Mythical Relics

The Portraits
Let us devote ourselves to a critical study of the portraits of the Stratford actor, that the reader may be able to form an independent judgment respecting them.

The Droeshout Portrait
The first is the most important, as it is the earliest, being found in the Folio of 1623, seven years after the death of the actor. It is known as the Droeshout portrait, and has been considered by his biographers as authentic. Portraits, however, of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were as unreliable as royal favours. When the bewigged and bespectacled publisher wanted a portrait to embellish a book to make it more salable, he applied to the poor engraver who was usually applying his trade in an attic, and procured one. If a portrait of the subject had been painted, and a copy of it was obtainable, well and good; but painted portraits were comparatively few, even of the great, so the engraver improvised one as well as circumstances permitted.
The writer, while spending a year in the British Archives collecting historical material, spent some of his spare moments gathering portraits of prominent men of the Tudor and Stuart reigns, and, on one occasion, was referred by a Museum official to an expert on the portraiture of these reigns. He was an aged man, and had a large collection of rare portraits. In discussing portraits difficult of acquisition he proved interesting. A portrait of Sir Ferdinando Gorges, the father of American colonization, was particularly wanted. All his ancient haunts had been visited, correspondence opened with remote relatives, and the unknown portraits at Hampton Court, some of them said to have belonged to the Gorges family, carefully studied without result. Telling the old gentleman of this tedious search, he remarked, “Sir Ferdinando’s portrait was never painted, but I can furnish you with one for a guinea.”
But a few years ago the writer studied the portraits of Jacques Cartier, and made up his mind that in any case only one had an element of authenticity. At the time he was collecting sixteenth century French portraits, and called on a large collector to look over his treasures. While so engaged the question was asked if he had a Cartier. “A very fine one,” he replied, and passed it out. A glance only was needed, and it was handed back. “Don’t you like it?” he asked. “Yes,” was replied, “only it isn’t Cartier.” He looked somewhat surprised, and asked, “Why?” Fortunately its origin being known, he was told. “Am I right?” was asked, and the reply grudgingly made, “Yes.”

The writer has sometimes wondered, when comparing portraits of past greatness, whether they at all resembled their presumptive subjects. Engravers were wont to use old plates, altering or substituting faces as they thought best. A well-known example is the equestrian portrait of Charles I. After Cromwell assumed rule a portrait of that King of the Democracy was required, and a fine equestrian engraving was produced. The portraits of the first Charles had been put out of sight, and it was some time before it was discovered that Cromwell’s head had been substituted for that of his
decapitated victim. No other change was made in the picture. With a subject of less importance a few alterations in lines would have served the purpose.
Of course it is hardly to be believed that the Stratford actor’s portrait was ever painted during his life. But comparatively few of England’s great men were wise enough to bequeath their faces to posterity, and though it might have been possible for a strolling actor to have his portrait painted, or a rude sketch of his face made, the Stratford actor, as we know him, was too careless, and especially too thrifty, to impoverish himself in this manner. He preferred to invest his earnings in tithes, loans and real estate, which seemed much wiser. How then could Droeshout have managed to produce a portrait for the publishers of the Folio of 1623? He was then a young man not quite twenty-two, and but fifteen when the man whose portrait was required died. The portrait wanted was of a man at that time obscure, a play actor whose name had been associated with plays in minor roles, and his face forgotten except by a few persons. What could the engraver do? Why, just as all honest engravers then did, go to someone who had known the man, and ask for a description of him; whether his face was long or short, full or thin; nose aquiline or bulbous; eyes large or small, near or far apart, and so on.

With such particulars a face could be made to pass muster though it might not look at all like the man. This is what Droeshout would have done if he intended making the actor’s portrait. Martin  Droeshout, says Strutt, was one of the indifferent engravers of the last century. His portraits have nothing but their scarcity to recommend them. 1 Steevens, the biographer of the actor, says: “The plate of Droeshout has established his claim to the title of a most abominable imitator of humanity.” 2 Boaden, an excellent early authority on Shaksperian portraiture, says of this portrait: “It has been supposed that he engraved after a very coarse original, if indeed he did not work from personal recollection.”

These are criticisms none too caustic for any fair judge of portraiture to endorse, and it became evident to the devotees of the actor that a portrait more in accord with public taste must be found. A Shakspere original would be valuable, and it was forthcoming. This was followed by others, and the market became overstocked with portraits resembling, in some degree, of course, the Droeshout caricature. These were usually painted over the portraits of forgotten worthies, or, if the form of a head permitted, it was made to serve its purpose by a few skilful changes in outline and expression.

One of the most active of these painters of spurious portraits of the actor was, says Boaden, “The grandson of an artist of indisputable excellence,” to whom “misfortune suggested this sad remedy for indigence.” 3 So numerous were these spurious portraits that Sidney Lee, whose orthodoxy cannot be questioned, informs us that It would be futile to attempt to make the record of the pretended portraits complete. Upwards of sixty have been offered for sale to the National Portrait Gallery since its foundation in 1856, and not one of these has proved to possess the remotest claim to authenticity. 4 This is certainly discouraging. But it has seemed necessary that the world should have a portrait of the Stratford actor, and several quite as unauthentic still hold the stage, and, as the whims or fancies of authors determine, are reproduced in the various publications relating to the Shakespeare Works which are appearing constantly. Among these the most popular, perhaps, are the Felton and Chandos portraits, so called.

The Seal Ring
This ring is said to have been found in 1810 in a field near Stratford Churchyard by a labourer’s wife, who, before selling it, immersed it in a bath of aquafortis [acid] “to remove the stains of age.” It is of gold, and bears the initials, “W. S.” It was shown to Malone, who suggested that it might have belonged to Mr. William Smith, an ancient resident of Stratford, and he was told that a device of Smith had been seen which was a skull and crossbones.