Laudator Temporis Acti

My favorite birthday songs are both by Henry Purcell (1659-1695). The first is Sound the Trumpet (performed here by Alison Balsom, Iestyn Davies, and company), and the second is Now the Night is Chased Away (performed here by Lea Desandres, with Thomas Dunford's Jupiter ensemble).

Lyrics of Sound the Trumpet:

Sound the trumpet, sound the trumpet, sound the trumpet!
Sound, sound, sound the trumpet till around
You make the list'ning shores rebound.
On the sprightly hautboy play
All the instruments of joy
That skillful numbers can employ,
To celebrate the glories of this day.

Lyrics of Now the Night is Chased Away:

Now the Night is chac'd away,
All salute the rising Sun;
'Tis that happy, happy Day,
The Birth-Day of King Oberon.

D.R. Shackleton Bailey (1917-2005), Propertiana (Cambridge: At the University Press, 1956), p. 16 (on Propertius 1.4.13 ingenuus color; footnote omitted):

Propertius only wants to say that Cynthia had the fair complexion associated with free birth (cf. 2.3.10 lilia non domina sint magis alba mea). From Cic. Pis. 1 commendatione fumosarum imaginum quorum simile habes nihil praeter colorem it appears that Piso was swarthy; and a few sentences previously his complexion is called slavish (color iste seruilis). If fuscus=seruilis where skins are concerned then ingenuus=albus.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 19, § 233 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

Exaggeration of every kind is as essential to journalism as it is to the dramatic arts, since what matters is to make as much as possible of every event. This is why all who write for newspapers are also alarmists, by virtue of their trade; it is their way of making themselves interesting. But in doing so they resemble little dogs that immediately start to bark loudly at anything that even moves. Accordingly we have to adjust our attention to their alarm trumpet in such a way that it does not ruin our digestion, and generally keep in mind that the newspaper is a magnifying glass, and this only at best; for often it is a mere shadow play on the wall.

Uebertreibung in jeder Art ist der Zeitungsschreiberei eben so wesentlich, wie der dramatischen Kunst: denn es gilt, aus jedem Vorfall möglichst viel zu machen. Daher auch sind alle Zeitungsschreiber, von Handwerks wegen, Allarmisten: dies ist ihre Art sich interessant zu machen. Sie gleichen aber dadurch den kleinen Hunden, die bei Allem, was sich irgend regt, sogleich ein lautes Gebell erheben. Hienach hat man seine Beachtung ihrer Allarmtrompete abzumessen, damit sie Keinem die Verdauung verderbe, und soll überhaupt wissen, daß die Zeitung ein Vergrößerungsglas ist, und Dies noch im besten Fall: denn gar oft ist sie ein bloßes Schattenspiel an der Wand.

Erasmus, Letters 103 (to Fausto Andrelini, 1499; tr. R.A.B. Mynors and D.F.S. Thomson):

For, to touch on only one point among many, there are in England nymphs of divine appearance, both engaging and agreeable, whom you would certainly prefer to your Muses; and there is, besides, one custom which can never be commended too highly. When you arrive anywhere, you are received with kisses on all sides, and when you take your leave they speed you on your way with kisses. The kisses are renewed when you come back. When guests come to your house, their arrival is pledged with kisses; and when they leave, kisses are shared once again. If you should happen to meet, then kisses are given profusely. In a word, wherever you turn, the world is full of kisses. If you too, Fausto, once tasted the softness and fragrance of these same kisses, I swear you would yearn to live abroad in England; and not for ten years only, in the manner of Solon, but all your life long.

Nam vt e plurimis vnum quiddam attingam, sunt hic nymphae diuinis vultibus, blandae, faciles, et quas tu tuis camoenis facile anteponas. Est praeterea mos nunquam satis laudatus. Siue quo venias, omnium osculis excipieris; siue discedas aliquo, osculis dimitteris; redis, redduntur suauia; venitur ad te, propinantur suauia; disceditur abs te, diuiduntur basia; occurritur alicubi, basiatur affatim; denique quocunque te moueas, suauiorum plena sunt omnia. Quae si tu, Fauste, gustasses semel quam sint mollicula, quam fragrantia, profecto cuperes non decennium solum, vt Solon fecit, sed ad mortem vsque in Anglia peregrinari.

On Andrelini see Godelieve Tournoy-Thoen, in Contemporaries of Erasmus, vol. I (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1985; rpt. 1995), pp. 53-56.

