NOTWITHSTANDING the powerful motives in connection with its munificent but unknown donor that impelled Mr. Samuel Erin to keep ‘the Profession of Faith’ a secret confined to his antiquarian friends, the thing was obviously impossible. It would have been almost as difficult, had the Tables of the Law been verily discovered upon Mount Sinai, to restrict the news to a few members of the religious public. The discovery, and the discoverer, William Henry Erin, became ‘the Talk of the Town.’ It seemed to Margaret impossible that the meritorious though fortunate young fellow could ever become more famous; but the possibilities of greatness are infinite; his foot, as it turned out, was only on the first rung of the ladder. The modest house in Norfolk Street became a sort of metropolitan Stratford-on-Avon; it was absolutely besieged by the antiquarian and learned world. Mr. Malone the commentator, indeed (who had not been invited), publicly announced his intention of not examining the MSS., ‘lest his visit should give a countenance to them, which, from the secrecy that was observed relative to their discovery, they were not entitled to.’ Mr. Steevens took the same course, as did also Dr. Farmer, Lord Orford, and the Bishops of Durham and Salisbury. The air was thick with their pamphlets and loud with their denunciations. But there were more fish than these in the Shakespearean seas, and quite as big ones, who were of a different opinion. Some of them came to scoff, but remained to admire and believe; others, calm and critical, examined and were convinced; others again, arriving in a reverent spirit, were filled with satisfaction and affected even to tears.

Under these circumstances, his own good faith being attacked, as well as these precious treasures maliciously denounced, Mr. Samuel Erin took a bold course. On a table in his sanctuary, side by side with the new discovery, was placed another ‘profession of faith’ in the validity of the MS. in question, which visitors were invited to sign. They were not, of course, compelled to do it; but, having expressed their belief in the genuineness of the document, it seemed not unreasonable that they should commit it to paper. In some cases there were rather humorous scenes. Antiquaries as a rule are not very eager to permanently endorse with their authority the treasures which are not in their own possession; they have been known even to express a cheerful belief in that or this, and afterwards, when unpleasant evidence turns up, to deny that they ever did believe in it; and Mr. Erin, who knew Latin, was an admirer of the ancient line, ‘litera scripta manet,’ which literally translated means, ‘One can’t well wriggle out of one’s own handwriting.’ As pilgrims did not pay for the privilege of admission to view these sacred relics, they were naturally inclined to be civil to their custodians, and, when sufficiently convinced of the genuineness of what they saw, to express themselves with much effusion and enthusiasm. As the paper in question was worded very modestly, but with extreme distinctness, there was no alternative for the impulsive person but to sign it.

‘Delighted to have seen you,’ Mr. Erin would say, as he pressed the hand of his departing guest; ‘your unsought-for and enthusiastic testimony has been most gratifying to me.’

‘Don’t mention it, my dear sir, it is I who have been delighted. It has been a privilege indeed to have set eyes upon so valuable and absolutely authentic a document.’

‘Then just as a matter of form, be so good as to add your name to this already lengthy roll of Shakespearean critics; it will be the very keystone of the edifice of our faith.’

The faces of some of these enthusiasts, at this modest and reasonable request, would fall from zenith to nadir. They could not eat their own words, but they looked as if they would like to have eaten Mr. Samuel Erin.

William Henry, who had a strong sense of humour, was sometimes compelled to rush from the room, and hide his face, bedewed with tears of laughter, upon Margaret’s shoulder.

These paroxysms used rather to distress her. ‘Oh, Willie, Willie, how can you be so frivolous,’ she would say, ‘on a matter too that is so fraught with good or evil to both of us?’

‘Oh, but if you could only see them, my darling,’ he would reply, ‘so civil, so beaming with courtesy and enthusiasm, and then all of a sudden—like a sportsman in a small way, who, boastful of his prowess, finds himself face to face with a wild boar—alarmed, astounded, and without the least hope of escape, you would laugh too. Then, when they won’t sign, it is almost even better fun. Porson was here this morning; the great Dr. Porson, who knows as much Greek as Troilus did, and certainly can write it better. He drank half a bottle of brandy, a pint of usquebaugh, and all the miscellaneous contents of your uncle’s spirit case, and, though he had said but little, was taking his leave in what seemed a state of complete good humour and satisfaction, when Mr. Erin requested the honour of his signature. Then he drew himself up as stiff as a pointer at a partridge.

‘“I thank you, sir,” he said, “but I never subscribe to anything, much less to a profession of faith.” The disbelieving old heathen! I really thought your uncle would have kicked him into the street.’

‘Oh, but I am so sorry about Dr. Porson.’

‘Why, my darling? He was not really kicked, you know. Don’t be sorry for Porson; be sorry for me. If I didn’t find some amusement in these people, I believe I should go mad. You have no idea what I suffer from them, their examinations and their cross-examinations—for when they are sceptical they are cross-examinations—their pomposity and pretence, are well-nigh intolerable. I don’t know whether their patronage or their contempt is the most offensive.’

