In the vast, immeasurable depth of thought, there are so many
resources, that one would suppose it were quite unnecessary for any
one to repeat himself or to copy others, let him write as much as he
will; and yet we see continually men of considerable powers of mind
borrowing largely--I might even say systematically--from the works of
ancient or cotemporary writers: not always the identical words,
though sometimes those; not always the identical thought, though
sometimes that; but, more generally, the ideas suggested by the
thoughts of others, and so intimately blended with them as to be
inseparable--judging themselves safe from the accusation of plagiarism
upon the same plea which was put forth by a thief indicted for
stealing a scarf, who proved he had only taken the gold fringe. I know
many men who never compose--and they are men who write much, and
well--without having open around them many works of precisely the same
character as that which they are writing. It is a dangerous habit, and
much to be avoided. Indeed, we pray against it every day when we nay,
"Lead us not into temptation."
As to repeating one's self, it is no very great crime, perhaps, for I
never heard that robbing Peter to pay Paul was punishable under any
law or statute, and the multitude of offenders in this sense, in all
ages, and in all circumstances, if not an excuse, is a palliation,
showing the frailty of human nature, and that we are as frail as
others--but no more. The cause of this self-repetition, probably, is
not a paucity of ideas, not an infertility of fancy, not a want of
imagination or invention, but that, like children sent daily to draw
water from a stream, we get into the habit of dropping our buckets
into that same immeasurable depth of thought exactly at the same
place; and though it be not exactly the same water as that which we
drew up the day before it is very similar in quality and flavor, a
little clearer or a little more turbid, as the case may be.
Now this dissertation--which may be considered as an introduction or
preface to the second division of my history--has been brought about,
has had its rise, origin, source, in an anxious and careful endeavor
to avoid, if possible, introducing into this work the two solitary
horsemen--one upon a white horse--which, by one mode or another, have
found their way into probably one out of three of all the books I have
written; and I need hardly tell the reader that the name of these
books is legion. They are, perhaps, too many; but, though I must die,
some of them will live--I know it, I feel it; and I must continue to
write while this spirit is in this body.
To say truth, I do not know why I should wish to get rid of my two
horsemen, especially the one on the white horse. Wouvermans always had
a white horse in all his pictures; and I do not see why I should not
put my signature, my emblem, my monogram, in my paper and ink pictures
as well as any painter of them all. I am not sure that other authors
do not do the same thing--that Lytton has not always, or very nearly,
a philosophizing libertine--Dickens, a very charming young girl, with
dear little pockets; and Lever, a bold dragoon. Nevertheless, upon my
life, if I can help it, we will not have in this work the two horsemen
and the white horse, albeit, in after times--when my name is placed
with Homer and Shakspeare, or in any other more likely position--there
may arise serious and acrimonious disputes as to the real authorship
of the book, from its wanting my own peculiar and distinctive mark and
characteristic.
But here, while writing about plagiarism, I have been myself a
plagiary; and it shall not remain without acknowledgment, having
suffered somewhat in that sort myself. Hear, my excellent friend,
Leigh Hunt, soul of mild goodness, honest truth, and gentle
brightness! I acknowledge that I stole from you the defensive image of
Wouvermans's white horse, which you incautiously put within my reach,
on one bright night of long, dreamy conversation, when our ideas of
many things, wide as the poles asunder, met suddenly without clashing,
or produced but a cool, quiet spark--as the white stones which
children rub together in dark corners emit a soft, phosphorescent
gleam, that serves but to light their little noses.