‘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.’