“The Graver had a strifeWith nature, to outdo the life;”
“The Graver had a strifeWith nature, to outdo the life;”
“The Graver had a strifeWith nature, to outdo the life;”
“The Graver had a strife
With nature, to outdo the life;”
and every thing concurred to evince the genuineness of this ancient painting.
A new discovery of Shakspearian papers was announced for exhibition in Norfolk Street, in 1794, and curiosity was again roused.
Mr. Malone, from some private reasons, seemed indifferent about these papers in Norfolk Street; and he was urged by his scepticism to contradict that probability which he had taught the imaginative world to entertain in favour of the discovery of Shakspearian fragments. Many other learned persons being, however, convinced by examination of the authenticity of these miscellaneous papers, the publication of them was undertaken by subscription, andfour guineasa copy were freely paid by the subscribers.
When the book came out, and not till then, did Mr. Malone condescend to look at it, and examine its pretensions; and he quickly decided it to be a palpable and bold forgery. This he demonstrated by a learned and critical examination of each particular paper; his inquiry was drawn up in the form of a letter, and addressed to the Right Honourable James, Earl of Charlemont, in the year 1796.
The editor of them, Mr. Ireland, in his preface, had assured the public, that all men of taste who had viewed them previous to publication unanimously testified in favour of their authenticity, and declared that there was on their side a mass of irrefragable evidence, external and internal; that it was impossible, amid such various sources of detection, for the art of imitation to have hazarded itself withoutbeing betrayed; and, consequently, that these papers could be no other than the production of Shakspeare himself.
The editor, in continuation, said, that these papers came into his hands from his son, Samuel William Henry Ireland, a young man nineteen years of age, by whom the discovery was accidentally made, at the house of a gentleman of considerable property, amongst a heterogeneous collection of family papers.
The legal contracts between Shakspeare and others were, it was said, first found by the junior Ireland, and soon afterwards, the deed of gift to William Henry Ireland, described as the friend of Shakspeare, in consequence of his having saved the dramatist’s life. In pursuing this research, he was so fortunate as to meet with some deeds very material to the interests of the gentleman at whose house he was staying; and such as established, beyond all doubt, his title to considerable property, of which he was as ignorant as he was of possessing these interesting manuscripts of Shakspeare. In return for this service, the gentleman promised him every paper relative to Shakspeare.
Fully satisfied with the honour and liberality shown to him, the finder of these treasures did not feel justified in importuning or requesting a gentleman, to whom he was known by obligation alone, to subject himself to the impertinence and licentiousness of literary curiosity and cavil, unless he should voluntarily come forward. He had applied to the original possessor of them for his permission to print them, and only obtained it under the strongest injunctions of secrecy.
“It is to be observed,” says Mr. Malone, “that we are not told where the deed was first discovered; it is said in a mansion-house, but where situated is not stated. Anothervery remarkable incident is mentioned: the discoverer met the possessor, to whom he was unknown, at a coffee-house, or some public place, and the conversation turning on old autographs, of which the discoverer was a collector, the country gentleman said to him, ‘If you are for autographs, I am your man; come to my chambers, any morning, and rummage my old deeds, and you will find enough of them.’ Accordingly the discoverer goes, and taking down a parcel, in a few minutes lighted on the name of Shakspeare. The discovery of the title to a considerable estate was so fortunate and beneficial a circumstance to this unknown gentleman, that we cannot wonder at his liberality in giving up all his right to these valuable literary curiosities; but one naturally wishes to know in what county this estate lies, or whether any suit has been instituted within the last year or two, in consequence of such a discovery of title-deeds so little dreamt of.”
According to Mr. Malone, the great objections, critically speaking, to be brought against the manuscripts are, firstly, the orthography; this is not only not the orthography of Elizabeth or her time, but for the most part of no one age whatever. The spelling of the copulativeand, and the prepositionfor, ande—forre, is unprecedented. “I have,” says Mr. Malone, “perused some thousands of deeds and manuscripts, and never once found such a spelling of them; the absurd way in which almost every word is overladen with both vowels and consonants, will strike every reader who has any knowledge on the subject.”
