Laudator Temporis Acti

Anonymous, The Prayse of Private Life, I.4, in The Letters and Epigrams of Sir John Harington, together with The Prayse of Private Life, ed. Norman Egbert McClure (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1930), pp. 330-331:

The Solytarie Man contented with fewe meates (and fewer Servantes) haveinge the day before eaten moderately at his owne table and there meanly, yet cleanely furnished, ornefieth his Howse with no greater pompe then his owne presence. In steede of tumulte, he hath a small compaine, in steede of noyes, he useth silence, for want of familiers he is accompanied with himselfe. He is his owne companion: with himselfe he enterteyneth himself, and so he and himselfe doe eate together. His house is made of claye, the walles cleane, and poorely cladd. His buildinge not framed of stone, but of wood, covered with noe coste. There are noe roofes of silver or goulde, neyther be the Flores covered with carpetts or silke, yet maye he from thence behould the Heaven, which prospecte excelleth all others. Hee treadeth upon the Earth, not on purple silke: his Musike noe more then sweete Psalmes, with giving thanks to God, his purveyor noe other then a poore Baker, his Cooke a sillie woman. What they offer him thereof he eateth moderately, accomptinge yt pretious. All other Cates caught in woodes or farr fetched from fieldes and Rivers he doth not desire. Such is his fare, thankfull to God and Man: contented he is with common foode, not bought with money nor provided with muche payne: esteeminge his fare, not by the cost, but his owne appetite. He envieth noe man, nor hateth any bodie, but contente with his fortune, holdeth himselfe secure. He feareth nothinge, nor desireth any thinge. His cuppes are of earth and free from poyson. He knoweth true riches is to desire nothinge, and the most mightie commaunde to obay noe bodie. His life is pleasant and peaceable.

Id., I.13 (p. 339):

For everie Man ignorant of letters and wantinge a companion to conferr with, knoweth not what to saie unto himselfe. But the learned Man, at all tymes, and in all places, can intertayne himselfe with readinge, or rumynatinge upon somewhat he had formerly founde in bookes. Therefore Solitude without learning is to those men not lesse displeasinge then exile, imprisonment and torture. But to him that is learned, everie place is as his owne countrie, libertie and delight.

The earliest citation for "Quellenforschung" in the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) is Bernadotte Perrin, "Lucan as Historical Source for Appian," American Journal of Philology 5.3 (1884) 325-330 (at 325):

It does not increase our confidence in the conclusions of the recent "Quellenforschung" among the Germans to find each of no less than five authors claimed as the main or even the sole source of Dio Cassius in his history of the second Punic war.

But there is a slightly earlier example—James Bryce, "John Richard Green. In Memoriam," Macmillan's Magazine 48 (May 1883) 59-74 (at 70-71):

No one could be more keen and penetrating in what the Germans call Quellenforschung—the collection, and investigation, and testing of the sources of history—nor could any one be more painstaking.

The OED, discussing the etymology of the word, says "< German Quellenforschung (1834 or earlier)..." It's possible to go further back here as well. The word appears in the Jenaische allgemeine Literatur-Zeitung, no. 284 (December 12, 1811), col. 482.

Labels: lexicography

John Heywood (1497-1580), "Of Books and Cheese," in The Proverbs, Epigrams, and Miscellanies of John Heywood, ed. John S. Farmer (London: Early English Drama Society, 1906), pp. 149-150:

No two things in all things can seem only one;
Because two things so must be one thing alone.
Howbeit, reading of books and eating of cheese,
No two things, for some things, more like one than these.
The talent of one cheese in mouths of ten men
Hath ten different tastes in judgment—most times when
He saith “’tis too salt”; he saith “’tis too fresh”;
He saith “’tis too hard ”; he saith “’tis too nesh.”
“It is too strong of the rennet,” saith he;
“It is,” saith he, “not strong enough for me.”
“It is,” saith another, “well as can be.”
No two of any ten in one can agree;
And, as they judge of cheese, so judge they of books.
Onlookers on which, who that narrowly looks,
May look for this: Saith he, “that book is too long.”
“Tis too short,” saith he. “Nay,” saith he, “ye say wrong,
’Tis of meet length; and, so fine phrase, or fair style,
The like that book was not made a good while;
And, in touching the truth, invincibly wrought.”
“Tis all lies,” saith another, “the book is nought.”
No book, no cheese, be it good, be it bad,
But praise and dispraise it hath, and hath had.

