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have doubled the enjoyment of its mali- of ancient Scottish ballads which he pubcious perpetrator.* lished in that year was generally accepted Not less droll was Swift's shaft of ridi- as a valuable contribution to the national cule at the prophetic almanac-maker, John history. In the preface to a work upon Partridge, which he started by issuing "Ancient Scottish Poets " published some (under the name of Isaac Bickerstaff) a years later, he confessed, with a candor set of "Predictions for the Year 1708." bordering on effrontery, that his former Among them was announced the death of volume had been a compilation of genuine Partridge himself on the 29th of March. antiques and imitations of his own. He After the date had gone by, Swift published exculpated himself from the suspicion of The Accomplishment of the First of base motives in this deception by affirmMr. Bickerstaff's Predictions: being an Acing that he had declined the publisher's count of the Death of Mr. Partridge the offer of half the profits of the book. UnAlmanack-Maker on the 29th inst." Other fortunately, innocence of intention is inefwits kept up the joke. Partridge, in his next almanack, declared that he was "still living in health, and they are knaves that reported it otherwise." In the first number of "The Tatler " Steele, in the name of Bickerstaff, continued the joke, and explained to Partridge that if he had any shame he would own himself to be dead, "for since his art was gone, the man was gone." t

Another satirical missile, impelled by political animus and aimed at a higher quarry, was among the minor productions of Johnson in 1739, when he was struggling into notice. It was entitled "Marmor Norfolciense," and assumed to be an essay upon an ancient prophetical inscription in monkish rhyme lately discovered near Lynne in Norfolk." The design of the mystification was to attack the Hanoverian dynasty and the Whig government of Sir Robert Walpole.t

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fectual to avert the consequences of a
thoughtless action. Similar excuses might
doubtless have been made by Pinkerton's
numerous successors in the art of manu-
Allan Cun-
facturing modern antiques.
ningham is said to have confessed that he
palmed off some ballads of his own upon
a collector of ancient relics, who published
them without suspicion. Robert Surtees
notoriously imposed in the same way upon
the credulity of Scott, when supplying him
with materials for the "Minstrelsy of the
Scottish Border," and also victimized
Hogg with some spurious Jacobite bal-
lads. Thomas Campbell was similarly
duped, when editor of the New Monthly
Magazine, by a waggish contributor who
pretended to have rescued from neglect
the works of a seventeenth-century drama-
tist named Clithero.

Ani

Perhaps the deftest artist in this departDr. Birch, a solid historian and lexicog- ment of fabrication was George Steevens, rapher of the last century, is the reputed the Shakespearian commentator. author of a fabrication which, though mated by an impish spirit of trickery, to intended in jest, succeeded in falsify- which jealousy of rival antiquaries may ing many veracious literary chronicles. have lent a spice of malice, he industriAmong the discoveries of George Chal-ously devised cunning snares for their mers the antiquary, who diligently ran- feet. He would, for example, disseminate sacked the piles of miscellaneous period- fictitious illustrations of Shakespeare's icals at the British Museum, was a unique text, in order that Malone, who was his copy of "The English Mercurie, imprinted at London by Her Highness's Printer, 1588," which has since repeatedly been described as the earliest English newspaper. The researches, however, of a later antiquary, Mr. Thomas Watts, among the papers which Birch left behind him, disclosed the original draft of the 'Mercurie," on modern paper, with corrections made for the press.§

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In 1781 John Pinkerton (who subsequently became an archæologist of repute) initiated a form of literary fabrication which became too common. A collection

I. D'Israeli's Curios. of Lit. iii. 315.
Prof. H. Morley's First Sketch of Eng. Lit., p.
783.

Ibid., p. 851; Boswell's Life (ed. of 1826), i. 97.
SI. D'Israeli's Curios. of Lit. i. 157, note.

