The Rambles of an Idler 



were echoes of writers who had lived and died 

 anywhere from five thousand years to a century 

 ago. In short, I had been treated not so much 

 to the author's "works" as to his stealings. — 

 or, more politely, his unconscious appropria- 

 tion of others ' thoughts. 



The above is not an extravagant statement. 

 Early in January it occurred to me that the 

 quotations for each day had a familiar ring, 

 and I was surprised to find how our modern 

 author suffered when put to the test of heart- 

 less parallels. 



That the same idea should arise, even when 

 men and manners have radically changed, need 

 not excite surprise. The ocean or a mountain 

 range, a shipwreck or a more commonplace inci- 

 dent, may similarly impress two or more wit- 

 nesses who recount it ; but the ear-mark of orig- 

 inality will, in each case, be there. Mere sim- 

 ilarity of thought is not to be mistaken for the 

 blundering reproduction of a master's words, 

 or the careless adaptation of a familiar 

 thought. The brief comment on a passing oc- 

 currence, a flash of wit, or a description in a 

 few words of a sunset or the sea, born in the 

 brain of greatness, stands for all time as the 



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