THE PROFESSION OF FAITH.
TWO days after Margaret’s letter was despatched there was great news
from the Temple. Not even on the first day, when William Henry had won
Mr. Erin’s heart by Shakespeare’s note of hand, had the young man’s
face been so full of promise as when he came in that evening. On the
former occasion, anxiety and doubt had mingled with its expectancy,
but now it was flushed with triumph. The difference of manner with
which he produced his new discovery was also noticeable. It was not
only that he felt as sure of the assent of his audience (who were,
indeed, but his uncle and Margaret) as of his own, but he displayed a
certain self-consciousness of his own position. He was no longer an
unknown lad, seeking for the favour of one who should have been his
natural protector, for he had already won it. It was true he was still
dependent upon him for the means of livelihood, and for something
that he prized as highly as existence itself; but Mr. Erin had in
some sort, on the other hand, become dependent on him. His reputation
as a Shakespearean collector and critic, which was very dear to him,
had been immensely increased by his son’s discoveries. The newspapers
and magazines were full of his good fortune; and even those which
disputed the genuineness of his newly acquired possessions made them
the subject of continual comment, and added fuel to his notoriety. If
such a metaphor can be used without offence in the case of a gentleman
of years and learning, Mr. Samuel Erin gazed at William Henry with much
the same air of expectation as a very sagacious old dog regards his
young master, whom he suspects of having some toothsome morsel in his
pocket; he has too much respect for his own dignity to ‘beg’ for it, by
sitting up on his hind legs, or barking, but he moves his tail from
side to side, and his mouth waters.
The young gentleman did not, at first, even produce his prize, but sat
down at table with a cheerful nod, that seemed to say, ‘I have found
it at last, and by the sacred bones that rest by Avon’s stream, it is
worth the finding.’
‘Well, Willie,’ exclaimed Margaret, impatiently, ‘what is it?’
The young man gravely produced two half-sheets of paper.
At the sight of it, for he knew that it was not the new Bath Post, the
antiquary’s eyes glistened.
‘Mr. Erin—— ‘ began William Henry.
‘Why not call me “father,” Samuel?’ put in the old man, gently; if it
was the sense of favours to come that moved him, it was at least a deep
and genuine sense of them. Margaret’s fair face glowed with pleasure.
‘I have often heard you say, father, that you wished above all
things to discover what were, in reality, Shakespeare’s religious
convictions.’
The antiquary nodded assent, but said nothing; the intensity of
expectation, indeed, precluded speech; the perspiration came out upon
his forehead.
‘It distressed you, I know, to believe it possible—as, indeed, the
language used by the Ghost in “_Hamlet_” would seem to imply, that he
was of the Catholic persuasion. In the profession of faith found at
Stratford—— ‘
‘Spurious,’ put in Mr. Erin, mechanically; ‘that fool, Malone, believed
in it, nobody else.’
This was not quite in accordance with fact; for many months the whole
Shakespearean world had admitted its authenticity.
‘If it had been true, however, it would have offended your sense of the
fitness of things.’
‘No doubt; still we must take things as they really were.’
Even if it should turn out that Shakespeare was not so good a
Protestant as he ought to be, the value of a genuine manuscript was not
to be depreciated.
‘Well! I have been this day so fortunate as to discover what will put
all doubts at rest upon this point. Shakespeare was a Protestant.’
‘Thank Heaven!’ murmured Mr. Erin, piously. ‘If you have done this, my
son, you have advanced the claims of true religion, and quickened the
steps of civilisation throughout the world.’
Margaret’s eyes opened very wide (as well they might), but they only
beheld William Henry. She had been wont to rally him upon his vanity,
and especially upon the hopes he had built upon his poetical gifts.
Yet how much greater a mark was he making in the world than his most
sanguine aspirations had imagined! And how quiet and unassuming he
looked! The modest way in which he habitually bore his honours pleased
her even more than the honours themselves.
