letter he wrote the next day,
also to Gouda and to a trusted friend, there is no trace of the mood: he
is again thinking of his future. We do not notice that the tremendous
zeal with which he continues his studies is relaxed for a moment. And
there are other indications that towards Servatius, who knew him better
than he could wish, and who, moreover, as prior of Steyn, had a
threatening power over him, he purposely demeaned himself as though he
despised the world.

Meanwhile nothing came of the English prebend. But suddenly the occasion
offered to which Erasmus had so often looked forward: the journey to
Italy. The court-physician of Henry VII, Giovanni Battista Boerio, of
Genoa, was looking for a master to accompany his sons in their journey
to the universities of Italy. Erasmus accepted the post, which charged
him neither with the duties of tuition nor with attending to the young
fellows, but only with supervising and guiding their studies. In the
beginning of June 1506, he found himself on French soil once more. For
two summer months the party of travellers stayed at Paris and Erasmus
availed himself of the opportunity to have several of his works, which
he had brought from England, printed at Paris. He was by now a
well-known and favourite author, gladly welcomed by the old friends (he
had been reputed dead) and made much of. Josse Badius printed all
Erasmus offered him: the translations of Euripides and Lucian, a
collection of _Epigrammata_, a new but still unaltered edition of the
_Adagia_.

In August the journey was continued. As he rode on horseback along the
Alpine roads the most important poem Erasmus has written, the echo of an
abandoned pursuit, originated. He had been vexed about his travelling
company, had abstained from conversing with them, and sought consolation
in composing poetry. The result was the ode which he called _Carmen
equestre vel potius alpestre_, about the inconveniences of old age,
dedicated to his friend William Cop.

Erasmus was one of those who early feel old. He was not forty and yet
fancied himself across the threshold of old age. How quickly it had
come! He looks back on the course of his life: he sees himself playing
with nuts as a child, as a boy eager for study, as a youth engrossed in
poetry and scholasticism, also in painting. He surveys his enormous
erudition, his study of Greek, his aspiration to scholarly fame. In the
midst of all this, old age has suddenly come. What re