THE

The question of quotation marks can always start pretty argument among bookish people. Is good literary taste more offended by their over-use than by an avoidance of them? If I were reading an essay by an unknown writer and came upon some such phrase as this: "the quality of mercy is not strained" as Shakspere says, I am immediately offended. In the first place I feel that the writer doubts my own elementary equipment; and secondly he implies his own unawareness that some things are universally known. So he is doubly damned. If, on the other hand, he borrows a compact phrase from Browning and omits those little crediting marks on the supposition that any well-read person will recognize it, has he therefore sinned because I happen to think the phrase is his own? Is the fault his or mine?

I am trying to present a large question in its simplest terms. Let me attempt to carry the question further. Every author gets all of his ideas from an infinitely wide variety of sources. Some creditors he has forgotten, though the ideas remain. Some things he has cheerfully borrowed and reshaped to fit his own need, with never a thank-you openly expressed. Is he free of all blame, so long as he rewords the borrowed idea?

Has the originator of some pleasing combination of literary ideas a proprietary right to his concept once he has given it to the public? If so, does that right apply to the ideas themselves, or to his exact manner of phrasing them? If to the ideas, then a playwright should be most careful about using any one of the seventeen plots which, Schiller insisted, make up the total number of plot combinations. If to the ideas, then Newton might properly have objected whenever a

fellow scientist based some new hypothesis upon that falling apple.

I have no desire to offer here any arbitrary dictum upon a question that has for many generations been fruitful of discussion among the wisest of men. Frankly, I am trying only to stimulate that discussion here, contributing such fuel as I may to the flames. Upon the liberal side, the extreme opinion is that there can be no proprietary right to ideas. Man's groping conceptions of Truth and Beauty (which is but a manifestation of Truth) become the property of mankind when he has uttered them. Patents and copyrights are merely the expedients of government to stimulate creative minds into greater activity. It is a pity that such minds should need such stimulation, for ethically the expedients are unsound.

It seems to be the case that in Elizabethan times, when literary creation attained to great heights, such freedom was more generally recognized, and writers "lifted" whatever they needed without concealment or shame. In this connection how many even recall the recent case of Cyrano. A United States judge decided upon the evidence that it had been stolen and rendered a decision that kept its distinguished author from visiting our shores. Yet how many worthy people are there among us with so strong a prejudice against stolen goods that they would refuse to read Cyrano, but take The Merchant Prince of Cornville in its place? They would probably say, if the issue were brought directly before them, "Give me the best! That worthy Chicago manufacturer had his chance and failed. At least he may feel that he helped Edmund Rostand to a great achievement, and so is not without honor."

But there is another side to the question, which, though it does not meet the point exactly, might be injected here. If it be true that Edmund Rostand benefited in any degree from a reading of The Merchant Prince, a word of acknowledgment would have done him no harm, and at the least would have been a courteous act. Not so many years ago an American writer, not widely known at the time, made a story out of certain data that scientists had assembled. The little book had only fair success. Another writer, of greater repute, took the idea and made a story that was widely popular. The first writer complained through the press; and the second, noting the protest, answered with bland effrontery, "Yes, I used the idea. It seemed to me too good a one to waste, so I made a better story out of it. If readers disapprove, let them refuse to read my book and read his."

"A great poet may really borrow," wrote Landor: "he may condescend to an obligation at the hand of an equal or an inferior; but he forfeits his title if he borrows more than the amount of his own possessions . . . the lowlier of intellect may lay out a table in their field, at which table the highest one shall sometimes be disposed to partake; want does not compel him." "The man of genius," said Dumas, "does not steal, he conquers, and what he conquers he annexes to his empire. He makes laws for it, he peoples it with his subjects, and extends his golden sceptre over it. And where is the man who, on surveying his beautiful kingdom, shall dare to assert that this or that part of his land is no part of his property?"

The argument has been a lively one at times; and the burden of it seems to prove that literature would indeed be povertystricken if all the published thoughts and fancies of men in the past were not a part of the treasure of men's minds today. But there enter increasingly into the problem certain questions of equity. Society is more and more demanding that those who possess the power and skill of entertaining, or of stimulating our

minds through the printed word, shall lay aside other occupations and devote themselves to the task. So enters the question of a livelihood and of its protection by certain general understandings.

As to the right of the great to partake of food spread by the lowly, one thinks at once of certain obligations that attend true greatness. I should not want to lose Cyrano, but if some humbler artist had a share in its creation, however small, I am sure that a truly great artist should not hesitate to grant goodnaturedly a small share of the distinction. The greatness of Charles Reade and of Sardou as authors would have been in nowise affected by a word of credit to the humbler ones who assisted and are now forgotten; but the record of their good sportsmanship would have been bettered.

