Samuel William Henry Ireland, was born in London in 1777, the son of a dealer in old books and prints. Articled at seventeen to a London conveyancer, he was tempted by his father’s unintelligent enthusiasm for Shakespeare to forge an autograph of the poet on a carefully-copied old lease. His audacity grew with the credulity of his dupes, and ere long locks of hair, private letters, annotated books, &c., were plentifully produced. Boswell, Warton, Dr. Parr, and hundreds more came, saw, and believed; but those like Malone, really qualified to judge, denounced the imposture. Ireland now produced a deed of Shakespeare’s bequeathing his books and papers to a William-Henrye Irelaunde, an assumed ancestor. Next a new historical play entitled “Vortigern” was announced, and produced by Sheridan at Drury Lane, 2d April 1796. Vapid and un-Shakespearian, it was damned at once; and this nipped in the bud a projected series of historical plays. The uneasiness of Ireland’s father at length getting the better of his credulity, the young man was forced to confess; he published a statement in 1796, and expanded it in his “Confessions” (1805). He soon sank into poverty, eking out a living as a bookseller’s hack till his death, 17th April 1835. He produced a dozen poems, four or five novels, and ten or more biographical and miscellaneous compilations.

Forgeries

  In the year 1796 I gave to the world a concise pamphlet, in which I avowed myself the fabricator of the manuscripts attributed by me to Shakspeare. The papers themselves, and the circumstances attending their production, had so highly excited the public curiosity that the whole edition was disposed of in a few hours: and so great has since been the eagerness to procure a copy that, though originally published at one shilling, a single impression has been sold, in a public auction-room, at the extravagant price of a guinea. This fact was known to many of my friends, who in consequence have often expressed surprise that I did not republish the pamphlet, and have frequently importuned me to do so: but the revival of the subject, I conceived, might rather tend to injure than benefit me as a literary character: besides, I had already suffered much from the agitation of the question, and had reason to wish it might for ever rest in peace.

  When there was considerable fermentation in the literary world on the subject of the supposed Shakspeare Manuscripts, and many of the most distinguished individuals had visited Mr. Ireland’s house to inspect them, Porson, accompanied by a friend, went also. Many persons had been so imposed upon as to be induced to subscribe their names to a form, previously drawn up, avowing their belief in the authenticity of the papers exhibited. Porson was called upon to do so likewise. “No,” replied the Professor, “I am always very reluctant in subscribing my name, and more particularly to articles of faith.”

  Several other novels, some poems, and attempts at satire, proceeded from the pen of Ireland; but they are unworthy of notice; and the last thirty years of the life of this industrious but unprincipled littérateur were passed in obscurity and poverty.

  Was a liar and a solicitor’s clerk, so versatile and accomplished that we cannot always believe him, even when he is narrating the tale of his own iniquities. The temporary but wide and turbulent success of the Ireland forgeries suggests the disagreeable reflection that criticism and learning are (or a hundred years ago were) worth very little as literary touchstones. A polished and learned society, a society devoted to Shakespeare and to the stage, was taken in by a boy of eighteen. Young Ireland not only palmed off his sham documents, most makeshift imitations of the antique, but even his ridiculous verse on the experts. James Boswell went down on his knees and thanked Heaven for the sight of them, and feeling thirsty after these devotions, drank hot brandy and water. Dr. Parr was as readily gulled, and probably the experts, like Malone, who held aloof, were as much influenced by jealousy as by science. The whole story of young Ireland’s forgeries is not only too long to be told here, but forms the topic of a novel (“The Talk of the Town”) by Mr. James Payn. The frauds in his hands lose neither their humour nor their complicated interest of plot.