Anastatic Copy of the Declaration of Independence

Discovery of the Anastatic Declaration: A New Chapter in the History of the Declaration of Independence

Tom Lingenfelter, a respected dealer of rare historical documents and artifacts based in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, has uncovered what is arguably the most faithful surviving facsimile of the 1776 engrossed (handwritten) Declaration of Independence. This extraordinary document, an anastatic facsimile, is not only a rarity in its own right but also offers critical insights into the physical decline of the original Declaration now housed in the National Archives.

To fully appreciate the historical importance of Lingenfelter’s discovery, it is essential to revisit the evolution of the Declaration itself—how it was produced, disseminated, and ultimately came to be revered. A review of the principal methods by which the Declaration was replicated and circulated provides context for understanding the role this anastatic facsimile plays in the broader history of American independence and archival preservation.

The Original Engrossed Declaration

The origins of the Declaration of Independence trace back to June 7, 1776, when Richard Henry Lee of Virginia introduced a resolution before the Second Continental Congress declaring that “these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States.” In response, Congress appointed a Committee of Five on June 11 to draft a formal declaration. This committee included Thomas Jefferson, who took primary responsibility for the text, along with John Adams (Massachusetts), Benjamin Franklin (Pennsylvania), Roger Sherman (Connecticut), and Robert R. Livingston (New York).

The resulting document was completed and submitted to Congress on June 28, 1776. After intense deliberation and revision, the Congress formally adopted the Declaration on July 4, 1776. A unanimous vote was not initially possible, as New York abstained until July 9.

On July 19, Congress ordered that the Declaration be “engrossed” on vellum—that is, meticulously handwritten for formal presentation and signature. Timothy Matlack, assistant to Secretary Charles Thomson and a skilled penman, is widely believed to have executed this engrossed copy. By that time, New York’s affirmative support was confirmed, allowing the document to bear the title: “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America.”

While the majority of signatures were affixed on August 2, 1776, historical records suggest that some delegates delayed signing, likely due to the serious implications of the act. Affixing one's name to a document that declared independence from the British Crown amounted to high treason—a risk not taken lightly. Thomas McKean of Pennsylvania is known to have been the last to sign, possibly as late as 1781. His absence from early printings, such as the one ordered from Baltimore printer Mary Katharine Goddard in January 1777, supports this timeline.

Today, the original engrossed Declaration resides at the National Archives in Washington, D.C., where it is regarded as one of the nation's most sacred documents. However, its current condition is far removed from its original state. Little documentation exists regarding its deterioration over the years. A review by the National Academy of Sciences in 1891 attributed its poor condition to the use of a wet-copying technique—a conclusion that now bears further scrutiny in light of new revelations surrounding the anastatic process.

The Dunlap Broadsides

Following the adoption of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776, the Continental Congress acted swiftly to disseminate its contents. John Dunlap, the official printer to the Congress, was commissioned to produce broadside copies of the final text. Working from a corrected manuscript—likely one bearing the last amendments debated and agreed upon by Congress—Dunlap set the type late on the evening of July 4 and began printing immediately.

Approximately 200 broadsides were produced overnight, with copies dispatched to the states, military leaders, and newspapers. The urgency of the task was underscored by John Adams, who later recalled that “We were all in haste.” These broadsides, printed without the title “The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America” (due to New York’s temporary abstention), instead bore the heading: “In Congress, July 4, 1776. A Declaration by the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress assembled.”

One such broadside was delivered to General George Washington, who ordered it read aloud to his troops, reinforcing the gravity and inspiration of the moment. Another copy, now housed at Independence National Historical Park in Philadelphia, was preserved by the descendants of Colonel John Nixon, who publicly read the Declaration on July 8 in the yard of the Pennsylvania State House.

Today, only 25 of the original Dunlap broadsides are known to exist. One such copy made headlines in 2000 when it was sold at a Sotheby’s auction hosted on eBay for $8.14 million. The winning bid came from television producer and philanthropist Norman Lear, in partnership with entrepreneur David Hayden. That particular broadside later toured the country to promote civic education and public engagement with American founding documents.