chief butt, might be entrapped into adopting them and give him the gratification of correcting the blunder in his next edition. Under the pseudonyms of Collins and Amner, he would insert paragraphs in the daily press purporting to be curious extracts from rare books, copies of which no one who wished to verify the passages ever succeeded in discovering. Among these curiosities was the romantic story (that has found its way into Todd's "Life of Milton ") of the poet's having been seen asleep under a tree by a lady who became enamored of his beauty, and placed in his hand some impassioned verses of Guarini, which, when he awoke, so fired his fancy that he made a journey to Italy in the hope of tracing her. Another was the

story of the deadly upas-tree of Java, which long obtained credit as one of the fairy-tales of science.*

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celebrity. In the field of adventurous travel such writers as Edward Trelawney, "Adventures of a Younger Son; " Charles It would be easy to adduce examples Cochrane, "Journal of a Tour by Senor of the same type of fabrication from re- Juan de Vega; and George Borrow, cent annals, but limitations of space allow" Lavengro," may be more than half susof no more than a brief reference to the pected of having obtained their realistic third group in my list. Literary mystifi- effects by a dexterous interweaving of fact cations, inspired by a purely dramatic aim, and fiction. The romantic narrative of wherein, for the sake of obtaining the South-sea life by the American writer, closest vraisemblance, the artist has car- Herman Melville, Omoo," must have ried imitation to the point of effecting charmed many readers into conviction of illusion, appear to be a comparatively its truth. The recently published letters, modern product. De Foe's "Journal of affecting to be the replies of the "Inconthe Great Plague in London," published in nue to those addressed to her by Prosper 1722, and "Memoirs of a Cavalier," pub- Mérimée, have aroused an amount of curilished in the following year, are perhaps osity which argues eloquently for the the earliest instances in our literature. writer's skill. Both were successful in passing for genuNo one who has been at the pains to ine narratives, one being quoted by Dr. follow the retrospective survey thus outMead, and the other by Lord Chatham, as lined will have failed to observe (1) the the records of eye-witnesses to the scenes facility with which in uncritical ages depicted. Another of De Foe's fictions, pseudonymous or spurious writings ob"The Apparition of one Mrs. Veal to her tained general acceptance as authentic friend Mrs. Bargrave, at Canterbury," was or genuine, and maintained their hold written as an advertisement for Drelin- unshaken until brought to the test of scicourt's "Sermons upon Death," which the entific criticism. The "Epistles of Phaghost impressively commended as a viati- laris," for example, and the Jewish and cum. The sale of the whole edition, early Christian apocrypha, seem to have which had been a burden on the publish- been accepted from the date of their er's hands, and of several others in suc- appearance without serious demur, and cession, quickly followed. The "Memoirs enjoyed a tenure of belief that lasted of Captain Carleton, by himself " (1728), a through many centuries; the "Chronicle work which has been attributed to De of Ingulphus," the "Charters of Durham Foe, but apparently with little reason, Priory," and the "Travels of Maundercontains an account of Lord Peterbor-ville" were only discovered to be forgeries ough's campaign in Spain, wherein Johnson "found such an air of truth that he could not doubt of its authenticity." Sir Walter Scott, who edited the book in 1809, Lord Stanhope, and many other writers, have regarded it as a veracious narrative. The keen criticism to which the "Memoirs" have been subjected by a recent historian of the Spanish War of Succession, Colonel Parnell, has rendered it almost certain that they are substantially fictitious.

During the last half-century the fashion for modern antiques, rococo, and "makebelieve" in literature has so rapidly spread that it must suffice to name a few of the most successful achievements in various provinces. In historical fiction, " Lady Willoughby's Diary," by the late Mrs. Rathbone; "Mary Powell," by Miss Manning; and "With Essex in Ireland," by the Hon. Miss Lawless, have won special

I. D'Israeli's Curios. of Lit. iii. 297-304.
† Boswell's Life (Oxford ed. of 1826), iv. 300.
War of the Succession in Spain, by Col. the Hon.
A. Parnell, pp. 316-326.

within recent years; (2) the success with which, even in periods of prevalent culture, a skilful fabricator has often floated his imposture by flattering a popular appetite or ministering to the enthusiasm of a clique, and made easy dupes of men illustrious for their learning and acumen. Psalmanazaar, Macpherson, Chatterton, Ireland, and Simonides are typical examples of this class. The names of their dupes, Dean Milles Bryant, Dr. Parr, George Chalmers, Sheridan, and Dindorf emphasize the warning addressed by St. Paul to those who, "professing themselves to be wise, became fools."