‘After all, Maggie,’ he would say, after receiving the congratulations
of the dilettanti, ‘it is nothing but luck.’
As he straightened out the half-sheets of paper on the table, where
their homely supper stood untouched and unnoticed, he only permitted
himself a smile of gratification.
‘It is too long,’ he said, ‘to read aloud, and the old spelling is
difficult.’
His uncle drew his chair close to him, on one side, and Margaret did
the like on the other, so that each could read for themselves. Their
looks were full of eagerness; the one was thinking of Shakespeare and
Samuel Erin, the other of William Henry—and _longo intervallo_—of
William Shakespeare.
The MS., which was headed ‘William Shakespeare’s Profession of Faith,’
ran as follows:—
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S PROFESSION OF FAITH.
I beynge nowe offe sounde Mynde doe hope thatte thys mye wyshe wille,
att mye deathe, bee acceded toe, as I nowe lyve in Londonne, and as mye
soule maye perchance, soone quittee thys poore bodye, itte is mye desire
thatte inne suche case I maye bee carryed toe mye native place, ande
thatte mye Bodye bee there quietlye interred wythe as little pompe as
canne bee, and I doe nowe, inne these mye seryouse moments, make thys
mye professione of faythe, and which I doe moste solemnlye believe. I
doe fyrste looke toe oune lovynge and Greate God and toe his glorious
sonne Jesus. I doe alsoe beleyve thatte thys mye weake and frayle Bodye
wille returne to duste, butte for mye soule lette God judge thatte as
toe himselfe shalle seeme meete. O omnipotente and greate God I am fulle
offe synne, I doe notte thinke myeselfe worthye offe thye grace and
yette wille I hope, forre evene thee poore prysonerre whenne bounde with
gallying irons evene he wille hope for Pittye and whenne the teares of
sweete repentance bathe hys wretched pillowe he then looks and hopes for
pardonne thenne rouse mye soule and lette hope, thatte sweete cherysher
offe all, afforde thee comforte also. O Manne whatte arte thou whye
consideres thou thyselfe thus gratelye, where are thye great, thye
boasted attrybutes; buryed, loste forre everre in colde Death. O Manne
whye attemptest thou toe searche the greatnesse off the Almyghtye thou
doste butte loose thye laboure. More thou attempteste, more arte thou
loste, tille thye poore weake thoughtes arre elevated toe theyre summite
and thenne as snowe from the leffee tree droppe and dystylle themselves
tille theye are noe more. O God, manne as I am frayle bye nature, fulle
offe synne, yette great God receyve me toe thye bosomme where alle is
sweete contente and happyness alle is blyss where dyscontente isse
neverre hearde, butte where oune Bonde offe freyndeshippe unytes alle
Menne forgive O Lorde alle our synnes, ande withe thye greate goodnesse
take usse alle toe thye Breaste; O cheryshe usse like the sweete
chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings Receyves
herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge overre themme keepes themme harmlesse
and in safetye.
Wm. Shakespeare.
Margaret finished the perusal of the MS. before her uncle; her
quicker and more youthful eye would probably have done so in any
case, but his reverence for the matter forbade rapid reading; she
waited respectfully, but also with some little apprehension, for the
expression of his opinion.
‘This is a godsend!’ he exclaimed at last, with a sigh that had almost
as much relief as satisfaction in it. ‘There can be no longer any doubt
about Shakespeare’s creed. Is it not beautiful, and full of humility,
my child?’
‘Yes, uncle.’ She knew that the least fault-finding would be resented,
yet she could not shut out from her tone a certain feeling of
disappointment; ‘it is hardly, however, so simple as I should have
expected.’
‘Not simple!’ exclaimed the antiquary in amazement; ‘I call it the most
natural effusion of a sincere piety that it is possible to imagine.