In line 8, "nesh" means "soft".

John Harington (1561-1612), Epigrams IV.72 ("A comparison of a Booke, with Cheese"), in The Letters and Epigrams of Sir John Harington, together with The Prayse of Private Life, ed. Norman Egbert McClure (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1930), pp. 276-277:

Old Haywood writes, & proues in some degrees,
That one may wel compare a book with cheese;
At euery market some buy cheese to feed on,
At euery mart some men buy bookes to read on.
All sorts eate cheese; but how? there is the question,
The poore for food, the rich for good disgestion.
All sorts read bookes, but why? will you discerne?
The foole to laugh, the wiser sort to learne.
The sight, taste, sent of cheese to some is hateful,
The sight, taste, sense of bookes to some's vngratefull,
No cheese there was, that euer pleas'd all feeders,
No booke there is, that euer lik't all Readers.

In line 9, "sent" is "scent," in modern spelling.

Excerpts from Evelyn Waugh (1903-1966), Brideshead Revisited:

I.iv (conversation between Sebastian Flyte and Charles Ryder):

'I wish I liked Catholics more.'
'They seem just like other people.'
'My dear Charles, that's exactly what they're not — particularly in this country, where they're so few. It's not just that they're a clique — as a matter of fact, they're at least four cliques all blackguarding each other half the time — but they've got an entirely different outlook on life; everything they think important is different from other people. They try and hide it as much as they can, but it comes out all the time.'

II.i (conversation between Cordelia Flyte and Charles Ryder):

'Charles,' said Cordelia, 'Modern Art is all bosh, isn't it?'
'Great bosh.'

II.ii (Father Mowbray speaking):

'The trouble with modern education is you never know how ignorant people are. With anyone over fifty you can be fairly confident what's been taught and what's been left out. But these young people have such an intelligent, knowledgeable surface, and then the crust suddenly breaks and you look down into depths of confusion you didn't know existed.'

Girolamo Fracastoro (1478-1553), "Winter: To Giovanni Battista della Torre," tr. James Gardner:

But if the frigid north wind roars or if winter storms descend in rain filled clouds, then let us remain at home and may the hearth shine forth with a great fire. Let the shepherd prepare logs of the huge beech or oak, easily split. Then let him place you in the fire, junipers, who are wont to spread sweet odors all around, and you too, olive trees of Athena. In front of the fire you will have young Giulio to play with, as he charms you and speaks words as yet incoherent. For my part, I will join you in reading the remains of great Vergil. How lucky we should be if fate allowed us to pass what is left of this life in one another's company.

The Latin:

Frigidus at silvis Aquilo si increverit, aut si
hiberni pluviis descendent e nubibus imbres,
nos habeat domus, et multo lar luceat igne.
Upilio ingentem aut fagum vel scissile robur
sufficiat, tum vos, claro quando igne soletis,
iuniperi suaves, circum diffundere odores,
et vos Palladiae flammis imponat olivae.
Ante focum tibi parvus erit, qui ludat, Iulus,
blanditias ferat, et nondum constantia verba.
Ipse legam magni tecum monumenta Maronis.
O fortunatos nimium, si fata, quod aevi
nos manet, hanc una dederint producere vitam!

Text and translation are as printed in Girolamo Fracastoro, Latin Poetry. Translated by James Gardner (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2013), pp. 258-259. One trivial comment: in the sixth line Gardner regards "suaves" as modifying "odores," and so the comma in the Latin should perhaps go after the vocative "iuniperi," not after the accusative "suaves."

Update from Karl Maurer:

Michael, in the little poem by Fracastoro, in line 2 the prep. "e" is crudely unmetrical. An editor desperate to keep it could put it after "hiberni" (to elide with that) — but it isn't needed, and I suspect should just be excised.

In line 8 "Iulus" should get a mark of diaeresis to show that "I-" is there a vowel (is metrically a whole syllable).

In line 1 Gardner's "roars" seems a terribly free way to render "silvis... increverit".

Hat tip: Ian Jackson.

Pat Frank (1908-1964), Alas, Babylon (1959; rpt. New York: Harper Perennial, 2005), p. 199 (in the fictional aftermath of nuclear war):

"In four months," Randy said, "we've regressed four thousand years. More, maybe. Four thousand years ago the Egyptians and Chinese were more civilized than Pistolville is right now."

