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VORTIGERN;

AN HISTORICAL PLAY;

WITH

AN ORIGINAL PREFACE.

BY

W. H. IRELAND.

REPRESENTED AT THE

THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE,

ON SATURDAY, APRIL 2, 1796,

AS A SUPPOSED NEWLY-DISCOVERED DRAMA OF

SHAKSPEARE.

LONDON:

JOSEPH THOMAS, BIRCHIN LANE.

1832.

BALNE, PRINTER, GRACECHURCH STREET, LONDON.

CONTENTS.

PREFACE.

No one connected with literature, or who feels a partiality for reading, on hearing the title of Vortigern and Rowena mentioned, but has more or less a confused idea respecting this dramatic effort; yet when inquiry is made, whether any individual has perused the play, it uniformly occurs, that every one is a total stranger to the production. It would be difficult to ascertain the reason why the present drama should have become of such extreme rarity; but, after a continuance of nine years upon the continent, though incessantly occupied, on my return, in endeavouring to procure a copy, as well as employing an eminent theatrical bookseller in the same pursuit, upwards of four years elapsed ere I obtained copies of my plays of Vortigern and Rowena and Henry the Second, on which occasion I gladly paid three times the original publication price for their procurement. Appeals to me have been so often made, to know where these dramas could be purchased, that I shall certainly not infringe upon veracity when I state, a limited edition would long ere this have been disposed of, had copies existed to supply such repeated demands. Application has at length been made to me upon the subject of their republication; when, more for the purpose of seizing an opportunity of saying something in vindication of myself, than from any desire to give fresh publicity to these dramas, I am prompted to acquiesce; and they are thus made the vehicle of developing a variety of sentiments at present influencing my mind, as regard the subject of my Shaksperian fabrications.

I shall not trouble myself by entering upon an elaborate detail of the forgery of the papers; any persons feeling at all interested upon that subject, may find ample food for the gratification of such desire, in my “Confessions,” one volume octavo, published in 1805. Since the appearance of the above work, twenty-seven years have elapsed; and my feelings at the present moment are very differently attuned to what they were when the “Confessions” were written. It has been justly remarked, that there exists a time for every thing; and the shafts of persecution have been so relentlessly levelled against me for upwards of thirty years, that I begin to conceive sufficient purgation has been endured, and that every inimical feeling, which now remains, is but the foul lees of rancour, malice, and uncharitableness. However, as most of my readers, from the lapse of time, may be unable to appreciate the drift of my meaning without a clue, I will, in the most succinct manner possible, make them fully acquainted with the height and sum of my offending, and then proceed to develop the usage of a certain portion of the literary world towards me.

My father, (Mr. Samuel Ireland,) a gentleman gifted with the most open heart and liberal sentiments, chanced, like many others, to be enamoured of the Fine Arts and Vertu; his assortment of pictures, prints, and drawings, was universally extolled; his library well selected; and, above all, his collection of Hogarth’s works (not even excepting that of his noble competitor for mastery, the late Earl of Exeter) was not to be surpassed. Among the strongest of his predilections, my father entertained an unbounded enthusiasm for the writings of Shakspeare: four days, at least, out of the seven, the beauties of our divine dramatist became his theme of conversation after dinner; while in the evening, still further to impress the subject upon the minds of myself and sisters, certain plays were selected, and a part allotted to each, in order that we might read aloud, and thereby acquire a knowledge of the delivery of blank verse articulately, and with proper emphasis. The comments to which these rehearsals (if I may be permitted so to call them) gave rise, were of a nature to elicit, in all its bearings, the enthusiasm entertained by my father for the bard of Avon—with him Shakspeare was no mortal, but a divinity; and frequently while expatiating upon this subject, impregnated with all the fervour of Garrick, with whom he had been on intimate terms, my father would declare, that to possess a single vestige of the poet’s hand-writing would be esteemed a gem beyond all price, and far dearer to him than his whole collection. At these conversations I was uniformly present, swallowing with avidity the honied poison; when, by way of completing this infatuation, my father, who had already produced Picturesque Tours of some of the British rivers, determined on commencing that of the Avon; and I was selected as the companion of his journey. Of course, no inquiries were spared, either at Stratford or in the neighbourhood, respecting the mighty poet. Every legendary tale, recorded anecdote, or traditionary account, was treasured up; in short, the name of Shakspeare ushered in the dawn; and a bumper, quaffed to his immortal memory at night, sealed up our weary eyelids in repose.

We now approach the grand denouement. Having supplied himself with sketches and notes for his Tour, my father returned to town; about two years prior to which, I had commenced a course of studies, to enable me to enter as a practitioner at the Chancery Bar. I will not take upon myself to determine whether nature ever gifted me with a dawning of talent for poetry, or whether I possessed a mere facility at imitation; but the reiterated eulogies rung in my ears respecting Shakspeare—my father’s enthusiasm—and, above all, the incessant remark, upon his part, that to possess even a signature of the bard, would make him the happiest of human beings—irrevocably sealed my destiny.

Being in a conveyancer’s office, and environed by old deeds, the silly idea struck me of investigating numerous bundles of law documents, in the hope that I might find some instrument signed by Shakspeare; which labour, of course, proving abortive, I had recourse to a dealer in old parchments, whose shop I frequented for weeks, under the same fallacious impression; when, finding all to no purpose, then it was, (as a German amalgamator of the horrific would assert,) that the demon seized his opportunity to place temptation in my way. In fine, wearied by the fruitless toil, in an evil moment, the idea first seized me of the possibility of producing a spurious imitation of Shakspeare’s autograph; when, without reflection, having supplied myself with a tracing of the poet’s signature, I wrote a mortgage deed, imitating the law hand of James the First, and affixed thereto the sign-manual of Shakspeare. The instrument in question was shown, accredited in all directions, and my father rendered happy; when, without a thought of any thing further, I conceived myself amply recompensed in having been the instrument of producing so much felicity.