The diction is solemn and dignified as the subject demands. There
are, indeed, some minute particularities of phraseology, and the old
spelling to one unaccustomed to it may, as William Henry has observed,
be a little difficult; but of all the accusations you could bring
against it, that of a want of simplicity, my dear Maggie, is certainly
the most frivolous and vexatious.’
‘I know I am frivolous,’ replied Margaret, with a sly look at her
smiling cousin, ‘but certainly did not intend to be vexatious, uncle.’
‘Nay, nay, I was only quoting a legal phrase,’ said Mr. Erin; he had
gently drawn the two precious MSS. to himself, and placed an elbow on
each of them, in sign of having taken possession. ‘In a case of this
kind I need not say that anything in the way of criticism, as to ideas
or style, would be out of place, and indeed blasphemous; but no one can
blame you for seeking in a proper spirit for enlightenment on this or
that point.’
Margaret looked up at William Henry, and with a half-roguish and wholly
charming smile inquired ‘May I?’
‘My dear Maggie,’ returned the young man, laughing outright, ‘why, of
course you may. Even if you detected the immortal bard in an error it
would be no business of mine to defend him.’
‘I should think not, indeed,’ muttered Mr. Erin.
‘What I was thinking,’ said Margaret, ‘was that if you, Willie, or
Mr. Talbot (who informed us the other night, you know, that he was a
poet) had written those lines about spreading her wings over her little
brood, it would have been considered plagiarism.’
‘What then?’ inquired Mr. Erin contemptuously. ‘It is the peculiar
province of a genius such as Shakespeare’s to make everything his own.
He improves it by addition.’
‘The idea in question, however, is taken from the New Testament,’
observed Maggie.
To most people, this remark, which was delivered with a demureness that
did the young lady infinite credit, would under the circumstances have
been rather embarrassing. It did not embarrass Mr. Samuel Erin in the
least.
‘What piety it shows! What knowledge of the Holy Scriptures!’ he
ejaculated admiringly. ‘How appropriate, too, when we take the subject
into consideration—a confession of faith!’
‘True. I am not quite sure, however, whether the substitution of a
chicken for a hen is an improvement.’
‘Now, there I entirely differ from you,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin; ‘just mark
the words “O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the
coverte offe herre spreadynge wings receyves herre lyttle Broode and
hoverynge over themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.” What
tenderness there is in that “sweete chickenne.” Whereas a hen—a hen
is tough. We must understand the expression of course as a general
term for the female species of the fowl. None, to my mind, but the
most determined and incorrigible caviller can have one word to say
against it. I have settled that matter, I think, my dear, to your
satisfaction; and do not suppose that what you say has annoyed me.
If anything else strikes you, pray mention it. Objections from any
source—provided only that they are _reasonable_’—a word he uttered
very significantly—‘will always have my best attention; I welcome
them.’
[Illustration: THE PROFESSION OF FAITH.]
‘Indeed, uncle, I am not so audacious as to propound objections. There
was one thing, however, that seemed to me a little incomprehensible.’
‘Possibly, my dear,’ he said, with a smile of contemptuous good-nature,
which seemed to add, ‘I am not so rude as to say “probably.”’
He took his elbows off the MS., though he still hovered above it (like
the chicken) while she ran her dainty finger over it, taking care,
however, not to touch the paper.
‘Ah! here it is, “As snowe from the leffee tree.” Now, considering that
snow falls in winter when the trees are bare, don’t you think the word
should have been “leafless?”’
‘An ordinary person would no doubt have written “leafless,”’ admitted
Mr. Erin—an ingenious observation enough, since, in the first place,
it suggested that an extraordinary genius could have done nothing of
the kind, and secondly, it demanded no rejoinder; it gave the antiquary
time to cast about him for some line of defence. He produced his
microscope and examined the word with great intentness, but it was
‘leffee’ and not ‘leafless’ beyond all doubt. ‘It is probable,’ he
presently observed, ‘that Shakespeare’s minute attention to nature may
have caused him, when writing these most interesting words, to have a
particular tree in his mind; when, indeed, we consider the topic on
which he was writing—death—what is more likely than that his thoughts
should have reverted to some churchyard yew? Now the yew, my child, is
an evergreen.’
