WILLIAM HENRY IRELAND was 16 years old and really depressed.
It was 1793 and he had recently been kicked out of school in London, England, for being (in the words of his principal) “incorrigibly stupid.” He was supposed to be studying law, but he hated the subject—he had a passion for books and writing poetry.
To make matters worse, his father, Samuel Ireland, had agreed with the principal. He’d spent a lot of money keeping William in school, hoping his son would bring the family some class by becoming a rich lawyer. But William just wouldn’t cooperate.
Being kicked out of school was the last straw. Samuel Ireland decided to forget about further schooling for William, and apprenticed him to a local lawyer as a lowly clerk.
For William, that really hurt. Not just the boring job, sitting all boring day in a dusty cubbyhole filing boring law documents—no, it was his father’s cruel putdown as well. For reasons William just couldn’t understand, his father had always treated him like a hopeless dolt. And this despite the fact that William really admired his father, and always tried his best to please him.
There were two sore points between William and his father, and one of them always made William despair because there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Often when his parents were fighting, his father hinted that his mother had been unfaithful and that William wasn’t really his son. William didn’t think this was true—his mother denied it—but his father was obviously not convinced. He seemed to feel that as a result of this public shame, his own career as a bookseller with a shop that barely paid the bills was somehow William’s fault.
The other point was William’s poetry. You would have thought that a man who sold books and absolutely adored William Shakespeare (Samuel called him “The Immortal Bard”) would appreciate a son who wrote poetry. But once again, no luck. Samuel had looked at William’s verses once or twice, but had tossed them aside. “Real poetry requires genius,” he’d said. “Real genius. Now Shakespeare—there’s true genius!”
Samuel Ireland was so obsessed with William Shakespeare that he made his family listen to readings from Shakespeare’s plays and poems every single evening after dinner. He’d even made a pilgrimage to Stratford-on-Avon, Shakespeare’s birthplace, where he’d bought a chair and a purse that were supposed to have belonged to Shakespeare.
William was pretty sure they were just stupid fakes.
Like many literary men of his time, Samuel Ireland was puzzled about why so little was known about Shakespeare’s life, and why hardly any documents featuring his signature or handwriting had ever been found. It was one of the big mysteries surrounding William Shakespeare. How could a man become so famous yet leave behind so little proof of his everyday life? There were even some scholars who explained this by claiming that Shakespeare had never existed at all—that his plays had been written by someone who’d just used “William Shakespeare” as a pen name.
Samuel Ireland thought that was rubbish. He was sure there was a more logical explanation. He suspected that someone had simply collected all of Shakespeare’s papers long before the rest of the world realized how valuable they would become, and was now waiting for the right moment to cash in. “I’d give my entire book collection for just one signature of The Immortal Bard!” he kept telling anyone who would listen.
He said it so often that it eventually put an idea into William’s head.
What if he could make his father’s dream come true?
At work, William handled a lot of old documents—land deeds, mortgage certificates, and court records. He could also get his hands on some aged parchment—the endpapers in old lawbooks, or empty pages in old court documents.
It wasn’t hard to imagine how much happier his relationship with his father might become if he could put these materials to some inspired use.
William borrowed a copy of Steven’s Shakespeare, a collection of Shakespeare’s works that contained a printed version of William Shakespeare’s signature. On an afternoon when he was alone in the office—fortunately, his office wasn’t very busy and he was often alone—he studied the signature carefully.
Hmm. That didn’t look so hard.
He practiced the signature again and again, until he’d filled several pages with it. It wasn’t long before it began to look quite convincing.
William took a deep breath and decided to go for it.
He consulted a printer’s apprentice on what to mix into ordinary ink to make it look more aged. He rummaged around and found a 17th-century land title deed to use as a model. Then he slowly, carefully wrote out a deed for some land near London’s Globe Theatre, where Shakespeare’s plays had been performed. He listed Shakespeare as the buyer and a Michael Fraser as the seller. He signed Shakespeare’s name with his right hand, Fraser’s with his left, then pressed a wax seal on the parchment.
Of course, he still needed a good story to make his “discovery” believable. For this, he invented a “Mr. H.” He told his father that Mr. H. was a client for whom he’d managed to find a long-lost, very important legal document. In gratitude, the man had allowed him to dig through an old chest full of ancient papers in his attic and take anything he wanted. Mr. H.’s only condition had been to make William swear never to reveal his real name.
Just as William had hoped, Samuel Ireland was ecstatic—especially after he’d shown the document to another bookseller who’d pronounced it genuine. Suddenly, he looked at his son with new eyes. Maybe he had underestimated the boy. Here was evidence of both intelligence and enterprise! What an inspired idea it had been to apprentice him to a lawyer.
