AN AUDACIOUS CRITICISM.
IN the case of crime, every person who is concerned in its detection
looks very properly to motive: the law, indeed, in its award of
punishment, disregards it, but then, as a famous authority (and himself
in authority), namely, Mr. Bumble, observes, ‘the law is a hass.’ Where
mankind falls into error is in looking for motive in all cases, whether
criminal or otherwise. A very large number of persons are actuated by
causes for which motive is far too serious a term. They are often moved
by sudden impulse, nay, even by whim or caprice, to take very important
steps. When interrogated, after the mischief has been done, as to why
they did this or that, they reply, ‘I don’t know,’ and are discredited.
Yet, as a matter of fact, the motive was so slight, or rather so
momentary (for it was probably strong enough while it lasted), that
they have really forgotten all about it.
William Henry Erin, of whose character the world subsequently took a
very different and erroneous view, was essentially a man of impulse.
He had attributes, it is true, of another and even of an antagonistic
kind. He was very punctual and diligent in his habits, he was neat and
exact in his professional work; though a poet, his views of life, or at
all events of his own position in it, were practical enough, yet he was
impatient, passionate, and impulsive. His proposition to Margaret Slade
had been made with such stress and energy that it was no wonder (albeit
she knew his character better than most people) that she thought it
founded upon some scheme for the future already formed in his own mind.
Of its genuineness there could be no shadow of doubt, but she also took
it for granted that he had some ground for expectation, which, at all
events to his own mind, seemed solid, that within the space of time he
had mentioned, something would occur to place him in a better social
position. Her impression, or rather her apprehension (for she did not
much believe in his literary talents—a circumstance, by-the-bye, which
showed that she was by no means over head and ears in love with him),
was that he trusted to the publication of his poems to place him on the
road to prosperity; his use of the words ‘fame and fortune’ certainly
seemed to point to that direction, and what other road was there open
to him?
Whereas, as a matter of fact, there was not even that poor
halfpennyworth of substratum for his hopes. Circumstances—the finding
himself alone with her he loved on Shakespeare’s courting-seat—had,
of course, been the immediate cause of his amazing appeal, but they
were also the chief cause. The knowledge that Frank Dennis was of the
party and could gain her ear at any moment, with the certainty of Mr.
Erin’s advocacy to back him, had, moreover, made the young man madly
jealous. To secure his beloved Margaret, even for a little while,
from so dreaded a rival, was something gained; and then there was the
chapter of accidents. We know not what a day may bring forth, how much
less what may happen within six months! William Henry was but a boy,
yet how many a grown man trusts to such contingencies! In the city,
‘twenty-four hours to turn about in’ is often considered time enough
for a total change of fortune. It might be added that, unless Margaret
should turn traitress and reveal his secret (which was impossible), he
had nothing to lose and everything to gain by his delay; but, to do the
young man justice, that idea had not entered into his mind. Passion
with the bit between her teeth had run away with him.
As to precocity, it must be remembered that he lived in reckless days,
when men did not wait as they do now till they were five-and-forty
years of age to marry; by that time, with enterprise and luck, many
a gentleman was in the enjoyment of his third, or even his fourth
honeymoon.
Still, William Henry was not unconscious that he had taken an audacious
step, and felt a genuine sense of relief on finding that Mr. Samuel
Erin had provided himself in that armchair with a relic and not a
weapon.
This invaluable acquisition—which, when it was brought to London, was
placed on a little elevation made on purpose for it in his study, with
a brass plate at its foot (after the manner of chairs in our Madam
Tussaud’s) with the words ‘Anne Hathaway’s Chair’ upon it—had the
effect of putting its possessor into good humour for the remainder of
his stay at Stratford, a circumstance which had the happiest results
for those about him. William Henry, for his part, was in the seventh
heaven. It is not only our virtues which have the power of bestowing
happiness upon us—at all events, for a season. Shakespeare himself
makes a striking observation on that matter in one of his sonnets;
having spoken plainly enough of certain errors, gallantries of which he
has repented, he adds, with an altogether unexpected frankness,—
But, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth.