The Stone Copy

By the early 19th century, the Declaration of Independence had become a national icon. Amid a resurgence of patriotic sentiment following the War of 1812, and in anticipation of the 50th anniversary of American independence, Secretary of State John Quincy Adams sought to preserve the Declaration through a high-quality engraved reproduction.

In 1820, Adams commissioned William J. Stone, a skilled engraver based in Washington, D.C., to produce an exact facsimile of the engrossed Declaration. Stone’s assignment was monumental: to replicate not only the textual content but the signatures, layout, and dimensions of the original with unparalleled precision.

Stone’s process, which took approximately three years to complete, has long been the subject of speculation. Although earlier theories suggested that he used chemical transfers or tracing methods that may have damaged the original document, it is now widely believed that Stone relied on careful visual observation, magnification, and mirrors to recreate the manuscript by hand. The extraordinary fidelity of his facsimile confirms his mastery of the engraving craft. Comparison with the later-discovered anastatic copy demonstrates that Stone's work was virtually exact.

Stone completed the engraving in 1823 and transferred the copperplate to the Department of State. A congressional resolution dated May 26, 1824, authorized the printing of 200 copies on vellum. These were distributed to the three surviving signers of the Declaration—Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Charles Carroll of Carrollton—as well as key government offices, academic institutions, and foreign dignitaries. Two copies were presented to the Marquis de Lafayette during his celebrated tour of the United States in 1824.

Each original Stone facsimile measures approximately 24 by 30 inches. The earliest versions include an inscription at the top: “Engraved by W.I. STONE for the Department of State by order of J.Q. Adams, Secy of State, July 4, 1823.” After the initial run, this inscription was removed from the plate, and a new mark was added in the lower left corner, beneath the first column of signatures: “W.J. STONE WASHN.” Later impressions made from this altered plate were printed on paper rather than vellum and remain highly collectible in their own right.

Stone’s original copperplate is currently housed at the National Archives in Washington, D.C., alongside the Declaration it helped preserve in the national memory.

The Anastatic Declaration

The rediscovery of a rare anastatic facsimile of the Declaration of Independence by Tom Lingenfelter marks a pivotal moment in the evolving history of this foundational document. Lingenfelter acquired the broadside at a lot sale, where it was initially misidentified as a Centennial-era reproduction. The broadside had been coated in varnish, further obscuring its true nature. Upon close inspection, however, Lingenfelter observed the phrase “ANASTATIC FAC-SIMILE” inscribed at the bottom left. This prompted him to investigate the meaning of the term “anastatic,” ultimately leading to correspondence with Edward Law, a leading expert on anastatic printing.

According to Law’s research, anastatic printing was a facsimile reproduction method developed in Germany during the early 1840s and later refined in England. While the process held promise for preserving rare and fragile documents, it had one critical flaw: it sometimes caused irreversible damage to the original material from which the copy was made.

This fact alone elevates the historical significance of the Anastatic Declaration. Lingenfelter contends that the anastatic process may have directly contributed to the severe deterioration of the original engrossed Declaration now housed in the National Archives. “Those who visit the Archives today are often shocked to see how little of the original remains legible,” Lingenfelter notes. “The pale brown ink on off-white parchment has faded to near invisibility.” He further explains that the anastatic copy in his possession appears to be the result of a chemical transfer process that rendered a nearly perfect duplicate—albeit at the expense of the original.

If true, this would position the Anastatic Declaration as the most direct and exact facsimile of the original engrossed version—arguably surpassing the accuracy of both the Dunlap and Stone copies. Its historical and archival value, therefore, is compounded by the very process that may have jeopardized the integrity of the source material.

The Anastatic Process and the Role of John Jay Smith

The technique known as anastatic printing was first introduced around 1840 by Carl Friedrich Baldamus of Erfurt, Germany, in collaboration with Werner Siemens. The pair sought and received a U.S. patent for the process on October 25, 1845. The method involved chemically transferring an image—whether printed or handwritten—onto a zinc plate from which exact replicas could be produced.

In America, the process was championed by John Jay Smith, who served as librarian of the Library Company of Philadelphia from 1829 to 1851. During a tour of Europe in 1845, Smith encountered the process in England, where it had garnered the attention of notable scientific minds, including Michael Faraday, who conducted a public demonstration of its capabilities at the Royal Institution.

