gives us hope that soon we shall see him here and I dispose myself to
receive him well. Our sister Martha also rejoices of it. Her health is
very tottering and I fear her passing away. This is why I recommend
her to your good prayers. The good girls who have come to place
themselves under our guidance are admirable for us and make us the
most amiable caresses. It is enough said, my very beloved brother,
that our sojourn in these countries of the Gaul pleases us much, that
we have no desire to leave it, also none of our friends suggest it.
Do you not think that those Gauls who were thought barbarian nations
are not at all so, and judging only by what we have learned it must be
from these that the light of science started. I have a great desire to
see you and beg our Lord may have you in favor.
This X June XLVI
MAGDALENE
In this fourth epistle, written by Alexander the Great, Lucas, the
true Frenchman, does not forget once more to let words of flattery for
France--Gaul--drip from the pen of the King of Macedonia. This letter
follows:--
Alexander Rex to his very beloved Aristotle, Greeting.
MY BELOVED:--
I am not satisfied because you have made public certain of your
books which you had to keep under the seal of secrecy, for it is a
profanation of their value; and no more render them public without my
consent. As to what you asked of me, to travel to the country of the
Gauls in order to learn the sciences of the Druids, of whom Pythagoras
made so fine a eulogy, not only do I permit you but I entreat you to
go for the good of my people, as you are not ignorant in what esteem I
hold the nation which I consider as the one that carries the light in
the world. I salute you.
This XX of the Kalends of May, year of the CV Olympiad
ALEXANDER
Old Chasles got all that was coming to him, and the 140,000 francs that
he spent on the Lucas inventions were as nothing compared with the
great joy the world in general, and antiquarians in particular, have
experienced in reading these altogether amusing epistles.
Being sometimes called a pirate myself, I have always been interested
in reading about them. I remember reveling in _Treasure Island_,
soon after it appeared in 1883. But instead of the pieces of eight
and flashing gems which Stevenson conjured up for the boyish mind,
I substituted, in my youthful imagination, rare books. This seems
far-fetched, yet it is absolutely true. Instead of Long John Silver’s
doubloons and sequins, I put in their place first editions and
manuscripts. They were more to me, then and now, than all the treasure
of the Indies. And yet, in the first years of my passion for them,
I rarely gave thought to forgeries. I had that superb reliance upon
instinct which is a part and parcel of youth. I felt that if there were
forgeries about I could sniff them as a dog follows a scent. So I was
not really interested in forgers and their works until I read in a book
for the first time an account of William Henry Ireland, the greatest
fabricator of them all.
Ireland was a youthful scamp, less than eighteen years old, who in
1795 pulled the leg of almost the entire literary world with his
“discovery” of many Shakespearean manuscripts. He was the son of an
engraver in London, and doubtless inherited the facile fingers which
brought him his peculiar fame. Ireland senior reverenced all relics of
antiquity, and especially those which were connected with the memory of
Shakespeare. He was almost a fanatic on this subject and gave his son
to understand that his greatest desire would be satisfied the day that
he was lucky enough to find an autograph manuscript of the Bard of
Avon. I’ve had that feeling myself. After being dragged hither and yon
by his father, who searched every nook and cranny where Shakespeare was
supposed to have stayed, the filial William Henry decided upon a course
of his own to make his father completely happy.
[Illustration: FORGERY OF SHAKESPEARE MANUSCRIPT BY WILLIAM HENRY
IRELAND]
He was apprenticed at the time to an attorney, and it was a part of
his daily work to study ancient documents, such as leases and wills.
He sometimes read in books the histories of various estates in Great
Britain, and occasionally a facsimile of Shakespeare’s signature was
printed in them. One day he came across some unused parchment at the
end of an old rent roll. His imagination began to work, I suppose, as
he studied the Shakespeare facsimile before him, and the echoes of old
deeds, with their quaint phrases, doubtless rang in his ears. Thus he
set about practising the penmanship of an earlier era. Finding that he
wrote with amazing ease, he immediately made up a lease between William
Shakespeare and John Heminge, with one Michael Fraser and Elizabeth,
his wife. When the ink was sufficiently dried he took it home to his
father, who at the sight of it nearly dropped dead with joy. And so
began young Ireland’s notorious performances.