Here Frank Dennis’s well-known voice was heard in the little hall
without. He must have started for London, therefore, on the instant
that he received Margaret’s letter. Her heart had foreboded that it
would be so, notwithstanding the pains she had taken to make it appear
otherwise; she knew that it was her wish that had summoned him, and
that he had been sent for, as it were, under false pretences. Much as
she esteemed him, she would have preferred the appearance of any one
else, however indifferent, such as Mr. Reginald Talbot.
Strange to say, Mr. Samuel Erin, though it was at his own express
desire that Frank Dennis had been invited, was just at that moment of
the same way of thinking as his niece. If that little difficulty about
the epithet, ‘leffee,’ had not occurred, all would have been well.
This new discovery of the Confession, had it been flawless, must needs
have converted the most confirmed of sceptics, and, in his crowning
triumph, he would have forgiven the young fellow all his former
doubts; but, though to the eye of faith this little flaw was of no
consequence, it would certainly give occasion not only for the ungodly
to blaspheme—for that they would do in any case—but to the waverer to
cling to his doubts. If, on the spur of the moment, Mr. Erin could have
explained the matter to his own satisfaction, he would have felt no
qualms, but he was secretly conscious that that theory of the evergreen
tree would not hold water. It might satisfy a modest inquirer like
Margaret, but a hard-headed, unimaginative fellow like Frank Dennis
would not be so easily convinced.
As for William Henry, although Frank and he were by no means ill
friends, it was not likely that he should have been pleased to see this
visitor, whose presence must needs interrupt the _tête-à-tête_ with
which he now indulged himself every evening with Margaret; and, though
he was no longer jealous of his former rival, it was certain that he
would much have preferred his room to his company.
The welcome that was given by all three to the new comer was, however,
cordial enough. ‘You are come, Dennis,’ cried Mr. Erin, taking the
bull by the horns, ‘in the very nick of time. William Henry has to-day
found a treasure, beside which his previous discoveries sink into
insignificance, “A Profession of Faith,” by Shakespeare, written from
end to end in his own hand.’
‘That must indeed be interesting,’ said Frank. His tone, however,
was without excitement, and mechanical. His countenance, which had
been full of friendship (though when turned to Margaret it had had,
she thought, an expression of gentle melancholy), fell as he uttered
the words; a gravity, little short of disapproval, seemed to take
possession of it.
‘Hang the fellow!’ murmured Mr. Erin to himself, ‘he’s beginning
to pick holes already.’ ‘It is the most marvellous and conclusive
evidence,’ he went on aloud, ‘of Shakespeare’s adherence to the
Protestant faith that heart can desire; but there’s a word here that we
are in doubt about. Just read the MS. and see if anything strikes you
as anomalous.’
Frank sat down to his task. The expression of the faces of the other
three would have required the art of Hogarth himself to depict them.
That of Margaret’s was full of sorrow, pain for herself, and distress
for Frank, and annoyance upon her uncle’s account. How she regretted
having made that stupid objection, though she had done it with a good
motive, since she foresaw that it would presently be made by much less
friendly critics! Why could she not have been content to let matters
take their own course, as Willie always was?
On _his_ brow, on the other hand, there sat a complete serenity. From
the very first his attitude with respect to his own discoveries had
been one of philosophic indifference. Nothing ever roused him from it,
not even when the scepticism of others took the most offensive form.
He had not, he said, ‘the learning requisite for the defence of “the
faith” that was in him,’ and moreover it did not concern him to defend
it. He was merely an instrument; the matter in question was in the
hands of others.