One conclusion, which is amply warranted by the evidence, has an obvious bearing upon a burning question of current controversy. the authority of putative Scriptures. The controversy, indeed, is but an old one revived, and the conclusion is not drawn for the first time. Two centuries ago Toland, in his "Life of Milton," referring to the fabrication of the Εἰκὼν Βασιλική, which Gauden successfully foisted upon the world for nearly

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forty years as the authentie work of thus distinguishes the sound from the Charles the First, added this judicious unsound criteria of truth:

comment:

We cannot say, "This doctrine is divine because it is found in a canonical book, and that is human because confined to the Apocrypha..." or, "This argument is demonstrative because attributed to Jesus Himself, and that is subject to doubt as reported only of Stephen or Timothy." Neither Church nor Scripture can serve, on these easy terms, as our "Rule of faith and practice," and yet both may provide adequate guidance to the highest truth and goodness. To reach it, however, without use of the discriminative faculties, and be carried blindfold into the Eternal light, is impossible. The tests by which we distinguish the fictitious from the real, the wrong from the right, the unlovely from the beautiful, the profane from the sacred, are to be found within, and not without, in the methods of just thought, the instincts of pure conscience, and the aspirations of unclouded

reason. *

HENRY G. Hewlett.

*The Seat of Authority in Religion, pp. 296-7.

From The Sunday Magazine.
THE FLIGHT OF THE SHADOW.
BY GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D.
""
ALEC FORBES,' 66
AUTHOR OF
ETC., ETC.

When I seriously consider how all this happened among ourselves within the compass of forty years, in a time of great learning and politeness, when both parties so narrowly watched over one another's actions, and what a great revolution in civil and religious affairs was partly occasioned by the credit of that book, I cease to wonder any longer how many supposititious pieces, under the name of Christ, His apostles, and other great persons, should be published and approved in those primitive times when it was of so much importance to have them believed; . . . I doubt rather the spuriousness of several more such books is yet undiscovered, through the remoteness of those ages, the death of the persons named, and the decay of other monuments which might give us true information.* Warned by the remembrance of so signal an illusion, and many other examples scarcely less remarkable, the inquirer who is invited by the Church to submit his reason and conscience to the authority of her sacred books, ascribed to venerable names, and reputed of hoar antiquity, is more than justified in maintaining an attitude of sceptical vigilance, and demanding the strictest proofs of their authenticity and genuineness. If it be replied that the demand is unreasonable, since under the circumstances of the case no strict proofs can be furnished, cadit quæstio. The exorbitant assumption that it is possible to erect a fabric of mental and spiritual domination upon a foundation of documentary evidence which it is impossible with the weariness of spiritual unrest, as fully to test, must be frankly surrendered. a girl could well be, the door opened. But the surrender of a fallacious claim to Very seldom did that door open to any vest the authority of a creed in the books one but my uncle or myself; he would let which avouch it, need involve no sacrifice no one but me touch his books, or even of aught that is vital in the creed itself. dust the room. But I always heard him Let the basis of its support be shifted coming, and this time no sound of apfrom the letter to the spirit, and its doc.proach had reached me. I jumped from trines be left to stand upon their own the chest where I sat. merits. Upon this broad and deep foundation two of the wisest religious teachers of our time are content that Christianity should rest. The lamented Döllinger's "innermost_thought," as we learn from Lord Acton's faithful portraiture of him, "was that religion exists to make men better, and that the ethical quality of dogma constitutes its value." In the profound and masterly treatise which consummates Dr. Martineau's lifelong services to the cause of rational religion, he

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ROBERT FALCONER,'

CHAPTER XIII.

OLD LOVE AND NEW.