After finding further facsimiles of signatures of the Elizabethan
period, he invented, with the most appalling facility, all sorts of
letters and poems. Naturally, his father and others asked where he had
found these remarkable manuscripts, whereupon he made up a more or
less logical story. He said he had met a gentleman of fortune, whose
name he had sworn not to tell, in a coffeehouse in London, and that
in the course of conversation they had discovered each other’s love
for things antique. The new acquaintance then mentioned having in his
possession a collection of old deeds and papers tied in bundles. The
boy told of his delight at being asked to inspect them; and how he had
gone to his friend’s house and searched through them. Much to their
mutual joy, he had discovered one old paper which clearly established
his friend’s right to a certain property which had been the subject of
litigation for a long time. This friend, he went on to explain, first
swore him to secrecy, then presented him with as many of these ancient
manuscripts as he wished to have.
It is not difficult to understand why William Henry’s father accepted
his boy’s story so easily. Remember, those were the days of stern
virtues. A son brought up to respect his parents was expected to
tell the truth. When the elder Ireland, being a man of substantial
reputation, showed the manuscripts to his friends and repeated his
son’s story, it was accepted. Spurred on by his apparent success in
deceiving his father and many visitors, the young forger began to lose
his head and daily grew more daring. Under cover of secrecy, in a
lonely room where he was apprenticed, he had the temerity not only to
forge Shakespeare’s signature to documents but to invent an autograph
confession of faith for him. This met with success, and he proceeded
to compose love lyrics in the form of letters to Anne Hathaway, signed
with the name of the great poet.
Here is one of them, in which he inclosed a lock of “thye Willys” hair.
It is addressed to Anna Hatherrewaye, and reads as follows:--
DEARESSTE ANNA:--
As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe mye Worde moste trewe soe thou
shalt see I have stryctlye kepte mye promyse I praye you perfume thys
mye poore Locke withe thye balmye Eysses forre thenne indeede shalle
Kynges themmeselves bowe ande pay homage toe itte I doe assure thee no
rude hande hathe knottedde itte thye Willys alone hathe done the worke
Neytherre the gyldedde bawble thatte envyronnes the heade of Majestye
noe norre honourres moste weyghtye wulde give mee halfe the joye as
didde thysse mye lyttle worke forre thee The feelinge thatte dydde
neareste approache untoe itte was thatte whiche commethe nygheste
untoe God meeke and Gentle Charytye forre thatte Virrtue O Anna doe I
love doe I cheryshe thee inne mye hearte forre thou arte ass a talle
Cedarre stretchynge forthe its branches ande succourynge smaller
Plants fromme nyppynge Winneterre orr the boysterouse Wyndes Farewelle
toe Morrowe bye tymes I wille see thee tille thenne Adewe sweete Love
Thyne everre
WM SHAKSPEARE
ANNA HATHERREWAYE
Sometime later he made an almost entire transcript of _Lear_, and a
few leaves from _Hamlet_, too! In _Hamblette_, as he quaintly called
it, he boldly introduced variations in the text, which many of the
most learned men of the time read without doubting their authenticity.
Boswell, Doctor Johnson’s famous biographer, called at the Ireland home
one day, inspected the manuscripts, then knelt down before them,
enthusiastically kissing a paper here and there as he thanked God for
letting him live to see them.
[Illustration: BOOK BELONGING TO THE LORD CHAMBERLAIN, OF WHOSE COMPANY
SHAKESPEARE WAS A MEMBER]
However, there was one doubting Thomas, who refused to believe, almost
from the beginning of the “discoveries,” that there was an iota of
truth concerning their origin. His name was Edmund Malone. He was the
one literary critic who did not make a fool of himself at any time
during a controversy which later developed to a furious pitch, and
resulted in a full published confession from Ireland.
Young Ireland’s final burst of inspiration led him to write a pretended
play of Shakespeare, entitled _Vortigern and Rowena_. This was the
straw which eventually broke the camel’s back, but not until Sheridan
had produced it, with two of the foremost players of the day, John
Philip Kemble and Mrs. Jordan, appearing in the leading rôles.