Shortly before returning to the United States, Smith entered into an agreement with Charles William Siemens, acting on behalf of Werner Siemens and Baldamus, to promote the anastatic printing process in America. Smith returned to Philadelphia with the requisite apparatus, training, and documentation to establish a commercial printing venture.

In his writings, Smith described the process as revolutionary, capable of replicating not only text but also woodcuts, copperplate, and steel engravings with extraordinary fidelity. He and his son established an Anastatic Printing Office at 144 Chestnut Street in Philadelphia, offering services to architects, engineers, artists, and publishers. Advertisements from 1846 promoted the method’s usefulness for reproducing maps, legal documents, architectural plans, and historical texts.

Among the documents reportedly reproduced using the anastatic process was Thomas Holme’s 1681 Map of Pennsylvania, the first detailed map of the Province, commissioned by William Penn. The Holmes Map was distributed widely through the anastatic process and remains in the Library Company’s collection today.

It is within this context that the creation of the Anastatic Declaration must be viewed. Whether it preceded or followed Smith’s publication of the Holmes Map is unknown, but it clearly emerged from Smith’s ambitious efforts to promote anastatic printing in the United States. The Library Company retains multiple examples of works printed using the method, including Smith’s own historical and architectural publications from the mid-1840s.

In July 1846, The Public Ledger reported a visit to Independence Hall by Senators Sam Houston and Thomas Jefferson Rusk. During their tour, they observed what was described as “an anastatic copy of the Declaration,” declaring it a “perfect facsimile of the original and an exceedingly appropriate ornament.” This sighting confirms that an anastatic copy was publicly displayed as early as 1846—likely the very copy now held by Independence National Historical Park in Philadelphia.

After consulting with Edward Law, Lingenfelter brought his copy to the Park for comparison. Curators initially believed their version to be a Centennial reproduction. However, after examining the shared “ANASTATIC FAC-SIMILE” marking, the Park acknowledged that both copies were produced using the rare and now-obsolete anastatic process. Their version, previously conserved in the 1980s, had been in archival storage for decades.

According to Chief Curator Karie Diethorn, the absence of a printer’s name on either copy indicates that they were likely produced under the direction of John Jay Smith or his son Lloyd P. Smith, who is specifically credited in an 1846 North American article naming him as the printer of the Anastatic Declaration.

While it remains uncertain how many copies were produced, only two are known to survive: Lingenfelter’s copy and the one in the Park’s collection. Others marked Anastatic Fac-simile are not original anastatic documents, rather, copies of the anastatic copy, none-the-less having valie. Diethorn surmises that Smith viewed the facsimile not only as a preservation effort but as a potent marketing tool to demonstrate the anastatic process’s capabilities. “It was neither commissioned nor endorsed by the government,” she observed. “It was a commercial endeavor, but one with profound historical consequences.”

Public Reception, Rediscovery, and Legacy

The rediscovery of the Anastatic Declaration has illuminated a largely overlooked chapter in the story of how America’s founding document was reproduced, disseminated, and ultimately preserved. Tom Lingenfelter’s comparative research with Edward Law, coupled with his collaboration with curators at Independence National Historical Park, has revived interest in a forgotten technology that once promised innovation—but may have wrought unintentional harm.

A clipping from the July 7, 1846 Public Ledger confirms that the Anastatic Declaration was publicly displayed in Independence Hall alongside the Liberty Bell, where it was lauded by Senators Houston and Rusk as “a perfect facsimile of the original.” In December of that same year, Alexander’s Pictorial Messenger advertised the availability of anastatic copies of both the Declaration of Independence and the Non-Importation Act of 1765 from the printing office on Chestnut Street, further supporting the conclusion that Smith had undertaken a serious commercial venture using these national documents.

Edward Law notes that the absence of a printer’s name on the Anastatic Declaration was likely intentional, suggesting direct involvement by John Jay Smith or his son Lloyd P. Smith, who was publicly credited with anastatic printing in The North American following the Franklin Institute Exhibition of October 1846. In contrast, other anastatic works from the same office—such as the Non-Importation Agreement—were clearly marked as being lithographed by Peter S. Duval for Thomas Fisher, thus differentiating official lithographic works from privately issued anastatic productions.

