THE EXAMINERS.
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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.