Quotations from manuscripts are made by Mr. Malone, from Chaucer downwards to the end of the sixteenth century, showing the progressive changes in the mode of orthography; and they certainly appear to prove, most satisfactorily, that the papers in which such laboured and capricious deformity of spelling is introduced, are an entireforgery. For example, the wordmasterre, at that period, was spelt maister. There is not a single authority for Londonne. So early as the time of Edward the First, Robert of Gloucester said,
‘And now me clepet it London, that is lighter in the mouth.’
‘And now me clepet it London, that is lighter in the mouth.’
‘And now me clepet it London, that is lighter in the mouth.’
‘And now me clepet it London, that is lighter in the mouth.’
Leycesterre for Leycester is as incorrect.
Secondly, the phraseology is equally faulty, particularly in the letter, supposed to be written and directed by Queen Elizabeth, to William Shakspeare. This letter, in particular, it is very easy to prove a forgery; as, by an anachronism, it is directed to William Shakspeare, at the Globe by the Thames. Now the Globe was a theatre which did not open till the year 1594; yet, in the same letter, mention is made of the expected presence of Leicester, who died in September 1588, when this theatre did not exist.
The deeds and miscellaneous papers were exhibited in Norfolk Street, long before their publication, and they were submitted to the critical examination of any one willing to question them; nor, from their appearance of venerable antiquity, was a doubt of their genuine authenticity allowed to be entertained. When the elder Mr. Ireland afterwards published his “Vindication,” he showed how readily the most discerning persons yielded their faith to this imposture. Mr. Boaden, he says, thus wrote to G. Steevens after having seen the manuscripts. “In some instances credulity is no disgrace, strong enthusiasm is always eager to believe; I confess that, for some time after I had seen them, I continued to think they might be genuine; they bore the character of the poet’s writing, the paper appeared of sufficient age, the water-marks were earnestly displayed, and the matter diligently applauded; I remember that I beheld the papers with the tremor ofutmost delight, touched the invaluable relics with reverential respect, and deemed even existence dearer as it gave me so refined a satisfaction.”
Similar and even stronger impressions were made on James Boswell, one of those literary characters who, in company with Dr. Parr, signed a certificate expressing their belief of the authenticity of the papers. Previous to signing his name, Boswell fell on his knees, and in a tone of enthusiasm and exultation, thanked God that he had lived to witness their discovery, and that he could now die in peace. In proportion to this strong belief, therefore, was the public indignation excited against the inventors of that monstrous,—and to the subscribers expensive—forgery, which the critical acumen of Mr. Malone had so clearly exposed. The blame of the transaction was imputed as much to Mr. Ireland, the father, as to William Henry, the son, who was in reality sole contriver of this imposture. In an exculpatory pamphlet, he says, “In justice to the memory of my father, I think it necessary to give a true account of the publication of these manuscripts. After dinner my father would read different accounts of Shakspeare, and remark how wonderful it was that no vestige of his signature remains, except that at Doctors’ Commons. Curiosity led me to look at the signature, in Steevens’ edition of his plays, and it occurred to me, that if some old writing could be produced, and passed off for Shakspeare’s, it might occasion a little mirth, and show how far credulity would go in search of antiquities. I first tried an experiment by writing a letter, as from the author of an old book in my possession, in dedication of it to Queen Elizabeth: I showed it to my father, who thought it genuine. This encouraged me to proceed till the whole work was completed, and published with the following title page: “Miscellaneous papers and legal instruments under the handand seal of William Shakspeare, including the tragedy of King Lear, and a fragment of Hamlet, folio, London, 1796.” And subsequently, “Free reflections on the miscellaneous papers, etc., in the possession of S. Ireland, to which are added extracts from the Virgin Queen, a play.”
The story of the country gentleman was told to silence the numerous inquiries as to where they came from. In conclusion, Mr. S. Ireland says, “I most sincerely regret any offence I may have given the world, or particular individuals, trusting at the same time, that they will deem the whole the work of a boy, without any evil or bad intent, but hurried on, thoughtless of any danger that awaited to ensnare him.”
