All that had gone before as regarded the Shakespeare MSS. sank into almost insignificance as compared with the stir made by the ‘Vortigern and Rowena.’ The superiority of new lamps over old ones has, with that well-known exception in the ‘Arabian Nights,’ been pretty generally acknowledged in all climes and times. If a scrap of writing from the great genius, who had left nothing of himself behind him, save, as had been hitherto supposed, a couple of signatures, had had its attractions; if the original drafts of a well-known play or two had set the town by the ears; one may imagine the excitement produced by the discovery of a brand-new drama in the master’s hand. Mr. Samuel Erin’s door in Norfolk Street was positively besieged by applicants to view the wonder.

That gentleman, however, declined for the present to gratify the public curiosity. Conscious as he was of the importance of his own position, he was also fully aware of the necessity of strengthening it against all comers, among whom must necessarily be many foes. William Henry had been as good as his word. He had, though with great difficulty, persuaded his patron to part with the precious manuscript, which had been duly placed in the antiquary’s hands. Both by external and internal evidence he was fully satisfied with its authenticity; but it was necessary that the world without should share his conviction. Mahomet, it seems, was for a considerable time content with a single believer; nor when we consider that that believer was his wife, is it discreditable to his claims. If he could only have converted his valet de chambre also, he ought to have been well satisfied. Mr. Erin, as we are aware, was in a much better position as to followers, but then he wanted so much more. Mahomet, so far as we know, had not just then a two-guinea edition of the Koran in hand, the sale of which was beginning to slacken. It was doubtful whether the immediate publication of the ‘Vortigern’ might not injure its predecessor, unless its genuineness could be better authenticated.

To this end, Mr. Erin took the bold step of convening a committee of commentators and critics to report upon the MS. A selection was made from those who had signed the certificate, and who were therefore favourable; but others were invited who had not so compromised themselves, and even who might be supposed to be hostile, including Mr. Albany Wallis. No one could say that it was a hole-and-corner business, far less that the assembly was packed. It would, without doubt, have been much more agreeable to Mr. Erin if it had been, for he had to listen to some very unpleasant things. These, for the most part, it was true, were said by small men. Just as in the great railway meetings of the present day, the shareholder who has just put enough in the undertaking to qualify him to speak at all is always the most loquacious, so the second-rate critics, who had not much chance of being listened to in the world without, were, if not the most sceptical, the most vituperative; and poor Mr. Erin was not a chairman who could ignore them. The style, the matter, the calligraphy of the ‘Vortigern,’ nay, even the very paper on which it was written, underwent the sharpest scrutiny and evoked some very bitter remarks. Dr. Parr and Dr. Warton, the two great cards of the certificate, were strongly in favour of the play, and carried many with them, including the laureate Pye, and his brother poet, Sir James Burgess. But there were also many adversaries.

The fact was, notwithstanding that famous dictum about the occupation of the critic being gone if the intrinsic merit of a work was not sufficient to establish its genuineness, and though the excellence of the ‘Vortigern’ was on the whole admitted, the story of how it came into William Henry’s hands was the real obstacle to its acceptance. His patron of the Temple was too much wrapped in mystery to be satisfactory to the minds of most.

The committee was to sit for two days, and then decide by vote upon the all-important question, was there or was there not sufficient evidence before them of the authenticity of the play? William Henry was always present, a witness whose examination was always proceeding, but, as it were, in a circle. The keenest expert could get nothing out of him beyond what had been already got. He had nothing to tell, save what he had already told. His manner was cool and collected, and produced a favourable impression. Sir James Burgess said, ‘If this young man is not speaking the truth, he is a marvellous actor, and we are informed, upon authority which in this case can certainly not be disputed, that he is but seventeen.’ The authority was not quite so good as Sir James imagined, but the fact was as he stated it.

Alone with Mr. Erin and Margaret, the young fellow was even more self-reliant; he was hopeful. Whatever decision the committee might arrive at, there was still, he would say, the appeal to the public; and in that he expressed his confidence. In this Mr. Erin could not agree; if the play was discredited by those who had been so solemnly convened to judge of it, he doubted of its acceptance out of doors. On the second and all-important day there was even a fuller attendance than on the first. Among the new-comers was the Bishop of St. Andrews, a good-natured divine enough, but who produced an unfavourable impression by quoting Porson’s ‘Iambics,’ ‘Three children sliding on the ice,’ which the great professor pretended to have found in an old trunk among some manuscript plays of Sophocles—an obvious satire upon the Shakespearean discoveries. Greek wit is never so mirth-provoking as to endanger life, but at this specimen it was difficult for Mr. Samuel Erin to force a smile. What even more depressed him was the unexpected arrival of Mr. Reginald Talbot. How this young man had gained admittance he could not understand; but at such a time the real ground of objection to him could not, of course, be stated. Public opinion had been challenged, and on the brink of its decision it would have been madness indeed to have any altercation with one who had evinced his scepticism.

