Laudator Temporis Acti

Palladas, Greek Anthology 9.394, tr. W.R. Paton:

Gold, father of flatterers, son of pain and care, it is fear to have thee and pain not to have thee.

Χρυσέ, πάτερ κολάκων, ὀδύνης καὶ φροντίδος υἱέ,
  καὶ τὸ ἔχειν σε, φόβος· καὶ μὴ ἔχειν σ᾿, ὀδύνη.

Latin translation by Samuel Johnson:

Mater adulantum prolesque, Pecunia, curae,
  Teque frui timor est, teque carere dolor.

French translation by Pierre de Ronsard:

0 Mère des flatteurs, Richesse,
Fille du soin et de tristesse,
T'avoir est une grande peur
Et ne t'avoir, grande douleur.

Thanks very much to Michael Hendry for providing me with the Greek text of Palladas' epigrams in electronic form.

Donald Culross Peattie, Flowering Earth (New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 1939; rpt. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991), p. 6:

There are always some of us, not a few, in every generation, who go over wholly to the green flag. It is such a passionless fealty, so reticent a love, that neither do trumpets sound for it nor quarrels arise from it. Only, you will find that those who have pledged allegiance are happy about it in quiet.

Richard Wilbur, Green:

Tree-leaves which, till the growing season's done,
Change into wood the powers of the sun,

Take from that radiance only reds and blues.
Green is a color that they cannot use,

And so their rustling myriads are seen
To wear all summer an extraneous green,

A green with no apparent role, unless
To be the symbol of a great largesse

Which has no end, though autumns may revoke
That shade from yellowed ash and rusted oak.

Ivan Shishkin, Willows Lit Up By the Sun

Some prayers, from The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, Volume I: Diaries, Prayers, and Annals, ed. E.L. McAdam, Jr. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1958).

A Prayer Before Beginning Any New Study (p. 48):

Almighty God, in whose hands are all the powers of man; who givest understanding, and takest it away; who, as it seemeth good unto Thee, enlightenest the thoughts of the simple, and darkenest the meditations of the wise, be present with me in my studies and enquiries.

Grant, O Lord, that I may not lavish away the life which Thou hast given me on useless trifles, not waste it in vain searches after things which thou hast hidden from me.

Enable me, by thy Holy Spirit, so to shun sloth and negligence, that every day may discharge part of the task which Thou hast allotted me; and so further with Thy help that labour which, without thy help, must be ineffectual, that I may obtain, in all my undertakings, such success as will most promote thy glory, and the salvation of my own soul, for the sake of Jesus Christ. Amen.

After Time Negligently and Unprofitably Spent (p. 49):

О Lord, in whose hands are life and death, by whose power I am sustained, and by whose mercy I am spared, look down upon me with pity. Forgive me, that I have this day neglected the duty which thou hast assigned to it, and suffered the hours, of which I must give account, to pass away without any endeavour to accomplish thy will, or to promote my own salvation. Make me to remember, О God, that every day is thy gift, and ought to be used according to thy command. Grant me, therefore, so to repent of my negligence, that I may obtain mercy from Thee, and pass the time which Thou shalt yet allow me, in diligent performance of thy commands, through Jesus Christ. Amen.

Study of Tongues (p. 58):

Almighty God, giver of all knowledge, enable me so to pursue the study of tongues, that I may promote thy glory and my own salvation.

Bless my endeavours, as shall seem best unto Thee; and if it shall please Thee to grant me the attainment of my purpose, preserve me from sinful pride; take not thy Holy Spirit from me, but give me a pure heart and humble mind, through Jesus Christ. Amen.

George Orwell, On a Ruined Farm near the His Master's Voice Gramophone Factory:

As I stand at the lichened gate
With warring worlds on either hand—
To left the black and budless trees,
The empty sties, the barns that stand

Like tumbling skeletons—and to right
The factory-towers, white and clear
Like distant, glittering cities seen
From a ship's rail—as I stand here,

I feel, and with a sharper pang,
My mortal sickness; how I give
My heart to weak and stuffless ghosts,
And with the living cannot live.

The acid smoke has soured the fields,
And browned the few and windworn flowers;
But there, where steel and concrete soar
In dizzy, geometric towers—

There, where the tapering cranes sweep round,
And great wheels turn, and trains roar by
Like strong, low-headed brutes of steel—
There is my world, my home; yet why

So alien still? For I can neither
Dwell in that world, nor turn again
To scythe and spade, but only loiter
Among the trees the smoke has slain.

Yet when the trees were young, men still
Could choose their path—the wingèd soul,
Not cursed with double doubts, could fly,
Arrow-like to a foreseen goal;

And they who planned those soaring towers,
They too have set their spirit free;
To them their glittering world can bring
Faith, and accepted destiny;

But none to me as I stand here
Between two countries, both-ways torn,
And moveless still, like Buridan's donkey
Between the water and the corn.

Paul Nash, We Are Making a New World

William Hazlitt, On Living to One's-Self:

What I mean by living to one's-self is living in the world, as in it, not of it: it is as if no one knew there was such a person, and you wished no one to know it: it is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of things, not an object of attention or curiosity in it; to take a thoughtful, anxious interest in what is passing in the world, but not to feel the slightest inclination to make or meddle with it. It is such a life as a pure spirit might be supposed to lead, and such an interest as it might take in the affairs of men, calm, contemplative, passive, distant, touched with pity for their sorrows, smiling at their follies without bitterness, sharing their affections, but not troubled by their passions; not seeking their notice, nor once dreamt of by them. He who lives wisely to himself and to his own heart, looks at the busy world through the loop-holes of retreat, and does not want to mingle in the fray. 'He hears the tumult, and is still.' He is not able to mend it, nor willing to mar it. He sees enough in the universe to interest him without putting himself forward to try what he can do to fix the eyes of the universe upon him. Vain the attempt! He reads the clouds, he looks at the stars, he watches the return of the seasons, the falling leaves of autumn, the perfumed breath of spring, starts with delight at the note of the thrush in a copse near him, sits by the fire, listens to the moaning of the wind, pores upon a book, or discourses the freezing hours away, or melts down hours to minutes in pleasing thought. All this while he is taken up with other things, forgetting himself. He relishes an author's style, without thinking of turning author. He is fond of looking at a print from an old picture in the room, without teasing himself to copy it. He does not fret himself to death with trying to be what he is not, or do what he cannot. He hardly knows what he is capable of, and is not in the least concerned whether he shall ever make a figure in the world.

