and reading refined stories isn’t just busywork; it is a way to honor a divine gift.

Here is Melanchthon’s second letter, entirely unedited:

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Preface to Bartholomaeus Coloniensis:
Dialogus Mythologicus. [Tübingen, before August 1514]

To the studious youths. (Preface to the little book entitled: “The Mythological Dialogue of Bartholomaeus of Cologne, replete with sweet jokes, pleasant witticisms, and harmonious maxims, and diligently elaborated) Hagenau, at the press of Thomas Anshelm, in the month of November, 1516.” [5½?] sheets in quarto. L.

Philipp Melanchthon sends his greetings to the studious young men.

This charming and elegant tale came into our hands. When I had read it through in passing, I immediately commended it to the printers so that it would not be lacking from your studies, excellent young men, because it seemed highly suitable for youth. For it is written as a dialogue—a genre of speech commended for its familiarity and purity, and pleasing for its variety of subject matter. It will do a great deal to cultivate your youth if you adorn all your other studies with its grace of subjects and words, so that, beautified by these rhetorical colors, your studies might be rendered more pleasant.

Indeed, a rule for both life and speech is prescribed by these more elegant fables, on the authority of Plutarch in the book he entitled On How to Listen to Poets. For they nourish and foster tender minds, and by these very fables natural talents are accustomed to be led to more rigorous subjects, just as one is led to the sea by following a companion river. Now, it is thought that this is accomplished most correctly by the very thread of speaking with which this truly polished and refined discourse is woven; a discourse that is also exceedingly useful for acquiring eloquence, which is a gift of the gods. You certainly ought to strive toward this eloquence with all the efforts of your mind. For it is said to have been given by the gods so that their magnificence might be understood by mortals. This is what Mercury, the author of speech, who was venerated by our ancestors as the messenger of the gods, seems to signify, because “we know the will of the gods from the activities imparted to us according to reason,” as one reads in Pharnutus.

As for the rest, praise, the reward of good men, awaits you. Farewell.

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A Masterclass in the Art of the Letter

Imagine you are a young student in Germany during the early 1500s. Books are precious, education is undergoing a massive revolution, and the ability to communicate elegantly is the ultimate mark of a sophisticated mind. In this environment, a brilliant young teacher named Philipp Melanchthon (who originally hailed from the town of Bretten) wrote this preface to introduce a published collection of letters.

But this wasn’t just any collection of letters, it was a textbook meant to teach students how to write, think, and communicate by looking at the very best examples of the day.

To understand what Melanchthon is doing in this short but packed introduction, it helps to break down three main themes he presents to his readers:

1. The Celebrity of Johannes Reuchlin

The letters Melanchthon is introducing were all written to one man: Johannes Reuchlin. At the time, Reuchlin was a superstar of the intellectual world. He was a pioneer who helped bring the study of ancient languages back to Germany, earning him deep respect across Europe.

Melanchthon points out how proud Germans should be of Reuchlin. In an era where Italy was usually seen as the undisputed center of culture and learning, Melanchthon is thrilled that a German scholar is receiving such high praise from “foreign nations.” By publishing the impressive letters that international scholars sent to Reuchlin, Melanchthon is showing off Germany’s rising intellectual status.

2. The Power of a Good Letter

Today, we might send a quick text message or an email to relay information. In Melanchthon’s time, letter-writing was a highly respected art form.

However, Melanchthon warns against making letters sound too artificial. He argues that the best writing flows naturally and feels warm and familiar. To prove his point, he quotes famous ancient Roman and Greek thinkers—like Cicero and Libanius—who defined a letter simply as a “written conversation.” Even though these letters to Reuchlin were written by highly educated men about important global affairs, Melanchthon praises them because they read like two friends talking across a great distance. They use clear, brief, and exact vocabulary rather than messy, complicated jargon.

3. A Teacher’s Advice to Students

In the final paragraphs, Melanchthon turns his attention directly to his audience: “my excellent young men.” He shifts from being a proud publisher to a practical teacher. He wants these students to do more than just read the book; he wants them to use it as a workout for their brains.