Lingenfelter believes that his copy, printed on paper, may be the very same “facsimile on parchment” described in an 1891 auction catalog by Stan V. Henkels. The listing describes it as a reproduction “taken from the original… under a certain process,” emphasizing the “outrage” committed against the original document in the name of replication. That catalog even went so far as to claim that the facsimile “more truthfully portrays what the document was than the original itself,” a provocative assessment at the time—and perhaps more defensible in light of modern comparisons.

Though his version is not on parchment, Lingenfelter explains that 19th-century auctioneers frequently misidentified paper facsimiles, as true parchment was seldom used in commercial printing by that time. He also retains the original frame believed to be crafted from wooden planks removed from Independence Hall during a 19th-century renovation—a detail that further connects the artifact to its moment in time.

Conservation and Scientific Reflection

In preserving his copy of the Anastatic Declaration, Lingenfelter undertook a professional conservation effort to remove the 19th-century varnish that had obscured the text and image. This careful restoration revealed the remarkable precision of the anastatic process. Notably, the resulting document stands as a mirror image—line-for-line and stroke-for-stroke—of the original engrossed Declaration, now so faded that much of it can no longer be discerned with the naked eye.

This raises profound archival and scientific questions. The anastatic process involved transferring ink from the original to a metal surface using acidic or chemical agents. Although such procedures would be deemed reckless today, they were not regarded as problematic in the mid-19th century, a time when reverence for historical documents was less developed and preservation science remained in its infancy.

Modern chemists and conservationists would warn that such chemical exposure likely weakened the ink’s molecular bonds, resulting in fading, discoloration, and a softening of the sharp edges that once defined the penmanship of the signers. What may once have seemed a bold innovation now appears, in retrospect, as a cautionary tale in the evolution of archival ethics.

The anastatic episode brings to mind a fictional but thematically resonant moment from the film National Treasure, in which a character considers using acidic chemicals on the Declaration to reveal hidden clues. The proposal horrifies the document’s curator—reflecting a modern understanding of the fragility and irreplaceable nature of such artifacts. Ironically, the anastatic process represents a historical parallel to that fictional scenario—one with real and lasting consequences.

Toward a Reconsideration of Value and Preservation

Today, the existence of two known anastatic facsimiles—the Lingenfelter copy and the example housed at Independence National Historical Park—offers a unique opportunity for comparative analysis. In many ways, they preserve the Declaration’s visual and textual integrity far more faithfully than the current condition of the original allows. These facsimiles have become, in effect, surrogates for the original, capturing what it once looked like in its unblemished state.

For Lingenfelter, the implications are profound. “I believe that having two surviving near-perfect facsimiles of the original, in place of one faded and diminished copy, is a bargain well made,” he states. Indeed, future generations now have the opportunity to view the Declaration as its signers and early recipients once saw it—clearly, vividly, and with full appreciation for its sweeping language and momentous claims.

In keeping with this mission, Lingenfelter has committed to touring his copy nationwide, with planned exhibitions in state archives and historic venues. The tour is sponsored by regional chapters of the Association of Records Managers and Administrators (ARMA), whose members are well aware of the value of redundancy, distribution, and document preservation. These are the very principles that underpinned John Jay Smith’s efforts in 1846, and they remain just as relevant in the digital age.

Smith’s endeavor—whether viewed as preservationist ambition or entrepreneurial gamble—reflects a transitional moment in American archival culture. By prioritizing widespread access over centralized custodianship, he helped ensure that critical historical records would not be lost to time. And in the Anastatic Declaration, we find not only a superior facsimile, but an enduring symbol of that bold vision.

As with all historical controversies, debate persists. Was John Jay Smith a visionary preserver or a careless risk-taker? Was the anastatic process a tragedy or a triumph? Regardless of where one falls on these questions, the Anastatic Declaration stands today as a document of immense importance—both for what it reveals about the original, and for what it has come to represent in the broader history of American independence.

The paramount question - Is it produced from the engrossed document?

In the interests of transparency, here are arguments for and against this being produced from the actual original engrossed document. We will add, there are other more consequential factors that do not involve conjecture.

📜 Anastatic Declaration: Source Comparison Table