The drama of Vortigern, which formed one portion of the forgery, was brought out at Drury Lane theatre, and was unanimously damned.
The art of counterfeiting old deeds and manuscripts has often been had recourse to for the purpose of fraud. Some curious evidence of such practices was given in the case of “Mossam v. Dame Theodosia Joy,” which may be found at large in the State Trials, vol. 7, p. 571. This lady was proved to have forged the title deeds of an estate to which she laid claim. Serjeant Stringer, in the course of the trial, inquired of Mrs. Duffet, one of the witnesses, “Pray what did they do to the deeds to make them look like ancient true deeds?” The witness replied, “For the making of the outsides look old and dirty, they used to rub them on the windows that were very dusty, and wear them in the pockets, to crease them, for weeks together. According as they intended to make use of them, when they had been rubbed and made to look dirty, and they were to pass for deeds of many years’ standing, it was used to lay them in a balcony, or any open place, for the rain to wet them, and the next clear day they were exposedto the sun, or placed before the fire, to dry them hastily, that they might be shrivelled.”
The introduction of the Inquisition into Portugal, has been stated to have resulted from the admirable skill in counterfeiting signatures, which was possessed by a monk named Saavedra. About the year 1540, this monk forged apostolic bulls, royal decrees, and bills of exchange, with so much accuracy that they passed for genuine. He also succeeded so well as to pass himself off for a knight, commander of the military order of St. Jago, the income of which amounted to three hundred ducats, which he received for a year and a half. In a short time he acquired, by means of the royal deeds which he counterfeited, three hundred and sixty thousand ducats. He might have remained undetected through life, had not his successes tempted him to undertake a still more hazardous fraud, which led to his detection; falling in with a Jesuit travelling to Portugal, with an apostolical brief for the foundation of a Jesuit’s College, he concerted a plan for introducing the Inquisition. Saavedra forged letters from Charles V. to the King of Portugal, and a papal bull for establishing the Inquisition there. This bull appointed Saavedra legate. Following up his deception, he assumed the character of a Roman cardinal, and made a visit to Portugal. The king despatched a distinguished nobleman to receive him. Saavedra spent three months at Lisbon, after which he travelled through the kingdom; but he was at last detected by the Inquisitor-General of Spain, and was sentenced to the galleys for ten years.
The eighteenth century was closed with a literary fraud, concocted in Germany, to which circumstances gave a temporary success. So little is known of the interior of Africa, that any thing which seems likely to add to our knowledge upon this subject can hardly fail to exciteattention. Public curiosity was, therefore raised to the highest pitch, when a work was announced, with the captivating title of “Travels in the Interior of Africa, from the Cape of Good Hope to Morocco, from the years 1781 to 1797; by Christian Frederick Damberger.” Translations of a work which promised to remove the veil, that had so long covered central Africa, were immediately undertaken in England and in France; and each translator laboured indefatigably, in the fear of the market being forestalled by his rival. The delusion, however, was quickly dispelled; the work being discovered to be the manufacture of a printer of Wittemberg, by name Zachary Taurinius, who had before tried his skill in forging a Voyage to the East Indies, Egypt, &c., and a Voyage and Journey to Asia, Africa and America.