I trust that I have offered a bit of kindling to start a small fire of discussion. But I fear that I have wandered somewhat from that lesser question of the distinguishing marks around a quotation. That question is quite a different one; because the essayist, for instance, who quotes usually does so for the very reason that he wishes the voice of another to be heard. He likes to bring to bear upon his subject, comment from another mind; and preferably one greater than his own. For he gains a certain satisfaction from an interruption that proves the two minds can run for a moment in the same channel.

As to whether or not his readers will recognize the quotation is a question for his own good judgment to decide. If they do, he has been subtly the gainer; if they do not, he has lost his only excuse for quoting, and he would better do without.

I have lately come across some comments upon this very matter by the god-father of essayists, Montaigne. Let me append them here in the hope that they may furnish any who have never read them the enjoyment they brought me.

"The Philosopher Chrisippus was wont to foist-in amongst his bookes, not only whole sentences and other long-long discourses, but whole bookes of other Authors, as in one, he brought in Euripides his Medea. And Opollodorus was wont to say of him, that if one should draw from out his bookes what he had stolne from others, his paper would remaine blanke. Whereas Epicurus cleane contrarie to him in three hundred volumes he left behind him, had not made use of one allegation. . . . To reprove mine owne faults in others, seemes to me no more unsufferable than to reprehend (as I doe often) those of others in my selfe. They ought to be accused every where, and have all places of sanctuarie taken from them: yet do I know how over boldly, at all times I adventure to equall my selfe unto my filchings, and to mach hand in hand with them; not without a fond hardie hope, that I may perhaps be able to bleare the eyes of the Judges from discerning them. But it is as much for the benefit of my application, as for the good of mine invention and force. And I doe not furiously front, and bodie to bodie wrestle with those old champions: it is but by flights, advantages, and false offers I seek to come within them, and if I can, to give them a fall. I do not rashly take them about the necke, I doe but touch them, nor doe I go so far as by my bargaine I would seeme to doe; could I but keepe even with them, I

should then be an honest man; for I seeke not to venture on them, but where they are strongest. To doe as I have seen some, that is, to shroud themselves under other armes, not daring so much as to show their finger ends unarmed, and to botch up all their works (as it is an easie matter in a common subject, namely for the wiser sort) with ancient inventions, here and there hudled up together. And in those who endeavoured to hide what they have filced from others, and make it their owne, it is first a minifest note of injustice, then a plaine argument of cowardlinesse; who having nothing of any worth in themselves to make show of, will yet under the countenance of others sufficiencie goe about to make a faire offer: Moreover (oh great foolishnesse) to seek by such cosening tricks to forestall the ignorant approbation of the common sort, nothing fearing to discover their ignorance to men of understanding (whose praise only is of value) who will soone trace out such borrowed ware. As for me, there is nothing I will doe lesse. I never speake of others, but that I may the more speake of my selfe. . . . For, howsoever, these are but my humors and opinions, and I deliver them but to show what my conceit is, and not what ought to be beleeved. Wherein I ayme at nothing but to display my selfe, who peradventure (if a new prentiship change me) shall be another tomorrow."

WISD

ISDOM and Experience, who had lost their youth, once kept shop, trafficking in dreams and thoughts. They stood about, saying (to prove their honesty),

thoughts for him. He kissed them because she gave them, but they withered when he touched them, and he threw them away. One passed holding something closely as if

And people who made dreams came in to sell them. And those who could not dream, bought thoughts.

Madonna, who played with dolls yesterday, made dreams of babies. She came in happily today, making one, and when Wisdom spoke to her roughly, she shrank away to shield it. But women and men who walked with her turned to laugh, and she held it off to look at it again. It had faded, so she came into the shop to sell it.

There came one with eyes that could not see, and he had dreamed of colors. Then Wisdom brought out dreams of music and fitted them with colors. And he did not have to pay again.

Another came to buy dreams of purity, but she who had given him birth had come to buy dreams of scarlet.

Beloved, who loved Belovedest, bought

Wisdom and Experience clamored to buy. It stirred against him, and he hurried away with it.

Then came one wearily, asking for dreams, naming one he wanted. They told him it would cost life, so he consented, and they gave it to him; but when he died, Experience, who knew values, took it back to sell again.

Children paid for thoughts with laughter, and girls bought dreams with songs and smiles. One who had grown to manhood wanted dreams, but he could not touch them because he had hands with grime on them. Wisdom and Experience stood about, crying of wares in stock.

"Buy thoughts to bring you happiness. Buy dreams to bring you youth.”

Wisdom looked at Experience sadly, say

ing,

"If only we had some for ourselves."