'Know,' says a wise writer, the historian of kings, 'Know the men

The words of Dorothea Dix—“‘Know,’ says a wise writer, the historian of kings, ‘Know the men that are to be trusted’; but how is this to be? The possession of knowledge involves both time and opportunities. Neither of these are ‘handservants at command.’”—carry the weight of deep human understanding. In them, she speaks not only of the challenge of discernment, but of the very limits of human perception. To know whom to trust—to see clearly into the hearts of men—is among the oldest struggles of humankind. Every age, every empire, every soul has wrestled with this question: how can one judge the true from the false, the loyal from the deceitful, the sincere from the self-serving? It is a challenge that tests not just the mind, but the spirit.

Dix reminds us that knowledge is not cheaply gained. Trust is not a gift we can bestow at will—it must be cultivated through patience and experience. “The possession of knowledge involves both time and opportunities,” she writes, and in that truth lies the essence of wisdom itself. To truly know another, we must walk with them through both calm and storm, see how they stand when the light fades, and measure the steadiness of their heart when tested by adversity. The ancients knew this well: even the philosopher Plato warned that no man can be judged virtuous until he has been tried by fortune. For character, like gold, must be refined in fire before its purity is revealed.

Yet Dix goes further, lamenting that time and opportunity are not “handservants at command.” In other words, the means by which we acquire understanding are beyond our control. We cannot summon experience as one summons a servant; life reveals its lessons only in its own rhythm. The wise must wait, observe, and learn through patience. In this, her words echo the stoic humility of Marcus Aurelius, who urged that one must accept the limits of their own control and work with the nature of time, not against it. The arrogance of believing we can know men swiftly, she warns, is the path to betrayal and disappointment.

History is full of examples that illustrate her warning. Consider Julius Caesar, who placed his trust in Brutus, believing his friend’s loyalty was unshakable. Yet beneath that friendship brewed envy and ambition, and the blade that struck him down was the blade of misplaced faith. Caesar’s tragedy stands as an eternal lesson: to know whom to trust is to safeguard one’s destiny, but to trust blindly is to invite ruin. In contrast, Abraham Lincoln, cautious yet compassionate, surrounded himself with rivals and skeptics, testing each one through deeds, not words. His patience and discernment forged a cabinet of diverse minds that guided a nation through its darkest hour. He understood, as Dix did, that trust must be earned through time and trial.

Beneath her eloquent reflection lies a profound moral truth: true knowledge of others requires humility and endurance. We live in an age—just as Dix did—where people rush to judgment, conferring trust or condemnation without understanding. But wisdom cannot be hurried. To know others, we must first learn to listen, to watch, and to suspend our assumptions. We must remember that even the most honest face can hide ambition, and that even the quiet soul may carry hidden strength. Time, the great revealer, will always uncover what words alone cannot.

Dix’s own life gives weight to her philosophy. As a reformer and advocate for the mentally ill, she spent decades learning the nature of human compassion and cruelty. She saw promises broken, allies turn cold, and systems fail. Yet she never surrendered her faith in the power of patient understanding. She knew that the slow work of truth—the gathering of knowledge through observation and endurance—was the only path toward justice. Her insight was not born in comfort, but in the furnace of experience.

The lesson, then, is as old as it is urgent: trust is sacred, and knowledge of character cannot be rushed. Let the seeker of wisdom be patient; let them remember that discernment comes not from intuition alone, but from the slow accumulation of truth. Test others not with suspicion, but with time; and in your own life, strive to be the one who can be trusted—steady, transparent, and true. For the mark of wisdom is not merely to know others, but to be known as one worthy of faith.

Thus, Dorothea Dix’s words stand as both counsel and caution to all generations: wisdom cannot be commanded, nor trust assumed—it must be earned through the unfolding of time. And those who master this truth will find themselves richer not in allies alone, but in understanding itself—the rarest and most precious of all human treasures.