A literary imposition similar to that which was practised in England by Chatterton, was effected in France, in 1804. A small volume was published, at Paris, edited by M. Vanderbourg, and professing to be the “Poems of Margaret Eleanor Clotilda de Vallon-Chalys”, afterwards Madame de Surville, a French poetess of the fifteenth century. They were said to have been discovered, in 1782, among the dusty archives of his family, by a M. de Surville, a descendant of the fair authoress, who had a transcript of them made. The originals were unfortunately destroyed by fire, and M. de Surville lost his life during the French revolution, but the copy of the poems was saved, and, with much difficulty, was procured by the editor. Madame de Surville is represented as having displayed singularly precocious abilities; to have been married in 1421; and to have lived at least to the age of ninety, exercising her poetical talent to the last. Serious doubts as to the truth of this story are entertained by the literary men of France. But, though the authenticity of these compositionsmay be disputed, there can be no dispute respecting their merit. There is a grace, sweetness, and spirit, in them which are exceedingly delightful. From the following translation of the supposed Madame de Surville’s “Verses to My First Born,” which appeared in an early number of the New Monthly Magazine, some idea may be formed of her poetical talents:
My cherished infant! image of thy sire!Sleep on the bosom which thy small lip presses!Sleep little one, and close those eyes of fire,Those eyelets which the weight of sleep oppresses.Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumbers lend theeDelights which I must never more enjoy!I watch o’er thee, to nourish and defend thee,And count these vigils sweet, for thee, my boy.Sleep, infant, sleep! my solace and my treasure!Sleep on my breast, the breast which gladly bore thee!And though thy words can give this heart no pleasure,It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o’er thee.Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend, when thou awakest,Yes, thou wilt smile, to see my joyful guise;Thy mother’s face thou never now mistakest,And thou hast learned to look into her eyes.What! do thy little fingers leave the breast,The fountain which thy small lip pressed at pleasure?Could’st thou exhaust it, pledge of passion blest,E’en then thou couldst not know my fond love’s measure.My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore!My infant love! my comfort! my delight!I gaze on thee, and gazing o’er and o’er,I blame the quick return of every night.His little arms stretch forth—sleep o’er him steals—His eye is closed—he sleeps—how still his breath!But for the tints his flowery cheek reveals,He seems to slumber in the arms of death.Awake my child!—I tremble with affright!—Awaken!—Fatal thought, thou art no more!—My child!—one moment gaze upon the light,And e’en with thy repose my life restore.Blest error! still he sleeps—I breathe again—May gentle dreams delight his calm repose!But when willhe, for whom I sigh—oh whenWill he, beside me watch thine eyes unclose?When shall I seehimwho hath given thee life,—My youthful husband, noblest of his race?Methinks I see, blest mother, and blest wife!Thy little hands thy father’s neck embrace.How will he revel in thy first caress,Disputing with thee for thy gentle kiss!But think not to engross his tenderness,Clotilda too shall have her share of bliss.How will he joy to see his image there;The sweetness of his large cerulean eye!His noble forehead, and his graceful air,Which Love himself might view with jealousy.For me—I am not jealous of his love,And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee;Thou shalt, like him, a faithful husband prove,But not, like him, give this anxiety.I speak to thee—thou understand’st me not—Thou could’st not understand though sleep were fled—Poor little child! the tangles of his thought,His infant thought, are not unravelled.We have been happy infants asthouart;Sad reason will destroy the dream too soon;Sleep in the calm repose that lulls thy heart,Ere long its very memory will be gone.
My cherished infant! image of thy sire!Sleep on the bosom which thy small lip presses!Sleep little one, and close those eyes of fire,Those eyelets which the weight of sleep oppresses.Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumbers lend theeDelights which I must never more enjoy!I watch o’er thee, to nourish and defend thee,And count these vigils sweet, for thee, my boy.Sleep, infant, sleep! my solace and my treasure!Sleep on my breast, the breast which gladly bore thee!And though thy words can give this heart no pleasure,It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o’er thee.Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend, when thou awakest,Yes, thou wilt smile, to see my joyful guise;Thy mother’s face thou never now mistakest,And thou hast learned to look into her eyes.What! do thy little fingers leave the breast,The fountain which thy small lip pressed at pleasure?Could’st thou exhaust it, pledge of passion blest,E’en then thou couldst not know my fond love’s measure.My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore!My infant love! my comfort! my delight!I gaze on thee, and gazing o’er and o’er,I blame the quick return of every night.His little arms stretch forth—sleep o’er him steals—His eye is closed—he sleeps—how still his breath!But for the tints his flowery cheek reveals,He seems to slumber in the arms of death.Awake my child!—I tremble with affright!—Awaken!—Fatal thought, thou art no more!—My child!—one moment gaze upon the light,And e’en with thy repose my life restore.Blest error! still he sleeps—I breathe again—May gentle dreams delight his calm repose!But when willhe, for whom I sigh—oh whenWill he, beside me watch thine eyes unclose?When shall I seehimwho hath given thee life,—My youthful husband, noblest of his race?Methinks I see, blest mother, and blest wife!Thy little hands thy father’s neck embrace.How will he revel in thy first caress,Disputing with thee for thy gentle kiss!But think not to engross his tenderness,Clotilda too shall have her share of bliss.How will he joy to see his image there;The sweetness of his large cerulean eye!His noble forehead, and his graceful air,Which Love himself might view with jealousy.For me—I am not jealous of his love,And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee;Thou shalt, like him, a faithful husband prove,But not, like him, give this anxiety.I speak to thee—thou understand’st me not—Thou could’st not understand though sleep were fled—Poor little child! the tangles of his thought,His infant thought, are not unravelled.We have been happy infants asthouart;Sad reason will destroy the dream too soon;Sleep in the calm repose that lulls thy heart,Ere long its very memory will be gone.
