Laudator Temporis Acti

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), "A Song to Mithras," Puck of Pook's Hill (New York: Chrles Scribner's Sons, 1916), pp. 193-194:

Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!
'Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!'
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat,
Our helmets scorch our foreheads; our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main,
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull dies,
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned: all of them lead to the Light,
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!

Joshua T. Katz, "Fit as a philologist," New Criterion (September 8, 2026):

A true philologist is what friends will call a careful reader and enemies a pedant: someone who uses deep and broad knowledge and minimal prejudice to try to understand, down to the nuts and bolts, the commas and the words in italics, what a document is trying to tell us.

A Doonesbury cartoon (December 19, 1981): A copy of this (with HERBERT changed to MIKE) used to hang in my corporate cubicle — in addition to degrees in Latin and Classics, I have a degree in Computer Science.

Cicero, On Friendship 7.23 (tr. William Armistead Falconer):

Wherefore friends, though absent, are at hand; though in need, yet abound; though weak, are strong; and—harder saying still—though dead, are yet alive; so great is the esteem on the part of their friends, the tender recollection and the deep longing that still attends them.

quocirca et absentes adsunt et egentes abundant et imbecilli valent et, quod difficilius dictu est, mortui vivunt; tantus eos honos, memoria, desiderium prosequitur amicorum.

James S. Reid ad loc.:

Xenophon, Anabasis, with an English Translation by Carleton L. Brownson (1922; rpt. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992 = Loeb Classical Library, 90), pp. 38-39 (1.4.6):

ἐντεῦθεν ἐξελαύνει διὰ Συρίας σταθμὸν ἕνα παρασάγγας πέντε εἰς Μυρίανδον, πόλιν οἰκουμένην ὑπὸ Φοινίκων ἐπὶ τῇ θαλάττῃ...

Thence Cyrus marched one stage, five parasangs, to Myriandus, a city on the sea coast, inhabited by Phoenicians...

Brownson didn't translate διὰ Συρίας. Neither did Robin Waterfield:

The next leg was a one-day march of five parasangs that brought him to Myriandus, a coastal city inhabited by Phoenicians.

Wayne Ambler's translation is correct:

From here Cyrus marched through Syria one stage, five parasangs, to Myriandus, a city inhabited by Phoenicians and on the sea.

I don't see any relevant variants in Wilhelm Gemoll's editio maior.

Labels: typographical and other errors

"Arthur Gibson, philosopher who rose from poverty to become the cleverest man in Britain," The Telegraph (18 Sept. 2026):

Professor Arthur Gibson, who has died aged 83, was a polymath widely recognised as one of the last century’s greatest minds and, measured by IQ, the cleverest man in Britain, despite growing up in poverty in Bradford and dropping out of school aged 14.

....

It was in this climate that Gibson stubbornly developed intellectual passions: for maths — despite his father stubbing out cigarettes on his hand when he got answers wrong — and for books, although he once received a Bible to the head after being caught reading it by his anti-literate father.

The dyslexic Gibson read everything he could — Bradford Library became a refuge — but he could not translate his instinctive passions into formal academic success. He left school at 14, with no O-levels and unable to recite the alphabet beyond the letter L.

....

His friend and fellow Cambridge mathematician Imre Leader recalled that: "If you quoted a passage from the Bible, Gibson could tell you exactly where it was from, and also which other verses shared the same words."

Hat tip: Eric Thomson, who also quotes Cesare Lombroso (1835-1909), The Man of Genius (London: Walter Scott, 1891), p. 8:

Cranium and Brain.—Lesions of the head and brain are very frequent among men of genius. The celebrated Australian novelist, Marcus Clarke, when a child, received a blow from a horse’s hoof which crushed his skull. The same is told of Vico, Gratry, Clement VI., Malebranche, and Cornelius, hence called a Lapide. The last three are said to have acquired their genius as a result of the accident, having been unintelligent before..