Today my mood is that of an "Epicuri de grege porcum" ("a pig from Epicurus' herd," Horace, Epistles 1.4.16). Here are some lines from Euripides' Alcestis (779-802, spoken by Heracles, tr. David Kovacs) that harmonize with my mood:

Come here so that you may be made wiser! Do you know the nature of our mortal life? I think not. How could you? But listen to me. Death is a debt all mortals must pay, and no man knows for certain whether he will be living on the morrow. The outcome of our fortune is hid from our eyes, and it lies beyond the scope of any teaching or craft. So now that you have learned this from me, cheer your heart, drink, regard this day's life as yours but all else as Fortune's! Honor Aphrodite, too, sweetest of the gods to mortals, for she is a kindly goddess. Forget all else and take my advice, if you think what I say is correct, as I suppose you do. Lay aside your excessive grief and have some wine with me [overcoming these misfortunes, head crowned with garlands]! I am quite sure that when the fit of drinking is upon you, it will bring you round from your clotted and gloomy state of mind. Being mortal we ought to think mortal thoughts. As for those who are solemn and knit their brows together, their life, in my judgment, is no life worthy of the name but merely a disaster.

δεῦρ' ἔλθ', ὅπως ἂν καὶ σοφώτερος γένῃ.
τὰ θνητὰ πράγμαθ' ἣντιν' οἶσθ' ἔχει φύσιν;
οἶμαι μὲν οὔ· πόθεν γάρ; ἀλλ' ἄκουέ μου.
βροτοῖς ἅπασι κατθανεῖν ὀφείλεται,
κοὐκ ἔστι θνητῶν ὅστις ἐξεπίσταται
τὴν αὔριον μέλλουσαν εἰ βιώσεται·
τὸ τῆς τύχης γὰρ ἀφανὲς οἷ προβήσεται,
κἄστ' οὐ διδακτὸν οὐδ' ἁλίσκεται τέχνῃ.
ταῦτ' οὖν ἀκούσας καὶ μαθὼν ἐμοῦ πάρα
εὔφραινε σαυτόν, πῖνε, τὸν καθ' ἡμέραν
βίον λογίζου σόν, τὰ δ' ἄλλα τῆς τύχης.
τίμα δὲ καὶ τὴν πλεῖστον ἡδίστην θεῶν
Κύπριν βροτοῖσιν· εὐμενὴς γὰρ ἡ θεός.
τὰ δ' ἄλλ' ἔασον πάντα καὶ πιθοῦ λόγοις
ἐμοῖσιν, εἴπερ ὀρθά σοι δοκῶ λέγειν.
οἶμαι μέν. οὔκουν τὴν ἄγαν λύπην ἀφεὶς
πίῃ μεθ' ἡμῶν [τάσδ' ὑπερβαλὼν τύχας,
στεφάνοις πυκασθείς]; καὶ σάφ' οἶδ' ὁθούνεκα
τοῦ νῦν σκυθρωποῦ καὶ ξυνεστῶτος φρενῶν
μεθορμιεῖ σε πίτυλος ἐμπεσὼν σκύφου.
ὄντας δὲ θνητοὺς θνητὰ καὶ φρονεῖν χρεών·
ὡς τοῖς γε σεμνοῖς καὶ συνωφρυωμένοις
ἅπασίν ἐστιν, ὥς γ' ἐμοὶ χρῆσθαι κριτῇ,
οὐ βίος ἀληθῶς ὁ βίος ἀλλὰ συμφορά.

The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, Volume I: Diaries, Prayers, and Annals, ed. E.L. McAdam, Jr. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1958), p. 278 (October 12, 1777):

Brachia satis setosa paulum a carpo rasi, ut notum sit quantum temporis pilos restituat.

McAdam ad loc.:

On the twelfth Johnson shaved his hairy arms enough "to see how much time would restore the hairs," a rather extreme example of his intellectual curiosity.

Id., p. 297 (August 7, 1779):

Partem brachii dextri carpo proximam et cutem pectoris circa mamillam dextram rasi, ut notum fieret quanto temporis pili renovarentur.

McAdam's note (pp. 297-298):

On 7 August Johnson made an experiment similar to the one he had made on 12 October 1778 [sic, read 1777]: he shaved part of his right arm above the wrist and the hair around his right breast to see how long it would take to grow again. Perhaps he had forgotten to keep track of his October experiment, or thought that in summer the hair would grow faster. The sentence was printed by Boswell from a lost diary (Life, III.398 n.3).

Bowswell's comment:

My readers will not be displeased at being told every slight circumstance of the manner in which Dr. Johnson contrived to amuse his solitary hours. He sometimes employed himself in chemistry, sometimes in watering and pruning a vine, sometimes in small experiments, at which those who may smile, should recollect that there are moments which admit of being soothed only by trifles.

I've been reading The Yale Edition of the Works of Samuel Johnson, Volume I: Diaries, Prayers, and Annals, ed. E.L. McAdam, Jr. (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1958). Johnson used many abbreviations in his diaries. Some of the abbreviations are cryptic, others obvious. In Johnson's diaries the Greek letter theta (θ) stands for death or dead (Greek θάνατος, thánatos = death), and the Greek letter phi (φ) stands for friends (Greek φίλος, phílos = friend). So on Easter Day, April 4, 1779, Johnson wrote, "At the altar I commended my θ.φ." McAdams explains (p. 296), "At church on Easter Johnson commended his dead friends as usual."

On Thursday, January 10, 1765, Johnson wrote in his diary, "2 cb. M 2. Floyd, Lucy, Coxterer, Beauclerc, Langton." McAdams comments (p. 86), "On Thursday, having gone to bed at 2 ('M' is his symbol for defecation), Johnson saw a long list of people."