My cherished infant! image of thy sire!Sleep on the bosom which thy small lip presses!Sleep little one, and close those eyes of fire,Those eyelets which the weight of sleep oppresses.
My cherished infant! image of thy sire!
Sleep on the bosom which thy small lip presses!
Sleep little one, and close those eyes of fire,
Those eyelets which the weight of sleep oppresses.
Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumbers lend theeDelights which I must never more enjoy!I watch o’er thee, to nourish and defend thee,And count these vigils sweet, for thee, my boy.
Sweet friend! dear little one! may slumbers lend thee
Delights which I must never more enjoy!
I watch o’er thee, to nourish and defend thee,
And count these vigils sweet, for thee, my boy.
Sleep, infant, sleep! my solace and my treasure!Sleep on my breast, the breast which gladly bore thee!And though thy words can give this heart no pleasure,It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o’er thee.
Sleep, infant, sleep! my solace and my treasure!
Sleep on my breast, the breast which gladly bore thee!
And though thy words can give this heart no pleasure,
It loves to see thy thousand smiles come o’er thee.
Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend, when thou awakest,Yes, thou wilt smile, to see my joyful guise;Thy mother’s face thou never now mistakest,And thou hast learned to look into her eyes.
Yes, thou wilt smile, young friend, when thou awakest,
Yes, thou wilt smile, to see my joyful guise;
Thy mother’s face thou never now mistakest,
And thou hast learned to look into her eyes.
What! do thy little fingers leave the breast,The fountain which thy small lip pressed at pleasure?Could’st thou exhaust it, pledge of passion blest,E’en then thou couldst not know my fond love’s measure.
What! do thy little fingers leave the breast,
The fountain which thy small lip pressed at pleasure?
Could’st thou exhaust it, pledge of passion blest,
E’en then thou couldst not know my fond love’s measure.
My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore!My infant love! my comfort! my delight!I gaze on thee, and gazing o’er and o’er,I blame the quick return of every night.
My gentle son! sweet friend, whom I adore!
My infant love! my comfort! my delight!
I gaze on thee, and gazing o’er and o’er,
I blame the quick return of every night.
His little arms stretch forth—sleep o’er him steals—His eye is closed—he sleeps—how still his breath!But for the tints his flowery cheek reveals,He seems to slumber in the arms of death.
His little arms stretch forth—sleep o’er him steals—
His eye is closed—he sleeps—how still his breath!
But for the tints his flowery cheek reveals,
He seems to slumber in the arms of death.
Awake my child!—I tremble with affright!—Awaken!—Fatal thought, thou art no more!—My child!—one moment gaze upon the light,And e’en with thy repose my life restore.
Awake my child!—I tremble with affright!—
Awaken!—Fatal thought, thou art no more!—
My child!—one moment gaze upon the light,
And e’en with thy repose my life restore.
