| [PREFACE.] |
| [PROLOGUE.] |
| [DRAMATIS PERSONÆ, 1796.] |
| [ACT I.] |
| [ACT II.] |
| [ACT III.] |
| [ACT IV.] |
| [ACT V.] |
| [EPILOGUE.] |
| [FOOTNOTES.] |
| [Transcriber’s Notes] |
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.