LETTERS TO THE PRESS - 6

The English Rose

The Era (9 August, 1890 - Issue 2707)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—In an exhaustive notice of this work the critic of the Daily Telegraph says:—“In the archives of the French drama will be found a play—written and produced long before the French original of A Village Priest—of which in all probability neither Mr Sims nor Mr Buchanan has ever heard.”
     Permit me to say that, although it is possible the former gentleman may have never heard of this play, the latter one most certainly has.
     The critic proceeds to state:—“It is a strange and extraordinary coincidence, but in this old French play, The Priest’s Oath, occur incidents almost identical” (with the “new and original drama”).
     I think, Sir, you will admit the “coincidence” is neither “strange” nor “extraordinary” when I inform you that during my tenure of the Queen’s Theatre I made a free adaptation of this very play for my own use, with the intention of producing it there; further, that having arrived at the conclusion that the subject could be made more attractive by being transferred to Ireland, I arranged with Mr Buchanan to transform it into an Irish drama.
     Eleven years have elapsed since that arrangement was made; but, from that day to this, it has never been carried out, and, despite repeated applications, I have never succeeded in inducing Mr Buchanan to return my MS.
     On Saturday night, in the more salient characters and incidents of “the new and original drama” described by the critic in his synopsis of the French play, I recognised faithful transcripts of my version of The Priest’s Oath.
                        I am, Sir, yours obediently,
                                                    JOHN COLEMAN.
     Albany Club, Kingston-on-Thames, Aug. 4th, 1890.

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The Era (16 August, 1890 - Issue 2708)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—In The Era of Saturday last, I find a letter from Mr John Coleman, alleging that I am indebted to a French drama, “adapted” by him, for the leading characters and incidents of The English Rose—an allegation which is equally astonishing to Mr Sims and myself, seeing that we have evolved the play in question with no little labour together. Now, it is perfectly true that Mr Coleman had in his possession eleven years ago a crude and literal translation (in no sense of the word an “adaptation”) of a familiar French melodrama, containing incidents which have done duty in many plays and poems, notably in the well-known ballad by Lover, “Father Roche,” and still more recently in A Man’s Shadow and in The Village Priest. It is equally true that Mr Coleman at one time requested me to found a play on the said French drama; but why no such play was ever written, and why the translation in question was cast aside with other lumber and incontinently forgotten, can be shown by very simple documentary evidence in my possession.
     From that period to this, Mr John Coleman has never, so far as I remember, alluded to the subject, save on one occasion, when he politely suggested that the French play had been utilised by my sister-in-law, Miss Harriett Jay, in her novel of “Madge Dunraven.” Nor, though we have met frequently on cordial terms and discussed a thousand dramas, have we ever discussed that old translation. After the details of that portion of The English Rose which resemble the French play were announced in the newspapers, Mr Coleman met Mr Sims at my house, and still uttered no syllable and asked no question; yet, strangely enough, at that very time, a mysterious correspondent was warning the critic of the Daily Telegraph that the forthcoming Adelphi play was not “original.” It is needless to say that the mysterious correspondent was our jovial friend, Mr Coleman, who had been in communication with the very critic whom he quotes, and had supplied him with the “quoted” information, yet who was so amazed and stupefied at recognising, on the first night at the Adelphi, certain “characters and incidents” which he himself had long ago stolen from the French, and which he assumed to be, by priority of theft, his special property.
     In point of fact, that old French melodrama is about as like The English Rose as Mr Coleman’s conduct on this occasion is like that of an English gentleman. In the drama, as in all art, treatment is everything. There is not one popular play in existence, from the great masterpieces of Shakespeare to the little masterpieces of Boucicault, which does not owe something to familiar sources, open to all comers. The imputation of plagiarism is the feeblest of all charges, to be brought as easily against Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet as against the Colleen Bawn, against Tennyson’s “Idyls of the King,” or Milton’s “Paradise Lost” as against The English Rose; and if Mr Coleman were to found a play on the French drama under discussion, he would simply traverse one episode of a production which, in its main incidents and characterisation, may fairly be described as “original.”
     Of course, it is only the old cry over again, the cry of “thief” which followed Dumas in France and Boucicault in England; the cry of the common or garden grumbler who sits in the stalls and proclaims that every incident of a new play is “stolen”; the cry of the would-be dramatist who reads a play to the managers, and because they decline to deal with either it or him, poses as an injured being. Did one of the men who attacked Dumas and stigmatised Boucicault for stealing “ideas” ever produce a successful play of his own? Not one. If such miracles occurred, there would no longer be any belated actor-authors or blighted dramatists.
     For my own part, I confess my entire indifference to such charges. Je prends mes biens où je les trouve, and care not one feather whether people think me “original” or not. As I write, another furious gentleman, in the guise of a bird of prey, informs me that The English Rose is stolen from a piece called The Omadhaun—also, by the way, an adaptation from the French. What does it matter? If stealing is so easy, why don’t these gentlemen steal too, and so produce successful plays?
     So far as the direct personal charge is concerned, I prefer to say little or nothing. If Mr Coleman can reconcile it with his conscience to heap slander on one who has never deserved such treatment from him, of all men, let it pass; those who know me, and who know him, will be able to judge between us. The main point for regret, to my thinking, is that while Mr Coleman was breaking bread with myself and Mr Sims, he was secretly attempting to do us injury and to prejudice the “first-night” criticism of a great London newspaper. The attempt failed, as we all know, but that was not the fault of our jovial friend, who gript our hands so cordially, and never said one word about the grievance rankling in his bosom!
                                I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
                                                                ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     Merkland, 25, Maresfield-gardens,
          South Hampstead, N.W.

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The Era (23 August, 1890 - Issue 2709)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—As it has been publicly announced by Mr Coleman, since the publication of my letter in your issue of Saturday last, that I have “admitted” that The English Rose is an absolute plagiarism from a French melodrama, permit me to give the statement my unqualified contradiction. Perhaps I failed to lay sufficient emphasis on my repudiation of this portion of Mr Coleman’s charge. That the facts may be quite clear to any person interested, I am having a translation of the French play printed, for private circulation. The original story is one of a Corsican vendetta between two families, and the love of two brothers for the daughter of their enemy, the elder brother finally abandoning the pursuit and becoming a priest. The father of the girl is murdered, the younger brother is suspected, and although the elder brother receives the real murderer’s confession he cannot speak, which confession business is, verbatim, the ballad of “Father Roche.” What resemblance there is to the French play occurs chiefly in Act 3 of the Adelphi one, and is, although effective, of very minor importance—of so little, indeed, that it might be expunged altogether with little or no loss to our drama.
                     I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
                                                   ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     25, Maresfield-gardens, South Hampstead, N.W.