It was quite true that these investigations were not always a laughing matter to William Henry. On one occasion there was a regular committee of inquiry, composed of what might well be called bigwigs, folks of the highest reputation in matters of erudition, and most of them in full-bottomed perukes. The Rev. Mr. Warton, the commentator, was one of them, solemn as Porson had been, and much more sober; Dr. Parr, the divine and scholar, pompous yet affable, in ecclesiastical apparel, with shovel hat and apron; Pye, the poet laureate, combining the air of a man of letters with the importance belonging to a Government official; and half a dozen other grave and reverend signors. The room was specially arranged for their reception. Mr. Samuel Erin sat at the head of the table in the Shakespearean chair that he had purchased at Anne Hathaway’s cottage. The Profession of Faith was spread before the learned epicures as though it was something to eat. Their eyes devoured it. William Henry had a chair to himself a little removed, ready to answer all inquiries. It was by far the most serious examination to which he had been subjected, but he acquitted himself very well. He had nothing, he said, to tell them but the simple truth. As to the genuineness of the document in question, he knew nothing, and had not even an opinion to offer on the subject.

These visitors were not Mr. Erin’s personal friends; they did not fall into raptures, or affect to do so; they were by no means so courteous as the ordinary folks who came from curiosity; they had been invited for the special purpose of having their minds satisfied, or of coming to an adverse conclusion. It was like the Star Chamber, and they did not (as it seemed to William Henry) spare the thumbscrew or the boot. After an hour or two of this gentle pressure, Mr. Warton observed, ‘Your testimony, young man, so far as it goes, is satisfactory to us, while your behaviour does you great credit.’

‘Yes,’ assented Dr. Parr, ‘I think, Mr. Erin, you have a son of whom you may be justly proud. I heard you address him as Samuel; it is a gratifying coincidence to me that it is also my baptismal name.’ Mr. Erin felt that it would be discourteous as well as embarrassing to undeceive him.

Then Mr. Pye was asked to read the Profession of Faith (which had by this time been fully investigated and discussed) aloud, which he did in a solemn and sonorous voice, with the company reverently upstanding as during Divine Service. Then, amid a profound silence, Dr. Parr delivered himself as follows:—

‘Sir, we have very fine passages in our Church Services, and our Litany abounds in beauties; but here, sir, is a man who has distanced us all.’

Most of the learned company bowed assent, and two, who were nonconformists, murmured ‘hear, hear.’ The tears trickled down Mr. Erin’s cheeks; it was the proudest moment, so far, in the old man’s life.

Later on in the day another gratifying circumstance took place. A visitor called who either had not received his invitation in time, or, what was more probable, not wishing his personal importance to suffer by comparison with that of others, had preferred to come alone. His face was fat and puffy, and exhibited an unparalleled self-sufficiency. He had a sharp nose, a double chin, and eyebrows superciliously elevated; he carried a gold-headed cane in his hands, clasped behind him, and spoke in a thick, slow voice. Mr. Erin received him with great respect, and submitted his literary treasure for examination with an unwonted humility. The investigation was a prolonged and apparently an exhausting one, for the visitor called three times (as though he had been in a public-house) for hot whisky and water! As Dr. Porson had drunk all there was in the case, Margaret herself, who kept the key of the cellar, took him in a fresh bottle, and curiosity compelled her to remain. Her presence seemed somewhat to distract the attention of the guest from the precious manuscript.

‘No doubt authentic,’ he murmured, ‘and devilish pretty; antiquity is stamped upon it.’

‘And the right sort of antiquity,’ suggested Mr. Erin. ‘It has the stamp of the time.’

‘Just so. I should think twenty years of age, at most.’

‘Sir!’ ejaculated his host.

‘I mean the usquebaugh,’ explained the visitor. ‘Twenty years in bottle at least—did I say at most? and plump.’

Here Margaret was about to beat a retreat, when the gentleman rose. ‘One moment, young lady,’ he said, ‘you do not know who I am. It will be something to tell your children’s children that James Boswell, of Auchinleck, Esq.’ (here he suited the action to the word) ‘chucked you under the chin.’

William Henry felt greatly inclined to resent this liberty, but Mr. Erin only smiled approval.

‘Another glass!’ said Mr. Boswell, and proceeded with his investigations.

Presently, without a word of warning, he threw himself on his knees and pressed his lips to the MS.

‘I kiss these invaluable relics of our bard,’ he said, ‘and thank Heaven that I have lived to see them. Would that my late revered friend, the great Lexi—the great Lexicog—— ‘ Emotion of various kinds prevented his completion of the sentence, and Mr. Erin led him with a gentle violence to the table on which lay the list of signatures; to which he added his name, though, it must be confessed, in a handwriting that was rather illegible.