The old pronunciation and writing of the verb that was ordinarily said claudere [to close] was cludere, preserved in compounds, recludere, includere, concludere, excludere, and in all or almost all the others. See Forcellini and Fronto at the end of Principia orationum (“quem iubes cludi” [“whom you order to be shut in”]).1 Fronto was very scholarly about ancient orthography, and the codex that contains his work is very old. Now, this ancient form is preserved, to the exclusion of the more modern, in the Italian chiudere, with the cl changed to chi in the usual way. Therefore, the Latin populace [2284] (certainly in Italy) retained the ancient pronunciation of that word. See if the Glossary has anything. (24 Dec. 1821.)
For p. 2052, end —conflictare from conflictus or um, participle of confligere [to strike together]. (24 Dec. 1821.)
What Greek author is easier than Xenophon? Indeed, what Latin author? And indeed perhaps what author in any language, especially an ancient language, can be, or could have been easier, even if you imagined a language at will? And yet he is full of expressions, idioms, figurative and irregular forms. But they are natural, and everyone understands them, and any beginner in Greek will find it very easy to understand Xenophon (perhaps above any other author, especially in antiquity itself), whatever nation he is from. And although those images of Xenophon’s are frequent and strange, they are no less divergent from the rules of Greek syntax than from the universal order [2285] of logical speech. So true it is that nature is not less universal than reason, and that, in using the characteristic faculties of a language naturally, however illogical they are, one does not run the risk of obscurity, and that a language with a natural way of proceeding, if not as easy as one with a logical progression, certainly is not obscure, and among the ancients could (and can) be considered very easily, which could also serve to make it universal. (25 Dec., Christmas Day, 1821.)
For p. 2192, end. If anyone wanted to say that the verbs that I call continuative—when, as happens fairly often, in writers they are found with a frequentative or diminutive meaning—are contractions of verbs in itare (like prensare from prensitare), known or unknown, and that, in short, they stand in place of those, and so are [2286] derived from frequentatives, indeed, from true frequentatives not only in meaning but also in grammatical formation and origin, I would disagree only a little, even though the other reason that I have cited for that use of continuatives appears to me most natural and more likely, that is, the usual metamorphoses that time and the varying usage of various types of writers and speakers produce in words, sentences, forms, formations, meanings, etc. Who can doubt that endings in ulus, and others like it, were expressly diminutive, and that nouns or verbs, etc., so formed did originally and properly signify diminution of the thing or action signified by the positive noun or verb? And nonetheless see p. 2281, where I demonstrated how these diminutives, in both the best ancient written Latin and spoken Latin, and in the daughter languages, have very often gained a positive meaning, which has become [2287] so much their own that they no longer signify any diminution, and if you want to give them a diminutive meaning you have to attach another diminutive ending to them, as is often done. And I have also shown that, having lost their positives entirely, they stand in place of them, and have the exact same meaning, etc.
Furthermore, I have shown in many places, and also noted specifically, that continuative verbs, one way or another, either always or almost always indicate an increase in the action that is signified by the positives, or that would be signified if the positives still existed. They indicate it, I mean, by their nature, and indicate it with regard to time and duration or any of those other things I have noted. Now, how, then, will you confuse the property and nature and very form of those verbs (as Forcellini does) with those of verbs in itare, a form that carries [2288] a diminutive force, immediately manifest and audible to any ear, even one barely accustomed to Latin? (26 Dec. 1821.)
The Latin language, so exact, so regular and fixed, nonetheless has many phrases, etc., that by their very nature, and that of the language, have a meaning so vague that knowledge of Latin, no matter how great, is not enough to determine it with precision. And being born Latin would not have been enough, because these phrases are vague in themselves, and a particular phrase and the vagueness of its meaning are in essence inseparable, and the former can’t exist without the latter. As in Georgics 1, 44.