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—“A fault confessed is half redressed,” and had Mr Buchanan expressed his regret for the wrong he has done me I would gladly have let this hateful matter pass into oblivion; but when I find that, while constrained to admit the truth of my impeachment, he has recourse to personalities and innuendoes as offensive in tone as they are groundless in fact—there is a limit to my reticence.
     Unable to defend an untenable position, with characteristic courage and candour, Mr Buchanan avows that “So far as the direct personal charge is concerned I prefer to say ‘nothing.’”
     When a charge so grave as this is met with such an answer it would seem that men of genius hold themselves so superior to vulgar prejudice that they can afford to disregard with impunity obligations which less distinguished persons are wont to hold sacred.
     Were I to emulate Mr Buchanan’s example and to say “nothing,”

Of one of two bad ways, I must be counted
Either a coward or a flatterer.

     Being neither one nor the other, I accept—though with a heavy heart—the challenge which has been thrown down so lightly.
     I shall not trespass on your space, or the patience of your readers, by discussing Mr Buchanan’s ingenuous defence of plagiarism and piracy; my charge involves issues of a graver character, such as breach of confidence and common honesty.
     Leaving flights of fancy to the poet, the player confines himself to the baldest possible facts.
     Those which overshadow all the rest are that I confided my MS. to Mr Buchanan for collaboration, that he has it still, that he refuses to return it, and that he has appropriated the principal characters and incidents in “the new and original drama, The English Rose.”
     In justification of this literary larceny he alleges that I stole my piece from the French. Now, no law of copyright existed between this country and France at the period when I adapted this play, but it was certainly my intention, had I produced it, to have divided my honorarium with the original author. Having produced it, doubtless that fine sense, which men of honour pride themselves upon, will induce Mr Buchanan (even if he leaves me in the cold) to divide his emoluments with our French collaborator.
     Evidently with the view of depreciating my share of the work, Mr Buchanan alleges that it is but “a crude literal translation.” Were this even true it would in no way affect the matter at issue. But it is not true. My adaptation is no more a literal translation than A Man’s Shadow was a literal translation of Roger la Honte or Lady Clare of Le Maitre de Forge. I will now proceed to deal with Mr Buchanan’s personal insinuations seriatim.
     1. When he asserts that my play was “cast aside with other lumber and incontinently forgotten;” and, further, “from that period (eleven years ago) to this Mr John Coleman has never, so far as I remember, alluded to the subject,” I reply that poets are so apt to mingle fact with fiction, that they sometimes become incapable of distinguishing the one from the other. Why, Sir, I have asked Mr Buchanan not once or twice, but scores of times, to return my MS. But on every occasion he evaded the subject by alleging that in the course of his frequent flittings it had been mislaid, &c.
     E.g., a year and a half ago one of our most distinguished dramatists (a man whose name will open any theatre in London) actually proposed to collaborate with me in an Irish drama if I could provide a suitable plot. In consequence of this proposal, I put pressure on Mr Buchanan to return my play, but met with the usual stereotyped evasion.
     Whether these facts tally with the assertion that “though we have met frequently on cordial terms, and discussed a thousand dramas, we have never discussed that old translation,” I leave your readers to decide.
     2. How far the odious accusation that, “while Mr Coleman was breaking bread with myself and Mr Sims he was secretly attempting to do us injury, and so prejudice the first night criticism of a great London newspaper,” is true or false I shall show.
     While protesting against Mr Sims’s name being dragged into this discussion, as a mere matter of detail I may observe that I have never had the honour of breaking bread with that gentleman in my life.
     It is quite true that the Arab’s bond has been between Robert Buchanan and myself for years. Since he has put upon me the painful task of showing how he has observed that obligation I shall not shrink from it.
     Twelve months ago I devoted my best energies to bring about a friendly understanding between him and the management of the Princess’s Theatre. I brought them together, and was, in fact, the medium through which a preliminary arrangement was made for the production of an Irish drama, which, I am now positively assured, was the very one, or, at any rate, Mr Buchanan’s portion of it, which forms the subject of the present discussion.
     Similarly, while we were in daily and hourly intercourse, he was arranging to use my play for the Adelphi piece. So far from my being aware of this duplicity, I was in total ignorance of it, and it was actually not until the night of July 21st, while assisting at Mr Goodwin’s début at the Gaiety, I was informed, upon indubitable authority, that my adaptation called The Priest’s Oath had been appropriated for The English Rose; and from that day to this I have never set eyes on Mr Buchanan!
     As for the “mysterious correspondent” of the Daily Telegraph; upon noting in one of the papers that a priest and a policeman were about to play conspicuous parts in the Adelphi drama, I wrote to the critic of that journal, in reference to a new play of mine, to the following effect:—

     Sir,—I understand that in the forthcoming Irish drama at the Adelphi, a priest and a policeman play prominent parts.
     There is nothing very remarkable in that, inasmuch as there are many priests and many policemen in Ireland; but, lest I should hereafter be accused of plagiarism, may I ask of your courtesy permission to state that the hero of my forthcoming Irish drama is a priest, and that one of the leading humorous characters is a sergeant in the Irish constabulary?
     This work, which has been in existence for a considerable period, is entirely original in construction, incident, and characterisation, except in one important motive, for which I am indebted to an old French drama.
        Yours obediently,                        J. C.