He gives them a timeless formula for learning how to write well:

• Imitation: Read the work of masters and try to mimic their style.

• Translation: Take sentences in Greek and translate them into pure, clean Latin.

• Rephrasing: Take a good sentence and rewrite it using different, equally strong words to build vocabulary.

Here is the Melanchthon’s first letter unedited:

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Philipp Melanchthon of Bretten sends warmest greetings to the reader.

Among the various genres of literary monuments, those that flow more readily from nature than from art are generally the most highly esteemed. For in these works, the natural disposition inherent in a person’s genius can be clearly observed; just as, according to Pythagorean discipline, true art is established as something born of nature. Among these genres, the epistolary form is paramount. By virtue of its familiarity, it exhibits an immediate warmth, and it has been celebrated with high praise by the most authoritative writers. Indeed, the greatest affairs are most often conducted via letters.

Therefore, in order that we might write and speak about a great many matters as elegantly as possible, we desired that these letters—written with manifold erudition to Johannes Reuchlin, a man of the utmost integrity and wisdom—should be published. For nothing more glorious could happen to our Germany than if, through the agency of Johannes Reuchlin—whom “the owl-eyed Goddess Athena has girded and adorned”—it were to be praised splendidly in the monuments of foreign nations. In fact, almost all the letters are marked by this very theme.

Furthermore, the true character of letter-writing can be discerned here most accurately. Writers cloak their artifice in a familiar tone, lest they be accused of failing to satisfy the requirements of epistolary discourse as defined by Libanius the Sophist. For Libanius defines a letter as follows: “a written conversation taking place from someone who is absent to someone who is absent, and fulfilling a necessary purpose; in it, one speaks just as if he were absent addressing someone who is absent.” Marcus Tullius Cicero seems to have expressed this very idea elegantly and (as is customary for his particular genius) most felicitously in a letter to Curio: “that one most certain kind of letter, for the very sake of which the genre itself was invented: so that we might inform those who are absent if there is anything that concerns either our interests or theirs to know.”

And so, my excellent young men, you now possess letters woven together in pure speech—which sheds light upon its subjects—and in flawless phrasing, which Cicero simply calls “Latin.” They are familiar, clear, and brief (since this type of discourse is considered most akin to a dialogue), and finally, they use exact vocabulary, so that the subject matter appears to be depicted as explicitly as possible. You have these so that you may learn the art by imitating them, for as Quintilian says, a great part of art consists in imitation.

I see no better way for your studies to be advanced than through the combined forces of practice and imitation: translate Greek sentences into Latin words, and rephrase Latin sentences using other well-chosen words. Do this constantly, so that Johannes Reuchlin, the standard-bearer of German scholarship, may be said to have benefited you. For if he sees that you have become learned through these exercises, he will present you with an even greater gift than the many he has already given.

Farewell.

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FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Unlocking the True Philipp Melanchthon: LutherVox Announces Groundbreaking Translation Project

LutherVoxPM is opening the doors to the 16th century. We are embarking on a massive, chronological translation of the works of Philipp Melanchthon, straight from the Corpus Reformatorum (the master collection of the Reformers’ original writings).

Our publishing schedule is designed for daily immersion:

• Daily Letters: We will translate and publish one of Melanchthon’s letters each day, working through his massive correspondence chronologically.

• Monthly Works: Once a month, we will release a fresh translation of one of his major theological, historical, or philosophical works.

The Misunderstood Reformer

For centuries, the English-speaking world has profoundly misunderstood Philipp Melanchthon, one of the absolute greatest minds of the Reformation.

Today, many readers only view him through a negative, later lens. In 1530, Melanchthon wrote the Augsburg Confession, the defining statement of the Lutheran faith. However, years later, he made unauthorized modifications to this official document to appease “Reformed” theologians (followers of Huldrych Zwingli and John Calvin, who differed from Luther on issues like the Lord’s Supper). Because of this later compromise, history has often painted Melanchthon as weak or wavering.