Thomas MacDonagh (1878-1916), "The Fever," in Songs of Myself (Dublin: Hodges, Figgis & Co., Ltd., 1910), p. 16:

I am withered and wizened and stiff and old,
Sick and hot, and I sigh for the cold,
For the days when all of the world was fresh
And all of me, my soul and my flesh,—
When my lips and my mouth were cool as the dew,
And my eyes, now worn, as clear, as new.
I wish I were lying out in the rain
In the wood at home, that the waters might strain
And stream through me— But here I lie
In a clammy room, and my soul is dry,
And shall never be fresh again till I die.

Edmund Gosse (1849-1928), "The Ballade of Dead Cities:"

                    To A.L.

Where are the cities of the plain?
  And where the shrines of rapt Bethel?
And Calah built of Tubal-Cain?
  And Shinar whence King Amraphel
  Came out in arms and fought, and fell,
Decoyed into the pits of slime
  By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell;
Where are the cities of old time?

Where now is Karnak, that great fane,
  With granite built, a miracle?
And Luxor smooth without a stain,
  Whose graven scripture still we spell?
  The jackal and the owl may tell;
Dark snakes around their ruins climb,
  They fade like echo in a shell;
Where are the cities of old time?

And where is white Shushan, again,
  Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell,
And all the Jewish oil and grain
  Were brought to Mithridath to sell,
  Where Nehemiah would not dwell,
Because another town sublime
  Decoyed him with her oracle?
Where are the cities of old time?

                   ENVOI
Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell,
  Above their wasted toil and crime
The waters of oblivion swell:
  Where are the cities of old time?

"A.L." is Andrew Lang (1844-1912), who addressed a poem with the same title to Gosse:

The dust of Carthage and the dust
Of Babel on the desert wold,
The loves of Corinth, and the lust,
Orchomenos increased with gold;
The town of Jason, over-bold,
And Cherson, smitten in her prime—
What are they but a dream half-told?
Where are the cities of old time?

In towns that were a kingdom's trust,
In dim Atlantic forests' fold,
The marble wasteth to a crust,
The granite crumbles into mould;
O'er these—left nameless from of old—
As over Shinar's brick and slime,
One vast forgetfulness is roll'd—
Where are the cities of old time?

The lapse of ages, and the rust,
The fire, the frost, the waters cold,
Efface the evil and the just;
From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold,
To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd
Beneath the wave a dreamy chime
That echo'd from the mountain-hold,—
"Where are the cities of old time?"

Prince, all thy towns and cities must
Decay as these, till all their crime,
And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust
Where are the cities of old time.

Charles Churchill (1732-1764), "Night: An Epistle to Robert Lloyd," lines 199-206:

Perplex'd with trifles through the vale of life,
Man strives 'gainst man, without a cause for strife;
Armies embattled meet, and thousands bleed
For some vile spot, where fifty cannot feed.
Squirrels for nuts contend, and, wrong or right,
For the world's empire kings ambitious fight.
What odds?—to us 'tis all the selfsame thing,
A nut, a world, a squirrel, and a king.

Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), letter to Joan Mascaró (December 22, 1938), in Correspondència de Joan Mascaró (1930-1986), ed. Gregori Mir, Vol. II (Mallorca: Editorial Moll, 1998), pp. 318-319:

I have too often seen Upanishads rendered into English by scholars who are philologists and who miss the delight of the immediate realisation of truth expresssed in the original texts. On the other hand, in our own country there appeared in the later sophisticated age interpreters who in their scholarly insensibility had no compunction in torturing the utterances of our ancient poet-prophets into a conformity to the metaphysical models of their own logic. They robbed the living words of their voice, the luminous visions of their light. Our rishis' minds were simple, childlike in the sublimity of their wisdom, but those who trapped their thoughts into a cage and clipped from them all natural self-contradictions that bore testimony to their living worth, were grown old,— the delicacy of their spiritual touch hardened into traditional callosities.

And these are the reasons why I feel grateful to you for your translation which fortunately is not strictly literal and therefore nearer to truth, and which is done in a right spirit and in a sensitive language that has caught from those great words the inner voice that goes beyond the boundaries of words.