Ireland appealed to me, not because he was a forger but because of a
certain further cleverness. When he was discovered and his misdeeds
revealed to a curious world, there suddenly sprang up a great demand
to behold the handiwork of this delectable young villain. People in
England, and collectors and curio seekers everywhere, wanted to own
specimens of his fraudulent but interesting papers. They were so much
in demand that he was kept busy from morning to night making forgeries
of his own forgeries.
The sudden demand was not for Shakespeare’s own letter to Anne Hathaway
but for Ireland’s original imaginary manuscript. What, then, could the
poor fellow do? He just had to sit himself down and ply his trade as
long as his supply of old paper and precious ink held out.
It was these humorous and at the same time dramatic facts which touched
my imagination as a collector. I wanted Ireland’s original forgeries,
not his double and triple fabrications. I naturally wanted the
original manuscript of _Vortigern_, the one the lovely Mrs. Jordan had
reverently held in her adoring--and adorable--hands. I thought I knew
where they were--in the collection of the Marquis of Blandford, to whom
they were sold many years ago. Imagine my surprise when I purchased
the library of Marsden J. Perry, of Providence, to discover in his
world-famed collection the actual forgeries not only of _Vortigern_
but of _King Lear_ and _Hamlet_ as well. Here were the original
documents which had deceived some of the choicest minds in England.
Looking further, I also found the first draft of Ireland’s confession.
I have the actual drafts with which Richard Brinsley Sheridan was
so delighted; the very pages from which Kemble studied the part of
Vortigern, and before which Boswell knelt, “a tumbler of warm brandy
and water” at his side.
Ireland was not the first spectacular forger of tender years. In his
confession he speaks of having been influenced by reading of Thomas
Chatterton’s career. Chatterton was an English youth who kept the
literary world titillating twenty-five years earlier. It is a strange
thing, this psychologic kink which sometimes forms in the brains of
very young men. Why they should risk bringing the world about their
ears through impersonating the famous dead, when they have brains and
originality of their own, no one knows.
Poor Chatterton! His is the only great genius which has come to light
through the art of forgery. He began writing when he was sixteen, and
almost from the beginning produced some of the finest poetry in the
history of eighteenth-century literature. Perhaps he was unhappily shy,
as boys often are at that age; or he may have suffered from some gloomy
mental obsession. His manner of screening his identity when these
remarkable poems first appeared has caused many a student to pause and
wonder.
Chatterton’s first writings appeared with an accompanying explanation.
He said his father had found them years before in an ancient chest
belonging to the Church of St. Mary Redcliffe at Bristol. The verses
were supposed to have been composed by Thomas Rowley, a monk who had
lived in that neighborhood during the fifteenth century. Chatterton,
according to his story, had merely copied them. At first, this story
was accepted, while critics praised the undeniable beauty of the lines.
Then some contemporary littérateur called attention to the incorrect
usage of Anglo-Saxon words of Rowley’s day, and suspicion hovered over
Chatterton. It was soon charged that Chatterton had written the poems
of Rowley, using a certain dictionary from which he chose Anglo-Saxon
words in order to create the atmosphere and flavor of antiquity.
Among his critics were Horace Walpole and his two poet friends, Mason
and Gray. The boy was accused of downright forgery when it was further
noted that the poem which Chatterton brought out as the “Battle of
Hastings wrote by Turgot the Monk, in the tenth century, and translated
by Thomas Rowlie,” was wrongly dated. This bit of carelessness on
Chatterton’s part increased the hue and cry of ridicule. The Battle of
Hastings, as every English schoolboy knew, did not take place until the
eleventh century! And here the poetic Turgot was relating its history
one century before it happened. The goading of Walpole and his acolytes
finally drove Chatterton to commit suicide when he was only eighteen
years of age.
What a loss it was to England!
Walpole, seated in his comfortable library at Strawberry Hill,
surrounded by his precious books and his precious ladies, recognized
Chatterton’s works as forgeries, but did not recognize his superb
genius. A few of the inspired lines of Chatterton’s poems are worth all
the famous letters which Walpole so elegantly wrote for a large public,
including himself. Although we wade with zest in the delightful mud
stream that, with its scandal and veiled allusions, runs so naughtily
through Walpole’s correspondence, we can never forgive his treatment of
poor Chatterton.
