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To the Editor of The Idler.

Dear Sir: I am, I doubt not, one of your most devoted readers, and the reason of my devotion, if I may say so, is because you so seldom say anything original. Nay, Sir, this is not said in jest, but in very earnest, for in truth I am vastly wearied of originality in all its forms. We are so beset upon all sides by “originals” of one sort or another, that it is a positive relief to open a book or pick up a magazine which is decently dull and warranted harmless. To sit down for a quiet evening with one of our sensational monthlies is like lighting one’s self to bed with a giant cracker—there is no peace or quiet to be had with ’em.

From my earliest youth it has been my ambition to keep myself well informed of the affairs of the day, and to this end I have made it a practise to glance at least through the monthly numbers of our popular magazines. I regret to say that I have been compelled to break off this lifelong habit, as my physician has strongly advised me against continuing it. The startling and alarming articles which make up the bulk of the month’s offerings in these periodicals have a very bad effect upon my heart and my imagination. More than once in the last two or three years I have been troubled with evil dreams and nightmares brought on by reading these publications shortly before going to bed. More than this, I am by nature somewhat irritable and short of temper, and I have been thrown into a very fury of indignation upon reading the recital of my wrongs in these magazines; so much so, indeed, that I have narrowly escaped apoplexy, a disease to which, my doctor says, I am peculiarly liable. And since I had rather be swindled upon every hand, as long as it is in happy ignorance, than to die of indignation, I have left off reading them altogether.

I can say without dissimulation that I do not miss them greatly. To say the truth, I have small fondness for the originality which is everywhere urged upon us in these days. I have small patience with the spirit which drives us on from one extravagance to another until there is no telling to what base uses the human intellect may eventually fall. Sir, I have taken it upon myself to raise my voice in protest against the prevalent craze for originality and to say a word, which needs to be said, in defense of imitation. If in so doing I am unintentionally original, I can only crave your indulgence.

If I read the signs of the times aright, we are in imminent danger of falling into the ways of the Greeks, “ever seeking some new thing”; considering in our art, music and literature not the qualities of beauty, sense and melody, but only the quality of newness, which is to say, novelty. We do not ask of a musician, is his work harmonious? But only, is it different? We do not ask of a painter, is he artistic? But only, is he clever? We do not ask of an author, is he sound? But only, is he witty? Is it not a sad commentary upon our insane desire for change, Mr. Idler, that our artists, musicians and authors should urge only these claims upon our consideration, that they are different, clever and witty? Sir, the music of an Ojibway Indian is different; a sign-painter may well be clever; and the most ignorant street urchins are often witty. Are these, then, the only qualities we should seek in those who presume to instruct and elevate the human mind and soul? Are we to pass by sound sense for the sake of empty wit? Are we to forsake harmony for the novelty of a mad jumble of absurd sounds? Are we to value cartoons above masterpieces?

For a convenient example of the depths to which we have sunk, let me cite you, Sir, the case of dancing. Dancing was, I believe, originally a religious exercise. Like music, it was employed to express the nobler emotions of the soul. I confess that it may have been sensuous, even at a very early date, but the most sensuous dance of the ancients, the bacchante, was, nevertheless, performed in honor of a god. In the minuet of our grandfathers there was both dignity and grace. There, Sir, was such a dance as might enhance the noble bearing, the beauty and the gentility of those who danced it. There was a dance fit for ladies and gentlemen, a dance which had in it nothing incompatible with innocent womanliness or manly dignity. Who, let me ask you, can say as much for the unspeakable modern original dances, the kangaroo, the grizzly bear, and the bunny hug? Sir, can you bring yourself for one moment to think upon the spectacle of George Washington dancing the kangaroo? Can you conceive of such an unthinkable thing as Henry Clay performing the grizzly bear? Can you, by any force of imagination, picture Abraham Lincoln lost in the mazes of the bunny hug? God forbid!

As it is with dancing, so it is with art. The poster insanity has hardly passed away and we are already overwhelmed with a horde of symbolists of one sort or another, who appear to agree upon one point only—that pictures should not in any way resemble nature. These ambitious daubers, Sir—I can not bring myself to call them artists—have the impertinence to assume that they can express life more fully and clearly upon their hideous canvases than the Author of the Universe has expressed it in nature. As to the absurdity of their pretensions, I need say nothing; it is apparent to all who can lay claim to even the most ordinary degree of intelligence. But as to the effect this nonsense has upon the weak, the easily impressed, I could never say enough. This insanity has spread like a plague from painting to poetry, and from poetry to all the arts that are known. Originality, like charity, is made to cover a multitude of sins. The creative artist who has not the strength or the patience to win distinction along recognized lines produces something that is grotesque and defies us to criticize his work, saying, “There is no standard by which you can measure this, for it is absolutely new. Nobody ever did anything just like this before.” The obvious retort to this would be that nobody ever wanted to do anything like it before, but this would be lost upon the artist, for the “original” of to-day is as impervious to ridicule as he is to criticism.

That music is better for being original, I do not believe. Such an assumption is without warrant in nature. There is no purer sweeter melody than that of the birds. What says the poet?

“Hark! that’s the nightingale,

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.