In the 1990s a controversy arose in the pages of The Age of Johnson: A Scholarly Annual (abbreviated AJ) about the meaning of M, which occurs often in Johnson's diaries. Peter Martin, Samuel Johnson: A Biography (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2008), p. 87, summarizes the debate (words in square brackets added by me from Johnson's diary):

This impulse to tabulate and count, incidentally, which later became compulsive, appears to account for the appearance of a cryptic 'M' under 22 October in his 1729-34 'Diary'. If the Latin that follows [M quod feci Sept. 9 et 12 et 17. et 19 et 22 et 28 et 26.] is translated as 'Remember what I did on 9, 12, 17, 19, 22, 26 and 28 September', this would simply be an innocuous reference to what happened on those days that he either forgot to record in the diary or recorded elsewhere. Or it might mean something less savoury. One widely respected critic has urged that this 'M' refers to masturbation, others that it indicates sexual intercourse, and still others that it alludes to defecation. In the 1760s he used this 'M' more plausibly to chronicle his defecation because he was very ill then, suffering from insomnia and wishing to keep track of his bowel movements during the night. In 1729 the first two meanings may be more likely as it is certainly possible that, especially during periods of boredom in his room, he indulged in sexual fantasies. To keep a record of instances of masturbation by way of trying to control the practice, this same critic observes, is not uncommon, and it would have been a way of dealing with his guilt over it.²⁴

Martin's note 24 on p. 536 reads:

See these articles: Donald Greene, 'A Secret Far Dearer to Him Than His Life: Johnson's "Vile Melancholy" Reconsidered', AJ, 4 (1991): 1-40; Barry Baldwin, 'The Mysterious Letter "M" in Johnson's Diaries', AJ, 6 (1994): 131-145; J.D. Fleeman, 'Johnson's Secret', AJ, 6 (1994): 147-149; and Aaron Stavisky, 'Johnson's "Vile Melancholy" Reconsidered Once More', AJ 10, (1998): 1-24.

In the introduction to his Life of Johnson, Boswell wrote:

I remain firm and confident in my opinion, that minute particulars are frequently characteristic, and always amusing, when they relate to a distinguished man. I am therefore exceedingly unwilling that any thing, however slight, which my illustrious friend thought it worth his while to express, with any degree of point, should perish. For this almost superstitious reverence, I have found very old and venerable authority, quoted by our great modern prelate, Seeker, in whose tenth sermon there is the following passage:

"Rabbi David Kimchi, a noted Jewish commentator, who lived about five hundred years ago, explains that passage in the first Psalm, His leaf also shall not wither, from Rabbins yet older than himself, thus; That even the idle talk, so he expresses it, of a good man ought to be regarded; the most superfluous things he saith are always of some value. And other ancient authors have the same phrase, nearly in the same sense."

Boswell, Seeker, and Kimchi of course meant the "minute particulars" of a great man's public conversation, but my fascination about Johnson's life extends to what he wrote in his private diaries, and even to what he did on Thursday, January 10, 1765.

Robert Frost, Leaves Compared With Flowers:

A tree's leaves may be ever so good,
So may its bark, so may its wood;
But unless you put the right thing to its root
It never will show much flower or fruit.

But I may be one who does not care
Ever to have tree bloom or bear.
Leaves for smooth and bark for rough,
Leaves and bark may be tree enough.

Some giant trees have bloom so small
They might as well have none at all.
Late in life I have come on fern.
Now lichens are due to have their turn.

I bade men tell me which in brief,
Which is fairer, flower or leaf.
They did not have the wit to say,
Leaves by night and flowers by day.

Leaves and bark, leaves and bark,
To lean against and hear in the dark.
Petals I may have once pursued.
Leaves are all my darker mood.

John Frederick Kensett, Kearsarge Mountain

Lord Chesterfield, Letters to his Son, No. 100 (January 25, 1745):

But, to return now to your fifth form, from whence I have strayed, it may be, too long: Pray what do you do in that country? Be so kind as to give me a description of it. What Latin and Greek books do you read there? Are your exercises, exercises of invention? or do you still put the bad English of the Psalms into had Latin, and only change the shape of Latin verse, from long to short, and from short to long? People do not improve, singly, by travelling, but by the observations they make, and by keeping good company where they do travel. So, I hope, in your travels through the fifth form, you keep company with Horace and Cicero, among the Romans; and Homer and Xenophon, among the Greeks; and that you are got out of the worst company in the world, the Greek epigrams. Martial has wit, and is worth your looking into sometimes; but I recommend the Greek epigrams to your supreme contempt. Good night to you.

Samuel Johnson didn't consider the Greek epigrams "the worst company in the world" or worthy of his "supreme contempt." In a letter to Mrs. Thrale (August 19, 1784), he wrote:

As you do not now use your books, be pleased to let Mr. Cator know that I may borrow what I want. I think at present to take only Calmet, and the Greek Anthology. When I lay sleepless, I used to drive the night along by turning Greek epigrams into Latin.

I know not if I have not turned a hundred.

See also James Boswell, The Life of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. (A.D. 1784, aetat. 75):

During his sleepless nights he amused himself by translating into Latin verse, from the Greek, many of the epigrams in the Anthologia. These translations, with some other poems by him in Latin, he gave to his friend Mr. Langton, who, having added a few notes, sold them to the booksellers for a small sum, to be given to some of Johnson's relations, which was accordingly done; and they are printed in the collection of his works.

Similarly Arthur Murphy, An Essay on the Life and Genius of Samuel Johnson, LL.D., in George Birbeck Hill, ed., Johnsonian Miscellanies, vol. I (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1897), p. 445:

Eternity presented to his mind an aweful prospect, and, with as much virtue as perhaps ever is the lot of man, he shuddered at the thought of his dissolution. His friends awakened the comfortable reflection of a well-spent life; and, as his end drew near, they had the satisfaction of seeing him composed, and even chearful, insomuch that he was able, in the course of his restless nights, to make translations of Greek epigrams from the Anthologia; and to compose a Latin epitaph for his father, his mother, and his brother Nathaniel.

Johnson's translations from the Greek Anthology (nearly a hundred, as he estimated) can be found in Barry Baldwin, The Latin & Greek Poems of Samuel Johnson. Text, Translation and Commentary (London: Duckworth, 1995), pp. 198-263, and Niall Rudd, Samuel Johnson: The Latin Poems (Lewisburg: Bucknell University Press, 2005), pp. 80-118.