But this later narrative eclipses the massive, foundational work he contributed to the early Reformation and to Martin Luther himself. Luther navigated treacherous theological and political waters that would have been far too difficult to survive alone. He did it because Melanchthon was right there beside him.

Family, Fame, and the Gospel: The Reuchlin Drama

A perfect example of Melanchthon’s early, unyielding loyalty is the drama surrounding Johannes Reuchlin.

Reuchlin was a “humanist”—a superstar scholar of the Renaissance who focused on recovering original Greek and Hebrew texts. He was wildly famous, highly successful, and, crucially, he was Melanchthon’s own great-uncle. When Reuchlin was put on trial by church authorities for defending Jewish literature, Martin Luther boldly defended him and helped clear his name.

However, when Luther’s Reformation began to upset the Pope and the Emperor, the aging Reuchlin turned his back on Luther. Reuchlin pressured his brilliant nephew, Melanchthon, to abandon Wittenberg and the Reformation. Melanchthon was forced to choose between his famous, wealthy family member and the truth of the Gospel. Despite the incredible pressure, Melanchthon stood absolutely firm with Luther.

The Great Commentary Theft

Perhaps nothing shows their bond better than Melanchthon’s commentary on the Apostle Paul’s Epistle to the Romans.

Melanchthon had been lecturing on Romans to the students at the University of Wittenberg. Martin Luther got his hands on Melanchthon’s notes and thought they were the most amazing theological writings he had ever read. What did Luther do? Without asking for permission, and without even telling Melanchthon, Luther took the manuscript straight to the printers and had it published! Luther knew the world desperately needed to read it.

This very commentary by Melanchthon became incredibly influential. It heavily shaped Luther’s own famous Preface to the Book of Romans. Decades later, that same preface would be quoted as an authoritative theological source in the Formula of Concord (specifically in the Solid Declaration, Article XI)—the 1577 rulebook that officially unified and defined the Lutheran church.

What We Will Translate

Through LutherVoxPM, you will receive fresh English translations of Melanchthon’s incredible output, including:

Biblical Exegesis (Old Testament)
In-depth commentaries explaining Genesis, the Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, and Daniel.

Biblical Exegesis (New Testament)
Commentaries on the Gospels, Romans, Corinthians, Colossians, Timothy, and the remaining epistles.

Loci Communes Theologici
His groundbreaking 1521 text. This was the very first “systematic theology” of the Reformation—a book that organized all Christian teaching into clear topics.

Confessional Documents & Acts
The Augsburg Confession, its Apology (defense), the Confutatio, and official documents from massive church-state debates like the Diets of Regensburg and Worms.

Doctrinae Christianae
Shorter theological tracts, debates, and the exams used to test pastors before they were ordained.

Postillae
Written sermons and guides intended to help local pastors preach the Bible effectively.

Declamationes & Orationes
Academic speeches, emotional eulogies, and public addresses delivered to the student body at the University of Wittenberg.

Philosophy & Science
His Ethica (Ethics), Politica (Politics), Doctrina Physica (Physics), and his psychological treatise De Anima (On the Soul).

Historica
Historical works, including his massive expansion of the Chronicon Carionis (a world history).

Textbooks & Poetry
His highly influential textbooks on Greek/Latin grammar, rhetoric, logic, and his personal poetry (Carmina).

An Exclusive Invitation

This is more than a press release; it is an invitation to join an exclusive theological journey.

The cost to secure your spot and receive daily access to these new translations is just $9.95 a month, or $100 annually.

Also from LutherVox: The Martin Luther Translation Project

We also want to warmly invite you to join our ongoing flagship publication, LutherVox, dedicated to translating the daily life, preaching, and pastoral heart of Martin Luther himself.

Each release includes a brief, lay-friendly historical introduction to set the scene. Our weekly schedule for Luther is:

• Monday & Tuesday: Personal Letters

• Wednesday & Thursday: Sermons

• Friday & Saturday: Table Talks (Casual theological conversations recorded by his students over dinner)

You can subscribe to the Martin Luther project for $9.95 a month, or $100 annually.