et Zephyro putris se gleba resolvit
[and the crumbling soil is loosened by Zephyr]
This is a very regular phrase, and yet is regularly and grammatically indefinite in meaning, because no one can say if that Zephyro means exposed to Zephyrus, thanks to Zephyrus, [2289] with Zephyrus, etc. Likewise the other phrase, “Sunt lacrimae rerum” [“there are tears in things”], etc., which I spoke about elsewhere [→Z 1337]. And hundreds and thousands of this and similar types, very regular, very Latin, conforming to grammar and Latin construction, entirely, or almost entirely, without figures of speech, and yet vague and indefinable in meaning, not only to us but to the Latins themselves. The Greek language has an even greater abundance of such phrases. You see how the ancient languages had to be poetic, even the most cultured, refined, used, regulated. What is the modern language that has or can admit without any offense, etc., to grammar I won’t say many but some phrases, etc., that are indefinable in meaning and by their very nature vague? Italian a little, perhaps, but much less than Latin. German I think in this faculty surpasses ours and all the other modern languages. But that is only because it is [2290] still not sufficiently or fully formed; because it is not itself defined, and is capable of indefinite expressions—indeed, if you like, could not be without them. So it is with any language, in terms of both expressions and words. This vagueness runs in direct proportion to the lack of formation, uniformity, unity, etc., of the language, and the vagueness of the language to that of literature and conversation, and of these to that of the nation. I have noted elsewhere [→Z 1953–57, 2080ff., 2177–78] that German literature, not being unified, does not have a form, since, as the experts admit, its character is, precisely, that it has no character. One cannot, therefore, say anything about the faculties of German. These can be neither formed nor fixed because the literature is not (however vast it may be, and even if it were ten times what it is) and there is no social life. Hence their words and phrases must also necessarily be (as they are) extremely indefinite. [2291] (26 Dec. 1821.)
For p. 2138, margin. Can odoratus, which means sweet-smelling, and is an adjective in usage, be anything but a participle in origin? And beatus [happy, blessed]? See what I said about vastus [→Z 1938‒39]. Making so many adjectives out of participles in us is as frequent as anything in Latin. The Romans also used them comparatively and superlatively, as in beatior, beatissimus, cumulatior, cumulatissimus, which is characteristic of adjectives. Nonetheless, they customarily did this with true participles as well, including present active ones, like amantior [more loving], amantissimus [most loving], which in that form, moreover, assume the nature of adjectives. (26 Dec. 1821.) Likewise densus, from which comes densare, was perhaps only a participle, like prehensus [seized], mensus [measured], intensus for intentus [bent] (so perhaps densus for dentus; see Forcellini), etc.
For p. 2277, at the beginning. See the preceding thought on the word odoratus—the true participle (in origin) of odorare, that is, to spread an odor or to spread with an odor (see Forcellini)—a participle that is used actively, because it means that which spreads odor, that is, odorifero.1 (26 Dec. 1821.)
[2292] Those who govern men ought to know them better than anyone else does. Princes, on the contrary, who grow up amid adulation, and always see men as different from what they are (because of the endless pretenses of court), and who as young men have little wish, and later little time, to attend to their studies, cannot know men either as philosophers know them or as those who have practice in and experience of the world know them. So that when it comes to knowing men, a gift that is absolutely essential for the good of t
heir subjects, princes are not only not superior but are necessarily inferior to the most small-minded and ignorant of those who live in the world. Study would remedy this great defect, and in fact, princes who have been scholars either in youth or later, and princes who have been philosophers, have been good rulers, having learned from books to know the world and [2293] the things that they had to govern. Marcus Aurelius, Augustus, Julian, etc. This would appear to be a great value and a true triumph of philosophy, and a demonstration of its usefulness. But I say that philosophy has not had and never will have this good effect of giving us good princes, except as long as it was, or when it is, imperfect, in the same way that only then can it give us good private citizens, and has given and gives them to us. I mean that modern philosophy (which can be said to be in its nature, that is, as philosophy, or knowledge of reason and truth, perfect) will not make good princes, as it will never make good private citizens. On the contrary, it will make bad ones, because the perfection of philosophy is, in short, merely egoism, and so modern philosophy will only make princes (as [2294] we see in the case of private citizens) who are pure and perfect egoists. Much worse than ignorant princes, for in the ignorant egoism has a less solid base. Nature that brings it about adds many palliatives and modifiers; the illusions of virtue, of greatness of soul, of compassion, of glory are not irrevocably lost to them, as they are to a modern philosopher prince. And at least in the former, conscience and opinion resists custom and vice; in the latter it consolidates them, protects them (since a modern philosopher is necessarily an egoist, and therefore wicked on principle), indeed requires them, and would condemn the prince if he were not egoistic after knowing things and men. So that even a prince much inclined to virtue, if he becomes a philosopher in the modern way, would become almost by necessity and in spite of himself wicked, [2295] as happens among private citizens. Do you want factual proof? Do you want to know what a modern philosopher prince is? Look at Frederick II1 and compare him with Marcus Aurelius. So that today it is to be highly desired that a prince not be a philosopher, which would mean a cold and fierce and inexorable egoist, and an egoist who has control of a nation, and can dispose of it to his advantage—that is to say, a tyrant. That is the fine fruit and prize of modern philosophy, which in the end makes it impossible for princes to be virtuous (as it does for private citizens), and to know men, without which they cannot be good princes. But since this effect of modern philosophy lies not in its being modern but in its being true and perfected philosophy (since we can impute nothing false to it), and since things have to be considered and judged in [2296] their perfection, that is, in the fullness of their being, and of their qualities and properties, so you may judge what philosophy, along with knowledge, reason, understanding of the truth, is in its essence, as much in regard to ruling nations, that is, in regard to princes, as absolutely speaking. (27 Dec. 1821.)