Among Johnson's translations are some Latin versions of epigrams by Palladas, including these, with Niall Rudd's English translation (followed by the Greek and W.R. Paton's translation).

Greek Anthology 10.60:

Ditescis, credo, quid restat? quicquid habebis
  In tumulum tecum, morte jubente, trahes?
Divitias cumulas, pereuntes neglegis horas,
  Incrementa aevi non cumulare potes.

You are growing rich. So I believe. What of the future? Are you going to drag whatever you have into the tomb with you, when death gives the order? You are piling up your riches, unaware that your hours are dwindling. You can't pile up increasing quantities of life.

Πλουτεῖς· καὶ τί τὸ λοιπόν; ἀπερχόμενος μετὰ σαυτοῦ
  τὸν πλοῦτον σύρεις, εἰς σορὸν ἑλκόμενος;
τὸν πλοῦτον συνάγεις δαπανῶν χρόνον· οὐ δύνασαι δὲ
  ζωῆς σωρεῦσαι μέτρα περισσότερα.

You are wealthy. And what is the end of it? When you depart do you trail your riches after you as you are pulled to your tomb? You gather wealth spending time, but you cannot pile up a heavier measure of life.

Greek Anthology 10.72:

Vita omnis scena est ludusque; aut ludere disce
  Seria seponens, aut mala dura pati.

Life is all a stage and a play. Either learn to play, setting serious matters aside, or else to endure hard misfortunes.

σκηνὴ πᾶς ὁ βίος καὶ παίγνιον· ἢ μάθε παίζειν
  τὴν σπουδὴν μεταθεὶς, ἢ φέρε τὰς ὀδύνας.

All life is a stage and a play: either learn to play laying your gravity aside, or bear with life's pains.

Paul Krugman, "The Town Hall Mob," New York Times (August 6, 2009):

There's a famous Norman Rockwell painting titled "Freedom of Speech," depicting an idealized American town meeting. The painting, part of a series illustrating F.D.R.'s "Four Freedoms," shows an ordinary citizen expressing an unpopular opinion. His neighbors obviously don't like what he's saying, but they're letting him speak his mind.

That's a far cry from what has been happening at recent town halls, where angry protesters—some of them, with no apparent sense of irony, shouting "This is America!"—have been drowning out, and in some cases threatening, members of Congress trying to talk about health reform.

---

Ian Urbina, "Beyond Beltway, Health Debate Turns Hostile," New York Times (August 7, 2009):

The bitter divisions over an overhaul of the health care system have exploded at town-hall-style meetings over the last few days as members of Congress have been shouted down, hanged in effigy and taunted by crowds. In several cities, noisy demonstrations have led to fistfights, arrests and hospitalizations.

....

One of the week's most raucous encounters occurred Thursday in Tampa, Fla., where roughly 1,500 people attended a forum held by Democratic lawmakers, including Representative Kathy Castor. When the auditorium at the Children's Board of Hillsborough County reached capacity and organizers had to close the doors, the scene descended into violence.

As Ms. Castor began to speak, scuffles broke out as people tried to push their way in. Parts of her remarks were drowned out by chants of "read the bill, read the bill" and "tyranny," as a video recording of the meeting showed. Outside the meeting, there were competing chants of "Yes we can" and "Just say no."

---

Cicero, Letters to his brother Quintus, 2.3.2 (56 B.C., tr. D.R. Shackleton Bailey):

Milo appeared on 7 February. Pompey spoke—or rather tried to speak, for no longer was he on his feet than Clodius' gang raised a clamour, and all through the speech he was interrupted not merely by shouting but by booing and abuse. When he wound up (and I will say he showed courage; he was not put off, delivered all he had to say, sometimes even managing to get silence by his personal authority)—well, when he wound up, Clodius rose. Wishing to repay the compliment, our side gave him such an uproarious reception that he lost command of thoughts, tongue, and countenance. That lasted till half past one, Pompey having finished just after midday—all manner of insults, ending up with some highly scabrous verse to the address of Clodius and Clodia. Pale with fury, he started a game of question and answer in the middle of the shouting: 'Who's starving the people to death?' 'Pompey,' answered the gang. 'Who wants to go to Alexandria?' Answer: 'Pompey.' 'Whom do you want to go?' Answer: 'Crassus' (who was present as a supporter of Milo, wishing him no good). About 2:15 the Clodians started spitting at us, as though on a signal. Sharp rise in temperature! They made a push to dislodge us, our side countercharged. Flight of gang. Clodius was hurled from the Rostra, at which point I too made off for fear of what might happen in the free-for-all.

A. d. VII. Id. Febr. Milo adfuit. dixit Pompeius, sive voluit. nam ut surrexit, operae Clodianae clamorem sustulerunt, idque ei perpetua oratione contigit, non modo ut acclamatione, sed ut convicio et maledictis impediretur. qui ut peroravit (nam in eo sane fortis fuit, non est deterritus, dixit omnia atque interdum etiam silentio, cum auctoritate pervicerat)—sed ut peroravit, surrexit Clodius, ei tantus clamor a nostris (placuerat enim referre gratiam) ut neque mente nec lingua neque ore consisteret. ea res acta est, cum hora sexta vix Pompeius perorasset, usque ad horam octavam, cum omnia maledicta, versus denique obscenissimi in Clodium et Clodiam dicerentur. ille furens et exsanguis interrogabat suos in clamore ipso quis esset qui plebem fame necaret: respondebant operae 'Pompeius.' quis Alexandriam ire cuperet: respondebant 'Pompeius.' quem ire vellent: respondebant 'Crassum' (is aderat tum Miloni, animo non amico). hora fere nona quasi signo data Clodiani nostros consputare coeperunt. exarsit dolor. urgere illi ut loco nos moverent. factus est a nostris impetus, fuga operarum. eiectus de rostris Clodius, ac nos quoque tum fugimus, ne quid in turba.