Related posts:

• Bible Thumpers
• Samuel Johnson as Bible Thumper
• Gagged with the Gospel
• Books as Weapons

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 22, § 258 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

The difference between the effect that thinking for oneself has on the mind, versus that of reading is incredibly large, which is why it constantly magnifies the original difference between minds, by virtue of which we are driven to one or the other. Reading, that is, forces thoughts on the mind that are as foreign and heterogeneous to its momentary direction and mood as is the seal to the wax on which it presses its imprint. The mind here experiences a total external compulsion to think this or that at random, for which it simply has no inclinationb or mood. — On the other hand, with thinking for oneself it follows its own peculiar drive, as this for the moment was more specifically determined by either the external environment or some recollection. For the intuitive environment does not force one specific thought on the mind, like reading; instead, it provides the mind with material and occasion to think what is in accordance with its nature and present mood. — Now this is why much reading deprives the mind of all elasticity, like a continually pressing weight bearing down on a spring; and the surest way to have no thoughts of one's own is to immediately grab a book in every free moment. This practice is the reason why erudition makes most people even more stupid and simple than they already are by nature, and also deprives their writing of all success.

Die Verschiedenheit zwischen der Wirkung, welche das Selbstdenken, und der, welche das Lesen auf den Geist hat, ist unglaublich groß; daher sie die ursprüngliche Verschiedenheit der Köpfe, vermöge welcher man zum Einen, oder zum Andern getrieben wird, noch immerfort vergrößert. Das Lesen nämlich zwingt dem Geiste Gedanken auf, die der Richtung und Stimmung, welche er für den Augenblick hat, so fremd und heterogen sind, wie das Petschaft dem Lack, welchem es sein Siegel aufdrückt. Der Geist erleidet dabei totalen Zwang von außen, jetzt Dies, oder Jenes zu denken, wozu er so eben gar keinen Trieb, noch Stimmung hat. — Hingegen beim Selbstdenken folgt er seinem selbsteigenen Triebe, wie diesen für den Augenblick entweder die äußere Umgebung, oder irgend eine Erinnerung näher bestimmt hat. Die anschauliche Umgebung nämlich dringt dem Geiste nicht einen bestimmten Gedanken auf, wie das Lesen; sondern giebt ihm bloß Stoff und Anlaß zu denken was seiner Natur und gegenwärtigen Stimmung gemäß ist. Daher nun nimmt das viele Lesen dem Geiste alle Elasticität wie ein fortdauernd drückendes Gewicht sie einer Springfeder nimmt; und ist, um keine eigenen Gedanken zu haben, daß sicherste Mittel, daß man in jeder freien Minute sogleich ein Buch zur Hand nehme. Diese Praxis ist der Grund, warum die Gelehrsamkeit die meisten Menschen noch geistloser und einfältiger macht, als sie schon von Natur sind, und auch ihrer Schriftstellerei allen Erfolg benimmt.

Arrian, Discourses of Epictetus 1.27.9 (tr. W.A. Oldfather):

And where can I go to escape death? Show me the country, show me the people to whom I may go, upon whom death does not come; show me a magic charm against it. If I have none, what do you wish me to do? I cannot avoid death.

καὶ ποῦ φύγω τὸν θάνατον; μηνύσατέ μοι τὴν χώραν, μηνύσατε ἀνθρώπους, εἰς οὓς ἀπέλθω, εἰς οὓς οὐ παραβάλλει, μηνύσατε ἐπαοιδήν· εἰ μὴ ἔχω, τί με θέλετε ποιεῖν; οὐ δύναμαι τὸν θάνατον ἀποφυγεῖν.

Holbrook Jackson (1874-1948), "Introduction" to Robert Burton (1577-1640), Anatomy of Melancholy (vol. 1, pp. xiv-xv of the Everyman edition):

The appreciation of Burton is a test of bookishness, and although he has never lacked readers, even during the dark age, 1677-1799, when no edition of the Anatomy appeared, there have not been lacking those who have belittled and misrepresented him. I am not concerned at the moment with his defence, even if it were necessary, which it is not, for there is no reason why any one should read him unless he wishes to do so. Burton is for the Burtonian. But it is necessary to refer to the misrepresenters, both ancient and modern, because many of them have sinned ignorantly. Critics and commentators have not always taken the trouble to read, still less understand the book, hence much popular nonsense, of which Hallam's description of the Anatomy as "a sweeping of the miscellaneous literature from the Bodleian Library," and Lowell's

A mire ankle-deep of deliberate confusion,
Made up of old jumbles of classic allusion.

are typical specimens.