Let me now inquire of the reader whether he traces, to the above period, any great mental delinquency in my proceedings? Was I biassed by selfish motives, or could I be charged with any thing but the thoughtless impulse of a head-strong youth, under seventeen years of age, whose only aim was to afford pleasure to a parent? Falsehood, though trivial, is, however, the first step to crime; and although mine was not of a very heinous nature, the sequel will develop what important and injurious consequences may result from a first departure from veracity.

For some days this mortgage deed, purporting to be between Shakspeare, and one Michael Fraser and Elizabeth his wife, was inspected by crowds of antiquaries, and Shaksperian enthusiasts; when, on a sudden, the question was started, concerning where the deed had been found. I was, of course, appealed to; and never having once dreamed of such a question, it was on that occasion the first serious difficulty presented itself to my imagination. Fallacia alia aliam trudit. The tale resorted to was as simple as possible, namely: That I had formed an acquaintance with a gentleman of ancient family, possessed of a mass of deeds and papers relating to his ancestors, who, finding me very partial to the examination of old documents, had permitted me to inspect them; that shortly after commencing my search, the mortgage deed in question had fallen into my hands, which had been presented to me by the proprietor. I added, that the personage alluded to, well aware the name of Shakspeare must create a considerable sensation, and being a very retiring and diffident man, had bound me, by a solemn engagement, never to divulge his name. Such was the manner in which I accounted for becoming possessed of the deed, sincerely trusting that the matter would thenceforward remain buried in eternal oblivion. Your German writer of the marvellous would exclaim: “No, no! it was then too late: you had fallen into the demon’s snare—was spell-bound—within the vortex of his machinations, and incapable of extricating yourself from the impending fate that awaited you:” be this as it may, I was not permitted to continue passive. The late Honourable Mr. Byng, afterwards Lord Torrington; Sir Frederick Eden, Bart.; and a long string of persons, whose names it would be superfluous to annex, gave it as their decided opinions, that wheresover I had found the deed, there, no doubt, the mass of papers existed, which had been so long and vainly sought after by the numerous commentators upon Shakspeare. These assertions, incessantly dinned into my father’s ears, were retailed to me with increased vehemence. I was sometimes supplicated; at others, commanded to resume my search among my supposed friend’s papers; and not unfrequently taunted, as being an absolute idiot, for suffering such a brilliant opportunity to escape me. Thus circumstanced, I knew not how to act; and cursed the first precipitate measure I had adopted: while, at every meal, when I presented myself, the same alarum was rung in my ears, so that no alternative remained but to attempt something further, or be regarded in the light of a downright fool, not only by my father, but by the numerous personages who had inspected and placed confidence in the mortgage deed. My evil genius predominated: I penned a few letters, and “The Profession of Faith,” all of which passed muster; although, in many instances, the documents produced as two hundred years old, had not been fabricated many hours previous to their production. For a detailed account of all these forgeries, I refer the reader to my “Confessions,” before adverted to; having merely to add, that I ultimately announced the existence of a drama, being guided in this, as in former instances, by the same thoughtless impetuosity: for it will scarcely be credited, that, on hazarding such a bold statement, I literally had never essayed my pen at poetical composition, and had not penned one line of the play which I purposed producing, being no other than the present drama of Vortigern and Rowena. Prior to the completion of this piece, the fame of my various fabrications had resounded from one extremity of the kingdom to the other; and on the completion of the undertaking, strenuous applications were made by the late Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden Theatre, who, in order to possess the play, forwarded a carte blanche (by Mr. Wallace, father of the then highly-esteemed actress of that name) to Mr. Samuel Ireland, with which, had my father acquiesced, as that theatre was favoured by the King and the Court, there would have been great probability of its success: however, a long intimacy with the Sheridan and Linley families turned the scale in favour of Drury Lane, where it was subsequently represented. Prior to this period, however, the validity of the papers had begun to be questioned, the late Mr. Malone standing forth as generalissimo of the non-believers. Some pamphlets, pro and con, had also issued from the press; while the newspapers incessantly teemed with paragraphs, written on the spur of the moment, and dictated from the particular sentiments entertained as to the papers by their authors. Malone, in the interim, having collected his mass of documents intended to prove the whole a forgery, committed them to the press, under a hope that he should be able to publish his volumes before the representation of Vortigern: the bulkiness of his production, however, having defeated that object, he, on the day the piece was to be performed, issued a notice, to the effect that he had a work on the eve of publication, which would infallibly prove the manuscripts in Mr. Ireland’s possession mere fabrications, and warning the people not to be imposed upon by the play advertised for that night’s representation, as being from the pen of Shakspeare. My father having procured a copy of this notice, though late in the day, instantly forwarded to the press the following hand-bill, and distributed a vast quantity among the assembled multitudes then choaking up every avenue to Drury Lane Theatre:—

“Vortigern.

“A malevolent and impotent attack on the Shakspeare MSS. having appeared, on the eve of representation of the play of Vortigern, evidently intended to injure the interest of the proprietor of the MSS., Mr. Ireland feels it impossible, within the short space of time that intervenes between the publishing and the representation, to produce an answer to the most illiberal and unfounded assertions in Mr. Malone’s “Inquiry”; he is, therefore, induced to request, that the play of Vortigern may be heard with that candour that has ever distinguished a British audience.

“The Play is now at the Press, and will, in a very few days, be laid before the public.”

If, however, an active enemy was found in the person of Mr. Malone, another equally implacable, and enabled to strike a more deadly blow, as regarded the success of my play, appeared in the person of Mr. Kemble, then acting manager of Drury Lane Theatre; who, in that capacity, was of course empowered to direct his whole influence against the piece, of which he did not fail to take advantage, as will appear from my father’s preface subjoined, which accompanied the original edition of Vortigern. Indeed, so notorious was Mr. Kemble’s conduct, in opposition to the interests of the theatre, that, after the termination of the play, Mr. Sheridan, in the green-room, very unceremoniously gave Mr. Kemble to understand, “that he had nothing to do with his (Mr. Kemble’s) private opinions respecting the validity or spuriousness of the manuscripts; that he appeared there as a servant of the theatre, whose bounden duty it should have been to exert himself for the purpose of insuring success, instead of invidiously toiling to damn a production, which might have brought thousands to the treasury of that establishment.” To this address, delivered in my presence, Mr. Kemble uttered not one word in reply.