     In reply to this letter I received a courteous answer intimating that the columns devoted to dramatic on dits for the season were closed, and that hence my note could not be inserted.
     So much for the very small mouse which this mountain of mystery has given birth to.
     3. Mr Buchanan alleges that “very simple documentary evidence in his possession” will prove why he did not fulfil his contract.
     I am glad to find that he admits there is documentary evidence, inasmuch as I shall call upon him to produce it. Having thus swept away Mr Buchanan’s cobwebs, I return to the point from whence I started.
     I charge him with having appropriated scenes, characters, and incidents from my adaptation without my knowledge or consent, and with having detained my MS., despite my repeated applications for its restoration; and I call upon him thus publicly to return it to me at once, failing which I shall be most reluctantly compelled to refer the matter to a jury of my countrymen in order to ascertain whether their views on the subject of meum and tuum are as elastic as those of Mr Buchanan.
     If these charges, which I pledge myself to prove chapter and verse at the proper time and place, can be confuted, as Mr Buchanan airily suggests, by the little word “nothing,”

Why then the world and all that’s in’t is nothing,
The covering sky is nothing, the author’s nothing,
The play is nothing, and nothing have these nothings
If this be nothing!

     Finally, when Mr Buchanan ventures to impugn my honour as an English gentleman, I shall make bold to borrow the language of Lady Teazle and say, “Don’t you think we had better leave honour out of the question?” I am, Sir, yours obediently,
                                              JOHN COLEMAN.
     The Albany Club, Aug. 20th.

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The Stage also covered the debate, reprinting John Coleman’s original letter (15/8/90) and Buchanan’s reply (22/8/90), then adding the following:

The Stage (29 August, 1890 - p.10)

The controversy anent the originality of The Red Rose still continues. Mr. Robert Buchanan now informs the public that he intends to print Mr. John Coleman’s original manuscript, “Verbatim and literatim, that all interested may compare it with the French play and with The English Rose.” Here the matter rests. The friends of both gentlemen will be heartily glad when the quarrel is brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

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The Era (30 August, 1890 - Issue 2710)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—Mr John Coleman has suggested the only solution of the difficulty between us. He says that if I do not at once return the manuscript of The Priest’s Oath he will take legal proceedings to recover it. In order that he may do so I beg to inform him that, for reasons which my solicitors will explain to his, I shall retain the manuscript, at least for the present, and that I am having it printed, verbatim et literatim, for private circulation, in order that all persons interested may ascertain how far it resembles The English Rose.
                                                I am, &c.,               ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     London, Aug. 27th, 1890.

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—Considerably over twelve months ago I was commissioned by the Messrs Gatti to write a play. I then suggested to them that our subject should be Irish, and urged upon them that the time had come to produce a new Irish melodrama at the Adelphi.
     When it was decided that I should collaborate with Mr Buchanan I went to him and repeated the suggestion that I had made to the Messrs Gatti, viz., that our subject should be an Irish one. To this he strongly objected, as the following passage which I quote from a letter received from him will prove: “I am feeling more and more afraid of taking Ireland as our locale for this occasion. The more original we are, the less the piece will be liked; the less original we are, the more we shall be reminded of the great Dion. Believe me, there is more money for us both in an English play with an adumbration of the Irish lightness.”
     It was only at my earnest solicitation that Mr Buchanan yielded and allowed me to have my way and make the drama an Irish one, and, act by act, we built up The English Rose. The first suggestion of the priest who refused to break his oath came from me, and was made after reading Samuel Lover’s ballad of “Father Roach.” “But,” I said, “instead of making our priest hear the confession of the man who has murdered his own brother, let him hear the confession of a man who has committed the murder of which the priest’s brother is accused.” Mr Buchanan then, I believe, mentioned the fact that something like this existed in an old French play by D’Ennery.
     Of Mr Coleman’s adaptation or translation I know nothing. I have never seen it, nor did he mention it to me, when, after the publication of the motif of The English Rose, he met me twice at Mr Buchanan’s house.
     The publication by Mr Buchanan of the “adaptation” to which Mr Coleman refers, will, I believe, show on how small a basis this pyramid of accusation has been built.
                                       I am, Sir, faithfully yours,
                                                                  GEORGE R. SIMS.

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—I have this moment learnt that Mr Buchanan repudiates (for a reason which I do not think it prudent to disclose) his promise to produce his “literal  translation” of the original drama under discussion.
     Further, that after having affirmed, upon the honour of a gentleman, that my MS. was “cast in the lumber closet and incontinently forgotten,” he now not only admits that it is in his possession, but actually has the effrontery to state (through the medium of the New York Herald) that he positively declines to return it to me.
     The climax of audacity is, however, reached by the threat that, instead of returning my play to its rightful owner, he will, in defiance of my wishes, publish it for private circulation!
     I make no comment upon this procedure. I leave it for the appreciation of your readers.
     Finally, I warn Mr Buchanan that I shall hold him responsible for this breach of all which men of honour hold sacred, and that I shall take the earliest possible opportunity of placing the matter in all its details before a court of justice.
                                                     Yours truly,          JOHN COLEMAN.
     Albany Club, Aug. 29th, 1890.

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The Theatre (1 September, 1890)

Our Omnibus-Box.
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     Once more a charge of plagiarism is raised against the author of a successful play, and the consequent battle still rages, with the result that “The English Rose” has received a considerable amount of gratuitous advertisement. We say the accusation is brought against the author because, although Mr. Buchanan in his letter to the Era speaks of it as “equally astonishing to Mr. Sims and myself,” it does not seem to be Mr. Coleman’s intention to impute any complicity to Mr. Buchanan’s collaborator. Here it is noticeable that Mr. Buchanan treats the allegation as one of simple plagiarism, and loftily ranges himself in the distinguished society of Shakespeare, Milton, Tennyson, Molière, and Boucicault. A moment’s examination of Mr. Coleman’s letter shows that there is something more involved than can be set on one side with the jaunty declaration of “entire indifference to such charges,” and that “je prends mes biens où je les trouve,” and “care not one feather whether people think me original or not.” Had Mr. Buchanan dug up for himself what he calls this familiar French melodrama, although it seems to have been necessary for Mr. Coleman to recall it to Mr. Clement Scott’s memory, no one would have had a right to do more than comment on the dramatist’s want of originality; but here Mr. Buchanan admits that a translation of “La Vendetta,” called “The Priest’s Oath,” was handed to him with a request to found a play upon it, and the fact that it was “cast aside with other lumber,” is no excuse for the use of the materials for a purpose foreign to and inconsistent with the one for which they were entrusted to him. That the translation was “incontinently forgotten” is a remarkable fact since the original has been so usefully remembered. “Priority of theft” may be a poor title to the stolen goods, but Mr. Coleman at least derived them from a source in which their function had been fulfilled, and where they were of no further use, while Mr. Buchanan took them from one whom he admittedly regarded as a friend, and who had confided them to him for a specific purpose.