And this Mr. H. had a whole chestful of ancient documents in his attic?
“Yes, father.” William could already hear the next question coming, but he was so pleased with his father’s response that he didn’t care.
“And might there be other documents involving Shakespeare in that chest? Documents that could throw even more light on the life of The Immortal Bard?”
His father’s delight was making William feel giddy and reckless. Yes, he agreed, there might be other documents. He’d have another look at the earliest possible opportunity.
And so, during the following two years, William kept “finding” more and more documents of the sort his father prized.
A letter addressed to William Shakespeare relating to the land deed.
A receipt from the actor John Heminge for money received from William Shakespeare.
Then an entire letter in Shakespeare’s own handwriting to the Earl of Southampton, thanking him for his support and patronage.
Finally—because William had often heard his Protestant father worry that Shakespeare might have been a Catholic, and Samuel hated Catholics—he found a “Confession of Faith” in Shakespeare’s own handwriting, apparently written shortly before his death, confirming his allegiance to the Protestant Church of England.
Samuel Ireland thought this was marvelous, splendid—magnificent beyond belief. After receiving Shakespeare’s “Confession of Faith,” he even sent invitations to a number of famous writers and scholars, offering them the chance to examine his treasures for themselves. These included the biographer James Boswell, the scholar and clergyman Reverend Samuel Parr, and England’s poet laureate Henry James Pye.
To the Irelands’ delight, they all accepted. As they trooped into his family’s modest home, William could clearly see that his family’s status was rising. Everyone expressed their congratulations in the most glowing terms. When Samuel brought out the documents, there was a breathless silence. Each man examined the bundle in turn.
It took them only a short time to pronounce everything authentic. In fact, James Boswell was so moved by Shakespeare’s “Confession of Faith” that he knelt and actually kissed the parchment, saying, “Thank God I have lived to see this page!”
William never forgot that night—that amazing night when three of England’s most famous scholars and writers sat right there in his own living room, praising his work without even realizing it. Yes, he’d always known he wasn’t “incorrigibly stupid”—but maybe he was actually discovering that the very opposite was true! After all, people said that Shakespeare hadn’t been a particularly first-rate student—and Shakespeare hadn’t even been studying law.
Was the opposite of “incorrigibly stupid” something like “real genius”?
William decided to test his theory a little more.
He told his father that Mr. H. had given him permission to search beyond the old chest in his attic. He was now allowed to explore his entire house.
And sure enough, over the next half year a whole new bonanza of Shakespearean treasures appeared. A love poem from Shakespeare to his future wife, Anne Hathaway. Some books from Shakespeare’s personal library, with his handwritten notations in the margins. Then a startling discovery: a letter to Shakespeare from Queen Elizabeth I herself, expressing her appreciation of his literary achievements.
Samuel Ireland was almost beside himself with glee. This was exactly as he’d predicted! Hadn’t he said that sooner or later the Bard’s papers would appear?
William laughed happily. Life could be very good.
Mind you, life could also be tricky. At work, William was having more and more trouble keeping his growing forging operation under wraps. At first, before he’d known much about how to do it, he’d worked with a single bottle of doctored ink and any old kind of parchment. He’d learned a lot since then. By now, when he really got going, the place looked like a chemistry lab. Bottles of inks, acids, emulsifiers, and watercolors; paintbrushes, boxfuls of pens, and dozens of nibs; many different kinds of paper and parchment; candles, sealing wax, ribbons, and erasing rubber. Fortunately, his employer rarely came in before noon, but there had been a few scary moments.
Once another clerk from a nearby law office had barged in unexpectedly and William had had to scramble desperately to explain his activities—he’d told the boy he was just “restoring” an old collection of poetry.
But his friend Robert Talbot, who had dropped by one day without warning, hadn’t believed the explanation. “What are you really doing, William?” he had grinned. William had eventually had to confess and swear Robert to secrecy.
Samuel Ireland now made William a startling proposal. He felt that these magnificent treasures had to be shared with the entire world. The Irelands couldn’t just keep them selfishly for themselves. So he proposed they publish the entire collection under the title Miscellaneous Papers and Legal Instruments under the Hand and Seal of William Shakespeare. In the meantime, he would display the collection with great fanfare in his bookshop. Was William agreeable to that?
William certainly was.
Both the news and the collection attracted instant public attention. A steady stream of customers, both scholars and ordinary folk, came around to examine William’s extraordinary finds. The shop was full from morning till night. Even the Prince of Wales stopped by to have a look. Samuel couldn’t stop talking about it for days.