Blest error! still he sleeps—I breathe again—May gentle dreams delight his calm repose!But when willhe, for whom I sigh—oh whenWill he, beside me watch thine eyes unclose?
Blest error! still he sleeps—I breathe again—
May gentle dreams delight his calm repose!
But when willhe, for whom I sigh—oh when
Will he, beside me watch thine eyes unclose?
When shall I seehimwho hath given thee life,—My youthful husband, noblest of his race?Methinks I see, blest mother, and blest wife!Thy little hands thy father’s neck embrace.
When shall I seehimwho hath given thee life,—
My youthful husband, noblest of his race?
Methinks I see, blest mother, and blest wife!
Thy little hands thy father’s neck embrace.
How will he revel in thy first caress,Disputing with thee for thy gentle kiss!But think not to engross his tenderness,Clotilda too shall have her share of bliss.
How will he revel in thy first caress,
Disputing with thee for thy gentle kiss!
But think not to engross his tenderness,
Clotilda too shall have her share of bliss.
How will he joy to see his image there;The sweetness of his large cerulean eye!His noble forehead, and his graceful air,Which Love himself might view with jealousy.
How will he joy to see his image there;
The sweetness of his large cerulean eye!
His noble forehead, and his graceful air,
Which Love himself might view with jealousy.
For me—I am not jealous of his love,And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee;Thou shalt, like him, a faithful husband prove,But not, like him, give this anxiety.
For me—I am not jealous of his love,
And gladly I divide it, sweet, with thee;
Thou shalt, like him, a faithful husband prove,
But not, like him, give this anxiety.
I speak to thee—thou understand’st me not—Thou could’st not understand though sleep were fled—Poor little child! the tangles of his thought,His infant thought, are not unravelled.
I speak to thee—thou understand’st me not—
Thou could’st not understand though sleep were fled—
Poor little child! the tangles of his thought,
His infant thought, are not unravelled.
We have been happy infants asthouart;Sad reason will destroy the dream too soon;Sleep in the calm repose that lulls thy heart,Ere long its very memory will be gone.
We have been happy infants asthouart;
Sad reason will destroy the dream too soon;
Sleep in the calm repose that lulls thy heart,
Ere long its very memory will be gone.
In 1823, a visit to England was made by a singular individual, named Hunter, a native of America, who, though it appears certain that he professed to be what he was not, was undoubtedly a man of considerable abilities. During his stay in this country, he published his own adventures, under the title of “Memoirs of a Captivity among the Indians of North America, from Childhood to the Age of Nineteen; with Anecdotes descriptive of their Manners and Customs.” The work contains a highly-interesting narrative of his alleged wanderings with various tribes of the Red Men, and was at first much prized as a faithful picture of Indian life. The society of Hunter was eagerly sought by many eminent literary and philanthropic characters, who were eager to assist him in that which he professed to be his grand object: namely, to devote himself to the civilization of the red race, in order to avert the destruction which seems to impend over it. After his departure from England, however, strong evidence was brought forward, to demonstrate that his story was, in great part, if not wholly, a fabrication. That Hunter had had some intercourse with the Indians, is not improbable; but the romantic tale which he tells of his peregrinations must henceforth be classed among works of fiction.
In the following year, 1824, the extraordinary popularity which Sir Walter Scott’s novels had acquired in Germany, gave occasion to an audacious fraud on the partof some German booksellers. A novel was got up by them, with the title of Walladmor, and was ushered into the world, at the Leipsic fair, as the translation of a new production by Sir Walter. This spurious Simon Pure subsequently made its appearance in an English dress. Though the author must undoubtedly be classed among knaves, it must in justice be owned, that he was not a fool; there being some parts of his work, which are by no means contemptible.
The last instance of literary imposture dates no further back than the year 1832. A. M. Douville was the perpetrator, and the title which he gave to it was, “A Journey in Congo and the Interior of Equinoctial Africa.” M. Douville had probably visited some of the Portuguese settlements on the coast, but his astonishing discoveries in the interior must, like the captivity of Hunter, be considered as deserving of equal credence with the travels of Gulliver.