"Thou knewest me once-my name is Grant." De Leon started as though a serpent had bitten him. "Art thou indeed the father of "I was the father of the unhappy Mary de Leon," he said, pausing on the last words. "How meanest thou that?" returned the Baron, with a frowning brow. "That paper may convince thee that the betrayer was betrayed;" and the old man handed him a paper as he spoke. De Leon unfolded it, and with a gesture of astonishment looked through it. With a somewhat scornful smile, he returned it, saying, "whatever might have been thy purpose in coming to me, it was a bad plan to bring forged papers." The old man took the paper, and repeated calmly, “It is a true paper, Baron, not a forgery; and it was a true marriage between thee and my daughter Mary, and not a cheat, as thou didst suppose. The priest himself gave me that paper. It seems thy agent had more conscience than his master." It was indeed true. A heavier vengeance than he had yet felt was coming on him for his early crime. And it had brought him misery enough before this-years of bitter remorse for the fate of a young and trusting girl, whom he had (as he thought) betrayed, and then turned away to give birth to an infant, and perish. But now the staff that he had most leaned upon was breaking. It was in this old man's power to ruin him, to blast his fame, by showing that his daughter, so prized, so loved, so doted on, whom he was about to give away in marriage, with such pomp and splendour, was not legitimate; for he knew that poor Mary was alive, after he had married the mother of Alice. The wrongs that his daughter had received at the hand of de Leon had driven Grant almost mad; his passion settled down into a deep, burning desire of revenge, which he had fostered in his heart for years, without an opportunity of taking what seemed to him sufficiently dreadful vengeance. Now the time had come when he would wound him in the tenderest points of his nature,— in his daughter, and in his pride. At present, however, he veiled his dark purpose, and professed that he had come to return good to his child for the evil de Leon had done his own. He promised eternal secrecy if the Baron would consent to the marriage between Alice and Gerard Dumont-on no other terms. If these were not VOL. II.-NO. VIII. 3 I agreed to, his tale should be told. Pressed by the fear of yet greater shame, the Baron at length consented. He even promised that to his daughter he would appear to delight in the prospect of happiness before her; while to Charles Longville the refusal was to come from Alice alone. Again we pass over some time, and Alice stands at the altar the bride of Gerard Dumont. The brightness hath come back to her dark eye, and her cheek hath the colour of health as well as the bridal blush. The bridegroom turns from the altar, to pour out his thanks to the Baron de Leon, too, for his gracious favour. At first de Leon heard him not, for his thoughts had wandered back into the depths of past years-to the time when he had stood at an humbler altar, with no more pomp or ceremony than sufficed to mock and ruin one who had given him that holiest of earthly gifts, a maiden's trusting love. Startled from his reverie by Dumont's address, he returned a hasty answer, when suddenly he seemed so struck with the figure before him, that he hardly restrained the exclamation that had risen to his lips. Perhaps the memories so vividly recalled to his mind at that time caused him to mark the likeness he had never seen before. With great difficulty he strove to conceal the dreadful thought that passed through his mind. But there was one present who had noticed his confusion-the old man Grant. "Ha!" he exclaimed, as he advanced towards the astonished group, "art thou better of thy blindness? Lord Normanton," he continued, turning to Dumont's patron, who had been present at the ceremony, "canst thou tell us who this youth is?" "All I can tell," replied Lord Normanton, "the Baron knows already. A dying girl sought shelter under my roof, and as she died, I swore to protect her child. She said his father was noble, and had married her, but had afterwards discarded her, affirming that the marriage was not a true one." "Thou knowest more, I think," said the old man, looking fixedly at him; " did she not tell her name?" "She did," he replied, "but I swore not to disclose it, unless to benefit her child." "Nevertheless, my lord, thou mayest tell those who know it already. Was it not Grant?" “It was, indeed," said he, in surprise, "how didst thou know it ?" "Mind not that now, my lord, but look to the Baron de Leon; methinks he hath swooned. Lady Alice de Leon," he continued, "I have performed my promise; nay, start not that I call thee so, for that is still thy name. Thy husband's poor mother was really married to the Baron de Leon, thy father. Here is the certificate of their marriage. I was her father. But I am old, and will not stay to check your wedding gaieties. I have done what I came hither for I have done that for which I have lived so many weary years. On the betrayer of my child-on him who brought misery into the old man's home, and desolation to his hearth--on him and on his race-I have had revenge!" PUCK. LOVE'S LAST WORDS. Go! Love's spells for aye are broken- That these tears unbidden start; Go! but think not, when to-morrow All unmindful of the sorrow He from thy deceit shall prove, Chase Love's shadow through the bowers, But upon the choicest flowers Many a thorn for falsehood grows. Go then, traitor! go for ever! Leaving all, yet loving many, Till from thee, at last, Love sever, C. H. H. PLAGIARISM. "BEEFEATER. Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee. PUFF. No. I fancy not-where ?"-Sheridan's Critic. IN the code of laws by which this country is governed, there is a clause for the protection of property, and the identification of thieves, which decides, that if missing property be found upon the person, or in the possession of any person, within a given time after the goods are first missed, the person on whom, or in whose possession, they are so found, is, in default of a satisfactory explanation, identified with the thief. Something of this kind ought to regulate literary property; for a man's own thoughts are as much his own property, as his house or his lands. Without doubt, however, a difficulty arises, namely, that of swearing to one's own-a thought is a difficult thing to identify-and an idea might in many cases be claimed with equal justice by a thousand different persons. Moreover, these literary robbers, these kidnappers of the offspring of our brains, as Sheridan says, "disfigure them, as gypsies do stolen children, to make them pass for their own." Yet, notwithstanding all this, something ought to be done, and a handsome monument in the Poet's Corner would be well deserved by any man who should possess the wit to institute an Author's Idea Insurance Office, for the Protection of Literary Property from Plagiarism and Penny-a-liners. What a despicable character is a plagiarist! His meanness is an aggravated one-a double guilt. Not only does he take for his own the ideas and expressions of others,-which of itself is undoubtedly a gross and unjustifiable robbery,-but he also imposes upon the public, and obtains their approbation under false pretences. Sometimes he assumes the hardy impudence of the highwayman, and having taken your idea, claims it before your face. If accused of plagiarism, he retorts upon you, and taxes you with that meanness. If you still persist in owning your own property, he perhaps declares himself insulted, and in default of having your idea, demands your life. Imagine a man sufficiently ærated to claim the authorship of the Waverley Novels; and yet things almost as brazen have been done. Really such men ought to be Januses, that they may blush double. Moreover, the plagiarist proceeds on a plan, which, if examined, is the height of folly. Who, if he were building a house, would take a stone belonging to another, and which may be reclaimed at any time, for the foundation? Surely, no one; for to give back this stone, is to destroy the whole building. How much wiser is the plagiarist, who erects his fame "ære perennius" as he supposes on a borrowed thought, which may be claimed at any time, and, his foundation gone, himself exposed to the "imber edax " of universal contempt? But while I endeavour to impress on the mind of the reader the intense disgust which I feel for so despicable a character as the plagiarist, I must remark that many are accused of plagiarism unjustly. Similar ideas, nay, even similar expressions, will often occur to two writers of similar minds; and I doubt not but many persons, who are in the habit both of writing and reading, have frequently experienced a difficulty, which I find continually rising up before me, namely, the difficulty of correctly distinguishing between ideas fresh from the forge of the imagination, and those which are not original, and which have long lain hid in the storehouse of memory. It is but too common to find persons asserting, that because two writers have the same expression, the one is a plagiarist; this is absurd—nay, it is worse, it is illiberal. There are many instances of our greatest authors having the same ideas similarly expressed. I will only illustrate this with one example, the most striking which I can remember, wherein two poets-no less than Shakspere and Milton, have a striking similarity of thought. In the Midsummer Night's Dream, Act I. Sc. 1, we have the following passage: "Lys. Ah! me, for aught that ever I could read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth; For either it was different in blood HER. Oh cross! too high to be enthralled too low ! Swift as a shadow, short as any dream." |