Six-and-thirty years have now transpired since the drama of Vortigern and Rowena was performed, (on Saturday, the second day of April, 1796). If may be worthy of remark, that the strenuous efforts of the acting manager, Mr. J. P. Kemble, were not wanting to procure its representation on the Friday night preceding, in order to pass upon the audience the compliment of Fools All! This was, however, overruled, by the decided opposition of my father; although he found it necessary to interpose the authority of Mr. Sheridan for that purpose. Finding himself thus foiled, in the grand attempt at producing Vortigern on April Fool night, that the after-piece might carry a sting in its tail, Mr. Kemble announced My Grandmother for the farce, intending that all the bearings of that production should be applied by the audience to the subject of the Shaksperian papers. This was not all: leagued with Malone, and the sworn opponents, in defiance of the duty he owed to the theatre, Mr. Kemble had recourse to every expedient prior to, as well as on the night of, representation, in order to crush the play; for which purpose he particularly selected the following line:—

“And when this solemn mockery is o’er,”

that having been the preconcerted signal when the opponents of the papers were to manifest their disapprobation. Having, in the course of his part, arrived at the anxiously expected line, he delivered it in an exceedingly pointed manner; when, of course, a deafening clamour reigned throughout one of the most crowded houses ever recollected in theatrical history, which lasted for several minutes. Upon a hearing being at length obtained, instead of taking up the following line of the speech in rotation, Mr. Kemble reiterated the above line with an expression the most pointedly sarcastic and acrimonious it is possible to conceive. The result was, from that moment so deafening became the uproar produced by conflicting applause and disapproval, that not one syllable more of the play was rendered intelligible. The speech, of which the above line forms a part, will be found towards the close of the second scene of act the fifth, being the last scene but one of the drama; prior to which, no hostility had been manifested. Indeed, so decided was the applause, that many of the performers appeared confident of the success of the play; among whom, in particular, was the late inimitable Mrs. Jordan, personating the character of Flavia in my drama, with whom I remained in close conversation during a considerable portion of the performance, that lady uniformly persisting in offering her congratulations on the success that awaited the drama, of which “I had been the fortunate discoverer.”—[How little did I then imagine, that the lapse of a few short years would behold me following that neglected, but unmatched Thalia of the British stage, to her last long home in the cemetery of St. Cloud; where her remains now moulder, with scarcely a memento to designate the spot that enshrouds them.]

Notwithstanding the pointed hostility manifested by Mr. Kemble, in every stage of this business, it would be the height of injustice not to mention the strenuous exertions, for the success of the piece, manifested by Messrs. Bensley, Barrymore, Caulfield, and King, with Mesdames Powel and Jordan. Those, however, who have any recollection of such walking automatons as Benson and Phillimore being made to figure in my tragedy, can form a shrewd surmise of what the acting manager intended should prove the result of the performance. Added to this, the late Mr. Dignum was purposely placed by Mr. Kemble in a subordinate part, wherein, speaking of the sounding of trumpets, he had to exclaim, “Let them bellow on!” which words were uttered with such a nasal and tin-kettle twang, that no muscles, save those of adamant, could have resisted the powerful incentive to laughter.

Having brought the subject of the representation of Vortigern to a close, I shall now enter upon that portion of my preface which comes closest to my own feelings; and if, in the progress of my remarks, I may at times appear somewhat instigated by a sentiment of vindictiveness, let me entreat the reader to commune with himself, and to inquire what would be the state of his mind, after suffering thirty-six years incessant persecution and obloquy, for the commission of an act intended only to please a parent, and which, in reality, has injured no one but its author, and that being he so fondly strove to gratify.

Some time after the appearance of Malone’s long expected “Investigation,” Mr. Chalmers published, first his “Apology for the Believers,” and then a “Supplemental Apology”; wherein, though advocating the untenable side of the question, he displayed a far greater depth of antiquarian research, and scholastic reasoning, than his opponent; in short, there is scarcely one position laid down by Malone, which is not most satisfactorily refuted by Chalmers. At the commencement of this warfare, as to whether the manuscripts were genuine or not, the state of my poor father’s mind was pitiable in the extreme; he as firmly crediting the originality of the papers, as I was aware of their fabrication.

For myself I can conscientiously assert, that this warfare affected me no further, than as creating uneasiness in the mind of my suffering parent: but when insinuations began to be directed against his character, which were ultimately converted into the following bonâ fide assertions—“That the youthful period of my life precluding all possibility of the papers being mine, the whole must of necessity have been fabricated by my father, who had made me the vehicle of introducing them to the public”—I must candidly confess the equanimity of my temper no longer remained unruffled. Never was a creature more basely calumniated, or subjected to more unmerited contumely. It is not because I am speaking of a parent, that I make this declaration; had Mr. Ireland been a mere acquaintance, it would be no more than my duty thus to exonerate, and once more proclaim aloud to the world his entire innocence. Not only was he a total stranger to every proceeding of mine, as regarded the composition of the papers; but, from principle, totally incapable of having even connived, much less have been himself the fabricator. There existed, in my father’s character, a marked tenacity respecting adherence to truth; and it was the thorough knowledge of his rigid principles on that head that long deterred me from making an ample confession of the fact, so much did I apprehend from the effects of his indignation, if made acquainted with the real nature of the whole transaction.

I had nearly forgotten to remark, that among other suppositions hazarded on the subject of concocting the forgery, some persons have been led to imagine, and still conceive, that the late George Steevens was my secret abettor, and gave me his assistance. Now, so remote was this from being the fact, that I never saw the commentator in question but once, and that after my producing the papers: this was in the shop of the late Mr. Richardson, printseller, then residing at the corner of Villiers Street, Strand.