For p. 2275. Who of us wanting to set out to walk, in a room, between two lines separated by the space of a handbreadth and a half, or even less, is not capable of doing so, and without even thinking about losing our balance? (Unless they do think about it, because some circumstance makes them determined not to lose their balance, out of pride or necessity, for then they run an equal risk of it happening.) Now suppose that this same space is a beam, or a plank placed like a bridge above a high precipice, or over a river, without protection or supports on any side. How many would not dare to cross on it, or would cross and lose their balance, or would run a much greater risk of losing it!1 And yet these same people have the faculty and [2297] the daily habit of doing everything necessary in order not to be harmed by that crossing; that is, the habit of walking the same way every day without losing their balance, when losing their balance is not dangerous. (27 Dec. 1821.)
For p. 2238. The preliminaries of this thought can be applied to what now follows, but as for stinguo it does not come from exstinguo [to extinguish] by aphaeresis but is the root of the word, and also of restinguo, etc.; otherwise one would say extinguo, and then stinguo would exist by aphaeresis. —
Hence one can conjecture that among such compounds those which were written in good Latin not with the ex but with the simple e, like enervare [to make weak, to debilitate], and which in Italian (as in French or Spanish) begin with the impure s, like snervare, were pronounced colloquially with the ex, that is, exnervare, etc. [2298] Latin writers in classical times customarily used the preposition e (leaving out the x) in such compounds before b, d, f, g, l, m, n, r, v. I believe that Vulgar Latin said ex before these same letters, e.g., exbibo, exfodio, exgregius, exmoveo, exnervo (as I said), exrogare, exveho, instead of ebibo, effodio, egregius, emoveo, enervo, erogo, eveho. In fact, examples of these and other similarly written words are found in Plautus and others among the more ancient writers, or, vice versa, among the more modern, like Apuleius, etc. See also the Glossary on barbarian Latin. And seeing the impure s preserved in such words or similar ones in Italian is persuasive to me (or if in Spanish the es, if in French the ancient es, and the modern é)—in words like svellere from evellere, svolgere from evolvere, smuovere from emovere (which, in fact, is found, written exmovere, in Plautus Truculentus 1, 1, 59),1 sfuggire from effugere. [2299] You will find the ancient Latin writers reliably more consistent with Italian than those of the golden age, an obvious sign that the old custom was perpetuated, and passed on to us, and that could only have been through Vulgar Latin, with its customary attachment to antiquity. Similarly, you will find popular Italian (and proportionately French and Spanish) more consistent with Vulgar Latin in everything we can find out about it (such as the language of the Latin comic dramatists in some measure) than it is with writers, a clear sign that the three modern sisters originated in Vulgar Latin and not in written or civil Latin. (28 Dec. 1821.)
For p. 2277. See Forcellini under Exululatus. And note that he does not say that either Exululor [to howl out] or Ululor [to howl], etc., is a deponent verb. (28 Dec. 1821.) See also in Virgil, Aeneid 2, 218–19, circum-dati [surrounding] (true past participle, with active meaning, like amplexi [wrapping] in the same line), 444, protecti for protegentes [protecting]; bk. 4, 659, impressa, for cum impressisset [having pressed], and consult Forcellini under these examples, concerning which, however, I am not satisfied by his explanation and that of the interpreters. But above all see Aeneid 4, 589–90, percussa [striking], and abscissa [tearing], and 1, 320 (and the interpreters), 481.
