And very often emendations may be made without touching the letters at all, Shakespeare says in his Sonnets, 107, “The prophetic soul of the wide world, dreaming on things to come.” Homer might likewise say that the future is in the dreams of the gods, ‘theôn en g’ounasi,’ instead of saying that it is on their knees, ‘en gounasi.’ An apostrophe is all you want. Change the vowel-points, and you may connect Magdalene with ‘megaddela,’ and so get Mary the Masseuse.
When Aristotle’s Constitution of Athens was brought to light and printed, I made some observations on it in the Athenæum, 7 February 1891, a few days after it came out. The editor had cited the passage in chapter 54 which shows that it was written after 329 B.C., but had overlooked a passage in chapter 46 which shows that it was written before 325 B.C.; and I cited this passage, and thereby limited the date. Amongst other things I proposed to read architheô ... for archiereô ... in chapter 56, as I happened to remember that architheôrois came in the same context in an inscription of that period. I think my reading was right—all subsequent editions have adopted it—but I should very much like to know if the word went wrong in copying or dictation, or was a slip of Aristotle’s own pen.
I fancy that the Greek and Latin authors wrote the wrong word now and then, and never noticed it. That is not the view of textual critics and editors: they ascribe all errors to the men who copied out the manuscripts. But this limits them to errors that might arise in copying, and thus restricts the choice of emendations far too much. Take such an emendation as Isara for Arar in Livy, xxi. 31. This makes Livy say that the river was the Isère, not the Saône; but the context requires him to say it was the Durance, otherwise he would be saying ‘right’ instead of ‘left’ a few lines further on. A copyist might easily write arar for isara, so this emendation is accepted, although it does not suit.
Such emendations are deceitful things. In this case they make Livy say the Isère, and make Polybios say it also, iii. 49, though he says something else; and then Members of the Alpine Club go saying that the river must have been the Isère, since Livy and Polybios agree in saying that it was. Other folk may say it does not matter what the river was; but that is a reason for leaving the whole thing alone, not for getting it wrong. If you take it up at all, you should not risk the sort of snubbing that Westbury gave the herald after cross-examination—“Go away, you silly man: you don’t even understand your own silly science.”
My father used to tell me of Westbury’s methods at the Bar. A judge would put a question that seemed to be a poser. Westbury would pause, and then he would not only answer it convincingly, but would put the point with such lucidity that you could not understand how anyone had failed to see it. And the judge would turn quite red, feeling that he had asked a foolish question, and people in court would titter and guffaw, though half of them could never have answered it at all.
But gifts that help an advocate, may be a hindrance to an author. It does sometimes happen that a reviewer knows no more about a subject than he could gather from the book he is reviewing. An author collects materials till he is bewildered—“cannot see the wood for the trees”—and he makes a bulky book, putting all this material in, but doing nothing to clear the subject up. And the reviewer will praise him for his wealth of learning, and will say he has done all that is humanly possible towards the solution of a problem that really is insoluble. Another author sifts the materials and solves the problem. He makes a much smaller book, putting in nothing that is not essential, and stating his conclusions so effectively that they command assent. And the reviewer will dismiss it as a book of platitudes, which tells you nothing that is not obvious to the meanest comprehension.—These, of course, are extreme cases; but the reviewer often fails to see that mere pomposity is not a guarantee of solid learning, and that frivolity need not mean shallowness. There was an essay, The critic as artist, written by Wilde in 1891, and full of epigram and paradox; and the reviewers were so dazzled by his flippancy that hardly any of them saw how much sound sense there was beneath it all. A good judge told me that he considered it the best thing of its kind since Plato.
A friend of mine in the same house at Harrow went up to Oxford at the same time that I went up to Cambridge, October 1876. He came over to see me at Trinity, and I went over to see him at Magdalen. (It made me wish that I had gone there too.) On the Sunday evening the Lessons were read by one of the Demies. His reading was dramatically good, but his appearance was astonishing, with his long hair hanging down upon his surplice. I asked who on earth he was, and was told he was a man named Wilde, who could be awfully amusing, but dressed just like a guy. I never made his acquaintance; but, having once seen him, I knew him by sight for evermore. The last time I saw him was in September 1897. I was at Naples, and he was staying in the same hotel—under an assumed name.
My father was never a collector, but would sometimes buy a thing he liked. My grandfather did not approve, and used to write him letters about it, thus, 27 May 1855, “I should say your money might be more advantageously employed than with coins and pictures.” When my grandfather was eighty and my father fifty, this lecturing still went on: 27 July 1869, “You may say No business of mine. I am your father.” It was my turn next. I had a little money when I came of age, and I had a wish to buy a picture by Burne Jones, Laus Veneris. My elders looked askance, and talked about Consols; but I should have made a very much better investment than Consols, had I bought that picture then and sold it some years afterwards.
Amongst other presents when I came of age, I got a pair of old bronze busts of Roman emperors. They have been a source of pleasure to me now for forty years; but a dear old lady asked me on that festal day what comfort I should find in them upon my death-bed. There is a precept in the Talmud, Bâbâ Bathrâ, vol. VIII, page 60 b—“If they are merry at a wedding-feast, cast ashes on the bridegroom’s head.” Happily, she did not know of that. She would have done it, if she had.
I began collecting Greek vases soon after I had come of age, and I found many pitfalls in the way. Thus, I bought three vases somewhere in Etruria in 1883, and the owner undertook to smuggle them out of Italy; but one of the three he sent me, was not one of the three I chose; and I had no redress. There was never much risk of buying a vase that was a downright sham. Plenty of ancient vases come to light in a dilapidated state, and the forgers fake these up in preference to making new ones. I got to know their tricks, but have not kept pace with them since I gave up collecting. In looking at a vase not long ago, I said I could not see the slightest difference between the new glaze and the old. A wiser man said, “Lick it,” and then I found the new glaze had a different taste.