Invariably, when descanting with persons on the subject of the papers, they have applauded the cheat, expressed a wish of having been capable of deceiving the world in a similar manner; and they have then uniformly concluded by upbraiding me for having avowed the fact. Never, indeed, should the world have been gratified by extorting from my lips one syllable approximating to a confession, had I not been urged by the imperious motives of rescuing my father’s character from unmerited obloquy; then I did come forward with the truth, having first abandoned the paternal roof, and relinquished a profession for which I was studying; and, with the wide world before me, and a host of the most implacable enemies at my back, ere my twentieth year, I entered upon the eventful pilgrimage of life, without a guide to direct my steps, or any means of existence, save those which might result from my own industry and perseverance.

Some time after this avowal, I forwarded two very humble apologetic letters to Mr. George Chalmers, who never deigned to reply; these were followed by various others, on the publication of my “Confessions” in 1805, addressed to the leading personages who had advocated the validity of the MSS.

All my efforts, however, proved of no avail; the same animosity was manifested towards me, by a phalanx styling themselves the rigid censors of literature, and the guardians of Shakspeare’s fame; consisting of such persons, for instance, as Malone, Kemble, Dr. Parr, Boaden, Waldron, with a string of etceteras, too tedious for enumeration. Would it be credited, that such men have proceeded to the ridiculous length of ranking my offence on a par with the forgery of a bank-bill; and, I am thoroughly convinced, would have felt infinite delight in witnessing my exit as a delinquent at the Old Bailey. If an untruth in literary matters were so heinous an offence, whence comes it that the late Sir Horace Walpole, afterwards Lord Orford, escaped the lash of reproof, for palming off his “Castle of Otranto” as the translation from an old Italian MS.? and why were not a long list of others, guilty of similar literary misdemeanours, dragged forth to public execration? No! the whole, except in the instance of poor Chatterton, to whose memory the world has since done justice, was reserved for my devoted head; every burthen was accumulated on my shoulders: this I have endured with stoicism, until I conceive my penance fully achieved; and when I witness the splendid example of Sir Walter Scott, whose repeated denials, even to Majesty itself, of the authorship of the so called Waverly Novels, have rather added to than detracted from his well-earned literary reputation, I trust that so youthful an infraction of the great principle of truth should not be too bitterly remembered, and that I may now stand acquitted before the grand ordeal of society.

Having nothing more to add on the general subject of the Shaksperian papers, I shall wind up this prefatory address by a few observations on the conduct of those, who, arrogating to themselves a dictatorship in regard to every thing connected with the literature of Shakspeare, have been my unceasing persecutors.

Among these may be mentioned, the deceased Dr. Parr, of Greek celebrity, whose death, instead of accumulating a fresh odor of sanctity around his fame, has tended to open men’s eyes, who now begin to find out, that the Doctor was not exactly that mighty phenomenon for which he had enjoyed the reputation, while living. A catalogue of this learned Theban’s books has been published, under the title of “Bibliotheca Parriana,” wherein the MS. opinions of the Doctor, as inserted in a multiplicity of works, are given to the public.

At p. 522 appears the following note from this scholastic, erudite, and Christian divine:

“Ireland’s (Samuel)” great and impudent forgery, called, “Miscellaneous Papers and Legal Instruments, under the Hand and Seal of William Shakespeare.” Folio, 1796.

“I am almost ashamed to insert this worthless and infamously trickish book. It is said to include the tragedy of King Lear, and a fragment of Hamlet. Ireland told a LIE, when he imputed to me the words which Joseph Warton used, the very morning I called on Ireland, and was inclined to admit the possibility of genuineness in his papers. In my subsequent conversation, I told him my change of opinion. But I thought it not worth while to dispute in print with a detected impostor.

“S. P.”

Here we have a sample of clerical politeness, mixed up with heartfelt ranklings, because it was impossible for the divine to deny that he had been a staunch believer in the MSS. and the dupe of a boy of seventeen.

It is true that it was Dr. Warton, instead of himself, as stated in error in my “Confessions,” who passed a most pompous eulogy on my Shakspeare’s Profession of Faith: but it so happens that I was present when Drs. Parr and Warton together inspected the papers; and it was on that memorable occasion that the latter, after the documents had been twice read by both of them, made use of the following words, in which Dr. Parr not only concurred, but himself pronounced panegyrics equally forcible: “Sir, we have many fine things in our church service, and our Litany abounds in beauties; but here, sir, here is a man who has distanced us all.” As to a subsequent interview, stated to have taken place with my father, it is a gross falsehood; and was merely incorporated in the above note to palliate, as much as possible, the Doctor’s want of accuracy, in having accorded the sanction of his name to my MSS. These, indeed, were pitiable subterfuges for a churchman to descend to, and altogether unbecoming a person of the Doctor’s erudition, and high standing in society.

So much for the dead:—now for a living opponent. On the present occasion I have the honor to introduce to the reader, James Boaden, Esq. than whom a more fitting sample could not be ushered upon the tapis, to bring up the burthen of my tale with eclat; and prove, in their fullest extent, the assertions so frequently repeated, of the implacable hatred, and unremitting vindictiveness, uniformly practised in regard to me.