He does not put his tongue in his cheek at morality, far from it; but
he rolls the sweet morsel, the remembrance of forbidden pleasure, under
his tongue. It is one of the mistakes that our divines fall into to
deny to our little peccadilloes any pleasure at all, whereas the fact
is that the blossom of them is often very fair and fragrant, though the
fruit is full of ashes, and, like the goodly apple, rotten at the core.
And thus it was with William Henry, who, without, indeed, having
committed any great enormity, had certainly not been justified in
obtaining the loan of his cousin’s love; the consciousness of his
temporary possession of it made a very happy man of him for a season.
He made no ungenerous use of his advantage, he did not take an ell
because he had gained an inch; but he hugged himself in that new-found
sense of security as one basks in the summer sunshine. Those days at
Stratford were the happiest days of his life. Considering the means by
which they were obtained, one can hardly apply to them the usual phrase
‘a foretaste of heaven;’ but they were happy days snatched from a life
which was fated to hold few such. It was, perhaps, out of gratitude to
him whose memory had helped him to this happiness, that the young man
really began to take an interest in Shakespearean matters; and this
again reacted to his advantage, since it gratified Mr. Erin, whose
good-will, difficult to gain by other means, was approached by that
channel with extraordinary facility.
In association with Mr. Jervis the young man ransacked the little town
for mementoes of its patron saint, and was fortunate enough to discover
a few, which, though of doubtful authenticity, were very welcome to
the enthusiastic collector. If they were not the rose, _i.e._ actual
relics, they were near the rose, as proximity is counted in such cases.
No doubt it is the same with more sacred relics—in a deficiency of
toe-nails of any particular saint it must be something, though not of
course so rapturous, to secure a toe-nail of some saint in the next
century. As regards Shakespeare, it is certainly one of the marvels
in connection with that marvellous man that not a scrap of the
handwriting, save his autograph, of one who wrote so much ever turns
up to reward the pains of the searcher; nay, there is only one letter
extant, even of those that were written to him—a commonplace request
for a loan from the man who afterwards became his son-in-law; under
which circumstances, when one comes to think about it, there may be
some excuse for the language used by Mr. Samuel Erin to that reckless
incendiary, Mr. Williams, of Clopton House.
If to be indifferent, as William Henry had been suspected of being, to
the charms of Shakespeare was a crime in Mr. Erin’s eyes, it may be
easily imagined how he resented the least imputation of any portion
of his idol having been composed of clay. There were circumstances
connected with his union with Anne Hathaway, and also with that little
adventure of his with Justice Shallow’s deer, which were dangerous
to allude to in Mr. Erin’s presence; and if the moral qualities of
his hero (albeit, we may have gathered, Mr. Erin was himself, though
Protestant, by no means Puritan) could not in safety be called in
question, any suggestion of weakness in him as a writer was still more
unendurable. Nevertheless, even prudent Frank Dennis contrived to
put his foot in it in this very matter, and thereby narrowly escaped
falling out of Mr. Erin’s good graces for the term of his natural life.
It was during an expedition to Charlecote; the little party, having
left their vehicle at the gate, were walking through the park, Mr. Erin
wrapped in contemplation—endeavouring perhaps to identify the very
oak (in ‘As You Like It’) where the poor sequestered stag had ‘come to
languish’—while the young people a few paces behind were indulging in
a little quiet banter upon the forbidden subject of deer-stealing.
‘I suppose that he did steal that deer?’ observed Margaret slily in a
hushed whisper.
‘There is no doubt of it,’ answered Frank; ‘he had to fly from
Stratford to London for that very reason, to get out of Sir Thomas’s
way.’
‘Nay, nay,’ put in William Henry, I am afraid with some slight
imitation of his father’s solemn manner when dealing with the sacred
topic; ‘let us not say steal, it was what “the wise do call convey.” We
do a good deal of it in New Inn ourselves.’
‘Yonder are our “velvet friends,”’ said Mr. Erin, pointing to a herd of
deer in the distance.
The allusion caused some trepidation in his companions, as chiming in
only too opportunely with their late disloyal remarks; and it was much
to their relief that Mr. Erin proceeded, as was his wont, to indulge
himself in quotation.