Propertius, Elegies I-IV. Edited, with Introduction and Commentary, by L. Richardson, Jr. (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1976), p. 156 (on 1.3.41-42):

41 purpureo . . . stamine: Probably she means spinning rather than weaving, since it is late in the evening and artificial light was poor in Rome (for spinning wool already dyed, cf. e.g. 4.3.33-4). The crimson thread reminds us of the magic thread of Ariadne that guided Theseus out of the Labyrinth (cf. supra 1-2).

42 Orpheae carmine . . . lyrae: The epithet Orpheae is not purely ornamental; Orpheus was a Thracian, and so recalls the Edonian girl of 5-6.

I don't believe that Propertius intended purpureo ... stamine to remind us of Ariadne's thread in lines 1-2, or Orpheae carmine ... lyrae to remind us of the Thracian Bacchante in lines 5-6. It's complete hooey.

Babrius 112 (tr. Laura Gibbs):

A bull was bitten by a mouse. Smarting from the sting, the bull began to chase the mouse but the mouse was too quick for him and managed to hide in the depths of his mouse hole. The bull came to a halt and dug his horns into the walls until finally he sank down in exhaustion and went to sleep right there in front of the hole. The mouse peeped out from inside his hole, crept up on the bull, bit him again, and ran back inside his hole. The bull leaped to his feet but he had no idea what to do. 'It's not always the big one who has the power,' said the mouse, 'in some cases being humble and small is a strength!'

Μῦς ταῦρον ἔδακεν. ὁ δ' ἐδίωκεν ἀλγήσας
τὸν μῦν· φθάσαντος δ' εἰς μυχὸν φυγεῖν τρώγλης,
ὤρυσς' ἐνεστὼς τοῖς κέρασι τοὺς τοίχους,
ἕως κοπωθεὶς ὀκλάσας ἐκοιμήθη
παρὰ τὴν ὀπὴν ὁ ταῦρος. ἔνθεν ἐκκύψας        5
ὁ μῦς ἐφέρπει καὶ πάλιν δακὼν φεύγει.
ὁ δ' εξαναστὰς οὐκ ἔχων ὃ ποιήσει
διηπορεῖτο. τῷ δ' ὁ μῦς ἐπιτρύξας·
"οὐχ ὁ μέγας ἀεὶ δυνατός· ἔσθ' ὅπου μᾶλλον
τὸ μικρὸν εἶναι καὶ ταπεινὸν ἰσχύει."        10

Avianus 31 (tr. J.W. and A.M. Duff):

They tell how once upon a time a little mouse on its wanderings ventured with its tiny teeth to attack a mighty ox. When its nibbling mouth finished biting, it thereupon hid safely in its winding hole. Though the ox made sullen threats with his huge neck, yet for all his anger he could not see that there lived an enemy for him to attack. Then the mouse dispersed the foe's threats with its cleverness, bantering the enraged ox with these words: "Because your parents transmitted strong limbs to you, it does not follow that they added efficiency to your strength. Learn, however, the self-reliance that our tiny mouths possess, and learn how our pigmy band does whatever it wants."

Ingentem fertur mus quondam parvus oberrans
    ausus ab exiguo laedere dente bovem.
verum ubi mordaci confecit vulnera rostro,
    tutus in anfractus conditur inde suos.
ille licet vasta torvum cervice minetur,        5
    non tamen iratus quem petat esse videt.
tunc indignantem iusto sermone fatigans
    distulit hostiles calliditate minas:
"non quia magna tibi tribuerunt membra parentes
    viribus effectum constituere tuis.        10
disce tamen brevibus quae sit fiducia rostris,
    et faciat quicquid parvula turba cupit."

Galen, On Avoiding Distress 14 (tr. Sophia Xenophontos):

You should thus assume that I too have become the person I am because I am by nature similar to my ancestors, and also that because I received the same education as them, I have the same qualities of soul. I know that my father used to despise human affairs as of small importance, which holds especially for me too now in my old age.

νόμιζε δὴ οὖν κἀμὲ καὶ φύσει μὲν ὅμοιον τοῖς προγόνοις ὄντα γενέσθαι τοιοῦτον, καὶ μέντοι καὶ παιδευθέντα τὴν αὐτὴν αὐτοῖς παιδείαν, ὁμοίαν ἐκείνοις σχεῖν διάθεσιν τῆς ψυχῆς. οἶδα δέ μου τὸν πατέρα καταφρονοῦντα τῶν ἀνθρωπίνων πραγμάτων ὡς μικρῶν, ὅπερ κἀμοὶ μάλιστα νῦν γέγονεν ἐν γήρᾳ.