The word lamia [witch, fairy] (from the Greek or shared with Greek) and the idea it signified [2300] belonged to the people of Greece and Latium, as it belongs by its nature to any people. It is precisely one of those words and ideas that, while they are used by writers only jokingly, or as a philosophical reproach, are nonetheless in constant use in everyday speech, and are covertly preserved and perpetuated in it, the way the prejudices and foolish opinions and childish errors of the lowest rabble and the most simpleminded women are; prejudices, etc., about which there is no specific information outside of a particular nation because they are unlikely to be mentioned in writing, or in society, however uncultured it may be. And above all, if they are old the information is lost (just as in the case of obscene words, which the ancient languages must have had in abundance, as modern languages do, and yet foreigners don’t know them). [2301] Meanwhile such prejudices are handed down by tradition, from father to son, and perpetuated more than anything else of a popular nature along with the words that specifically pertain to them. Of that type is the very ancient, very colloquial word Lamia, λαμία and the idea that it signifies. See Forcellini, the Greek dictionaries, the Glossary, and my Saggio sugli errori popolari degli antichi.1
Now, this word, in fact, passed into colloquial Italian, and it got there not through the writers but through colloquial Latin, which can be demonstrated in two ways.
(1) The very few Latin writers who used this word were not likely to have been known to the very ignorant individuals in the 14th century who used the word Lammia when they wrote in Italian. It was o
bviously colloquial in Italy in that century, since it is found in writers of that type, whereas today it is found only in the writings of the educated because the people [2302] finally stopped using it or knowing it. Not that the foolish idea that the word signified was completely lost or changed, but it was changed enough for it now to be expressed by other words.
(2) The Latin writers used Lamia in the sense of witch or fairy, etc., and in the writers of the fourteenth century it is found—always, I think—in the sense of nymph, since the translators of that time, where the Latin texts say nympha, normally translate Lammia. They must therefore have gotten this word not from the Latin writers, who use it in another sense, but from the vernacular, and, as the populace became Christian, and considered nymphs and the other pagan deities to be dæmons and evil spirits, it began calling the pagan nymphs Lammie, and this became normal. (Many analogous Christian examples of this could be cited.) Or else it meant by Lammie the fairies who were much discussed in those days, and who resemble witches, etc., and since fairies are a kind of nymph and vice versa, this tendency to confuse nymphs [2303] with lammie prevailed. All these things demonstrate that the word Lamia was used colloquially, and that it and the idea that it signified, or an idea analogous to it, were permanently preserved in Vulgar Latin down to the beginnings of Italian. How otherwise could those ignorant fourteenth-century writers have hunted down this word and this idea in the very few Latin writers (most of them unknown at the time, and none of them well known) who used it, and then confused it in colloquial Italian with what the Latin writers called a nymph? Especially if you consider what I said above, that this ancient word Lamia, and this idea, or one analogous to it (after all, it’s natural that time should change something in the opinions of the people, as in their language, especially if the Religion changes), must have been preserved, because of its nature, covertly and traditionally, for a very long time, in the mouths and minds of the lowest plebeians (who have now, finally, lost it, and the word is used only by the learned, in the sense of witch, and by pedants [2304] in the sense of nymph). And who knows that the ancient Latins (and Greeks) themselves did not colloquially say Lamia for nymph? Considering, that is, the nymph a mysterious entity, with mysterious powers, precisely like the Lamia. These confusions of ideas and words occur very easily and naturally in the case of those which belong to the type subject to the prejudices of the lowest classes.1 See Forcellini, in what sense he took the word nympha. See also Monti, Proposta, under Lammia. I, for my part, believe this last hypothesis very likely and natural, for it would also show how Lammia arrived in early (and colloquial) Italian from Vulgar Latin alone. (29 Dec. 1821.) On this subject also observe our word Fata [fairy], and the idea that it signifies, Forcellini under Fata ae, and my note on Fronto, De nepote amisso.2 You will find that the word and the idea have their origin in ancient Latin, and must have come down to us through the vernacular, since the word is used rarely or not at all by the Latin writers, etc. See also Forcellini, Fatum, at the end, and at the beginning, where he cites Apuleius.3 See p. 2392.
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