William Sidney Mount, School Boys Quarreling

Samuel Johnson, The Idler, No. 85 (Saturday, December 1, 1759):

One of the peculiarities which distinguish the present age is the multiplication of books. Every day brings new advertisements of literary undertakings, and we are flattered with repeated promises of growing wise on easier terms than our progenitors.

How much either happiness or knowledge is advanced by this multitude of authors, it is not very easy to decide.

He that teaches us any thing which we knew not before, is undoubtedly to be reverenced as a master. He that conveys knowledge by more pleasing ways, may very properly be loved as a benefactor; and he that supplies life with innocent amusement, will be certainly caressed as a pleasing companion.

But few of those who fill the world with books have any pretensions to the hope either of pleasing or instructing. They have often no other task than to lay two books before them, out of which they compile a third, without any new materials of their own, and with very little application of judgment to those which former authors have supplied.

Samuel Johnson, The Idler, No. 94 (Saturday, February 2, 1760):

It is the great excellence of learning, that it borrows very little from time or place; it is not confined to season or to climate, to cities or to the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed where no other pleasure can be obtained.

John Keats, On the Grasshopper and Cricket:

The poetry of earth is never dead:
  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's—he takes the lead
  In summer luxury,—he has never done
  With his delights, for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
  On a lone winter evening, when the frost
  Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
  The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

On the genesis of this sonnet see Charles Cowden Clarke, Recollections of Writers (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1878), pp. 135-136:

But the occasion that recurs with the liveliest interest was one evening when—some observations having been made upon the character, habits, and pleasant associations with that reverend denizen of the hearth, the cheerful little grasshopper of the fireside—Hunt proposed to Keats the challenge of writing then, there, and to time, a sonnet "On the Grasshopper and Cricket." No one was present but myself, and they accordingly set to. I, apart, with a book at the end of the sofa, could not avoid furtive glances every now and then at the emulants. I cannot say how long the trial lasted. I was not proposed umpire; and had no stop-watch for the occasion. The time, however, was short for such a performance, and Keats won as to time. But the event of the after-scrutiny was one of many such occurrences which have riveted the memory of Leigh Hunt in my affectionate regard and admiration for unaffected generosity and perfectly unpretentious encouragement. His sincere look of pleasure at the first line—

        The poetry of earth is never dead.

"Such a prosperous opening!" he said; and when he came to the tenth and eleventh lines:—

        On a lone winter evening, when the frost
        Has wrought a silence—

"Ah! that's perfect! Bravo Keats!"

Here is Leigh Hunt's sonnet composed on the same occasion:

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass,
  Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
  Sole voice that's heard amid the lazy noon,
When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
  With those who think the candles come too soon,
  Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
  One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
  At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth
To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song—
  In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

Walter Jackson Bate, John Keats (Cambridge: Belknap Press; rpt. New York: Oxford University Press, 1966), p. 121, compares the two:

Hunt's sonnet, considering the time he had to write it, is by no means bad. But what he can do with it is limited from the outset by his focus on the the insects themselves; and needing to fill out the lines and to make them agreeable to human feelings, he is forced to sentimentalize by personifying. The "little vaulter in the sunny grass," and the cricket—"warm little housekeeper"—are "sweet and tiny cousins." And the sonnet drives to a moral at the end: "both are sent" to carry to the thoughtful ear the salutary lesson of "mirth." Keats, on the other hand, typically focuses on a psychological process rather than a moral. The generalization is disposed of at the start ("The poetry of earth is never dead"), and brought back only at the beginning of the sestet in order to introduce the cricket. A simple division in structure gives a frame; and the sonnet can thus become more freely allusive and concrete. The result is a more nearly objective empathy (the grasshopper "rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed") and finally a more genuine resolution—the the blending, or continuity, of summer and winter are frankly left to the listener's imagination.

Katherine Plymley, Grasshopper from Nature Sept. 23rd 1803

Martial 2.53, tr. Abraham Cowley in his essay Of Liberty:

Would you be free? 'Tis your chief Wish, you say,
Come on; I'll shew thee, friend, the certain Way.
If to no Feasts abroad thou lov'st to go,
Whilst bounteous God does Bread at home bestow;
If thou the Goodness of thy Cloaths dost prize
By thine own Use, and not by others Eyes;
(If only safe from Weathers) thou canst dwell
In a small House, but a convenient Shell;
If thou without a Sigh, or Golden Wish,
Canst look upon thy Beechen Bowl and Dish;
If in thy Mind such Power and Greatness be,
The Persian King's a slave, compar'd with thee.

The Latin original:

Vis fieri liber? mentiris, Maxime, non vis:
  sed fieri si vis, hac ratione potes.
liber eris, cenare foris si, Maxime, nolis,
  Veientana tuam si domat uva sitim,
si ridere potes miseri chrysendeta Cinnae,
  contentus nostra si potes esse toga,
si plebeia Venus gemino tibi vincitur asse,
  si tua non rectus tecta subire potes.
haec tibi si vis est, si mentis tanta potestas,
  liberior Partho vivere rege potes.

Cowley translates rather freely and softens Martial's coarseness. The prose version of Walter C.A. Ker is more literal:

Do you wish to become free? You lie, Maximus; you don't wish. But if you do wish, in this way you can become so. You will be free, Maximus, if you refuse to dine abroad, if Veii's grape quells your thirst, if you can laugh at the gold-inlaid dishes of the wretched Cinna, if you can content yourself with a toga such as mine, if your plebeian amours are handfasted at the price of twopence, if you can endure to stoop as you enter your dwelling. If this is your strength of mind, if such its power over itself, you can live more free than a Parthian king.

Here is the second stanza of Cowley's Ode to Liberty, also in his essay Of Liberty:

'Tis Morning; well; I fain would yet sleep on:
  You cannot now; you must be gone
  To Court, or to the noisie Hall:
Besides, the Rooms without are crouded all;
  The Stream of Business does begin,
And a Spring-Tide of Clients is come in.
Ah cruel Guards, which this poor Pris'ner keep!
  Will they not suffer him to sleep?
Make an Escape; out at the Postern flee,
And get some blessed Hours of Liberty.
With a few Friends, and a few Dishes dine,
  And much of Mirth and mod'rate Wine.
To thy bent Mind some Relaxation give,
And steal one Day out of thy Life to live.
Oh happy Man (he cries) to whom kind Heav'n
  Has such a Freedom always giv'n!
Why, mighty Madman, what should hinder thee
From being ev'ry Day as free?

