THERE are those who affirm that all poetry is comprehended in Homer, and all philosophy in Aristotle. We might submit | to the dogma, and yet maintain that later writers may deserve both pardon and commendation. Sunshine is doubtless better in itself than any substitute, but if the vision of this twilight age have become too feeble to endure the blazing splendors of the luminary of day, weary travellers" like us may surely hail without displeasure" the borrowed beams of moon and stars." Though it be great folly in men not to avail themselves of the best light, we should bear in mind that it would be still greater folly to choose total darkness.

The older poets, it is said, are neglected; we admit the sad truth; but what then? Will the multitude throw aside the Corsair and take up Comus at our suggestion? The critic who places himself directly counter to popular opinion, will spend his breath in vain. He may be able, indeed, now and then to cleave down a young sprout of authorship, and so accomplish a little by way of prevention, for it is in human nature to obey prohibitions less reluctantly than positive precepts, probably because experience teaches us from infancy that we are much more likely to meet evil things in this world than good ones. Assure a man that there is poison in the platter and he will cast it from his table; but though figs freshly plucked from the tree be both luscious and wholesome, no persuasion can produce a relish for them in a person with whose taste they do not agree. He who tells men what they ought not to read, may possibly receive attention, whilst he who tells them what it is their duty to read, effects nothing. The few remaining true lovers of olden song seem therefore to have no better resource than to sit down under the willows, and weep and sigh for the degeneracy

of the times. If they look abroad, it is only to be grieved to the heart by the reflection that a dreary dearth is spreading over the land. The grass and evergreen appear to be withering, and those living streams that might irrigate and refreshen the face of nature, and cause even the sand to shoot forth bud and blossom, flow along in obscure channels unregarded, if not unknown. Let us suppose that such a sincere worshipper of real poetry chances in some desponding hour to take into his hand a volume of popular poems. It is easy to imagine him languidly turning over the leaves and sweeping whole stanzas at each careless glance. Let it be that he now strikes upon a passage which he recognizes as drawn from some favorite master, perhaps from Milton, or Spenser, or Chaucer. He at once gives it the greeting of an old and cherished friend; the vacant expression flies from his countenance, and sparkling eye and animated gesture testify to the pleasure which thrills through the whole man. With awakened interest, he is tempted to read further, and if he find more noble borrowed thoughts, each additional instance increases his gratification. Does he think of chiding the writer of the book as a plagiarist? Not at all, but instead would heap thanks upon him for his efficient service in the cause of the Muses. The volume, we have said, is a popular one. That term which grated harshly on his ear before the perusal and the discovery, sounds now like sweetest music. The world, become childish in its love of novelty, will not look at the Odyssey or the Fairy Queen; but poetry has not lost its charm, and those very things which excited the highest admiration in the first readers of any of the great works of genuis, are found to be even yet the surest elements of popularity. Good taste did not forsake

the earth with Astræa. Even the original portions of the book receive a share of the favorable notice of our enthusiast, for he cannot believe the setting unworthy of the gems. The fragments of "Poesy's most precious ore," from the first the objects of his reverential affection, seem, as now arranged, to possess a new brilliancy -they shine like apples of gold in a picture of silver."

A reviewer cannot, of course, look quite so mildly upon a poem containing borrowed treasures. If he have predetermined to impale it for the entertainment of his readers, his joy at the detection of the theft is no doubt equal to that of our kindly friend under the willow. It proceeds, however, from a different motive. Plagiarist is a term of dishonor, and every body who has felt resentment, knows how great is the pleasure of being able to give an ill-name to the dog that one wishes to hang. Yet the reviewer is not without the feelings of a man. He cannot with complacency see the world growing worse, nor can he altogether refuse his good will to any judicious effort to arrest such a tendency. In a surly mood, he may care little for the mental health of the grownup men who obstinately reject invaluable medicine after it has been a thousand times shown them; but does not the welfare of innocent, unthinking, helpless childhood deserve a thought? The volumes which are daily purchased and placed on the centre-table or the family book-shelf, are the objects of hearty, though unconscious study, to myriads of young minds, who, at an age far more curious and susceptible than any other, are attracted to them by leaded print and the dazzling whiteness of modern paper. It is incumbent on us, therefore, to hesitate before endeavoring to destroy books which, under the guise of novelty, instill into a public that refuses to look at aught but what is new, those strains of ancient song

