No. 143. TUESDAY, JULY 30, 1751. Moveat cornicula risum Furtivis nudata coloribus. HOR. Lib. i. Ep. iv. 19. Lest when the birds their various colours claim, Stripp'd of his stolen pride, the crow forlorn FRANCIS. Should stand the laughter of the publick scorn. AMONG the innumerable practices by which interest or envy have taught those who live upon literary fame to disturb each other at their airy banquets, one of the most common is the charge of plagiarism. When the excellence of a new composition can no longer be contested, and malice is compelled to give way to the unanimity of applause, there is yet this one expedient to be tried, by which the author may be degraded, though his work be reverenced; and the excellence which we cannot obscure, may be set at such a distance as not to overpower our fainter lustre. This accusation is dangerous, because, even when it is false, it may be sometimes urged with probability. Bruyere declares, that we are come into the world too late to produce any thing new, that nature and life are preoccupied, and that description and sentiment have been long exhausted. It is, indeed, certain, that whoever attempts any common topick, will find unexpected coincidences of his thoughts with those of other writers; nor can the nicest judgment always distinguish accidental similitude from artful imitation. There is, likewise, a common stock of images, a settled mode of arrangement, and a beaten track of transition, which all authors suppose themselves at liberty to use, and which produce the resemblance generally observable among contemporaries. So that in books which best deserve the name of originals, there is little new beyond the disposition of materials already provided; the same ideas and combinations of ideas have been long in the possession of other hands; and, by restoring to every man his own, as the Romans must have returned to their cots from the possession of the world, so the most inventive and fertile genius would reduce his folios to a few pages. Yet the author who imitates his predecessors only by furnishing himself with thoughts and elegancies out of the same general magazine of literature, can with little more propriety be reproached as a plagiary, than the architect can be censured as a mean copier of Angelo or Wren, because he digs his marble from the same quarry, squares his stones by the same art, and unites them in columns of the same orders. Many subjects fall under the consideration of an author, which, being limited by nature, can admit only of slight and accidental diversities. All definitions of the same thing must be nearly the same; and descriptions, which are definitions of a more lax and fanciful kind, must always have, in some degree, that resemblance to each other which they all have to their object. Different poets describing the spring or the sea would mention the zephyrs and the flowers, the billows and the rocks; reflecting on human life, they would, without any communication of opinions, lament the deceitfulness of hope, the fugacity of pleasure, the fragility of beauty, and the frequency of calamity; and for palliatives of these incurable miseries, they would concur in recommending kindness, temperance, caution, and fortitude. When, therefore, there are found in Virgil and Horace two similar passages― it is surely not necessary to suppose with a late critick, that one is copied from the other, since neither Virgil nor Horace can be supposed ignorant of the common duties of humanity, and the virtue of moderation in success. Cicero and Ovid have, on very different occasions, remarked how little of the honour of a victory belongs to the general, when his soldiers and his fortune have made their deductions; yet why should Ovid be suspected to have owed to Tully an observation which, perhaps, occurs to every man that sees or hears of military glories? Tully observes of Achilles, that had not Homer written, his valour had been without praise: Nisi Ilias illa extitisset, idem tumulus qui corpus ejus contexerat, nomen ejus obruisset. Unless the Iliad had been published, his name had been lost in the tomb that covered his body. Horace tells us, with more energy, that there were brave men before the wars of Troy, but they were lost in oblivion for want of a poet: Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona Nocte, carent quia vate sacro. Before great Agamemnon reign'd, In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown: FRANCIS. Tully inquires, in the same oration, why, but for fame, we disturb a short life with so many fatigues? Quid est quod in hoc tam exiguo vitæ curriculo et tam brevi, tantis nos in laboribus exerceamus? Why in so small a circuit of life should we employ ourselves in so many fatigues? Horace inquires in the same manner, Quid brevi fortes jaculamur avo Why do we aim, with eager strife, At things beyond the mark of life? FRANCIS. when our life is of so short duration, why we form such numerous designs? But Horace, as well as Tully, might discover that records are needful to preserve the memory of actions, and that no records were so durable as poems; either of them might find out that life is short, and that we consume it in unnecessary labour. There are other flowers of fiction so widely scattered and so easily cropped, that it is scarcely just to tax the use of them as an act by which any particular writer is despoiled of his garland; for they may be said to have been planted by the ancients in the open road of poetry for the accommodation of their successors, and to be the right of every one that has art to pluck them without injuring their colours or their fragrance. The passage of Orpheus to hell, with the recovery and second loss of Eurydice, have been described after Boetius by Pope, in such a manner as might justly leave him suspected of imitation, were not the images such as they might both have derived from more ancient writers: Que sontes agitant metu Ultrices scelerum dea Jam mæste lacrymis madent, Non Ixionium caput Velor præcipitat rota. The pow'rs of vengeance, while they hear, Touch'd with compassion, drop a tear : Ixion's rapid wheel is bound, Fix'd in attention to the sound. Thy stone, O Sysiphus, stands still, Ixion rests upon his wheel, And the pale spectres dance! The furies sink upon their iron beds. Tandem, vincimur, arbiter Umbrarum, miserans, ait—— Donemus, comitem viro, Emtam carmine, conjugem. Subdu'd at length, hell's pitying monarch cry'd, The song rewarding, let us yield the bride. He sung; and hell consented To hear the poet's pray'r; Stern Proserpine relented, And gave him back the fair. F. LEWIS. РОРЕ. F. LEWIS. РОРЕ. Heu, noctis prope terminos Orpheus Eurydicen suam Nor yet the golden verge of day begun, At once beheld, and lost, and was undone. But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes : F. LEWIS. РОРЕ. No writer can be fully convicted of imitation, except there is a concurrence of more resemblance than can be imagined to have happened by chance; as where the same ideas are conjoined without any natural series or necessary coherence, or where not only the thought but the words are copied. Thus it can scarcely be doubted, that in the first of the following passages Pope remembered Ovid, and that in the second he copied Crashaw: Sæpe pater dixit, studium quid inutile tentas? Quit, quit this barren trade, my father cry'd : I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. OVID. F. LEWIS. POPE. CRASHAW. POPE. Conceits, or thoughts not immediately impressed by sensible objects, or necessarily arising from the coalition or comparison of common sentiments, may be with great justice suspected whenever they are found a second time. Thus Waller probably owed to Grotius an elegant compli ment: |