Telling the self-same tale
Her song told when this ancient earth was young:
So echoes answered when her song was sung
In the first wooded vale.”
Year after year, century after century, these natural musicians continue to ravish and delight all mankind with those same songs they warbled on creation morn. It is no care of theirs to mingle melody with horrid sounds; to weld their notes into a dagger of discord wherewith to stab men through the ear. They do not strive to produce those damnable gratings, shriekings and rumblings which so often pass for music in these days. Where, Sir, is the originality of the nightingale, or of the mocking-bird? Sir, all music may be noise, but that all noise is music I do deny with all my heart. That a noise is new does not recommend it to my ear.
Sir, I lay it down as a proposition not to be refuted, that a good imitation is better than a poor original, and while many men may create passable imitations, very few can produce anything which is both original and good. I do not hold it against an author that he is not wholly original. On the contrary, if he imitate good models, I regard his imitation as an evidence of sound sense. And, what is more, Sir, I believe that most people are no more enamored of originality than I am.
Here is a secret, Mr. Idler, known to only a few: We never grow tired of the things we really like, but only of the things which have appealed to us momentarily because of their novelty. When we really like an author, we like another author who is like him. When we really like a melody, we like another melody which is like it. When we really like a place, we have no desire to leave it. Early in life we form attachments for certain things—our homes, our parents, Mother Goose and the like. This fondness we never entirely outgrow. We like the books we used to like, the pictures, the songs and the places. I am speaking now, Sir, of normal human beings. There are some, ever seeking new things, who never learn to like anything. To them, old books are wearisome, old pictures are uninteresting, old tunes insipid. To them, all places are places to go from or go to, but never to stay in. For them, the past is closed and history is out of date.
“Beware of imitations!” say the advertisements. “Beware of originality!” say I. If we were all original, there would be no living with us. The original genius is well enough when we wish to be entertained, but it is the old-fashioned reliable imitator who makes this world the pleasant place it is. And let us not forget, Sir, that the most original thing in the world is sin.
I am, Sir,
David Duplex.