Talbot had come in alone and taken his seat rather apart from the rest: his face looked less florid than usual, but resolute enough; after one glance round the room he fixed his eyes upon the ground. Every moment the antiquary expected to hear his blatant voice giving utterance to some offensive imputation; but he remained silent, listening to the pros and cons of his seniors, with no particular interest, as it seemed, in the matter.

William Henry had seen him enter, of course—there were few things that escaped his observation—but had shown no sign of concern, far less of apprehension. He either did not fear him, or had screwed his courage to the sticking place. Now and then, indeed, he glanced nervously at the door; but from no fear of an enemy. He had some misgiving lest Margaret’s anxiety upon his account might compel her to come and hear for herself how matters were going on; a very groundless apprehension, for nothing could have been more foreign to her retiring and modest nature than to have intruded herself upon such an assembly.

After all who wished to speak had had their say, the Laureate rose and addressed the meeting. He had listened very attentively, he said, to the opinions that had been advanced on both sides upon the subject of controversy; and if he could not say that he had himself come to a definite conclusion, he thought that he had at least gathered the general view of those present. The play before them was undoubtedly a remarkable one; he could not take upon himself to say from internal evidence whether it was, or was not, written by William Shakespeare, but, on the whole, he believed it to have been so. Persons better qualified than himself to judge of such matters had expressed themselves for and against the other proofs of its authenticity. Again, on the whole, these seemed to him to be in its favour. But what, after all, was their great stumbling-block was the mystery—and as it seemed to him the unnecessary mystery—that hung about its discovery.

Here there were audible expressions of assent. Mr. Erin, pale and trembling, but much more with anger than with fear, was about to rise, but the Laureate waved him back. He was not going to have his peroration spoilt by any man. There was a general murmur of ‘Pye, Pye,’ which under any other circumstances, would have sounded exquisitely humorous; it was like a bread riot of the upper classes. ‘Under these circumstances,’ continued the orator, ‘if anyone can be found who has seen the MS. as it were in situ, and has met the unknown patron of the Temple in the flesh, so as to corroborate so far the testimony of this young gentleman’ (here he pointed to William Henry), ‘I, for one, shall have no hesitation in acknowledging myself a believer; but in the absence of such a witness I must take leave, at least, to reserve my judgment.’

There was a long and significant silence. If the speaker had not expressed the views of the majority, he had done so for many of those present; while the want of corroborative testimony, such as he had indicated, was felt by all. Even Mr. Erin, perhaps for the first time, understood how evidence which had been, and was, perfectly conclusive to himself, might well fail, thus unsupported, to satisfy the public mind. He felt like the young blood who had recently been endeavouring for a bet to dispose within five minutes of a hundred sovereigns to as many persons on London Bridge for a penny apiece. His MSS. were genuine, but if he could not persuade people to believe it, where would be his profit?

‘Well,’ continued the Laureate in self-satisfied tones, for he was pleased with the impression his eloquence had produced, and especially that he had reduced the antiquary—in whose mind he had created a desert and called it peace—to silence: ‘Well! the question is, Is there such a witness as I have described?’

‘Yes, there is.’

These words fell upon the general ear like a bombshell, but no one was more utterly astounded by them than Mr. Samuel Erin himself. He could hardly believe his ears, and when he looked to the quarter from which they proceeded—and to which every one else was looking—he could not believe his eyes; for the man that had uttered them was Mr. Reginald Talbot.

The young man was not, indeed, in appearance quite the sort of witness whom one would have chosen to establish the authenticity of an ancient literary document; though at a police court, in some case of assault (provided the victim was respectable, and he had been for the prosecution), he might have been passable enough. His dress was that of a young man of fashion, but not of good fashion; his manner was suggestive less of confidence than of swagger, and his face spoke of indulgence in liquor. On the other hand, this impression may have been partly caused by his contrast with these learned pundits, most of them in wigs, and some of them in shovel hats; he scarcely seemed to belong to the same race. The very eye-glass, which headed the cane he carried so jauntily in his hand, was out of keeping with their eye-glasses, and looked like some gay young lens who had refused to be put into spectacles, and was winking at life on its own hook.

‘Does any one know this young gentleman?’ inquired Mr. Pye, with significant hesitation.

‘Yes, I know him,’ observed Mr. Albany Wallis. ‘I have, it is true, but slight acquaintance with his personal character, but he comes of respectable parentage.’

‘You may add that he has two hundred a year of his own, good money,’ observed Mr. Talbot with some complacency, and a strong Irish accent.

Mr. Pye looked at him very dubiously, and in spite of this assurance of his financial solvency, addressed himself to the previous speaker.

