Gnothi Seauton
Know Thyself
(After the revision and correction of the English Dictionary)When Scaliger after long struggle finally finished his dictionary, thoroughly bored with the slender achievement, indignant at the worthless study and the trouble-some trifles, he groaned in hatred, and prescribed writing dictionaries for condemned criminals, one punishment in place of all other punishments.
He was right indeed, that sublime, learned and sharp-witted man; who was fit for greater works and should have attempted greater tasks; who had treated now the deeds of ancient generals, now the poems of ancient bards; and whatever Virtue, whatever Wisdom had uttered; and had unravelled with his intellect the vicissitudes of empire, the movements of the heavens, and the great cycle of the ages.
We are deceived by examples; the lowest mob of scholars rashly believes that your anger is allowed to them also, Scaliger. Let each man know his capacity. It was not granted me by fate that I should hope to be your equal in scholarship, first of men, or dare to be your equal in complaints, whether because the chills of sluggish blood or lying too long in idleness stand in the way, or because Nature has given me too small a mind.
Once you were quit of your fruitless toil, once you had safely struggled through the rough roads of words, divine Wisdom received you into the reaches of clear upper air; every Art gave you its friendly applause; and the discord of tongues in every land, now reconciled, with manifold voices sounded around you, the master who led them back from exile.
As for me, though now freed from my task, I am become my own master, the harsh lot of slothful idleness awaits me, and black and gloomy leisure, more burdensome than any labour, and the tedium of sluggish living. Worries beget worries, and a pestering company of troubles harass me, and the bad dreams of an empty mind. Now the noisy enjoyments of late-night dinners are my delight, now solitary places are my pleasure; in vain, kindly Sleep, I call on you, as I lie down, impatient of the night and fearful of the day. In trembling I rush through everything, I wander round everything, to see if anywhere a path to a better life opens up. But I find not what I am to do, meditating on grand schemes, and I am forced to know myself better and confess to an uncouth heart and a mind that boasts of itself with empty strength. A mind, unless Learning provides it material, idles destitute, just as when the supply of marble is wanting, the fertile power of Phidias' chisel languishes. Whatever I do, wherever I am taken, my narrow means and the poverty of a meagre mind block my endeavours.
The Heart, now reviewing its gains, does not see the wealth of Intellect accumulated and admire itself in them, nor does the almighty master from his high tower command the presence of what daily life demands for itself from the treasure; it does not enjoy, as it counts the serried years, its serried works, things of the past, nor, its own judge, does it accept gratifying honours, the rewards of a well-spent life; but seeing its own kingdom, it shudders at the wide regions silent in night, where empty appearances and fleeting shadows and thin shapes of things flit through the void.
What shall I do? Is it left to me to condemn my sluggish old age to darkness? Or should I gird myself boldly for weightier studies? Or, if this is too much, should I at last ask for — new dictionaries?
(After the revision and correction of the English Dictionary)When Scaliger after long struggle finally finished his dictionary, thoroughly bored with the slender achievement, indignant at the worthless study and the trouble-some trifles, he groaned in hatred, and prescribed writing dictionaries for condemned criminals, one punishment in place of all other punishments.
He was right indeed, that sublime, learned and sharp-witted man; who was fit for greater works and should have attempted greater tasks; who had treated now the deeds of ancient generals, now the poems of ancient bards; and whatever Virtue, whatever Wisdom had uttered; and had unravelled with his intellect the vicissitudes of empire, the movements of the heavens, and the great cycle of the ages.
We are deceived by examples; the lowest mob of scholars rashly believes that your anger is allowed to them also, Scaliger. Let each man know his capacity. It was not granted me by fate that I should hope to be your equal in scholarship, first of men, or dare to be your equal in complaints, whether because the chills of sluggish blood or lying too long in idleness stand in the way, or because Nature has given me too small a mind.
Once you were quit of your fruitless toil, once you had safely struggled through the rough roads of words, divine Wisdom received you into the reaches of clear upper air; every Art gave you its friendly applause; and the discord of tongues in every land, now reconciled, with manifold voices sounded around you, the master who led them back from exile.
As for me, though now freed from my task, I am become my own master, the harsh lot of slothful idleness awaits me, and black and gloomy leisure, more burdensome than any labour, and the tedium of sluggish living. Worries beget worries, and a pestering company of troubles harass me, and the bad dreams of an empty mind. Now the noisy enjoyments of late-night dinners are my delight, now solitary places are my pleasure; in vain, kindly Sleep, I call on you, as I lie down, impatient of the night and fearful of the day. In trembling I rush through everything, I wander round everything, to see if anywhere a path to a better life opens up. But I find not what I am to do, meditating on grand schemes, and I am forced to know myself better and confess to an uncouth heart and a mind that boasts of itself with empty strength. A mind, unless Learning provides it material, idles destitute, just as when the supply of marble is wanting, the fertile power of Phidias' chisel languishes. Whatever I do, wherever I am taken, my narrow means and the poverty of a meagre mind block my endeavours.
The Heart, now reviewing its gains, does not see the wealth of Intellect accumulated and admire itself in them, nor does the almighty master from his high tower command the presence of what daily life demands for itself from the treasure; it does not enjoy, as it counts the serried years, its serried works, things of the past, nor, its own judge, does it accept gratifying honours, the rewards of a well-spent life; but seeing its own kingdom, it shudders at the wide regions silent in night, where empty appearances and fleeting shadows and thin shapes of things flit through the void.
What shall I do? Is it left to me to condemn my sluggish old age to darkness? Or should I gird myself boldly for weightier studies? Or, if this is too much, should I at last ask for — new dictionaries?
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