In response to Some Shad-Bush Thoughts, I received some interesting emails from Alan Knell, excerpts from which follow:

I too have planted service trees, but of British / European varieties [I live in Leamington Spa, UK].

I have two Wild Service Trees, Sorbus torminalis. These small trees bear attractive maple-like leaves, turning gold in autumn, and sweet brown fruits maybe a half-inch long. It is an occasional tree in Kent, my home county in the SE of England. Elsewhere it is rare. The bark breaks into a chequer-board pattern in older trees, giving the folk name of 'Chequers Tree', which I believe is the origin of the name of the country house kept for British prime ministers.

I also have a True Service Tree, Sorbus domestica. This is like a giant rowan, except it too bears brown fruits, larger than the wild service tree's berries: 'whitty pears'. I am told the Romans introduced this tree, which is very rare in the wild in Britain. They used it to flavour ale....

We Anglo-Saxons used rowan berries [S. aucuparia] to sharpen the sweetness of ale. Rowan ale used to be served sometimes on high tables in Cambridge and Oxford.

A Medlar completes my collection - Mespilus germanica. This bears fruit like a small, round, rough pear, with a prominent whirl of sepals round the distal end. The appearance suggests a coarse Anglo-Saxon folk name, gentled to 'Openers'. Medlars are harvested in November, stored on the ends in trays. After several weeks they 'blet' - soften and turn black. In this half-rotten state they taste like bananas, I think an unusual flavour before bananas became common. Traditionally they are enjoyed with port wine before a log fire on a cold December evening: an experience I recommend without hesitation. They will blet on the tree, but the birds will strip the lot in days. No doubt you are familiar with Lawrence's poem on the medlar.

....

I attach a picture of European medlars, half grown, to illustrate the origin of the English common name for the fruits.

---

The English common name for the fruits of the medlar is open-arse, "gentled to openers." See the Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. open-arse.

The English word service, as a tree name, comes from Latin sorbus, by way of Middle English serves (plural of serve) and Old English syrfe. See Walter W. Skeat, Notes on English Etymology (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1901), pp. 266-268, who rejects the derivation of service from cervisia (beer) in R.C.A. Prior, On the Popular Names of British Plants (London: Williams and Norgate, 1863), p. 202. Also to be rejected is the folk etymology mentioned by Charles Fergus, Trees of New England: A Natural History (Guilford: Globe Pequot, 2005), pp. 158-159:

A more colorful story holds that "service" refers to the memorial services that circuit preachers performed in spring, around the time of the juneberries' blossoming, to commemorate settlers who had not survived the preceding winter.

There is useful information in Andrew Dalby, Food in the Ancient World from A to Z (London: Routledge, 2003), p. 306:

Sorb, domesticated tree fruit of southeastern Europe. The sorb is a slow-growing tree. Its fruit ripens late in the season and is never very good to eat fresh. In these various ways the sorb resembles the olive; in addition it fruits only after many years' growth. In the classical Mediterranean sorbs were an important winter fruit: they were halved and sun-dried or else conserved in sapa, light grape syrup. They were also, so Palladius had heard, made into a kind of cider (which is called cormé in modern French).

The sorb or service-apple (Sorbus domestica) is Greek oon, ouon, Latin sorbum. Latin sorbum torminale is the fruit of a related species, probably the chequers-tree (S. torminalis); Pliny is aware of two other kinds, presumably the whitebeam (S. Aria) and the rowan (S. aucuparia).

Plato, Symposium 190d; Hippocrates R 55; Theophrastus HP 3.2.1, CP 3.1.4; Cato DA 7.4, 143.3; Varro RR 1.68.1; Celsus, Medicine 2.24.2; Dioscorides MM 1.120; Columella DA 8.17.13; Pliny NH 15.85, 16.74, 17.221; Priapeia 51.10; Dio of Prusa, Orations 7.75; Galen SF 12.87; Palladius OA 2.15.1-5.

Dalby overlooked a reference to sorb juice drunk by northern barbarians, at Vergil, Georgics 3.379-380 (tr. H. Rushton Fairclough):

Here they spend the night in play, and with ale and bitter service-juice joyously mimic draughts of wine.

hic noctem ludo ducunt, et pocula laeti
fermento atque acidis imitantur vitea sorbis.

---

Until Alan Knell mentioned it, I was unfamiliar with D.H. Lawrence's poem Medlars and Sorb-Apples:

I love you, rotten,
Delicious rottenness.

I love to suck you out from your skins
So brown and soft and coming suave,
So morbid, as the Italians say.

What a rare, powerful, reminiscent flavour
Comes out of your falling through the stages of decay:
Stream within stream.

Something of the same flavour as Syracusan Muscat wine
Or vulgar Marsala.

Though even the word Marsala will smack of preciosity
Soon in the pussyfoot West.

What is it?
What is it, in the grape turning raisin,
In the medlar, in the sorb-apple,

Wineskins of brown morbidity,
Autumnal excrementa;
What is it that reminds us of white gods?

Gods nude as blanched nut-kernels,
Strangely, half sinisterly flesh-fragrant
As if with sweat,
And drenched with mystery.

Sorb-apples, medlars with dead crowns.
I say, wonderful are the hellish experiences,
Orphic, delicate
Dionysos of the Underworld.

A kiss, and a spasm of farewell, a moment's orgasm of rupture
Then a long the damp road alone, till the next turning,
And there, a new partner, a new parting, a new unfusing into twain,
A new gasp of further isolation,
A new intoxication of loneliness, among decaying, frost-cold leaves.

Going down the strange lanes of hell, more and more intensely alone,
The fibres of the heart parting one after the other
And yet the soul continuing, naked-footed, ever more vividly embodied
Like a flame blown whiter and whiter
In a deeper and deeper darkness
Ever more exquisite, distilled in separation.

So, in the strange retorts of medlars and sorb-apples
The distilled essence of hell.
The exquisite odour of leave-taking.
nbsp;   Jamque vale!
Orpheus, and the winding, leaf-clogged, silent lanes of hell.