Burton has been oftener damned with faint praise than scoffed at by the ignorantly learned. I know of only one downright depreciator, the Manx poet, T. E. Brown. In a vigorous and humourless essay, contributed to the New Review in 1895, this minor poet and major schoolmaster can find no good word for our good Burton. His learning is but a "parade," the "product of omnivorous folio-bolting and quarto-gulping, urged on and sustained by inordinate vanity"; his method naught but a "pseudo-method," a mere "affectation of method and order." Brown concedes, however, that Burton has "slanging power . . . a wondrous hurly-burly of invective"; and his conclusion reveals a sneaking, if slightly priggish regard. Like Charles Lamb, he is opposed to reprints of the Anatomy. "I do not know a more heartless sight than the reprint of the Anatomy of Melancholy," says Lamb. "What need was there of unearthing the bones of that fantastic old great man, to expose them in a winding-sheet of the newest fashion to modern censure? What hapless stationer could dream of Burton ever becoming popular?" Brown is not so generous or so romantic. An old Burton has a charm, he admits, but only "in an old library; old dust embalms it, old memories haunt it. It is worth seeking there": and he thinks it ought to be read there in situ. "Neglect, decay," he admonishes, "must be the fate of all such ponderous eccentricities. And to smarten them up, and turn them out spick-and-span, radiant and raw, into the form of literature, is a doubtful sort of proceeding. They belong to the cave, and scholars are their natural friends and custodians. Leave them to the scholars."

Cicero, On Old Age 19.71 (tr. William Armistead Falconer):

Therefore, when the young die I am reminded of a strong flame extinguished by a torrent; but when old men die it is as if a fire had gone out without the use of force and of its own accord, after the fuel had been consumed; and, just as apples when they are green are with difficulty plucked from the tree, but when ripe and mellow fall of themselves, so, with the young, death comes as a result of force, while with the old it is the result of ripeness.

itaque adulescentes mihi mori sic videntur, ut cum aquae multitudine flammae vis opprimitur, senes autem sic, ut cum sua sponte, nulla adhibita vi, consumptus ignis exstinguitur, et quasi poma ex arboribus, cruda si sunt, vix evelluntur, si matura et cocta, decidunt, sic vitam adulescentibus vis aufert, senibus maturitas.

J.G.F. Powell ad loc.: Aristotle, On Youth and Old Age 5 (tr. W.S. Hett):

Now we can see two ways in which fire is destroyed—by dying out and by extinction. By dying out we mean a decay arising from itself, and by extinction a decay caused by opposites: one is death by old age and the other by violence.

ἀλλὰ μὴν πυρός γε δύο ὁρῶμεν φθοράς, μάρανσίν τε καὶ σβέσιν. καλοῦμεν δὲ τὴν μὲν ὑφ᾿ αὑτοῦ μάρανσιν, τὴν δ᾿ ὑπὸ τῶν ἐναντίων σβέσιν, τὴν μὲν γήρᾳ, τὴν δὲ βίαιον.

Midrash Rabbah: Ecclesiastes, tr. A. Cohen (London: Soncino Press, 1939). p. 151 (5.11.2):

What is the difference between the death of the young and the death of the old? R. Judah and R. Nehemiah give answers. R. Judah says: When a lamp is extinguished of its own accord, it is good for the lamp and for the wick; but when it is not extinguished of its own accord, it is bad for the lamp and for the wick.² R. Nehemiah says: When the fig is gathered in its due season it is good for the fig and for the tree; but when it is not gathered in its due season, it is bad for the fig and for the tree.

² So it is good for a person to die in the fulness of years, and not to be cut off in youth like a lamp blown out by a gust of wind.