This person was one of the earliest and most frequent visitors at the house of my father, in Norfolk Street, after my production of the MSS. had excited a considerable sensation in the world. He was, at that period, editor of the “Oracle” newspaper, and in such capacity welcomed by my father, with all that ingenuousness for which he rendered himself conspicuous. The papers were laid before Mr. Boaden, who not only verbally, but by letter to my father, and in paragraphs out of number, inserted in his diurnal, expressed a thorough conviction of their genuine stamp, not only from external but internal evidence: neither did the MSS. alone produce conviction; but, to use his own words, they excited “a tremor of the purest delight”; such persuasion of their excellence being retained for months, “making all scepticism ridiculous.” Yet this man of correct judgment ultimately discovers that the whole was an error in judgment, which he excuses in his letter to George Steevens, with this very terse remark: that “credulity is no disgrace,” and “strong enthusiasm eager to believe.” Now, I should like to ask any man, boasting the smallest pretensions to common sense, whether, if one of Mr. Boaden’s Poems, or one of the Psalms, as translated by Sternhold and Hopkins, was produced in the hand-writing of the period of Elizabeth, or printed by Didot, in his most superlative style, on wire wove, &c.; I should like, I say, to inquire, whether the apparent antiquity on the one hand, or the modern blazonry displayed on the other, could add one iota to the merits of the composition? and whether, in case any man, standing forward as a literary character, was to attach the epithet of sublime to the doggerel of Boaden or Sternhold, he would not be regarded as a consummate blockhead for his pains.

In p. 5 of a pamphlet, entitled A Comparative Review of the Opinions of Mr. Boaden, in the Years 1795 and 1796, we find as follows, in reference to the subject of my papers:—

“Mr. Boaden is very liberal in acknowledging in his pamphlet, (what indeed he could not deny, because it would have remained recorded against him in his newspapers,) that he was, at first, strongly affected in favor of the MSS.; neither does he deny that he admitted their style, diction, and poetical spirit; but he leaves us to discover by what new light, by what cogency of argument, that which was once distinguished for “the utmost delicacy of passion and poetical spirit,” became afterwards “worthy of no other notice than that of being metrically smooth”; and, that which was “rationally pious and grandly expressed,” became “execrable jargon,” the “puerile quaintness and idiomatic poverty of a methodist rhapsody.” However, to enter into a detail respecting the numerous tergiversations of this writer would extend my Preface beyond all reasonable bounds; I, therefore, refer the reader to my “Confessions,” p. 176, &c. for a further elucidation of the consistency displayed by J. Boaden, Esq. during his literary interference at the period in question.”

I shall now suffer some six and twenty years to roll on, and again introduce the above personage to my reader’s notice, under the following circumstances. Between seven and eight years back, I was engaged in preparing a MS. for Mr. Triphook, then residing in Bond-street; at which period, it so occurred, that James Boaden, Esq. was occupied in forwarding through the press, his “Inquiry into the Authenticity of the various Pictures and Prints of Shakspeare,” of which work Mr. Triphook was also the publisher. During my frequent attendances in Bond-street, it is not surprising that I should encounter Mr. Boaden with feelings, heaven knows! widely different from those whereby that gentleman was actuated. Conceiving, however, in the frankness of my heart, that upwards of a quarter of a century must have cancelled all recollections of the past, and allayed every latent animosity, I spoke to Mr. Boaden without indulging a rancorous thought, notwithstanding the provocations received at his hands, whensoever he had found an opportunity of abusing me. After several casual meetings of this description in Mr. Triphook’s shop, fully aware of the work whereon Mr. Boaden was then occupied, I offered to furnish, through Mr. Triphook, an account of a variety of spurious oil paintings and miniatures of Shakspeare, that have been sent into the world; which MS. I remitted to Mr. Triphook, who handed the same to Mr. Boaden. The work of the latter gentleman, at length, appeared; but he had scrupulously avoided making use of my MS. thus gratuitously tendered; and for this plain reason: it would have debarred him from the superlative gratification of venting anew his malice against me; which he has done in different parts of the said work, but more particularly in the opening Preface, at the first and second pages of which appears as follows:—

“A period of my life, of something more than forty years, has been devoted to the study of Shakspeare’s works; and, on some outrageous liberties which, in the year 1796, were taken with his name, I had the honour to address a letter to the late George Steevens, Esq., which brought before the public the first detector of an impudent and very unskilful forgery. Upon that occasion, the great Commentator expressed a very agreeable opinion of my little work, by saying with his accustomed point: “Sir, you have very fairly gibbeted the culprit, and Mr. Malone will take him down and dissect him;”—A TASK (adds Mr. Boaden) PERFORMED BY HIM WITH AN ANATOMICAL MINUTENESS, WHICH LEFT NOT THE SMALLEST NERVE OF THAT BODY OF FRAUD UNEXPOSED TO THE PUBLIC EYE.”

Such was the charitable recompense, for a kindness tendered to a man, who, like myself, I conceived incapable of hoarding up malice and hatred for such a series of years; but, alas! beings of this description, I have had, like blood-hounds at my heels, goading me to the very brink of destruction. In regard to Mr. Boaden’s work, on the subject of the genuine portraits of our Bard, I think I may with veracity state, that had the writer inserted my MS. respecting the forged resemblances of the poet, that portion of the work would have proved by far the most entertaining part of his production, which has been refuted, in many parts, by Mr. Wyville; who, without possessing any of the boasted Greek and Latin of Mr. Boaden, or indeed a proper knowledge of English grammar, has proved the former writer altogether incompetent to discuss the comparative merits of oil paintings or engravings. The engravings illustrative of Mr. Boaden’s book, furnished by Mr. Triphook, constitute the only worth of that volume, which, from the publishing price, has fallen two-thirds in value, being now bought for the sake of the portraits it contains. Another of this book-maker’s lucubrations, is the life of his divinity the late J. P. Kemble, two volumes 8vo.; who, if we were to take the writer’s ipse dixit, was faultless as a man, and in the histrionic walk, something super-human. Now we happen to know somewhat concerning John Philip, as well as Mr. Boaden; and had it fallen to our lot to chronicle his sayings and doings, we should have paid a little more attention to that very necessary ingredient in biographical writing, called veracity; that is to say, we should have incorporated the sombre and shadowy tints, in colouring the picture, and should not have pourtrayed John Philip, like a Chinese limner—all whiteness. We have known of such things, as theatrical Bacchanalian orgies, held in taverns under the Piazzas, when the bottle has circulated, until