Each soul departing with its own isolation,
Strangest of all strange companions,
And best.

Medlars, sorb-apples
More than sweet
Flux of autumn
Sucked out of your empty bladders
And sipped down, perhaps, with a sip of Marsala
So that the rambling, sky-dropped grape can add its savour to yours,
Orphic farewell, and farewell, and farewell
And the ego sum of Dionysos
The sono io of perfect drunkenness
Intoxication of final loneliness.

---

I also owe to Alan Knell a reference to Augusta Paton, "True Service Trees of Worcestershire," Proceedings of the Botanical Society of the British Isles 7.1 (1967) 9-13, which has a curious story on p. 10 belonging to the annals of arboricide:

The final chapter in the history of the Wyre sorb tree is a sad one. This ancient tree, venerated by botanists from all over the country, had become a withered wreck by the middle of the nineteenth century, the top branches alone bearing flowers and fruit at their extremities. In 1858 a large party of naturalists gathered beneath it for lunch: four years later it was destroyed by fire. The miscreant of this dastardly deed was a notorious poacher. He had been sentenced by a local magistrate, Squire Childe of Kinlet, to what he considered too severe a term of imprisonment. In order to spite the squire, who was particularly fond of the sorb tree, he burnt it to the ground. Just retribution speedily followed. The poacher not long afterwards was convicted of setting fire to some farm buildings. He was transported and condemned to spend the rest of his days at Botany Bay.

All that was left of the old sorb tree was a blackened stump and various limbs. These were carefully collected by Mr George Jorden, a well known botanist of Bewdley. Out of these branches he had four goblets made. The most elaborate of them had silver bands round the rim and foot on which were engraved the blossom and early leaves of the tree and the fruit and mature leaves. It was presented to Mr William Matthews, Honorary Secretary of the Severn Valley Field Club.

On the 30th June 1864 about eighty members of this club met at the site of the old tree and around its blackened stump they sang a requiem lamenting the destruction of a tree so long an object of veneration. Unfortunately the words and music sung on this sad occasion have not been recorded.

Theodor Storm, August (Agony Column), tr. Leonard Forster:

I beg to request the esteemed young gentlemen who intend to steal my apples and pears this year to restrict themselves as far as possible to this form of enjoyment, and not to trample down the carrots and peas in my vegetable beds.

Eden Phillpotts, My Garden (London: Country Life, 1906), pp. 198-200:

Prime of garden pests is the human boy. In the pupa stage this creature evadeth every lure, and causeth much anguish of mind within the confines of cultivated ground. He hath no eye to distinguish between the grass plat and the garden knot, but trampleth indifferently upon either, and loveth best to frisk over soil wherein rare and curious seeds are germinating. Glass hath an affinity or attraction for him, and when he breaketh the same, he lifteth up his voice shrilly in merriment; but maketh still louder sounds to indicate anguish, when captured and chastened. At the season of Spring he haunteth shrubberies, and leapeth out upon the innocent traveller with horrid, inarticulate sounds. The ear may mark his unseen progress through plantations by the snapping of green boughs and by the outcry of parent birds. Occasionally, in his efforts to secure the nurseries of fowl upon lofty trees or precipices, he falleth and breaketh his neck; but this seldom happeneth, because he hath a feline plenitude of lives, and, in the art of self-preservation, is ever very nimble, discreet, and unscrupulous. During the autumnal months he affecteth the place of fruit, and by strategy may there be taken at any time in the day with full pockets and full cheeks. He hath no special taste in fruits, but devoureth with the impartial profusion of the caterpillar and canker worm. The birds of the air surpass him by their wise patience, for they know to an hour when the perfection of plum or pear has come; but not so he.

....

There is no cure for the human boy save time. Then, by exceeding slow stages, he groweth into the adult organism, and either turneth from his mysterious courses toward justification of existence, or else, as too often happeneth, doth wax in wickedness, as well as in the power to perform it.

Palladas, Greek Anthology 10.60, tr. W.R. Paton:

You are wealthy. And what is the end of it? When you depart do you trail your riches after you as you are pulled to your tomb? You gather wealth spending time, but you cannot pile up a heavier measure of life.

The same, tr. J.W. Mackail:

Thou art rich, and what of it in the end? as thou departest, dost thou drag thy riches with thee, pulling them into the coffin? Thou gatherest riches at expense of time, and thou canst not heap up more exceeding measures of life.

The same, tr. T.R. Glover:

Get riches, and what then? the coffin's lid
The company of thy coffer will forbid;
Add wealth and time subtract; and what remains?
Life not an hour longer for thy pains.

The same, tr. Tony Harrison:

So, Mr. Moneybags, you're loaded? So?
You'll never take it with you when you go.

You've made your pile but squandered time. Grown old
you can't gloat over age like hoarded gold.

The original Greek:

Πλουτεῖς· καὶ τί τὸ λοιπόν; ἀπερχόμενος μετὰ σαυτοῦ
  τὸν πλοῦτον σύρεις, εἰς σορὸν ἑλκόμενος;
τὸν πλοῦτον συνάγεις δαπανῶν χρόνον· οὐ δύνασαι δὲ
  ζωῆς σωρεῦσαι μέτρα περισσότερα.

A commonplace, but a true one, worth keeping in mind. Here are some parallels from other ancient writers:

• Ecclesiastes 2.18: Yea, I hated all my labor which I had taken under the sun; because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me.
  
• Sirach 14.4: He that gathereth by defrauding his own soul gathereth for others, that shall spend his goods riotously.
  
• Theognis 726: No one comes to the house of Hades with his possessions. (χρήματ' ἔχων οὐδεὶς ἔρχεται εἰς Ἀΐδεω.)
  
• Menander, fragment 301 Kock (lines 5-7): Immortality is not for sale, not even if you were to gather together the famous talents of Tantalus. But you will die and you will leave these things to others. (ἀθανασίας δ᾽ οὐκ ἔστιν, οὐδ᾽ ἂν συναγάγηις / τὰ Ταντάλου τάλαντ᾽ ἐκεῖνα λεγόμενα· / ἀλλ' ἀποθανῆι καὶ ταῦτα καταλείψεις τισίν.)
  
