[97] This style differs entirely from the macaronic. It consists merely in using the words of the Latin language with the forms and construction of the vulgar tongue, as illustrated by the directions of the professor who, lecturing in the schools, was interrupted by the entrance of a dog, and shouted out to the doorkeeper, _Verte canem ex_, meaning thereby that he should "turn the dog out." It was perhaps from this, or some similar occurrence, that this barbarous Latin gained the name of dog-Latin. The French call it _Latin de cuisine_. Master Ortuin is pressed for his judgment on this weighty question. A similar scene described in another letter ends less peacefully. The correspondent on this occasion is Magister Bornharddus Plumilegus, who addresses Ortuinus Gratius as follows:-- "Wretched is the mouse which has only one hole for a refuge! So also I may say of myself, most venerable sir, for I should be poor if I had only one friend, and when that one should fail me, then I should not have another to treat me with kindness. As is the case now with a certain poet here, who is called George Sibutus, and he is one of the secular poets, and reads publicly in poetry, and is in other respects a good fellow (_bonus socius_). But as you know these poets, when they are not theologists like you, will always reprehend others, and despise the theologists. And once in a drinking party in his house, when we were drinking Thurgen ale, and sat until the hour of tierce, and I was moderately drunk, because that ale rose into my head, then there was one who was not before friendly with me, and I drank to him half a cup, and he accepted it. But afterwards he would not return the compliment. And thrice I cautioned him, and he would not reply, but sat in silence and said nothing. Then I thought to myself, Behold this man treats thee with contempt, and is proud, and always wants to confound you. And I was stirred in my anger, and took the cup, and threw it at his head. Then that poet was angry at me, and said that I had caused a disturbance in his house, and said I should go out of his house in the devil's name. Then I replied, 'What matter is it if you are my enemy? I have had as bad enemies as you, and yet I have stood in spite of them. What matters it if you are a poet? I have other poets who are my friends, and they are quite as good as you, _ego bene merdarem in vestram poetriam_! Do you think I am a fool, or that I was born under a tree like apples?' Then he called me an ass, and said that I never saw a poet. And I said, 'You are an ass in your skin, I have seen many more poets than you.' And I spoke of you.... Wherefore I ask you very earnestly to write me one piece of verse, and then I will show it to this poet