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WHILE I waited thus, as nearly a log,

It was only Martha Moon. "How you startled me, Martha !" I cried.

"No wonder, child!" she answered. Your uncle has "I come with bad news. had a fall. He is laid up in Wittenage with a broken arm."

I burst into tears.

"Oh, Martha !" I cried; "I must go to him!"

"He has sent for me," she answered Dick is quietly. "I am going at once. putting the horse to the phaeton."

"He doesn't want me then!" I said, but it seemed a voice not my own that shrieked the words.

The punishment of my sin was upon me. Never would he have sent for Martha and not me, I thought, had he not seen that I had gone wrong again, and was not to be trusted.

"My dear," said Martha, "which of us ought to be the better nurse? You never saw your uncle ill; I've nursed him at death's door."

"Then you don't think he is angry with me, Martha?" I said, humbled before myself.

"Was he ever angry with you, Orbie? What is there for him to be angry about? You never even displeased him!

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I had not yet realized that my uncle was suffering only that he was disabled. I had been thinking only of myself. was fast ceasing to care for him. And then, horrible to tell! a flash of joy went through me, that he who had hitherto been the light of my life would not be home that day, and therefore I could not tell him anything!

The moment Martha left me to get ready, I threw myself on the floor of the deserted room. I was in utter misery.

66

Gladly would I bear every one of his sufferings," I said to myself, "and yet have not asked a question about his accident! He must be in danger, or he would not have sent for Martha and not me.

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How had the thing happened? Had Death fallen with him- perhaps on him? My uncle was such a horseman, I could not think he had been thrown. Besides, Death was a good horse who loved his master dearly, I was sure. A gush of the old love rose in my heart; sympathy with the horse had unsealed the spring. I longed to be with my uncle. I sprang from the floor, and ran down to beg and entreat Martha to take me with her; if my uncle did not want me, I could return with Dick, I said. But she was gone. Even the sound of her wheels was gone. I had lain on the floor longer than I knew. I went back to the study a little relieved. I understood now that I was not glad he was ill, that I was anything but glad that he was suffering; I had only been glad for an instant that the culminating moment of my perplexity was postponed. I should see John Day, and he would help me to understand what I ought to do, and how I ought to feel.

at a time with Martha. Our feelings are odd creatures. Now there was neither time nor space in my deart for feeling the house desolate; the world outside was rich as a treasure-house of mighty kings. The moment I was a little more comfortable with myself, my thoughts went in a flock back to the face that looked over the garden wall, back to the man that watched me while I slept, the man that wrote that lovely letter. Inside was old Penny and her broom; she took advantage of every absence to sweep or scour or dust; outside was John Day and the roses of the wilderness. He was waiting the hour to come to me, wondering how would receive him.

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Slowly went the afternoon. I had fallen in love at first sight, it is true; I was not therefore eager again to meet my lover. I was only more than willing to see him. It was as sweet, or nearly as sweet, to dream of his coming as to have him before me so long as I knew that he was indeed coming. And then I was just a little anxious lest I should not find him quite so beautiful as I was imagining him. That he was good I never doubted; could I otherwise have fallen in love with him? And his letter was so straightforward so manly!

The afternoon was cloudy, and the twilight came the sooner. From the realms of the dark, where all the birds of night build their nests, and line them with their own sooty down, the sweet, odorous, filmy dusk of the summer, haunted with wings of noiseless bats, began at length to come flickering down, in a snow infinitesimal of fluffiest grey and black, and I crept out into the garden. There it was so dark among the yews that I should have had to feel my way but that I could have gone through every alley blindfolded. An owl cried and I started, for my soul was sunk in its own love-dawn. Then came a sudden sense of light as I passed into the wilderness, but light how thin and pale, and how full of expectation! The earth and the vast air, all up to the great vault, seemed to throb and heave with life. was it that I lay an open thoroughfare to the life of the All? With the scent of the roses, and the humbler, sweet-odored inhabitants of the wilderness; with the sound of the brook that ran through it, Very strange were my feelings that after- flowing from the heath and down the hill; noon in the lonely house. Hitherto I had with the silent starbeams, and the insects always felt it lonely when Martha was out; that make all the little noises they can; I never did when my uncle was out. Yet with the thoughts that went out of me, when my uncle was in, I was mostly with and returned possessed of the earth; with him, and seldom more than a few minutes all these, and the sense of thought eternal,