     Truth to tell, the clerical business has been somewhat overdone of late, and, though Mr. Buchanan bases his claim to the priestly incident in “The English Rose,” on the artistic principle that “treatment is everything,” it is manipulated in the Adelphi melodrama with no very startling force or skill, in spite of the added intensity of interest in the fact of the blood bond between the priest and the unjustly accused man. Mr. Buchanan must be credited with having invested this portion of the play with a greater proportion of the graces of literary style than is apparent elsewhere in the same work, and this surprises us the more when we find how feeble in its effect on the drama is the operation of the incident in dispute. Had the revelation of the confession been made the sole chance of escape for the prisoner, the situation would have been extremely powerful, although, as a matter of fact, the circumstances would have warranted a dispensation from head-quarters, authorising the disclosure of so much as would have prevented the miscarriage of justice. But from a desire to lengthen the play, or an unwillingness to rest wholly upon an incident, a little too gloomily earnest for an Adelphi audience, the authors have dissipated the intensity of effect by indicating or allowing to be indicated several tolerably obvious means of extricating the hero. In fairness it must be said that this portion of the melodrama suffers from insufficient interpretation, the result being an unconvincing episode altogether overshadowed by the general and more robust interest, and that, though Mr. Coleman may have lost something of uncertain value, Mr. Buchanan has gained nothing.

     Leaving aside the personal question between the two gentlemen, which they may very well be left to fight out by themselves, it is matter for regret that Mr. Buchanan should avow himself in so frankly cynical a manner in favour of an indiscriminate system of annexation whose sole justification is success. Surely he would not seriously urge that the possession of the artistic temperament should serve as an exemption from the obligations of common honesty. “What does it matter?” he says; “If stealing is so easy, why don’t these gentlemen steal too, and so produce successful plays?” Why should he be so eager to pronounce the marriage between Art and Honour a failure, and advocate their divorce? That a great genius may endow filched goods with his own originality is a familiar truth amply testified to by the great names Mr. Buchanan has invoked, and but for these thefts, the world would have been incalculably poorer; but they did not rob the living owners of goods that were still in their possessor’s use, and their misappropriations do not justify an appeal by a successful playwright who has not, even by an Adelphi success, won his right to a pedestal among them, in inciting mediocrities barren of original ideas to wholesale and systematic literary theft. The cribber and conveyer of more or less unconsidered trifles is quite busy enough without any encouragement from successful playwrights.

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The Era (6 September, 1890 - Issue 2711)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—Mr Sims’s letter of Friday last has substantially corroborated the accuracy of my statement. Since, however, he has raised a new issue—with your permission—I shall compare his version of the genesis of The English Rose with mine.
     1. Mr Sims says, “It was only at my earnest solicitation that Mr Buchanan yielded, and allowed me to have my way and make the drama an Irish one, and, act by act, we built up The English Rose.
     “The first suggestion of the priest who refused to break his oath came from me, and was made after reading Samuel Lover’s ballad (sic) of ‘Father Roach,’ &c.”
     When Mr Sims and Mr Buchanan undertook the commission for the Adelphi drama, the latter gentleman’s mind may have changed. It is, however, quite certain that, two years previous, both he and I were fully agreed that the time was ripe for the production of an Irish play, hence it was that by his desire, and with his full concurrence, I entered upon the negotiations already referred to, with the management of the Princess’s for the production of the very drama of which the priest is the central figure.
     When Mr Dangle and Mr Sneer presumed to suggest to Mr Puff that certain lines in his wonderful tragedy bore a suspicious resemblance to certain lines in Shakespeare, the irate dramatist retorted that “when two great men happened to hit upon the same idea it was consumedly awkward for the man who came last.”
     It is quite as awkward now as it was in the days of Mr Puff, and it is especially awkward for Mr Sims’s contention “as to the first suggestion of the priest,” that on June 14th, 1887 (that is to say, three years and more before the production of The English Rose) I myself assisted at a matinée at the Strand Theatre, where a play called The Oath, written by Mr James A. Meade, and avowedly founded on “Father Roach,” was acted.
    By a remarkable coincidence, a month or two afterwards, litigation ensued in consequence of the illegal detention of the MS. of this play, which led to the appearance of the litigants at Bow-street, and an order for the immediate delivery of the scrip to its rightful owner. Can history be about to repeat itself?
     So much for the foundation stone of the Adelphi drama. Let us now proceed to examine the superstructure, and endeavour to discover the wonderful process by which, “act by act, we built up The English Rose.”
     It may be frankly admitted that the fine Italian hand of the author of How the Poor Live in London can be easily detected in the cockney cabman, the cockney soubrette, and the comic peeler, and in a by no means indistinct “adumbration” of Messrs Henry Pettitt’s and Charles Warner’s horse business in Taken from Life; but the Knight of Ballyveeney and his sons (the priest and his brother), the heroine and her father (transmogrified into an uncle), Randal O’Mara, and his sister Bridget were taken where they were found—in my play! while Andy, the Omadhaun, was taken and dwarfed from the late H. P. Grattan’s ingenious adaptation of Le Crétin de la Montagne.
     2. “Mr Buchanan then, I believe, mentioned the fact” (it is a fact, then!) “that something like this existed in an old French play by D’Ennery!” Charming candour, touching confidence, absolutely Arcadian simplicity! Apparently, one poet is ignorant of the existence of this play, while the other thinks it superfluous to mention that his acquaintance with the original is positively limited to the knowledge derived from me.
     3. “Of Mr Coleman’s adaptation or translation I know nothing.” (Certainly not, as Mr Buchanan took good care to keep that in the background.) “I have never seen it, nor did he mention it to me when, after the publication of the motif of The English Rose, he met me twice at Mr Buchanan’s house.”
     True, oh excellent Dagonet! I did not mention it for the best of all possible reasons—I had never heard of the motif, and it is a peculiarity of mine to refrain from talking about subjects of which I am ignorant.
     In conclusion, I have to thank Mr Sims for the valuable testimony he has adduced on my behalf, and to thank you, Sir, for having permitted me to place the facts before the public.
                                   I am, Sir, yours faithfully and obliged,
                                                                       JOHN COLEMAN.
     Brighton, Sept. 3d, 1890.