‘And indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans
That their discharge did stretch his leather coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase.’
‘What a graphic picture! “His innocent nose.” Who but Shakespeare would
have dared to write “his innocent nose?”’
‘Very true, sir,’ said William Henry gravely. ‘“His innocent nose.”’
Not a muscle of his face betrayed the drollery within him. He
certainly possessed some tricks of the actor’s trade. Margaret stooped
to pluck a daisy, an action which sufficed to account for the colour
rushing to her cheeks. Frank Dennis, whose wits were not of the nimble
sort fitted for such sudden emergency, felt he was about to suffocate.
It seemed to him he had no alternative between speech—the act of
saying something, no matter what—and an explosion.
‘With regard to deer shedding tears,’ he observed, ‘I have a friend who
is a great naturalist, who tells me, as a matter of fact, that they
can’t do it.’
‘Can’t do what?’ inquired Mr. Erin curtly.
‘He says that from the peculiar formation of the ducts of the deer, or
perhaps from the absence of them—— I know nothing about the matter
myself, sir,’ put in the unhappy Frank precipitately, for the antiquary
was looking daggers at him.
‘You know quite as much about it as your friend then,’ thundered Mr.
Erin. ‘Great heavens! that a man like him, or you, or anybody, should
venture to pick a hole in one of the noblest descriptions of the
language: to find faults in Shakespeare himself! You remind me, sir,
of the sacrilegious fellow in France, the other day, who gave it as
his opinion that if he had been present at the Creation, he could have
suggested improvements.’
‘But indeed, sir, it was not my opinion.’
‘It is quite as bad to quote those of infamous persons as to originate
them yourself.’
Mr. Frank Dennis had very little of the serpent in him, not even its
prudence; his sense of justice was shocked by this outrageous speech.
‘But it is a mere question of fact and science—— ‘
‘Science,’ interrupted the other vehemently, ‘that is the argument of
the Atheist against the Scriptures. Science, indeed! what is science
when compared with the genius of Shakespeare? He told you, sir, that
deer shed tears, and if they don’t, why—damn their eyes—they ought
to!’
[Illustration: ’SCIENCE:’ INTERRUPTED THE ANTIQUARY, VEHEMENTLY. ‘THAT
IS THE ARGUMENT OF THE ATHEIST AGAINST THE SCRIPTURES.’]
The argument was, at least, conclusive; nothing more remained to be
said, or was said. Mr. Erin stalked on like a turkey-cock ruffled;
his idol had been insulted, and he felt that he had done well to be
angry. Every deer he saw stimulated his wrath. ‘Confound the fellow!’
he murmured as he passed the antlered herd, ‘it would serve him right
if they tossed him.’ It even crossed his mind perhaps that Margaret was
right after all in receiving Dennis’s attentions so coldly; that he was
certainly a very pig-headed young man.
Frank Dennis, too, good-natured as he was, was not a little put out.
For the moment he felt almost as disrespectful towards Shakespeare as
Sydney Smith’s friend was to the Equator; but his eye fell on Margaret,
and he put a bridle on his tongue.
His sense of annoyance soon faded away, but with the antiquary it was
not so easily effaced. This incident was of considerable advantage to
William Henry and his little plan. In a company of three, when one of
them has fallen out of our favour, one naturally rather ‘cottons’ to
the other, if it is only to show the offender what he has forfeited
by his misconduct; and from thenceforward Mr. Erin showed himself at
least less severe towards the young man who bore his name. Nay, what
was of more consequence, the symptoms he had exhibited of favouring
Frank Dennis’s pretensions to his niece’s hand manifestly slackened;
he no longer troubled himself to throw the young people together. On
the other hand, though of course with no idea that there was risk in
it (for he both despised him and ‘despised his youth’), he suffered
William Henry and Margaret to ‘foregather’ as much as they pleased.
He still felt so resentful to Frank’s sacrilegious ideas as respected
the customs of deer when under emotion, that it was distasteful to him
to be shut up with him as a companion; and in order to mitigate his
society he took an inside place for William Henry (notwithstanding
that, except in the matter of MSS. and first editions, he had a frugal
mind) in the coach to town.