‘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?”’