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“BENEFICENT PLAGIARISM.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—For reasons which I will presently disclose, the war which is now raging between Messrs Coleman and Buchanan has most injuriously affected not only my own interests, but the interests of other authors, and the object of this letter is to try and discover on which of these two gentlemen the blame rests, and when that is settled to give utterance to some plain speaking.
     Hearing some months since that it was the intention of the Messrs Gatti on the termination of their agreement with Mr Henry Pettitt to purchase their plays for the future in the open market, I sought Mr Stefano Gatti, and asked him if he would allow me to read him a drama, the plot of which I was then arranging. He said that as soon as the arrangements for the new play by Messrs Sims and Buchanan were completed he should be most happy to consider any piece I might submit. Shortly after this I received, in reply to an inquiry, a letter from him stating “that as soon as the forthcoming play was produced he would fix a day for the reading.” Encouraged by this promise I set to work, and , although I am nearly blind, I succeeded in preparing a couple of plays, and waited with feverish interest the production of The English Rose. No clouds darkened the horizon of my destiny. I was buoyed with the hope that at length fortune, by a single turn of the wheel, intended lifting me out of the slough of despond into a land flowing with milk and honey and authors’ fees. I had long ceased to find any comfort in the reflection that the dazzling brightness of the sunshine of success is not comparable with the refreshing coolness of the shade; that failure to attain fame and fortune is the inevitable lot of the overwhelming majority of mankind; that thousands of the noblest men and women who ever adorned humanity have utterly failed in their alloted spheres of labour. I wanted to be successful, to be smiled on where I had been frowned at, to be listened to respectfully where before I had been pooh-poohed, to have my boots soled and heeled, and to exchange the leek for mutton chops. A few days after the production of The English Rose I wrote to Mr Stefano Gatti to remind him of his promise, and received from his secretary a letter, stating “that Mr Gatti must decline to give me a hearing”—for plays please not that I had written on the express understanding that they would be considered—on the grounds “that authors sometimes conceive similar ideas and situations, and such coincidences, &c.”
     Now let it be clearly understood that I do not for a moment blame Mr Gatti for adopting this course. He is a pacific gentleman, whose ways are ways of pleasantness and whose paths are full of peace. Purchase in the open market? Yes, that would be very nice, but what about the attendant risks? I can picture his affrighted imagination conjuring up scenes in which two burly antagonists, after breaking bread together in the Adelaide Gallery, burst into an altercation, and, after heaping on each other invectives, the ferocity of which would disgrace Pagans, proceed to struggle furiously for the possession of a manuscript which is  ultimately secured by a waiter, who, before he can realise the value of the prize he has secured, discovers that two of his customers have taken advantage of the scene to leave without paying their bill. I can imagine Mr Stefano Gatti contemplating the prospect of having to relinquish all discussions on unacted plays, and having to cloak himself in a barrier of icy reserve lest he should be accused of giving away the plots of the plays he had read. No, I do not blame Mr Gatti, but I do cherish feelings of resentment against either Mr Buchanan or Mr Coleman. They have been the cause of the Messrs Gatti relinquishing the policy they had intended to adopt, viz., Free Trade.
     Now the question is—which of these two gentlemen is to blame? If Mr Coleman cannot substantiate the charges against Mr Buchanan, he had no right to rush into print. If Mr Buchanan cannot show that, even if he had not read Mr Coleman’s adaptation of The Priest’s Oath, he would still have written The English Rose, he ought at once to admit his indebtedness and pay Mr Coleman a share of his fees. Any one who has watched Mr Buchanan’s career could see that a day was likely to arrive when such a charge would be made. No fair-minded man would deny that Mr Buchanan is a writer of conspicuous ability. His novels are eminently readable, his poetry frequently displays genius of a high order, and the dialogue illustrating the plays which bear his name is most admirable; but of inventive power he does not seem to have a vestige. In fact, he is not a dramatist at all in the strict sense of the word. He can make his characters talk, but he cannot make them intrigue without having recourse to the works of other authors. And thus it is that from his pen we have had hardly anything but adaptations of novels, such as Sophia, Joseph’s Sweetheart, Clarissa, and Sweet Nancy; old plays rewritten, such as Miss Tomboy; and translations, such as A Man’s Shadow, Lady Clare, and Theodora. The habit of working and trading on the ideas of other people acquires in time the character of a chronic disease; and thus it is that when an author so circumstanced is called upon to supply an original play, he finds that, as he cannot invent, there will be no play at all unless he borrows. He does so, and is immediately accused of plagiarism. Let us see, therefore, whether this description applies to Mr Buchanan. An attempt has been made by some people to obscure the issue of this controversy by saying that all writers of melodrama are liable to be charged with plagiarism, as in nearly all melodramas the hero is accused of committing a crime, the real perpetrator of which is the villain. To this I reply that in melodrama there are a number of stock devices and incidents which, somehow or other, have been much worked of late, that these devices, incidents, and expedients are well known, and have nothing whatever to do with the points at issue between Messrs Coleman and Buchanan, which are quite simple. In your issue of the 9th inst. Mr Coleman brings his charge, and says “The English Rose is based on an adaptation of The Priest’s Oath, a play I handed to Mr Buchanan eleven years ago to turn into an Irish play.”
     On the 16th Mr Buchanan replies, and admitting Mr Coleman did hand him such a play, says “but why the translation in question was cast aside, and , like other lumber, incontinently forgotten, can be shown by documentary evidence in my possession.” He does not produce this evidence, but this is a detail. He also says that Mr Coleman’s charge is astonishing, “seeing that Mr Sims and myself evolved the play in question together.” Now here is a specific charge and a specific denial. Mr Coleman says it is stolen, and Mr Buchanan says that is not true, as he and Mr Sims evolved it together. Now the next thing to discover is to what extent The English Rose resembles The Priest’s Oath. This is ingenuously supplied by Mr Buchanan himself, who, in his letter of the 23d inst., says “The story of The Priest’s Oath is one of a Corsican vendetta between two families and the love of two brothers for the daughter of their enemy. The father of the girl”—it is the uncle in The English Rose—“is murdered, the younger brother is suspected, and, although the elder receives the real murderer’s confession, he cannot speak.” Why, surely this is the story of The English Rose. Mr Buchanan says that whatever resemblance his play bears to the French play occurs in the third act. Yes; but for this third act there would have been no English Rose at all. The whole play has been written around this act. It is the source from which the life blood of the play springs.
     Now, Mr Buchanan, it is quite possible for two minds to conceive the same idea. Such things have been known to have happened, but when one person has had access to the work of another and afterwards a resemblance is found to exist between the two works the theory of coincidence falls to the ground. The theory of coincidence can only be entertained when all other solutions fail. You have read Mr Coleman’s version of The Priest’s Oath, and, although you assure us it was incontinently forgotten and cast aside, you produce a play to which it bears a most marvellous resemblance, and expect us to believe it original. You tell us that Mr Sims and yourself evolved the story of The English Rose together, but Mr Sims does not confirm this statement. Can Mr Buchanan be really in earnest when in his letter on the 16th inst. he gravely assures us “that plagiarism is nothing; that in the drama as in art treatment is everything.” Are we to understand that plagiarism is nothing because the law makes no provision for filched thoughts and stolen ideas. In cooking treatment is everything, only here the law insists that the ingredients shall not be stolen.
     In this letter of the 16th inst., Mr Buchanan also inquires of his accuser, “Why, if stealing is so easy, don’t you write successful plays?” I say nothing about the brutal insolence of this question because it is not addressed to me, but I may remark that on the face of it the question is absurd. Does not Mr Buchanan admit in one of the extraordinary letters he is contributing to The Daily Telegraph under the heading of “Beneficent Murder,” that he himself was boycotted for twenty years, and as plays must of necessity be produced before they can be termed successful, how do we know that Mr Coleman’s portfolio does not contain plays equally as good as any of Mr Buchanan’s? Moreover, are we to understand that this gentleman condones the appropriation of other people’s ideas, providing that the play into which the stolen matter is imported turns out successful. In future, are certain privileges and prerogatives to be attached to the plagiarist? As rebellions and insurrections are justifiable only when successful, are we to assume that the dramatic bandit is only to be called upon to disgorge when his stolen wares turn out failures. A pretty morality this, based, I presume, on Mr Buchanan’s definition of Individualism, which is delightfully simple—“Every man should lead his own life.” This means, I suppose, that every man should be allowed to attain his own ends if he can, without any reference to the wishes of the community of which he is but an atom. Now, however loose this gentleman’s morality may be in the matter of manufacturing plays, a surprising change comes over him when he is dealing with the gentlemen whose business it is to criticise them. In those distinctly precious effusions which he has been favouring us with under the heading of “Beneficent Murder,” is one dated the 23d inst. After informing his readers that only certain journals, and notably the great dailies, conduct their criticism with dignity and without personality—this is cool after the things he has said about Mr Clement Scott—he goes on to say, in speaking of a proposed Trades Union for Critics, “Day and night are made hideous by journalistic birds of prey, by rapacious and mendacious things that live on carrion. Let the honest and intelligent critic begin near home and boycott the slanderer and the blackmailer, let the members of such a society as I have suggested take care that their club is not a common lodging house for the tramps and scamps who haunt the back alleys of journalism.” What greasy rant, “journalistic birds of prey!” Why, I declare the sanctimonious rhetoric of this portly Pecksniff is enough to make me follow the example of the Sage of Chelsea, and cry loudly, “Enough, enough, put me into a room by myself and give me a pipe.” “Rapacious and mendacious things that live on carrion!” Such sentiments from one who declares that plagiarism is nothing, and that treatment is everything, present one of the sublimest spectacles under—I won’t say the sun, because we seldom see it, but—the moon.
     The Romans had a wise saying, “Non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum”—It is not everyone who can get to Corinth. Perhaps not; but the journey can be shortened if your conscience is not too sensitive, your modesty too overpowering, and your taste too fastidious.
     Mr Coleman and myself are entire strangers, but from what I know of him I do not believe he will essay the journey thus handicapped, but he will have this consolation, that when Mr Buchanan hands him a share of his royalties on The English Rose—which I am sure he will do when he gets “Beneficent Murder” off his mind—he (Mr Coleman) will find the opportunity the advent of which he is now sighing for, viz., to divide with the French author of The Priest’s Oath whatever monies he may realise out of his play. If this happens, the French author will of course be pleased, Mr Coleman will be pleased, and we shall be justified in dismissing the case as one of “Beneficent Plagiarism.”
                        I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,
                                                    ARTHUR GOODRICH.

