AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.
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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.