science,—Shakespeare whom poor Greene called "an upstart crow beautified with our feathers," and Molière who "reconquered his own wherever he found it." He is grateful to Owen Meredith for having transformed George Sand's "Lavinia" into "Lucille;" to Charles Reade for having altered one of Maquet's dramas into his novel of "White Lies;" to Thomas Hardy for having adapted a chapter from "Georgia Scenes" so as to fit it into "The Trumpet Major." He is grateful to these authors for the pleasure they have given him, as it is more than likely he would never have come across the originals. And the original authors ought to have been unselfish enough to rejoice that their creations had given this additional delight. "What matters it to the world," says Longfellow, "whether I or you or another man did such a deed or wrote such a book, sobeit the deed and book were well done?" And, a fortiori, what matters it who gets the credit? The perfection of form which the proverbs of all nations have attained is owing to the fact that their rough edges have been gradually smoothed and polished as they passed from mouth to mouth without any autorial vanity to hinder their progress. The same is true of the popular ballads and epics: it may even be true of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey." In modern times a large proportion of the wise sayings of great authors, which have become embalmed as familiar quotations, can be traced back through many hands to the rude quarry from which they sprung. And as to incident, any one who has the smallest familiarity with comparative folk-lore and mythology is well aware that originality is impossible. Wiseacres have begun to see a resemblance between "Allan Quatermain" and Mayo's forgotten romance of "Kaloolah." There is a resemblance, undoubtedly; but "Kaloolah," in its turn, resembles "Peter Wilkins," and "Peter Wilkins" resembles a number of mediæval romances, and they can be traced to Eastern sources, and so on ad infinitum. Very likely Mr. Haggard never read "Kaloolah," as he asserts that he never read "Peter Wilkins" before writing his story. In his recent article on "Plagiarism" Mr. Andrew Lang says, "It lately happened to me to see an illustration of an unpublished work, in which a wounded and dying warrior was using his last force to break, with singular consequences, the weapon that had been his lifelong companion. I knew (being bookish) the incident was perfectly familiar to me, but I could not remember where I had met it before. It haunted me like the names which you try to recover from faithless memory, and one day it flashed on me that this incident was at least eight hundred years old. But I leave (not its source, for the novelist, who is no book-man, had probably never tasted of that literary fountain), but the place of its early appearance, to be remembered or discovered by any one who is curious enough to consult his memory or his library. But here another question arises: let it be granted that the novelist first found the situation where I found it, and is there any reason in the world why he should not make what is a thoroughly original use of it? The illumination or invention needed for this particular adaptation was at least as vivid and romantic as the original conception, which, again, might occur, and may have occurred, separately to minds in Japan and in Peru." The novel in question is "Allan Quatermain," in which Umslopogaas treats his trusty battle-axe, Inkosikaas, exactly as Roland in the Carlovingian romance treats his wondrous sword Durandal. All which encourages the Reviewer to remark that if ever he finds it easier to steal brilliant things than to say them he may himself turn plagiarist.
Miss Evangeline O'Connor has compiled and the Appletons have published "An Index to the Works of Shakespeare," which will, be found invaluable to all