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DRAMATIC ORIGINALITY.
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     The recent discussion as to the source and origin of the leading dramatic motive of Messrs SIMS and BUCHANAN’S drama The English Rose is, it appears to us, purely a personal affair. A brief summary of the correspondence which has appeared in our pages during the last three weeks may not be entirely unacceptable. In our issue of Aug. 9th, Mr JOHN COLEMAN fired the first shot with the statement that, during his tenure of the Queen’s Theatre, he had made a free adaptation of a French play for his own use, and had arranged with Mr BUCHANAN to transform it into an Irish drama. Mr COLEMAN also stated that since that time and the date of his letter to us he had made repeated but vain applications to Mr BUCHANAN for the return of the MS., between which and The English Rose resemblances were affirmed by Mr COLEMAN to exist.
     Mr BUCHANAN met Mr COLEMAN’S challenge the week after in a letter in which he owned that Mr COLEMAN had sent him “a crude and literal translation of a familiar French melodrama,” and had asked him to found a play upon it, the translation having been “cast aside and forgotten” by Mr BUCHANAN, who stoutly denied the alleged frequent applications by Mr COLEMAN  for the MS. In a second letter, Mr BUCHANAN informed us that he was having a translation of the French play printed for private circulation, and added a description of the piece, which identified it with D’ENNERY’S drama. Mr BUCHANAN expressed his opinion that the part of The English Rose having any resemblance to the French play was of “very minor importance, and might be expunged altogether with little or no loss to the drama.”
     The controversy by this time had become a warm one, and a considerable amount of personality had been imported into it, which, being beside the mark, it is unnecessary to summarise. Last week Mr GEORGE R. SIMS contributed an epistle in which he described how the locale of The English Rose came to be made Irish, repudiated any knowledge of Mr COLEMAN’S translation, and quoted the following interesting extract from one of Mr BUCHANAN’S letters to his collaborateur:—“The more original we are the less the piece will be liked. The less original we are the more we shall be reminded of the great Dion.” It was from Mr SIMS, it seems, that the suggestion of the “Father Roach” motive came. Mr BUCHANAN, Mr SIMS believes, incidentally remarking on the existence of a similar situation in a play by D’ENNERY.
     It is very far from our intention to take up the case either of Mr ROBERT BUCHANAN or of Mr JOHN COLEMAN. Each of these gentlemen is fully capable of assuming and maintaining the offensive; and if Mr COLEMAN carries out his intention of impleading Mr BUCHANAN in a Court of Law, they will have the further assistance of professional advocacy. Having, however, recently read the French play, and having, of course, seen The English Rose, we have, perhaps a right to an opinion as to the amount of resemblance between the two pieces, and as to the importance and value of the resembling portions of the plays. We should be paying Mr GEORGE SIMS a very poor compliment if we were to admit that the situation suggested by him from a reminiscence of LOVER’S well-known ballad was, as Mr BUCHANAN states, of “very minor importance.” On the contrary, it is the very kernel of the play, the “strong scene” up to which the previous acts lead; the crown of the edifice, in fact. On the other hand, the situation, as worked out in the D’ENNERY piece, seems to us even more powerful than it is in The English Rose, and by so much does the latter depart from resemblance with the alleged original, to a point at which proof of plagiarism, by comparison alone, seems to us difficult.
     It is only fair to the authors of The English Rose to insist that the question is purely one of personal honour; is, in fact, “stuff o’ the conscience.” To demand originality in an Adelphi drama, or to object to the utilisation therein of a mere bald motive in an old French piece would be too unreasonable. Mr COLEMAN, and not the public, has, in our idea, the only excuse—if there is any—for complaint here. There is an old-fashioned expression, “Showing the cat the way to the cream,” which metaphorically describes the act of the discoverer of a French drama suitable for adaptation when he plays the jackal or “lion’s provider,” and directs to the prey the attention of a professed adapter. It is more within the province of a casuist of the Society of Jesus than that of a theatrical journalist to define how far, and for how long, such a confidence is binding on the confidee. Does it “bar” him eternally from the use of the situation thus suggested to him? How long is he, as a man of honour, to carry about with him the memory of the plot he has been “put on” to, carefully rejecting any similar suggestion that may come to him from quite another source? Supposing, for instance, Author No. 1 is dining with Author No. 2, and, in the fulness of heart engendered by the flowing bowl, says to him, “I’ve just sketched out the scenario of a new piece; would you like to hear it?” and on Author No. 2’s assent gives a description of the plot. Years roll on, and Author No. 1 does not meanwhile do the piece. Author No. 2 retains the memory of the notion, but not of its origin, and works part of Author No. 1’s story into a successful play. Then Author No. 1 arises in his wrath, and forbids the banns between public success and private reputation. We are not saying that this case and Mr COLEMAN’S are parallels. There is evidently much to be said—much has already been written—on both sides. But for the sake of that cordial amity which we desire to see reigning between dramatic authors, we cannot help feeling sorry that Mr COLEMAN did not, during the eleven long years since his adaptation or translation of Les Frères d’Albano, see his way to resort to the French original in his possession, and to apply his own powers as a playwright, or those of some author other than Mr ROBERT BUCHANAN, to the adaptation to the English stage of D’ENNERY’S drama. And we also think it a pity that Mr BUCHANAN “cast aside” and forgot Mr COLEMAN’S MS., instead of returning it. We now leave the subject, awaiting with interest Mr BUCHANAN’S two promised publications—one of a literal version of the French piece, and the other of the MS. sent to him by Mr COLEMAN, and consigned, amongst other “lumber,” to oblivion.