Hat tip: Eric Thomson.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 17, § 191 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

No ancient German literature, Nibelungs and other such poets of the Middle Ages should be taught in gymnasia. These things are highly remarkable, to be sure, and also worth reading, but they do not contribute to the cultivation of taste and they rob time that belongs to ancient, really classical literature. If you noble Teutons and German patriots impose ancient German doggerel in place of Greek and Roman classics, then you will be educating nothing but unwashed loafers. Now to even compare these Nibelungs with the Iliad is an outright blasphemy, from which, above all, youthful ears should be spared.

Auf den Gymnasien sollte keine altdeutsche Litteratur, Nibelungen und sonstige Poeten des Mittelalters gelehrt werden: diese Dinge sind zwar höchst merkwürdig, auch lesenswert, tragen aber nicht zur Bildung des Geschmacks bei und rauben die Zeit, welche der alten, wirklich klassischen Litteratur angehört. Wenn ihr, edle Germanen und deutsche Patrioten, an die Stelle der griechischen und römischen Klassiker altdeutsche Reimereien setzt; so werdet ihr nichts anderes, als Bärenhäuter erziehn. Nun aber gar diese Nibelungen mit der Ilias zu vergleichen ist eine rechte Blasphemie, mit welcher die Ohren der Jugend, vor allem, verschont bleiben sollten.

Galen, On Avoiding Distress 1 (tr. Sophia Xenophontos):

[You also said] that you learned that when his books were lost in the fire, Philides the grammarian wasted away from depression and grief and died, and that various others were going around in black clothing for a long time, thin and pale, resembling mourners.

πεπύσθαι δὲ ὡς καὶ Φιλίδης μὲν ὁ γραμματικὸς ἀπολλυμένων αὐτῷ τῶν βιβλίων κατὰ πυρκαϊὰν ὑπὸ δυσθυμίας καὶ λύπης διεφθάρη συντακείς, ἄλλος δὲ καὶ ἄλλος ἐν μέλασιν ἱματίοις προῄεσαν ἄχρι πολλοῦ, λεπτοὶ καὶ ὠχροί, τοῖς πενθοῦσι παραπλήσιοι.

From Eric Thomson:

Aldous Huxley, consoling Victoria Ocampo on the partial destruction by fire of her library: “…[T]he thought of a burned library is one to sadden the heart of an old book-worm like myself.” A prolepsis. The conflagration that destroyed his own thirty-one years later was total, but he displayed a noble composure and detachment that Galen would have recognised and admired.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860), Parerga and Paralipomena, Vol. II, Chapter 16, § 183 (tr. Adrian Del Caro and Christopher Janaway):

All this might stem from the fact that poetry by nature is untranslatable. For in it thoughts and words are so intimately and firmly intertwined, like the uterine and foetal parts of the placenta, that we cannot substitute foreign words without affecting the thoughts. After all, everything with metre and rhyme is inherently a compromise between thought and language; however, by its nature this can only be accomplished on its own native soil of thought, not on a foreign soil in which we would like to transplant it, let alone in one so barren as the minds of translators usually are. What greater contrast could there be, really, than the free outpouring of the poet’s inspiration, which on its own and instinctively comes into being dressed in metre and rhyme, and the painstaking, calculating, cold, syllable-counting and rhyme-seeking agony of the translator?

Dies Alles mag daran liegen, daß Poesie, ihrer Natur nach, unübersetzbar ist. Denn in ihr sind Gedanken und Worte so innig und fest mit einander verwachsen, wie pars uterina et pars foetalis placentae; so daß man nicht, ohne jene zu affiziren, diesen fremde substituiren kann. Ist doch alles Metrische und Gereimte eigentlich von Hause aus ein Kompromiß zwischen dem Gedanken und der Sprache: dieses aber darf, seiner Natur nach, nur auf dem eigenen, mütterlichen Boden des Gedankens vollzogen werden, nicht auf einem fremden, dahin man ihn verpflanzen möchte, und gar auf einem so unfruchtbaren, wie die Uebersetzerköpfe in der Regel sind. Was überhaupt kann entgegengesetzter sein, als die freie Ergießung der Begeisterung eines Dichters, die schon von selbst und instinktiv in Metrum und Reim gekleidet an den Tag tritt, und die peinliche, rechnende, kalte, Silben zählende und Reime suchende Qual des Uebersetzers.