Books and Bookmen [19]
who are constantly accusing
each other of all manner of crimes. Then there are forgeries by
"pushing" men, who hope to get a reading for poems which, if put
forth as new, would be neglected. There remain forgeries of which
the motives are so complex as to remain for ever obscure. We may
generally ascribe them to love of notoriety in the forger; such
notoriety as Macpherson won by his dubious pinchbeck Ossian. More
difficult still to understand are the forgeries which real scholars
have committed or connived at for the purpose of supporting some
opinion which they held with earnestness. There is a vein of
madness and self-deceit in the character of the man who half-
persuades himself that his own false facts are true. The Payne
Collier case is thus one of the most difficult in the world to
explain, for it is equally hard to suppose that Mr. Payne Collier
was taken in by the notes on the folio he gave the world, and to
hold that he was himself guilty of forgery to support his own
opinions.
The further we go back in the history of literary forgeries, the
more (as is natural) do we find them to be of a pious or priestly
character. When the clergy alone can write, only the clergy can
forge. In such ages people are interested chiefly in prophecies and
warnings, or, if they are careful about literature, it is only when
literature contains some kind of title-deeds. Thus Solon is said to
have forged a line in the Homeric catalogue of the ships for the
purpose of proving that Salamis belonged to Athens. But the great
antique forger, the "Ionian father of the rest," is, doubtless,
Onomacritus. There exists, to be sure, an Egyptian inscription
professing to be of the fourth, but probably of the twenty-sixth,
dynasty. The Germans hold the latter view; the French, from
patriotic motives, maintain the opposite opinion. But this forgery
is scarcely "literary."
I never can think of Onomacritus without a certain respect: he
began the forging business so very early, and was (apart from this
failing) such an imposing and magnificently respectable character.
The scene of the error and the detection of Onomacritus presents
itself always to me in a kind of pictorial vision. It is night, the
clear, windless night of Athens; not of the Athens whose ruins
remain, but of the ancient city that sank in ashes during the
invasion of Xerxes. The time is the time of Pisistratus the
successful tyrant; the scene is the ancient temple, the stately
house of Athene, the fane where the sacred serpent was fed on cakes,
and the primeval olive-tree grew beside the well of Posidon. The
darkness of the temple's inmost shrine is lit by the ray of one
earthen lamp. You dimly discern the majestic form of a venerable
man stooping above a coffer of cedar and ivory, carved with the
exploits of the goddess, and with boustrophedon inscriptions. In
his hair this archaic Athenian wears the badge of the golden
grasshopper. He is Onomacritus, the famous poet, and the trusted
guardian of the ancient oracles of Musaeus and Bacis.
What is he doing? Why, he takes from the fragrant cedar coffer
certain thin stained sheets of lead, whereon are scratched the words
of doom, the prophecies of the Greek Thomas the Rhymer. From his
bosom he draws another thin sheet of lead, also stained and
corroded. On this he scratches, in imitation of the old "Cadmeian
letters," a prophecy that "the Isles near Lemnos shall disappear
under the sea." So busy is he in this task, that he does not hear
the rustle of a chiton behind, and suddenly a man's hand is on his
shoulder! Onomacritus turns in horror. Has the goddess punished
him for tampering with the oracles? No; it is Lasus, the son of
Hermiones, a rival poet, who has caught the keeper of the oracles in
the very act of a pious forgery. (Herodotus, vii. 6.)
Pisistratus expelled the learned Onomacritus from Athens, but his
conduct proved, in the long run, highly profitable to the
reputations of Musaeus and Bacis. Whenever one of their oracles was
not
each other of all manner of crimes. Then there are forgeries by
"pushing" men, who hope to get a reading for poems which, if put
forth as new, would be neglected. There remain forgeries of which
the motives are so complex as to remain for ever obscure. We may
generally ascribe them to love of notoriety in the forger; such
notoriety as Macpherson won by his dubious pinchbeck Ossian. More
difficult still to understand are the forgeries which real scholars
have committed or connived at for the purpose of supporting some
opinion which they held with earnestness. There is a vein of
madness and self-deceit in the character of the man who half-
persuades himself that his own false facts are true. The Payne
Collier case is thus one of the most difficult in the world to
explain, for it is equally hard to suppose that Mr. Payne Collier
was taken in by the notes on the folio he gave the world, and to
hold that he was himself guilty of forgery to support his own
opinions.
The further we go back in the history of literary forgeries, the
more (as is natural) do we find them to be of a pious or priestly
character. When the clergy alone can write, only the clergy can
forge. In such ages people are interested chiefly in prophecies and
warnings, or, if they are careful about literature, it is only when
literature contains some kind of title-deeds. Thus Solon is said to
have forged a line in the Homeric catalogue of the ships for the
purpose of proving that Salamis belonged to Athens. But the great
antique forger, the "Ionian father of the rest," is, doubtless,
Onomacritus. There exists, to be sure, an Egyptian inscription
professing to be of the fourth, but probably of the twenty-sixth,
dynasty. The Germans hold the latter view; the French, from
patriotic motives, maintain the opposite opinion. But this forgery
is scarcely "literary."
I never can think of Onomacritus without a certain respect: he
began the forging business so very early, and was (apart from this
failing) such an imposing and magnificently respectable character.
The scene of the error and the detection of Onomacritus presents
itself always to me in a kind of pictorial vision. It is night, the
clear, windless night of Athens; not of the Athens whose ruins
remain, but of the ancient city that sank in ashes during the
invasion of Xerxes. The time is the time of Pisistratus the
successful tyrant; the scene is the ancient temple, the stately
house of Athene, the fane where the sacred serpent was fed on cakes,
and the primeval olive-tree grew beside the well of Posidon. The
darkness of the temple's inmost shrine is lit by the ray of one
earthen lamp. You dimly discern the majestic form of a venerable
man stooping above a coffer of cedar and ivory, carved with the
exploits of the goddess, and with boustrophedon inscriptions. In
his hair this archaic Athenian wears the badge of the golden
grasshopper. He is Onomacritus, the famous poet, and the trusted
guardian of the ancient oracles of Musaeus and Bacis.
What is he doing? Why, he takes from the fragrant cedar coffer
certain thin stained sheets of lead, whereon are scratched the words
of doom, the prophecies of the Greek Thomas the Rhymer. From his
bosom he draws another thin sheet of lead, also stained and
corroded. On this he scratches, in imitation of the old "Cadmeian
letters," a prophecy that "the Isles near Lemnos shall disappear
under the sea." So busy is he in this task, that he does not hear
the rustle of a chiton behind, and suddenly a man's hand is on his
shoulder! Onomacritus turns in horror. Has the goddess punished
him for tampering with the oracles? No; it is Lasus, the son of
Hermiones, a rival poet, who has caught the keeper of the oracles in
the very act of a pious forgery. (Herodotus, vii. 6.)
Pisistratus expelled the learned Onomacritus from Athens, but his
conduct proved, in the long run, highly profitable to the
reputations of Musaeus and Bacis. Whenever one of their oracles was
not