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The Era (13 September, 1890 - Issue 2712)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—In your quasi-judicial and impartial summary of this painful controversy, you conclude by saying that you await with interest the publication of the two plays, the literal translation and Mr Coleman’s “adaptation.” Permit me to repeat that it is perfectly unnecessary to duplicate the plays, Mr Coleman’s manuscript being, as I said at starting, a word for word rendering of the original—Les Fiancés (not Les Frères) d’Albano, by D’Ennery.
     Mr Coleman has stated to your readers that The Priest’s Oath is an “adaptation” in the sense that A Man’s Shadow and Lady Clare are “adaptations;” that, in other words, it is radically altered and contains original matter. I have replied that it is a word for word translation. It is strange, therefore, that Mr Coleman should object so strenuously to the private circulation of “his play,” for if I have spoken falsely, and his play is in any sense of the word an “adaptation,” to publish that play will be to prove his case against myself. The printed piece can be compared with the printed original, and then both can be compared with The English Rose.
     I cannot now enter into the other charges of an infamous kind which Mr Coleman again makes against me. As I write, that gentleman has, at last, through his solicitors, Messrs Pierpoint and Co., formally demanded the return of his manuscript. I have referred his solicitors to mine, and cannot, therefore, publicly discuss issues to be decided by the law.
     Before concluding, however, let me respectfully submit that the episode of the confession is not, in our play, the corner-stone of the edifice, as it certainly is in Les Fiancés d’Albano. In the French play everything turns on the rivalry between Delmonte, the murderer, and Micael, the hero, and on the fact that the priest also loves the same woman. Delmonte stabs the girl’s father because he (the father) objects to having him for a son-in-law. In other important respects, as you yourself admit, after perusing the French play, the charge of plagiarism cannot be sustained.
     I ought, perhaps, to add a word concerning the extraordinary letter of Mr Goodrich, but I have no heart for amusement at the sorrows of the unhappy, and passing over that gentleman’s round abuse of me, I would gladly help him if I could. I, for one, have never sought to make dramatic authorship a closed “ring.”
                                                              I am, &c.,                       ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     25, Maresfield-gardens, South Hampstead, N.W.,     Sept. 9th.