and plagiarist of the nineteenth century, or of the age of Anne, or of the age of Augustus-we must nevertheless acknowledge them benefactors of their race. Possibly we may class them as vassals in the literary host; as dim-sighted spirits, who cannot look upon mountain or sea, or starry firmament, except in the pictures drawn by other men. Yet it should be remembered that the value of the service is not always proportioned to the quality of him who renders it; the alms of the publican may save from starvation, and the Samaritan's ointment heal the bruised limb.

·

Let it not be said that a universal and unsparing prosecution of the charge of plagiarism is demanded by any regard for the honor of the original writers whose works have been drawn upon without acknowledgment. Very few modern authors, an almost inappreciable proportion of the whole number, can be expected to attain to a life beyond life," and the names that do hereafter win a place on "fame's eternal beadroll" must be inIcribed lower on the column than those of the giants of old. In despite of reform, innovation and progress, the right of the first-born stands. The great poets are lifted beyond rivalry. The world may cease to read their works, but it will never cease to esteem them worthy of being read.

There are other considerations which should not be overlooked. The stigma of plagiarism, besides being followed by more. obloquy than any other, is capable of being fastened on the most innocent. Nature is the same that it was ages ago, and is suggestive of the same emotions. The noble beech which throws its drapery over the summer stream is to us, as to all who preceded us, an image of quiet beauty and refreshment. The oak that still rears its rugged trunk to heaven, though the desolating tempest has torn away the branches which were its ornament and pride, represents as naturally now as heretofore, a strong, heroic spirit, enduring the nearest and most afflictive calamities immovable and unbent. Man and the world were adapted to each other at the beginning, and century after century has rolled by without altering the relation. When we behold the majestic march of the storm

cloud, when our eyes are dazzled by the lightnings which play around it, and our ears deafened by the thunder whose reverberations shake the steadfast hills, our breasts, like the breasts of the first descendants of Noah, fail not to swell with awe. When at another time we look forth just as the last beams of the placid sun shed a softened glow over the landscape, and watch the increasing shadows of the stately beeves that graze at the bottom of the vale,* or follow the ewes and skipping lambs as by many a path they seek the less humid atmosphere of the summit; at such a sight gentle thoughts steal upon the mind, passion subsides, the cares and labors of the day are forgotten, and we too turn to repose, grateful, tranquil, trusting. It is the poet's office to seize these fleeting lessons of nature, and to fix and perpetuate them in verse. But he must catch them as they spontaneously arise, not having recourse to research nor to painful deduction. He can touch the hearts of other men only by that wherewith his own heart has been touched. He paints nature, and he paints the soul. Both nature and the soul are what they were when the old Chian chanted his rhapsodies, and when an Athenian audience listened breathless to the Prometheus Desmotes or the Edipus Tyran

nus.

Using as they must the same materials, and appealing to the same passions and emotions, it is not wonderful that coincidences should be found in poets of every age. Were the case otherwise poetry would not be what is-the common blessing of all mankind.

The charge of plagiarism is a charge of theft. Our venerable Anglo-Saxon law presumes every man who is brought before its tribunals to be innocent until convicted. The critic ought not to be less humane, nor less just. If then an accused author be allowed the benefit of such a presumption, he will have a better chance of escape than we are in many instances apt to suppose. Any resemblance to another work may obviously be attributed to either one of three causes. Two out of this trio would justify the seeming plagiarist. First, the resemblance may be

owing merely to a faithful adherence to nature on the part of both writers. If several painters represent on canvas the same landscape or cathedral, or make portraits of the same person, no one is surprised to perceive a similarity in their productions. Things that resemble the same thing cannot but resemble one another. Secondly, there may be an imitation which is undesigned, and of which the author is unconscious and of course innocent; for the writings of the poets contribute like other objects of the external world to fill up the blank mind of infancy. Many a man every day calls the opening which admits light into the room a window, who yet could not tell for his life whether it was nurse Jane or his mother who taught him to designate that object by that sound. A poetical mind receives impressions as readily from the poetry of description as from the poetry of nature. If neither of these enumerated causes be adequate to account for the likeness under consideration-and only in this event-we may rightfully refer it to the last, which is a downright intention to imitate.