‘In the case before us, Mr. Wallis—and I need not say how your opinion will weigh with us,—do you consider this gentleman as a dependable witness?’

Mr. Reginald Talbot turned very red, and, not having a retort on hand suitable to bestow on a poet laureate, very wisely held his tongue.

‘I am bound to say,’ said Mr. Wallis gravely, ‘that Mr. Talbot has given some attention to the authenticity of the Shakespeare MSS., and up to this time he has expressed himself, and with somewhat unnecessary vehemence, to their discredit; any evidence he may therefore have to offer in their favour will have some weight with me.’

Then all the company awaited in expectant silence for Mr. Reginald Talbot’s narrative.

‘What Mr. Wallis has said is quite right,’ said that young gentleman, with unnecessary affability. ‘I did use to think that there was something amiss with those Shakespeare papers. I had an idea that Mr. William Henry Erin yonder was playing tricks, so I made it my business to watch him. I hung about his chambers in the New Inn—they are on the ground floor, though pretty high up—and with a short ladder I have made shift to see what was going on when he was alone in his room, and little suspected it.’

William Henry, standing apart with folded arms, listened to this confession of his former friend with a contemptuous smile. If it was a revelation to him, he displayed the indifference of a North American Indian.

‘For days and days I watched him and discovered nothing. Then I dogged his steps to the city, where he went every afternoon; on two occasions he turned, as if to see whether he was followed, and I think he saw me.’

William Henry shook his head.

‘Well, at all events I thought he did, and gave it up. The third time, walking on the other side of the street, and very careful to leave a safe distance between us, I tracked him to a staircase in the Temple. He stopped at a door on the first floor, and entered without knocking. I waited a bit and then followed him. An old gentleman was seated in the room alone, in an armchair, reading; he looked up from his book in great astonishment, and inquired very curtly who I was.

‘I said that I came upon business of importance, after young Mr. Erin. He rose, and opening an inner door, exclaimed: “Here is a friend of yours, sir: what is the meaning of his intrusion here?“ He spoke very angrily, but I felt that he had some reason for it, and when Erin came out and said, “Talbot, you have ruined me,“ I felt sorry for what I had done. There was nothing for it but to make a clean breast of it, and with many apologies, of which not the slightest notice was taken, I explained that curiosity, and a suspicion that the world was being gulled by these pretended discoveries, had induced me to look into the matter myself.

‘“You are a spy, then,“ cried the old gentleman. I thought for a moment that he was going to throw me out of the window; but his rage instantly subsided. “Take him into the next room, Erin, and show him all,“ he said. He took me accordingly, and there I saw an immense quantity of old manuscripts strewed about the floor; I should say whole cartfuls of them. I was so sorry and so ashamed of myself that I never spoke a word till Erin let me out again.

‘“I am sorry I came,“ I said; “but I am quite satisfied, sir, that Erin spoke the truth.”

‘“I don’t care a farthing, sir, whether you are satisfied or not,“ replied the old gentleman; “you have taken a mean advantage of your friend, and an unpardonable liberty with me.”

‘Then I told him upon my honour, and as I hoped to be saved, that I would never reveal his name to any human being.’

‘He waved his hand contemptuously, and observed that my word and my oath together were not worth sixpence; but if I had any feeling for my friend, or any remorse for the baseness I had committed, I had better hold my tongue, since, if by my means his secret should be discovered, Erin should never darken his doors again, nor receive from him any of the benefits which it had been his intention to confer upon him. Erin himself did not speak to me at all; he has never spoken to me from that day to this; but hearing by accident of this meeting, I resolved to come here, and do what I could for him by way of reparation. That is all I have got to say.’

This narrative made an immense impression. Mr. Samuel Erin sighed a great sigh of relief, and looked around him with triumphant exultation. He had not needed any confirmation of his son’s story for himself, but he felt how opportune with respect to others was this young man’s testimony—that in him, in fact, he had entertained an angel very much unawares. A murmur of satisfaction ran round the company, and the faces of even the most sceptical relaxed their severity. William Henry alone looked totally unmoved; like one who had all along been conscious that his character would be cleared, one way or another, and was indifferent in what way. Some questions were put to Talbot, but nothing was elicited to shake his evidence; indeed, since he had by his own showing taken his oath that he would not reveal the name of the Templar unknown, there was little more to be extracted from him.

The Laureate, in a short but dignified speech, observed that after the very testimony he had stated was the only thing wanting to his conviction had been forthcoming, he could not, in reason, offer any further objection to the authenticity of the play, and that for his part he admitted it.

To this the whole company, with hardly a dissentient voice, expressed their agreement, and the committee dispersed, after passing an all but unanimous resolution that the ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ was a genuine play of William Shakespeare’s.