This was of course by no means the view which Mr. Erin took. He had
not only the confidence but the zeal of the convert. If he would not
himself have gone to the stake in defence of the genuineness of his
new-found treasure, he would very cheerfully have sent thither all who
disputed it. He was regarding his friend Dennis now, as he plodded
through the Profession, with anything but amicable looks, but when he
marked his eye pass over that weak point in its armour with which we
are acquainted, without stoppage, his brow cleared a little, and he
gave a sigh of relief.
‘Well,’ he inquired gently, ‘what say you? Have you found the error, or
does it seem to you all straight sailing?’
‘I had really rather not express an opinion,’ said Dennis quietly.
‘But if you press me, I must needs confess that the whole composition
strikes me as rather rhapsodical.’
‘Does it? Then I on my part must needs confess,’ returned the antiquary
with laborious politeness, ‘that I have the misfortune to disagree with
you.’
To this observation the young man answered not a word; his face looked
very grave and thoughtful, like that of a man who is in a doubt about
some important course of conduct, rather than of a mere literary
inquiry; nevertheless his words, when they did come, seemed to concern
themselves with the latter topic only.
‘I doubt,’ he said, ‘whether the word “accede”’—here he pointed to the
phrase ‘after my deathe be acceded to’—‘was in use in Shakespeare’s
time.’
‘And what if it was not?’ broke in the antiquary impatiently. ‘How
many words in old times are found in the most correct writers which
it would be vain to hunt for in any dictionary; words which, though
destitute of authority or precedent, are still justified by analogy
and by the principles of the language. And who, I should like to know,
used new words with such licence as Shakespeare himself? As to the
matter of fact which you dispute, however, that can be settled at
once. The antiquary stepped to his bookcase and took down a volume.
‘This is Florio’s dictionary, published in 1611. See here,’ he added
triumphantly, ‘“Accedere, to accede, or assent to.” If Florio mentions
it, I suppose Shakespeare may have used it. Your objection, young sir,
is not worthy of the name.’
Dennis hung his head; he looked like one who has suffered not only
defeat but humiliation. The criticism offered on the spur of the moment
had been, in reality, advanced by way of protest against the whole
document, and now that it had failed he was very unwilling to offer
anything further in the way of disparagement.
He had his reasons for absolutely declining to fall in with Mr. Erin’s
views in the matter; but it would have given him great distress to
quarrel with him. Unhappily, an antiquary the genuineness of whose
curios has been disputed, is not often a chivalric antagonist. It is
his habit, like the wild Indian and the wilder Irishman, to dance upon
his prostrate foe.
‘The obstinacy of the commentator,’ resumed Mr. Erin, ‘is proverbial,
and is on some accounts to be excused, but the strictures suggested by
ignorance and malignity are mere carping.’
‘But it was yourself, sir,’ pleaded Dennis, ‘who invited criticism: I
did not volunteer it.’
‘Criticism, yes; but not carping. Now there is a word here,’ continued
Mr. Erin, not sorry to be beforehand with his adversary in pointing
out the blot. ‘Here is the word “leffee” where one would have expected
“leafless.” Now we should be really obliged to you if your natural
sagacity, which is considerable, could explain the reason of the
substitution. I have already given expression to a theory of my own
upon the subject, but we shall be glad of any new suggestion. Why is it
“leafy” instead of “leafless?”’
‘I should think it was simply because the writer made a mistake,’
observed Dennis quietly.
Everybody, the speaker included, expected an outburst. That Shakespeare
could have made a mistake was an assertion which they all felt would
to Mr. Erin’s ear sound little less than blasphemous. To their extreme
astonishment he nodded adhesion.
‘Now that is really very remarkable, Dennis,’ he exclaimed; ‘a new
idea, and at the same time one with much probability in it. He
was writing _currente calamo_—there is scarcely a break in the
composition, you observe, from first to last—and it is quite likely
that he made this clerical error. What is extremely satisfactory is,
that your theory—supposing it to be the correct one, as I think it
is—puts the genuineness of the document beyond all question, for if
a forger had written it, it is obvious that he would have been very
careful to make no such departure from verisimilitude!’