Not quite in the same class as a forgery, a quaint and equally
difficult sister art has gradually sprung into existence, called the
facsimile page. Not that I mean to imply that the making of such pages
is always done with an intent to deceive. There is a concern in London
which supplies missing pages on order for any book you may have--a
business that is done quite openly. Suppose you own a copy of the first
edition of one of Shakespeare’s folios, in which either the title or
last leaf is missing. If you don’t happen to be too fastidious and have
merely the collector’s love for the complete, without his obsession for
the perfect as well, you could take your first folio to this firm and
in a short time receive a perfect page made to match the others of your
book. Only the connoisseur and you yourself would know the difference.
Owing to the assistance of the camera to-day and the modern processes
of engraving, it is not difficult to reproduce the printed word as
it first appeared several centuries ago. The snag comes, however, in
finding a paper that is exactly contemporaneous with the book itself.
This London house happens to have a large and wonderful collection of
old papers, taken chiefly from the flyleaves of early volumes. There
are many unscrupulous dealers in the world, even in New York, who do
not acknowledge to their customers that a book which they offer as
genuine is made up in this manner. Any reputable firm would immediately
call attention to it. One not quite so particular, with the naïveté of
a child, always pleads, when caught, that he was ignorant of the guilty
leaf, not being an expert himself. And yet he had ordered the damning
page from the London house of facsimiles.
But sometimes it is almost impossible to tell which leaves in a book
are facsimile. About seventy-five years ago there was an expert in this
line in England by the name of Harris. With the greatest dexterity and
cunning, he made leaves for incomplete books, which exactly duplicated
the original ones. In those days such work was tedious and had to be
accomplished entirely by hand, as it was long before the era of modern
photographs. Harris’s work was in constant demand. An amusing story is
told among booksellers of an order Harris executed for a celebrated
collector whose copy of Caxton’s _History of Troy_ had two leaves
missing. Five years later the collector called on Harris. He took this
Caxton from his pocket and showed it to him. It was with the greatest
difficulty that Harris himself could determine which two leaves were
his. In fact, he had to verify them by his records.
If there are great holes or tears in old pages they can be filled in
in such a marvelous manner as almost to defy detection. Here again the
literary detective enters to discover a clew and solve the mystery. The
fellow must have a specialized sense for this sort of thing, just as a
born newspaperman has a nose for news. The true literary detective will
tell you at a glance if anything is wrong with a printed page. This is
a rare faculty, and in the book business amounts almost to genius. Some
booksellers are never able to tell, during their entire careers, which
are facsimile leaves and which aren’t. Only a few are adept at it.
Another trick is to supply original covers when they are missing from
old and precious volumes. Sometimes a copy of an English classic
appears in the auction room minus its blue or gray or yellow paper
wrappers. In the twinkling of an eye brand-new ones are supplied,
aged by the miraculous antiquer, and offered as being in pristine,
immaculate state, “very rare in its original paper binding.”
Then, to enhance the illusion, an old signature is added to the cover
and perhaps the price, “tuppence,” written in an old hand. It takes
Sherlock Holmes himself to detect these impostures.
I know a gentleman in London who is so expert in detecting forgeries
that he goes on a scent like a setter after a bird. But the real
safeguard for the collector is to buy his books, not from the transient
individual who has two or three bargains to offer, but from the man who
is known first of all for his reputable dealing. Then collecting is
sheer delight.
V
AMONG OLD MANUSCRIPTS
The First Folio had lain idly at anchor for two long, sultry days.
Then, as a miniature gale swept the threatening clouds of a summer
storm across Corson’s Inlet just before twilight on the second day,
I bowed to the will of the fisherman’s god, whoever he may be, and
hurried down the beach. Ordinarily I am not the sort of fisherman who
waits for the psychological moment, but here it was upon me. After such
weather, fish were sure to strike.
As I rowed out to my boat, I heard the telephone bell ring in the
house I had just left. It had been an exhausting week for me; every
bibliomaniac in the vicinity of Philadelphia had had a book to show and
sell me, and my office had telephoned upon the slightest provocation.