Discarding therefore, as contradictory to all justice, the notion that every passage must be copied from any previous one which it may happen to resemble, let us proceed a step further in the path of judicial decorum. Instead of distracting our judgment by a vague and transient glance at a large number of passages which we suspect to be stolen, let us confine our attention for a while to some one particular image or sentiment, and decide, if possible, upon the ownership of that. It happens that many persons in describing moral firmness have used the same illustration. So far there is nothing by which we can determine very positively which of the three possible causes this correspondence is owing to. Let us now seek some untutored settler of the backwoods who never read a sentence in his life, and ask him to describe an individual of known inflexibility of character. There are ten chances to one that the answer will be, "He's stiff as a rock." Hence, there is evidently no occasion to go back to Homer for this comparison. Next, what is the most natural illustration of the rush of an army in battle? Almost every

10

one's mind flies instinctively to the movement of great waters. The soliloquy of Henry the Sixth, in Shakspeare, is well known. Scott, who is as good a representative as can be found of the inartificial, unfettered, manly spirit, never, perhaps, in his metrical romances, describes a battle without an allusion to some of the forms of water. Now it is the torrent dashing down the linn, now the vast flood of Orinoco contending with the ocean itself. The steadfast man, it has been seen, is most like a rock. Place him in battle, what is he then? Obviously a rock beaten by the surge. But water is not the only element which can furnish a fitting image of a vehement assault. The wind is equally furious and impetuous, and presents itself still oftener to our notice.

These are certainly very obvious materials for a comparison, yet Goldsmith in using them has subjected himself to the rebuke of a critic of much acuteness as well as extensive reading; who, however, quite impartially involves Dryden and Virgil in the same accusation. No small number of other poets, as a very slight investigation may show, stand in equally suspicious circumstances.

The passage in the Iliad to which so many succeeding writers are thought to be indebted, is thus put in English by Pope :

"As some tall rock o'erhangs the hoary main, By winds assailed, by billows beat in vain ; Unmoved it hears above the tempest blow, And sees the watery mountains break below."

A resemblance certainly; what have you to say for yourself, Virgilius Maro? The poet, gracefully wrapping his toga about him, replies in a tone more deferential than might be expected from Roman lips: "It is rather hard, my friends, to bring me into court for lines which were given to the world against my will. All over the inhabited earth it is known that my last six books were not"

"Ah, but," interrupts the judge, who, for the nonce, may be Minos or Rhadamanthus, or, perhaps, Chief-justice Jeffries-"Ah, but, sir,' says the judge, "have you the assurance to declare that you intended to blot out that passage ?"

mur

"The Ipsa immota manens,' murs Virgil, half aloud, "does come in very well, I must say. It seems to stand up boldly when one reads the passage, like the rock itself I meant it to represent. I don't think I would have touched that figure."

The judge, not seizing the point of his remark, continued: "In those books which have received your final approval are there not many gross imitations? That descent into Hades now, where"

"But," says Virgil, quickly, "I am not indicted for anything in that half of my poem, nor do I conceive that it can be exactly proper."

"How sir!" exclaims the judge, now unmistakeably Jeffries, "am I to learn my duty from you; you a vile heathen, brought up to know nothing of law but the babble of your wretched prætors; you, who never read Bracton, nor Glanvil, nor Sir Edward Coke? Learn manners, sir, before you presume to open your lips at the bar of criticism!"

Our honey-lipped Virgil plucks up spirit enough to answer, that he does not deny the fact of the imitation in the lines cited, but would justify it. "Imitation, so far from being a cause for reproach, is, if properly managed, a proof of the highest excellence." At this word he was about to release his right arm for a gesture, but the justice cut him short.

"Enough, sir; out of your own mouth you stand condemned. Seek a remedy in the Court of Equity if you choose; but for the present, at least, this passage is expunged from the Æneid and from the minds of all mankind."