Filled with a growing confidence, and lulled by the fact that nobody was challenging his forgeries, William now decided to tackle the plays themselves. Early in 1795, once his father had published the Miscellaneous Papers, William announced that he had found the original manuscripts of King Lear and parts of Hamlet—written in Shakespeare’s own handwriting!
This was really upping the ante. A letter, a poem, or a deed was one thing. The plays themselves were quite another. To Samuel, this was almost like finding parts of the original Bible. As he held the parchments reverently in his hands, Samuel wondered aloud whether William could truly appreciate how precious this manuscript was.
From the look on his father’s face, William had no trouble imagining it. He realized that he loved being able to give this happiness to his father. He also realized that for the first time in his life he didn’t feel like a child anymore.
The excitement increased even further when scholars examining the manuscripts found them to be significantly different from existing published versions. (Since his father had always frowned at the racier parts in these plays, William had “improved” them by removing anything sexy and writing his own patches to fill the holes.) Once again the delighted Samuel Ireland lavished praise on his son and promised to publish his discoveries for the benefit of Shakespeare lovers everywhere.
It was at this point that the first public doubts began to surface. Writing in the London Morning Herald, Shakespeare expert J.A. Boaden regretted to say that after examining the Shakespeare documents in Mr. Ireland’s shop, he felt they were probably forgeries. He said he’d had his doubts from the start, but hadn’t wanted to say anything until he’d made a thorough study of the matter. With all due respect to his colleagues, he felt they were letting themselves get swept away by the excitement. Other correspondents agreed. Questions about the mysterious Mr. H. increased.
Then the drama critic Edmond Malone weighed in with a list of puzzling errors and inconsistencies in the documents, including the signature of the actor John Heminge, which he claimed differed considerably from other authenticated examples. Pressure mounted on the Irelands to reveal the true source of all these papers.
But the Irelands had their defenders too. Reverend Samuel Parr rallied a large group of influential supporters—enough to fill an entire page with signatures—who issued a joint statement insisting that Boaden and Malone were quite wrong, and that the documents were definitely genuine.
The debate quickly became more heated and widespread—especially in the newspapers. “Shakespeare Documents Suspect” read one headline. “Bookseller Doubted” claimed another. “Shakespeare Mystery Man Sought” announced a third.
Samuel Ireland pronounced it all rubbish. “Of course these documents are genuine,” he insisted. “Some of the most knowledgeable scholars in England have said so.”
We can only wonder exactly what provoked William Ireland to do what he did next. Obviously his self-confidence had grown to the point where he really did feel his writing and forging abilities had improved enough to get away with it. Maybe he thought he could silence his doubters if he produced the biggest, most astonishing find of all—a brand-new, never before seen or heard of Shakespearean play. In fact, not just one, but two of them!
That’s what he told his father soon after his Lear and Hamlet versions had been published. He said he’d found the manuscripts of two unknown plays entitled Vortigern and Rowena and Henry II, both in Shakespeare’s own style and handwriting. But this time there was a catch. Mr. H. was not willing to let these plays out of his hands, and so had only agreed to let William copy them out by hand.
The news of this discovery stunned Samuel Ireland. For a man who worshipped William Shakespeare, this was almost too much to handle. The discovery of two new plays would put Shakespeare lovers everywhere into an uproar. This would make father and son famous all over the world!
He urged William to make those copies as fast as he possibly could.
William was already doing that. He had found the story of Vortigern and Rowena in Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotland and Ireland—the same history book that Shakespeare had often used for his plots. Vortigern was an Anglo-Saxon king who had murdered his way to the top—not unlike Shakespeare’s Macbeth. For the next four months William slaved away over this story, turning it into a five-act imitation Shakespeare play.
By February of 1796 he was able to show his father the results.
For Samuel Ireland, any work by The Immortal Bard was brilliant, was magnificent—and so, of course, was this.
“Really?” William wanted to know.
A work of unquestionable genius, his father declared firmly. Absolutely.
William let out the breath he’d been holding without realizing it. He had to turn away to keep his relief and pride from showing. Finally—an original work of “real genius”!
But Richard Sheridan, owner of the Drury Lane Theatre, to whom Samuel showed the play, wasn’t so sure. “There are certainly some bold ideas here,” he agreed. “But they’re rather crude and undigested. Shakespeare must have been very young when he wrote this play.”
Nevertheless, Sheridan offered to produce the work in his theater in April of that year. He proposed to split the proceeds between himself and the Irelands, half and half.
News of the discovery and upcoming production of Vortigern and Rowena spread across England like wildfire. Once mostly of interest to scholars and theater-lovers, the issue now became a national hot topic. People talked about it in England’s pubs and taverns. It was the dominant subject at parties and public gatherings. It was discussed at the universities and colleges. Even the king was rumored to be interested.