[From The Era (13 September, 1890 - Issue 2712)]

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The Era (20 September, 1890 - Issue 2713)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—I am lost in wonder and delight at the meek and lowly spirit exhibited by Mr Buchanan in that portion of his letter last week in which he alludes to myself. Instead of resenting what he calls my “round abuse” of himself, he lays his hand upon the apparatus which distributes the vital fluid throughout his body and after stating that “he for one has never been in favour of a closed dramatic ring,” declares his willingness to “help me,” and this, too, after a column and a half of “round abuse” of himself. To behold this doughty warrior, smitten with a penitential mood, solemnly assuring us that there is no revenge so divine as forgiveness, only shows how the noblest natures may be reviled and slandered. How many are there of us who would exhibit this Christian-like meekness after twenty years of literary boycotting? With that candour which is one of my most attractive characteristics, I now publicly declare that it has been Mr Buchanan’s misfortune to be persistently misrepresented and perversely misunderstood. That, although he has exchanged the threadbare mantle of adversity and the sentimental destitution of poetry for a keen pursuit of the circulating medium (i.e., 10 per cent. of the gross), with a gilded menial to open his street door and a pomatumed slave to stand behind his chair, success has not spoilt him. While he is with us he will give a beauty and a freshness to life. When he is gone his memory will smell sweet and blossom in the dust; flowers will be strewed upon his coffin; tears will be shed upon his grave. How true is it that the only thing which happens is the unforeseen. A week ago my hatred of Mr Buchanan was as black as the night and as deep as the ocean (the most angelic natures are subject at times to visitations of passion), and now I am writing to thank him for his offer “to help me.” Now, although I have long passed the rosy illusions of youth, I am quite convinced that Mr Buchanan makes his offer in perfect sincerity. “I wish I could help him.” There is nothing slippery or illusive in these words. They show that Mr Buchanan clearly recognises the injury he has done me, and wishes to atone for it. “I wish I could help him.” He surely cannot mean a little pecuniary— No! perish the thought. What then? Ha! I have it. He would like to collaborate with me.
     Now, Mr Buchanan, if this is your meaning, and I feel sure that it is, please understand that I accept your offer in the same spirit in which I am sure it is tendered. You are about, I hear, taking a “theatre” and starting a review. These undertakings will not leave much time for playwriting. Still, be under no apprehension. My plot book is full, and the different scenarios are exhaustively worked out. I am sure we shall work amicably together. My plots are all original, so there will be no charges of plagiarism, and if there should be, the blame will not fall on you. And, now, as to a meeting. Make an appointment suiting your own convenience, and I will keep it. As we are strangers, a brief description of myself may be of interest. I am short, about your own height, but in moments of dignified anger I look nearly 6ft, and although I am not good-looking, I have in my time excited the tenderest sentiments in the breasts of many young women in various spheres of life. This last qualification will be of great service in plays with a star part for leading lady. Shall I bring my plot-book with me? I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
                                                       ARTHUR GOODRICH.
     Sept. 17th, 1890.

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The Era (15 November, 1890 - Issue 2721)

“THE ENGLISH ROSE.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—I have just received a letter from my manager, Mr Hydes, who was present on the first night of the production of the above “new and original” drama at the Adelphi Theatre, and this is what he says:—“The ‘shooting of the landlord on the car at Ballyfoyle Bridge’ is taken every bit from Eviction, and reproduced exactly as we did it, only they call it ‘Devil’s Bridge,’ and have real waterfall under bridge. The evicted tenant O’Mara goes with the boys to shoot him, urged on by M^cDonnel (just like Dermott, Rooney, and Downey). Car drives on L.U.E. Landlord shot, jumps off, and falls C. stage, only he varies Lord Hardman’s resemblance slightly by returning fire twice from a revolver before falling.” I would like to know what Messrs Sims and Buchanan have to say to this?
                     Yours faithfully,                HUBERT O’GRADY.
     Theatre Royal, Melbourne, Oct. 3d, 1890.

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Echo Portrait Gallery

[Robert Buchanan was featured in the ‘Portrait Gallery’ of The Echo on 20th October, 1890. The article is available here, and this is Buchanan’s response.]

The Echo (22 October, 1890 - p.1)

“MR. ROBERT BUCHANAN.”_____

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ECHO.

     SIR,—I have only one fault to find with the very good-natured picture of myself in your Portrait Gallery (Monday last, Oct. 20), and the fault is that your contributor makes me far too virtuous. Unconsciously, and I am sure unwillingly, he echoes the clamour of a clique heard loudly ever since I criticised adversely the English followers of Gautier and Baudelaire, and branding me as a severe moralist (save the mark!) he leaves me in the society of Mr. Collette and the Vigilance Committee. I know how useless it is to protest—to point out that, so far from placing French writers “in the pillory of my detestation,” I have been among the first to welcome the strong men among them; that I have defended Zola against the diatribes of Mr. Howells and the damning apologies of Mr. Stevenson; that I have expressed my sympathy for all full-blooded writers from Chaucer to Byron, from Rabelais down to Paul de Koch; that I have upheld and defended both the “Kreutzer Sonata” on the bookstalls and the posters of Zæo on the hoardings; that I have, in a word, always disapproved of the public or private censorship of literature and literary morals. All is in vain. To have expressed my objection to certain emasculated forms of Art and Poetry is to be a Puritan, and unless I do something very desperate, I shall be classed as a Puritan all my life!
     May I confess also that I fail to understand some of your contributor’s allusions? I fail to remember when and where I have “reproved” Walt Whitman for “unchastity of expression”; where I reverence and where I sympathise I do not presume to “reprove.” Your description of a coming sensational law case is also a little beyond me. It is quite true that I am prosecuting an obscene publication (a task which the virtuous Vigilance Committee, so eager to see wickedness in an innocent poster, have left to a private citizen); but I cannot see how that concerns any “big journalistic critic.”
     But these, I admit, are venial errors, seeing how grateful I am to your contributor for his tender allusion to the friend of my boyhood, David Gray, and for his kindly praise of some of my own work in literature. Pardon me, therefore, for troubling you with these lines, provoked merely by the imputation of Virtue, which is likely to do my character serious injury.—I am, &c.,         
                                                                                   ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     25, Maresfield-gardens, South Hampstead, N.W.,      Oct. 21.

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