Plagiarism 



cradle along the banks of Time's golden river, shall not 

 remember the aspect and the name of that spot where he 

 found some massive nugget of vv^it or truth, such as nature 

 can only aflford to sprinicle here and there ? 



Wherever we pick up, in the dusty treasuries and 

 armories of old, a lump of golden truth condensed in an 

 apophthegm, or a rusty old arrow-head of ancient wit, we 

 have no business to mint the one, or set the other in our 

 bow, without letting the world know from whose crucible 

 and quiver they came. 



I fear too many of our modern authors, "whose wit is not 

 so perfect as their memory," — this sarcasm Edmund Burke 

 let fly at first, but Sheridan picked it up and sharpened the 

 point, and ground the twin barbs into a more elaborately 

 balanced epigram, — too many of our modern authors live by 

 putting a new polish upon old plate, and new shafting and 

 feathering old arrow-heads. 



Wordsworth was not ashamed to steal from so well-known 

 an author as Pascal. Do you remember where he says — 



"And the most difficult of tasks to keep 

 Heights which the soul is competent to gain " ? 



Pascal writes, if I remember right — 



"Ces grands efforts de I'esprit ou I'ame touche quelquefois, 

 sent choses oii elle ne se tient pas : elle y saute seulement 

 pour retomber aussitot." But let us hope that it was a 

 coincidence. 



Sterne, I fear, is guilty of stealing his " Flattering 

 Beggar," without acknowledgment, from Quevedo. And 

 he has not even the poor excuse of poverty to cover his dis- 

 honesty with rags. I have always thought Sterne the most 

 European of our English wits ; and perhaps the reason is 



379 