April 2, 1796 was definitely shaping up to be one of the most controversial premieres in the history of the English theater.
While the debate in the newspapers and tabloids seemed willing to give the Irelands the benefit of the doubt, it was a different story at the Drury Lane Theatre. “I know you don’t think much of it, but we’re going to put it on anyway,” Sheridan told his stage manager, John Kemble, firmly. “Do the best you can.”
Kemble pulled a face. He didn’t just dislike the play, he hated it. He was convinced it was bogus, and so were many of his actors. Some of them even refused to accept parts in the production.
When the play opened on April 2, the open-air theater was bursting with people. Every nook and cranny in the building was crammed. There were people sitting on the roof, and even in the branches of some nearby trees. William and his father, who were seated in one of the boxes, received repeated cheers from the crowd.
But only minutes after the curtain rose, everything began to fall apart. It quickly became clear that no one in the production was taking the play seriously. The actors hammed it up, bumbling around the stage, mixing up their lines and cracking jokes. They seemed intent on sabotaging the whole performance.
Soon a growing part of the audience was laughing along with the actors, to the annoyance of those who still believed in the play. There were jeers and catcalls. People threw hats and gloves onto the stage. Then they started throwing them at each other. Arguments erupted. Fights broke out. When the final curtain fell, the theater was a shambles.
The Irelands hurriedly ducked out a side door and hid in an alley until the crowd had dispersed. They were both badly shaken.
Sheridan later announced that all further performances of Vortigern and Rowena were cancelled. It had been the worst audience reaction to any play he’d produced in the entire 25 years of his theatrical career.
After the disaster at the Drury Lane Theatre, public opinion turned against the Irelands. Fewer and fewer people now believed in the authenticity of the Shakespeare documents.
Most suspected that the Irelands had been duped, but a growing number began to accuse Samuel Ireland of having committed the fraud himself. In public, Samuel defended himself vigorously, but in private he asked William more and more desperately to reveal Mr. H.’s identity, or at least arrange a meeting with him so all this confusion could be straightened out.
William was being driven deeper and deeper into a corner. Finally, he couldn’t think of any other way to end this disaster but to confess the whole mess to his father.
So he did that. He told his father what he had done. He apologized. He said he had never intended for any of this to happen.
At first Samuel Ireland looked confused. He asked William what he was going on about.
William tried to explain that he’d gotten carried away when he’d seen how happy all his discoveries were making his father.
Samuel’s forehead remained creased in puzzlement. Then his face softened. He assured William that this wasn’t necessary. It was appreciated, certainly, but it wouldn’t solve anything. The solution was for Samuel to meet Mr. H. and for the two men to sort things out. That was the solution.
Now it was William’s turn to be puzzled. “But there is no Mr. H., Father. I just told you—I forged them all.”
His father was becoming impatient. He told William to stop this foolishness—it would never work. Did he really think that anyone would believe that a mere boy could have written anything by The Immortal Bard?
William became alarmed. “But it’s true, Father! I can prove it.” He stopped and then looked directly at his father. “You know I fabricated those documents, don’t you? Those documents, and the play?”
Samuel had had enough of this. He was sure William meant well, but now he was giving himself airs. It was unseemly. As William abruptly turned and fled from the room, Samuel yelled after him: “For heaven’s sake, boy, you couldn’t even pass your examinations at school!”
It was the last time father and son spoke to each other.
The next day William sent his father a letter describing in great detail how he had gone about producing his scams—even including some of his drafts and discards.
His father barely glanced at them. He called it all a pack of rubbish.
William tried to use his brother and sister, who both believed him, as go-betweens. It only made their father angrier. He called William a vain and selfish ignoramus.
William packed a suitcase and left the family home for good.
During the following year, living in a basement room and still working in the office, he wrote and published a pamphlet entitled An Authentic Account of the Shaksperian Manuscripts. It contained a full and detailed confession, with evidence and apologies, including a full exoneration of his father.
Samuel Ireland published an angry denial and disinherited his son.
Unfortunately for William, the public sided with his father. No one seemed willing to accept that William was intelligent enough to have fooled so many scholars. They all blamed Samuel—who went to his grave four years later discredited and disgraced, still insisting the documents were genuine.
For a while, William kept trying to set things straight. In 1805 he published an entire book on the subject, entitled The Confessions of William Ireland. The book didn’t sell many copies. Eventually he gave up trying and began writing novels instead—over a dozen under various pseudonyms—to give himself a fresh start. They were reasonably successful, but they weren’t works of genius.
Ironically, William’s most successful publication became a complete catalog of Shakespeare’s works—which didn’t include Vortigern and Rowena and Henry II.