“The grey-eyed morn peep’d o’er the eastern sky”:

at which carousals, great John Philip has sallied forth, vaulted the standings near the Finish, (where the men and women porters were accustomed to pitch their loads,) and from such exalted station, mine hero, has harangued the matinal multitude of the garden, with pithy speeches, to their great edification. We have equally heard of Tarquin strides behind the scenes, which gave rise to the dreadful:—“Whereas, I, John Philip,” &c.—all facts of such a tendency however, are expunged from the faithful biography of Mr. Boaden: who resolutely determined that the world should have enough of the family, has since eked out another pair of ponderous tomes, purporting to be the life of Mrs. Siddons; wherein we will venture to assert, there are topics introduced, having no more reference to that lady, than there exists an affinity between Mr. Boaden and the milk of human charity. One word more concerning this personage, and we close our labour. Previous to the publication of his volume, before adverted to, respecting the portraits of Shakspeare, and daring my casual intercourse with Mr. Boaden at Mr. Triphook’s, we one day walked out together, and arrived opposite the end of Buckingham-street, in the Adelphi. The subject of our conversation had been Shakspeare and my fabrications, when, on a sudden, pausing, my pompous companion, having summoned up a look of the mightiest import, thus addressed me:—“You must be aware, sir, of the enormous crime you committed against the divinity of Shakspeare. Why, the act, sir, was nothing short of sacrilege; it was precisely the same thing as taking the holy chalice from the altar, and * * * * * * * therein!!!!”

There is a point in comparison, which renders bathos mere foolery. Comment is unnecessary; but there was something so preposterously ridiculous in the idea of assimilating my attempt to imitate Shakspeare, and the violation of the sacred mysteries of the altar, that had I raised my eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Boaden, I could not have repressed the burst of laughter, which then struggled for vent.

To hear an aged, walking mass of mortality, utter such a sample of mingled pedantry and folly, has left such an indelible impression upon my mind, that I never pass the spot in question, without a sentiment of pity, on recalling the ravings of a self-created expounder of Shakspeare, dwindled into second childhood.

I shall now close this Preface, which has already exceeded its limits, with two simple comments: If my productions were such miserable trash, as Mr. Boaden and his coadjutors asserted, (and, heaven knows! I have never claimed any great merit for their production,) what becomes of the intellects of those who stamped them, in many respects, worthy the Bard of Avon? And supposing the latter assertion could be, in the very smallest degree, correct, to what can be ascribed the malignity with which I have been pursued, but to an ignoble and dastardly sentiment of envy, nurtured in the bosoms of those, who were the dupes of a stripling in years, and a total novice in the paths of literature?

I cannot wind up the present Address, without testifying the heartfelt gratitude I feel, in avowing, that the candour of the present generation, so far from hunting me down, on account of this error of my youth, is willing to allow every credit that may be attachable to me, on the score of talent, however mediocre; at the same time, I claim from the public fiat, an acquittal of the only charge that could have been urged against me,—namely, a preorganized plan of fraud, under a base and sordid hope of pecuniary profit, instead of that most enviable of all rewards, which I had fallaciously hoped to ensure—the permanent gratification of beholding a father happy.

As few alterations as possible, have been made from the Play as published in 1799, and those with a view to restore the original text.

W. H. IRELAND.

PREFACE

TO THE EDITION OF 1799, BY MR. SAMUEL IRELAND.

It is now near three years since the Play, which the following sheets present to the public, was represented at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. The fate which it underwent, and the decision of the audience, are well known. Notwithstanding that decision, the Editor has, at length, agreeably to his promise made at the time of that representation, again laid it before the public; which, if it exposes it to the test of a more accurate criticism, will give it the opportunity of a more unbiassed and temperate examination.

They who are at all conversant with dramatic concerns, must know that the opinion of large assemblies, promiscuously composed of all orders and classes, must depend on a variety of circumstances, local, temporary, and accidental.

Where no stronger or worse motives interfere, fashion and caprice too often give the direction; but spleen and interest are made more powerful agents; and by their industry and activity, even the master-puppet, be he in sock or buskin, may be gained, and the public may be too easily and unwarily led by premature and precipitate conclusions.

No man who recollects what was said and written in the public prints concerning this piece, on the eve of its representation, and the ludicrous manner in which the principal character was sustained, can deny, that the Editor has a right to complain of the most illiberal and injurious treatment.

Every undue stratagem, and every mean and petty artifice, was resorted to within doors and without, to prejudice the public mind; and one more deeply interested than had then, or has yet appeared, though a professed trader on the subject of Shakspeare, on the day before the representation, under the title of “An Enquiry into the Authenticity of certain miscellaneous Papers, &c. &c.” with this view, and the further expectation of helping off a few copies, sent into the world a volume long before promised, and long since forgotten.

This mass of dulness and self-conceit, consisting of about 430 pages, established nothing; and was built on principles (if it is not an abuse to apply to such trash, a term so respectable) that could not possibly establish any thing. In every one of the instances which, with such a weak and overweening confidence, he so very idly brought forward, he has been exposed; and in some of them has been himself the author and detector of his own childishness, incapacity and ignorance.

Neither the index-lore, or the alphabetical, lexicographical labours of this sagacious discoverer, or his congenial followers or associates, nor any declaration since made from a quarter once domestic to the Editor, through which something like genuine information might naturally have been expected, can induce him to believe that great part of the mass of papers in his possession are the fabrication of any individual, or set of men of the present day.

A fruitless expectation, that time, the discoverer of truth, might ere this have withdrawn that veil of mystery which yet involves this transaction, has alone given occasion to delay this publication. The Editor had been happy to have been able to have penetrated it; and to have assigned to its proper owner each fragment and each whole.

As to the merits or demerits of the Play now before the public, the Editor does not in the smallest degree consider himself responsible any where, or in any way. He sold the piece with “all its imperfections on its head,” after various cool and deliberate readings, and stated candidly all he had been told relative to it; all that, which, from various circumstances, he had at that time no reason to doubt or discredit.

