His infant thought, are not unravelled.
We have been happy infants as thou art;
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 part of 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.