DEDICATION

is not much better than none at all; it is not genuine and native, but artificial and forged from a certain collection of rules. Nor is there anyone so stupid and dull that they cannot occasionally devise something that cannot be called into doubt.

These are my thoughts on the utility of this critical art. Regarding its difficulty—which, when joined with utility, is what usually establishes the value of things, and which therefore should not be passed over in silence—I truly fear to speak. For while I attempt to explain how great a knowledge of nearly all liberal arts and sciences one must possess who undertakes this work; how great a memory of antiquity; how great a perspicacity with which to penetrate into the innermost minds and senses of authors; and with what sharp and subtle judgment one must distinguish—not only regarding other matters and the whole subject at large, but especially concerning the errors of the authors themselves (a thing which, in my opinion, has been done by no one as yet, and least of all by those who otherwise excel most in other matters)—the mistakes of the scribes; and finally, with what quick and ready motion of wit one must devise a remedy for corrupted passages: I fear I might incite an interrogation against myself to which I have no answer. It happens, however, very conveniently that, as I remain silent, anyone can easily conjecture and understand how great and difficult this task is, given the marvelous scarcity of those who have succeeded in it. For what other reason can there be why, in such a multitude of editors—not only among us and other northern peoples, whom the inequitable sun, that

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