After the Play was contracted for, some alterations were deemed necessary to fit it for representation. It was much too long, and consequently many passages were expunged; and, in one historical fact, (thought too gross for the public ear, viz. the incestuous passion of the king towards his daughter,) it underwent some further alterations; but, excepting these particulars, it stands nearly as in the original.

In this state it was delivered to the theatre, with a request, or rather entreaty, that all further alteration, deemed necessary, should be made by the acting manager, or any other person competent to the business: to this request he received the following official answer from Mr. Kemble:—“That the play would be acted faithfully from the copy sent to the theatre”; and it was accordingly acted, literally, from the manuscript delivered to the house. This conduct was, as the Editor believes, unprecedented in the management of a theatre; and must warrant him in concluding, that, in the judgment of the acting manager, the play wanted no aid or alteration.

Be these matters as they may, this Piece is laid before the public, with such interpolations by the Editor, as he presumes it was the duty of the acting manager to have made previous to its representation.

The lines printed within the inverted commas were not in the playhouse copy, and consequently were not spoken.

The Editor feels, and here begs leave to acknowledge, his obligations to his friend, William Linley, Esq., for his skill in composing the three songs in this Piece, in which he is universally allowed to have shown much taste and judgment; he likewise professes himself much indebted to Mrs. Jordan and Mrs. Powell, for their very spirited exertions and excellent acting on this occasion; and could he, with truth or justice, make the smallest acknowledgment to Mr. Kemble, and his fellow tragedian, Mr. Phillimore, he has little doubt but that, whoever may have been the author of the piece, it might still have been received, and might have promoted the interests of the theatre.

Norfolk Street, Strand, 1799.

PROLOGUE

INTENDED FOR VORTIGERN.

WRITTEN BY JAMES HENRY PYE, ESQ. P.L.

The cause, with learn’d investigation fraught,

Behold, at length, to this tribunal brought:

No fraud your penetrating eyes can cheat,

None here can Shakspeare’s writing counterfeit.

As well the taper’s base, unlustrous ray,

Might strive to emulate the orb of day,

As modern bards, whom venal hopes inspire,

Can catch one spark of his celestial fire.

If in our scenes your eyes delighted find

Marks that denote the mighty master’s mind;

If at his words, the tears of pity flow,

Your breasts with horror thrill, with rapture glow;

If on your harrow’d souls impress’d you feel

The stamp of nature’s uncontested seal;—

Demand no other proof, nor idly pore

O’er mouldy manuscripts of ancient lore,

To see if every tawny line display

The genuine ink of fam’d Eliza’s day:

Nor strive with curious industry to know

How poets spelt two centuries ago.

But if these proofs should fail; if in the strain

You seek the drama’s awful sire in vain,

Yet in our ancient legend should you trace

Truth’s genuine features, tho’ of humbler grace,

Condemn not rashly. O’er the forest glade,

Tho’ the oak spread no patriarchal shade,

Yet may a shrub of no unlovely green

With vivid foliage deck the sylvan scene;

Some tuneful notes the vocal woodlands fill,

And sooth the ear, tho’ Philomel be still.

Then each extraneous matter laid aside,

By its own merit be our drama tried.

Forget the prejudice of rigid art,

To read the code of nature in the heart;

Consult her laws, from partial favour free,

And give as they decide, your just decree.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY SIR JAMES BLAND BURGESS, BART.

SPOKEN BY MR. WHITFIELD.

No common cause your verdict now demands,

Before the court immortal Shakspeare stands;

That mighty master of the human soul,

Who rules the passions, and with strong control

Thro’ every turning of the changeful heart

Directs his course sublime, and leads his powerful art.

When on his birth propitious nature smil’d,

And hung transported o’er her favourite child;

While on his head her choicest gifts she shower’d,

And o’er his mind her inspiration pour’d:—

“Proceed,” she cried, “the high decree fulfil!

“’Tis thine to rule, with magic sway, the will;

“On fancy’s wing to stretch o’er boundless space,

“And all creation’s varied works to trace;

“’Tis thine each flitting phantom to pursue,

“Each hidden power of verse to bring to view,

“To shed o’er British taste celestial day,

“And reign o’er Genius with unrivall’d sway.”

Such was the high behest—the sacred choice

Long has been sanction’d by our candid voice:

The favour’d relics of your Shakspeare’s hand,

Unrivall’d, and inimitable, stand.

If hope of fame some modern bards has led

To try the path where Shakspeare wont to tread;

If, with presumptuous wing, they dar’d aspire

To catch some portion of his sacred fire,—

Your critic pow’rs the vain attempt repell’d,

The flimsy vapour, by your breath dispell’d,

Expos’d the trembling culprit to your sight,

While Shakspeare’s radiance shone with doubled light.

From deep oblivion snatch’d, this play appears:

It claims respect, since Shakspeare’s name it bears;

That name, the source of wonder and delight,

To a fair hearing has at least a right.

We ask no more—with you the judgment lies;

No forgeries escape your piercing eyes!

Unbiass’d, then, pronounce your dread decree,

Alike from prejudice and favour free.

If, the fierce ordeal pass’d, you chance to find

Rich sterling ore, tho’ rude and unrefin’d,

Stamp it your own; assert your poet’s fame,

And add, fresh wreaths to Shakspeare’s honour’d name.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ, 1796.

Barons, Officers, Guards, &c. &c.

VORTIGERN.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—A LARGE HALL.

Discovers Constantius, Vortigern, Wortimerus, Catagrinus, Pascentius, and Attendants.

Con. Good Vortigern! as peace doth bless our isle,

And the loud din of war no more affrights us,

And as my soul hath plac’d thee next herself,

’Tis our desire that thou deny’st us not

That, which anon we crave thee to accept;

For though most weighty be the proffer’d task,

We trust thy goodness will the toil accept,

Since we have always found thee kind by nature;

And, as the pelican, e’en with thy blood,

Ready to succour and relieve.