What greatly pleases me in your book is the way that you have dealt with those parts of the text which are non-rational and dreamlike, the babbling of an infant prodigy, mingled with the most amazing heights of spiritual intuition ever reached by human mind. They give the appearance of an upheaval of the original geology of the earth through which has emerged a great group of islands from the depth of a primitive sea. What you have omitted to translate also shows your discrimination, for there are large tracts of writings, specially in great Upanishads like Chandogya which are symbolical and which would yield their mystic meaning only when read in context with the contemporary life and usages. But as that is not possible today they should be left aside with a sigh.

"Your book" is Himalayas of the Soul: Translations from the Sanskrit of the Principal Upanishads (London: John Murray, 1938).

Hat tip: Ian Jackson.

Charles Churchill (1732-1764), "Night: An Epistle to Robert Lloyd," lines 351-358:

"Too hard the task 'gainst multitudes to fight:
You must be wrong—the World is in the right."
What is this World? a term which men have got
To signify, not one in ten knows what;
A term which with no more precision passes
To point out herds of men than herds of asses;
In common use no more it means, we find,
Than many fools in same opinions join'd.

Some notes on Euripides' Iphigenia among the Taurians, from Maurice Platnauer's commentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1938; rpt. Bristol: Bristol Classical Press, 1999).

Line 502 (ἀνώνυμοι θανόντες οὐ γελῴμεθ᾽ ἄν, note on p. 103):

To any Greek, and above all to tristis Orestes, the thought of an enemy's exultation in his death would be bitterer than the thought of death itself. But no personal exultation is possible where the name of the dead is not known. Euripides is therefore psychologically as well as dramatically justified in making Or. here and at l. 504 refuse to give his name.

Line 697 (note on p. 120):

The importance to a Greek of having his family continue is a matter of religion: for naturally where there are no descendants there can be no ancestor-worship.

Line 1119 (note on p. 154):

κάμνεις; the 'ideal' second person is here very clumsy. The poet Milton emended to κάμνει and he was almost certainly right.

For more on Milton's emendations in Euripides, see here.

Line 1447 (note on p. 177):

For divine telephony unaccompanied by television cf. E. Hipp. 85, 6 σοὶ καὶ ξύνειμι καὶ λόγοις ἀμείβομαι, | κλύων μὲν αὐδῆς, ὄμμα δ' οὐχ ὁρῶν τὸ σόν; cf. also S. Aj. 14, 5.

For more on epiphanies see:

• Epiphanies
• More on Epiphanies
• Theophanies
• Exclusive Epiphanies
• How Would You Recognize a God?

Giovanni Giudici (1924-2011), "Il nome gli sfuggiva," tr. Ian Jackson:

The name escaped the elderly professor.
He kept using his fingertips,
going tip-tap on his forehead.
Co co co cò ... it must be Cocarelli
or Cocarello that's the name of that professor.
                                                      director.
                                                   confessor.

He's the key to every gate.
                      every date.
                       every fate.
He's the bottleneck I must pass through.

The name escaped the old professor.
Too passé — time out of mind.
Or Coccardella. But he's no help at all.
See how much fun you're having with me, said that slut
of a memory.

The Italian, first published in Autobiologia (Milan: Arnoldo Mondadori, 1969), p. 114; text here from Giudici’s collected verse, I Versi della Vita ed. Rodolfo Zucco (Milan; Arnoldo Mondadori, 2000), p. 209:

Il nome gli sfuggiva al vieux-maître.
Seguitava a fare tip-tap
con le punte delle dita sulla fronte.
Cocococò — dev'essere Cocarelli
o Coccarello il nome di quel professore.
                                            direttore.
                                         confessore.

Lui è la chiave di tutte le porte.
                             della corte.
                            della morte.
Lui il collo di bottiglia che devi passare.

Il nome gli sfuggiva al vieux-maître.
Troppo vieux-jeu — fuoristoria.
O Coccardella. Ma certo non mi poteva aiutare.
Vedi che scherzi mi fa diceva questa puttana
di memoria.

Thanks very much to Ian Jackson for allowing the editio princeps of his translation to appear here.

Charles Churchill (1732-1764), "The Times," lines 495-498:

Would'st Thou be safe? Society forswear,
Fly to the desart, and seek shelter there,
Herd with the Brutes—they follow Nature's plan—
There's not one Brute so dangerous as Man.