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Updated: May 13, 2025
"The council was ordered at twelve o'clock, my lords. These letters must be produced. That they are genuine appears to me beyond a doubt." "That they are faithful copies, I doubt not," replied Lord Albemarle, "but " "But what, my Lord Albemarle?" "I very much suspect the fidelity of the copier there is something more that has not been told, depend upon it." "Why do you think so, my lord?"
In his life Rousseau was everything he should not have been. He was a failure as footman, as servant, as tutor, as secretary, as music copier, as lace maker. He wandered in Turin, Paris, Vienna, London. His immorality was notorious, he was not faithful in love, and his children were sent to a foundling asylum. He was poverty-stricken, dishonest, discontented, and, in his last years, demented.
His letters are the delight of more than one at Stoneborough; and his sister, upon her sofa, is that home member of a mission without whom nothing can be done the copier of letters, the depot of gifts, the purveyor of commissions, the maker of clothes, the collector of books, the keeper of accounts so that the house still merits the name of the S. P. G. office, as it used to be called in the Spenserian era.
As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopaedia" down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do?
"Pray, sir," said I, endeavouring to repress my emotion, "does a person named Rousseau, a copier of music, live here?" "Yes, madam; I am he. What is your pleasure?" "I have been told, sir, that you are particularly skilful in copying music cheaply; I should be glad if you would undertake to copy these airs I have brought with me." "Have the goodness to walk in, madam."
As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought it all over, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the "Encyclopædia" down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go on? Where were we going, and what were we to do?
"The council was ordered at twelve o'clock, my lords. That they are genuine appears to me beyond a doubt." "That they are faithful copies, I doubt not," replied Lord Albemarle, "but " "But what, my Lord Albemarle?" "I very much suspect the fidelity of the copier there is something more, that has not been told, depend upon it." "Why do you think so, my lord?"
The copier is that servile imitator to whom Horace gives no better a name than that of animal; he will not so much as allow him to be a man. Raffaelle imitated nature; they who copy one of Raffaelle's pieces, imitate but him, for his work is their original. They translate him, as I do Virgil; and fall as short of him as I of Virgil.
He is like an Italian thief, that never robs but he murders, to prevent discovery; so sure is he to cry down the man from whom he purloins, that his petty larceny of wit may pass unsuspected. He is but a copier at best, and will never arrive to practise by the life; for bar him the imitation of something he has read, and he has no image in his thoughts.
But he is not a copier, and his work is his own. Some poets are on the earth; some are in the air; some, like Shelley, are in the aether. Conrad Aiken is firmly, gladly on the earth. He believes that our only paradise is here and now. He surely has the gift of singing speech, but his poetry lacks intellectual content.
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