So when I heard that bell I pulled for the First Folio as though the
devil were after me, and carefully rounding the bow, drew up on the
port side away from the shore. Once aboard, the captain started the
engine and made for the open sea. Even then I could not avoid seeing my
man Harrison waving frantically from the beach.
[Illustration: LETTER OF FRANKLIN FROM PHILADELPHIA, 1775]
Only the born Izaak Walton knows that lazy defiance of the world’s
demands which comes with a rod and reel in one’s hand. Soon I was
fishing; forgotten was the realm of books and manuscripts, forgotten
the boring persistence of telephone bells, forgotten poor Harrison
on the shore--forgotten everything in the world except the delight
of a strike, the thrilling moments of playing my catch, and the
breath-taking suspense of reeling in. How long I fished I don’t know.
The sun emerged again in time to set, as the wind died out completely.
I refuse to tell the number of fish I caught, for no one would believe
me; but with the advent of a fine six-pounder I felt quite satisfied. I
walked to a low deck chair and sat, resting. Perhaps I dozed for a few
minutes; I don’t know. Suddenly I heard my name. I opened my eyes and
was surprised to find the shore close by. We had forgotten to anchor
and were drifting in.
“Doctah--doctah!” Harrison’s voice lost its slow drawl in excitement.
“Mistah Lawlah done phone all dis afternoon! Why fo’ you don’ answah
me, doctah? He say he done fin’ ole Mistah Franklin’s work book.”
How often had hopeful bookmen dreamed of one day discovering this
work book of Benjamin Franklin! From my earliest days of collecting,
I myself had persistently followed all rumors or clews concerning its
whereabouts. None of them led anywhere. I even doubted that it still
existed.
“Harrison,” I replied, “you can tell Mr. Lawler that I am not exactly
partial to a fool’s errand on a hot day. Besides, I want to fish.” He
went indoors, shouted my words over the telephone, then bolted down to
the shore again.
“Oh, Lawdy, doctah, do come to de telephone! He sho am mad if you
don’t.”
When I reached the house I explained once more to the manager of my
Philadelphia place that I wished to be left alone to fish.
“Fish!” Mr. Lawler’s tone was derisive. “Why, if you’ll take the next
train and meet me in Camden, I’ll show you where you can land a fish
bigger than anything you could ever pull out of Corson’s Inlet!”
This was bait for me, if not for the fish, and I asked for fuller
information.
It seemed that after months of patient search Mr. Lawler had located
the proprietor of an antique shop at Mount Holly, New Jersey, who owned
an old copy book which he claimed was the original in which Franklin
kept his accounts. Mr. Lawler had already seen it, and believed it to
be authentic; and though I rather dreaded being disappointed once more,
there was the chance of a find. I left for the station immediately;
there I found no train due for hours. This was doubtless just the
obstacle I needed to egg me on. I quickly hired an automobile and
motored the seventy miles to Camden. Mr. Lawler met me. He seemed
nervous and in a great hurry to make the final lap of our pilgrimage.
We had twenty miles farther to go, and as we sped along we discussed
the printer’s long-lost work book.
Franklin had mentioned its existence in various writings and letters.
He had said that when he was a printer he kept all the records of his
business in it.
At last we came to Mount Holly, and as we followed a quiet country
street to its end I regretted the trip. The heat of the summer night
was oppressive, and the entrance of the shop before which we stopped
was the same as a thousand others scattered over the country. A dull
light reflected against the usual sign, “Antiques,” hanging above
the doorway. As I entered, a sensation of futility came over me. The
rosewood whatnots holding their bits and pieces of glass or china
depressed me; broken-down Windsors, old ships’ lanterns, hooked rugs,
maple chests, and mahogany bureaus--was this atmosphere conducive to
hope? I doubted it, and looked at Mr. Lawler with an accusatory eye.
But so great was his excitement now that he had forgotten my existence.
Suddenly his face lighted.
The proprietor of the shop, a calm, middle-aged man, came forward. He
greeted me, smiling kindly. I must confess this smile revived hope. He
seemed sure of himself in a quiet sort of way. I began to think that
perhaps I hadn’t come on such a wild-goose chase after all. He was at
his desk now, an old desk littered with papers. As his fingers searched
through them I watched closely. Then, when he finally drew a long
narrow book from beneath a pile of letters, I caught my breath.