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the universe was full as it could hold.
I stood in the doorway of the wall, and
looked out on the wild; it was out of cre-
ation's doors, out in the illimitable, given
up to the bare, to the space that had no
walls! A shiver ran through me; I turned
back among the yews. It was early; I
would wait yet a while. If he were already
there, he, too, would enjoy the calm of a
lovely little wait.

not more than philosophy tell us that truth is everything?

"My darling! Are you hurt?" I heard murmured by the voice whose echoes had haunted me for so many hours. "A little," I answered. "I shall be all right in a minute." I did not add, "Put me down, please, directly;" for I did not want to be put down directly. I could not have stood if he had put me down.

Presently the life began to come back to me, and I felt myself growing heavy in his arms.

"I think I can stand now," I said. "Please put me down."

He obeyed immediately. "I've nearly broken your arms!" I said, ashamed of having become a burden to him the moment we met.

"I could have run with you to the top of the hill," he answered.

"I don't think you could," I returned.

"I am at your command," he rejoined. "My arms are yours. I am yours, whether you will have me or not."

This and the way he said it, pleased me so much, that I think I leaned a little toward him. He put his arm round me. "You are not able to stand," he said. "Shall we sit a moment?"

CHAPTER XIV.

MOTHER AND UNCLE.

A small wind came searching about, and found, and caressed me. I turned to it, and let it play with my hair, and cool my face. Then I left the alley, and went straying through the broken ground of the wilderness, among the low bushes, many of which came but up to my knees. 1 went meandering, as if with some frolicsome brook for a companion a brook of many capricious windings, and so moved nearer and nearer to the fence that parted the wilderness from the heath, with my eyes bent down, partly to avoid the hil-"I would not have you try it." locks and bushes, and partly shy of the moment when first I should see him who was in my heart and somewhere near my eyes. Softly the moon rose, round and full. There was still so much light in the sky that she made no sudden change, and for a moment I did not feel her presence or look up. A little beyond where I stood, the high ground of the moor sank into the hollow down which came the brook, so that there the horizon was a good deal lower; the moon was rising just in the gap, and when I did look up, the lower edge of her disc was on the horizon, and over the fence looked a man whose head was right in the middle of the big, low moon, so that she was like the golden halo round the head of a saint in an illuminated missal. I could not see the face, for the halo hid it, as such attributions are apt to do, but it must be he, and strengthened by the heavenly vision, I went toward him. Walking less carefully than before, how ever, I caught my foot, stumbled, and fell. There came a rush through the bushes; he was by my side, lifted me like a child, and held me in his arms; neither was I more frightened than a child gathered up so in the arms of any well-known friend; I had been bred in faith and not mistrust. But, indeed, my head struck the ground with such force, that, had I been inclined, 1 could hardly have resisted. At the same time, why should I have resisted, being where I would be? Does not philosophy tell us that growth and development, cause and effect are all, and that the days and years are of no account? And does VOL. LXXIII. 3789

LIVING AGE.

I WAS glad enough to sink on a clump of white clover beside me. He stretched himself on the ground with his head at my feet. Silence followed. He was giving me time to recover myself. Therefore, as soon as I was able, it was my part to speak.

"Where is your horse?" I said.

How curious it is that persons whose meeting is a delight greater than the heart can hold, always say something at first that is not worth saying!

"I left him at a little farmhouse, about a mile off. I was afraid to bring him nearer lest my mother should learn where I had been."

"But she will miss you," I suggested.

"I do not think so. She never misses me for myself, though she likes to know where I am. But she may miss me."

"And what will you do if she does?" "The question is rather what will she do."

"What will she do?"
"I don't know."

"She will ask you where you were?"

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