Vor. Most gracious sov’reign! to command is thine;

And, as a subject, mine is to obey.

Con. Such was the answer we did here expect,

And farther now we shall explain our meaning:—

As frozen age we find doth fast approach,

And state affairs lie heavy with ourself,

To thee one half our pow’r we here resign,

That due reward may pace with thy great labour.

To this our proposition, what reply?

Vor. Oh! my most noble, good, and bounteous lord,

These honours are indeed so great, so weighty,

I fear, least, like a garment too confin’d,

They awkwardly should press upon the wearer;

Therefore, my gracious lord, let one more worthy,

I do beseech thee, bear them.

Con. Nay, nay! this thy excuse will not suffice

E’en now we do await thy full consent;

And, that more speedily we may conclude,

We do require of thee, thou here shouldst sign

This deed prepar’d, by which thou wilt become—ourself conjoin’d—

Sov’reign of this our realm.

Vor. I shall, my lord, obey your high command.

[Signs the paper.

Con. Anon, we shall await thee at our palace.

[Exit Constantius.

Vor. Fortune, I thank thee!

Now is the cup of my ambition full!

And, by the rising tempest in my blood,

I feel the fast approach of greatness, which,

E’en like a peasant, stoops for my acceptance.

Yet hold: O! conscience, how is’t with thee?

Why dost thou whisper? should I heed thee now,

My fabric crumbles, and must fall to nought?

Come, then, thou soft, thou double-fac’d deceit!

Come, fawning flattery! silence-sealing murder!

Attend me quick, and prompt me to the deed!

What! jointly wear the crown? No! I will all!

And that my purpose soon may find its end,

This, my good king, must I, unmannerly,

Push from his seat, and fill myself the chair.—

Welcome thou glittering mark of royalty!

And with thy pleasing, yet oppressive weight,

Encircle fast this my determin’d brow.

Yet soft: ere I proceed, let caution guide me;

For though the trunk and body of the tree

Be thus within my gripe, still do I fear

Those boughs which stand so near and close allied,

That will, ere long, yield seeds for dire revenge.

Then since my soul e’en murder must commit,

To gratify my thirst for royalty,

Why should I play the child; or, like a niggard,

By sparing, mar and damn my cause for ever?

No! as the blow strikes one, all three must fall!

Then shall I, giant-like, and void of dread,

Uprear my royal and encircled brow,

And, in the face of the Omnipotent,

Bid bold defiance.—

This my determination, then, shall be,

So firm as adamant the end I’ll see.

SCENE II.—A CHAMBER IN VORTIGERN’S PALACE.

Enter Edmunda and Flavia.

Fla. “My dearest mother! why let watery grief,

“Like a corroding and slow malady,

“Nip thus the fairest and most beauteous form

“That bounteous nature, in her happiest mood,

“E’er fram’d in mould celestial to grace

“This nether world?”—Oh! my beloved mother!

Turn, turn those tear-worn eyes, and let one smile,

One cheering look of sweet serenity,

Beam forth to comfort my afflicted soul!

Edm. Oh! heavens! my gentle Flavia, would I could!

But this corroding, pensive melancholy,

Most venom-like, destroys its nourisher.

Oh! Vortigern, my lov’d, once loving husband,

Why rend this bursting heart with cold disdain?

E’en the poor culprit, dragg’d before his judge,

May boldly plead his cause; but I, alas!

Most innocent and ignorant of fault,

Must bear the weight of judgment.

Enter Pascentius.

Fla. What news of fav’ring import, dearest brother,

Does this thine eager joy forebode?

Pas. Oh! I have tidings I would fain make known;

Yet are they of such wondrous magnitude,

Scarce can I give them utterance.

Edm. Oh! speak, my child! my dear Pascentius, speak;

For much thy mother consolation needs.

Pas. The King, then, madam, in his royal bounty,

Hath, jointly with himself, conferr’d the sway

Of this our mighty kingdom, on my father.

Edm. Now wo, indeed, hath made its master-piece!

Thou fell ambition! thou art mine enemy:

Thy idle dreams have forc’d my husband from me;

Thy honey’d visions have depriv’d my soul

Of that alone which made life worth retaining.

Yes, thou art now, alas! become a flower,

That, by the radiance of the sun, is parch’d,

And, lacking drops of succour, droops and dies.

Enter Fool, whimsically attired, with his bells and ladle.

Pas. Whither so fast, good Fool?

Fool. Good Fool, say’st thou! Marry, these are sweet words, that do not often fall to our lot; but let me tell you, good master, fools have excellent wits, and those that ha’ none will gladly go flatter, lest the fool’s folly should make them still more foolish.

Pas. But, prithee, tell us what is thine affair?

Fool. Oh! my affair is weighty indeed, being burthened with the speech o’ royalty.

Pas. And wherefore so!

Fool. I prithee, stay thy patience but awhile, and I will tell thee: thou dost expect nought from the Fool but folly; but from a king thou wouldst a cunning speech.

Pas. And is’t not so?

Fool. Oh no! by my troth, our good sovereign hath unto my noble master betrayed great lack of policy.

Pas. How so?

Fool. Why, your wise man will tell you, the crown doth gall the wearer; but, marry, I will show myself the fool indeed; for I do say the half oft pinches more than the whole.

Pas. Thou wouldst be witty, Fool!

Fool. Marry, say not I would be, but that I am; for, let me tell you, the wit of your Fool is true wit: being solely his own, no man coveting it; whereas, that of your wise man comes from books, and from those who went before. But wherefore should I thus lose wind? My wit, being folly, is not by your wise man understood; therefore, I’ll to the purpose. My master is made half king, and sends me, his Mercury, to tell your gentle ladyship his honour’s pleasure.

Edm. Prithee, be brief, and speak thine errand quickly.

Fool. An’t please you, sweetest mistress, this he wills: that, in your best attire, you straight attend to honor him and th’ other half of the crown.

Edm. We shall be ready at command.