• Horace, Odes 2.3.17-20: You will leave behind your expensive pastures and your city house and your country villa which the Tiber flows by; you will leave them behind, and your heir will possess your riches piled up high. (cedes coemptis saltibus et domo / villaque flavus quam Tiberis lavit, / cedes et exstructis in altum / divitiis potietur heres.)
  
• Horace, Odes 2.14.25-28: Your heir, more worthy [than you], will use up your Caecuban wines, kept under a hundred locks; he will spill on the floor the proud wine, better than [that served] at high priests' feasts. (absumet heres Caecuba dignior / servata centum clavibus et mero / tinguet pavimentum superbo, / pontificum potiore cenis.)
  
• Horace, Odes 3.24.62: He hurries to gain money for the benefit of an unworthy heir. (indignoque pecuniam / heredo properet.)
  
• Horace, Satires 2.3.122-123: Are you guarding this, you god-forsaken old man, so that your son can drink it up, or even your freedman heir? (filius aut etiam haec libertus ut ebibat heres, / dis inimice senex, custodis?)
  
• Horace, Epistles 2.2.175-179: Since everlasting possession is given to no one, and one heir follows the heir of yet another heir like water flowing over water, what good are estates and storehouses? What good are pastures in Lucania joined to pastures in Calabria, if Death harvests the great along with the small and cannot be bribed by gold? (sic, quia perpetuus nulli datur usus, et heres / heredem alterius velut unda supervenit undam, / quid vici prosunt aut horrea? quidve Calabris / saltibus adiecti Lucani, si metit Orcus / grandia cum parvis, non exorabilis auro?)
  
• Propertius 3.5.13-14: You won't carry any riches to the waters of Acheron: fool, you will ride naked in the hellish boat. (haud ullas portabis opes Acherontis ad undas: / nudus in infera, stulte, vehere rate.)
  
• Ovid, Tristia 5.14.12: The rich man's shade will carry nothing to his grave. (nil feret ad Manes divitis umbra suos.)
  
• Martial 8.44.9: Snatch, heap up, carry off, possess: it must be left behind. (rape, congere, aufer, posside: reliquendum est.)
  
• Lucian (Greek Anthology 10.41.5-8, tr. W.R. Paton): But if a man wears himself out over accounts, ever eager to heap wealth on wealth, his labour shall be like that of the bee in its many-celled honeycomb, for others shall gather the honey.
  
• 1 Timothy 6.7: For we brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. (οὐδὲν γὰρ εἰσηνέγκαμεν εἰς τὸν κόσμον, ὅτι οὐδὲ ἐξενεγκεῖν τι δυνάμεθα.)
  
• Anonymous (Greek Anthology 11.166, tr. W.R. Paton): All say you are rich, but I say you are poor, for, Apollophanes, their use is the proof of riches. If you take your share of them, they are yours, but if you keep them for your heirs, they are already someone else's.
  
• Lucilius (Greek Anthology 11.294, tr. W.R. Paton): Thou hast the wealth of a rich man, but the soul of a pauper, thou who art rich for thy heirs and poor for thyself.

V. Sackville-West, from The Garden (Winter):

He dreams an orchard neatly pruned and spurred,
Where Cox' Orange jewels with the red
Of Worcester Permain, and the grass beneath
Blows with narcissus and the motley crocus,
Rich as Crivelli, fresh as Angelo
Poliziano, or our English Chaucer
Or Joachim du Bellay, turn by turn.
He dreams again, extravagant, excessive,
Of planted acres most unorthodox
Where Scarlet Oaks would flush our English fields
With passionate colour as the Autumn came,
Quercus coccinea, that torch of flame
Blown sideways as by some Atlantic squall
Between its native north America
And this our moderate island. Or again
He dreams of forests made of flow'ring trees
Acre on acre, thousands in their pride,
Cherry and almond, crab and peach and plum,
Not like their working cousins grown for use
But in an arrant spendthrift swagger cloak
Squandered across th' astonished countryside.
What woodlands here! No beech, no sycamore,
No rutted chestnut, no, nor wealden oak,
Trunks rising straight from sun-shot, shade-flecked ground,
Elephants' legs, set gray and solid-round,
No green-brown distance of the mossy ride,
But tossing surf of blossom, frothy heads,
Lather of rose, of cream, of ice-green white,
Vapour and spindrift blown upon the air,
Scudding down rides and avenues more fair
Even than usual woodlands in the Spring
Or at the Summer's height;
(That's saying much, God knows; though saying only
A truth to him who through the woodland goes
Rapt, but aware; alone yet never lonely;
And all the changes of their movement knows.)

Palladas, Greek Anthology 10.65, tr. W.R. Paton:

Life is a perilous voyage; for often we are tempest-tossed in it and are in a worse case than shipwrecked men. With Fortune at Life's helm we sail uncertainly as on the open sea, some on a fair voyage, others the reverse: but all alike reach one harbour under the earth.

The same, tr. Tony Harrison:

Life's an ocean-crossing where winds howl
and the wild sea comes at us wave after wave.

With Fortune our pilot, weather fair or foul,
all alike drop anchor in the grave.

The same, tr. T.R. Glover:

Life is a dangerous voyage; storm-winds fling us
  Where worse than shipwrecked mariners we lie;
Chance, the one pilot of man's life, will bring us
  Chance knoweth where as o'er the seas we fly.
Some meet good weather; others ill have found;
All make the common anchorage underground.

The original Greek:

Πλοῦς σφαλερὸς τὸ ζῇν· χειμαζόμενοι γὰρ ἐν αὐτῷ
  πολλάκι ναυηγῶν πταίομεν οἰκτρότερα.
τὴν δὲ Τύχην βιότοιο κυβερνήτειραν ἔχοντες,
  ὡς ἐπὶ τοῦ πελάγους, ἀμφίβολοι πλέομεν,
οἱ μὲν ἐπ' εὐπλοΐην, οἱ δ' ἔμπαλιν· ἀλλ' ἅμα πάντες
  εἰς ἕνα τὸν κατὰ γῆς ὅρμον ἀπερχόμεθα.

Philip Galle, Charon in his Boat with Passengers