The Talk of the Town, Volume 2 (of 2)

by James Payn

To this end, Mr. Erin took the bold step of convening a committee of commentators and critics to report upon the MS. A selection was made from those who had signed the certificate, and who were therefore favourable; but others were invited who had not so compromised themselves, and even who might be supposed to be hostile, including Mr. Albany Wallis. No one could say that it was a hole-and-corner business, far less that the assembly was packed. It would, without doubt, have been much more agreeable to Mr. Erin if it had been, for he had to listen to some very unpleasant things. These, for the most part, it was true, were said by small men. Just as in the great railway meetings of the present day, the shareholder who has just put enough in the undertaking to qualify him to speak at all is always the most loquacious, so the second-rate critics, who had not much chance of being listened to in the world without, were, if not the most sceptical, the most vituperative; and poor Mr. Erin was not a chairman who could ignore them. The style, the matter, the calligraphy of the ‘Vortigern,’ nay, even the very paper on which it was written, underwent the sharpest scrutiny and evoked some very bitter remarks. Dr. Parr and Dr. Warton, the two great cards of the certificate, were strongly in favour of the play, and carried many with them, including the laureate Pye, and his brother poet, Sir James Burgess. But there were also many adversaries.

The fact was, notwithstanding that famous dictum about the occupation of the critic being gone if the intrinsic merit of a work was not sufficient to establish its genuineness, and though the excellence of the ‘Vortigern’ was on the whole admitted, the story of how it came into William Henry’s hands was the real obstacle to its acceptance. His patron of the Temple was too much wrapped in mystery to be satisfactory to the minds of most.

The committee was to sit for two days, and then decide by vote upon the all-important question, was there or was there not sufficient evidence before them of the authenticity of the play? William Henry was always present, a witness whose examination was always proceeding, but, as it were, in a circle. The keenest expert could get nothing out of him beyond what had been already got. He had nothing to tell, save what he had already told. His manner was cool and collected, and produced a favourable impression. Sir James Burgess said, ‘If this young man is not speaking the truth, he is a marvellous actor, and we are informed, upon authority which in this case can certainly not be disputed, that he is but seventeen.’ The authority was not quite so good as Sir James imagined, but the fact was as he stated it.

Alone with Mr. Erin and Margaret, the young fellow was even more self-reliant; he was hopeful. Whatever decision the committee might arrive at, there was still, he would say, the appeal to the public; and in that he expressed his confidence. In this Mr. Erin could not agree; if the play was discredited by those who had been so solemnly convened to judge of it, he doubted of its acceptance out of doors. On the second and all-important day there was even a fuller attendance than on the first. Among the new-comers was the Bishop of St. Andrews, a good-natured divine enough, but who produced an unfavourable impression by quoting Porson’s ‘Iambics,’ ‘Three children sliding on the ice,’ which the great professor pretended to have found in an old trunk among some manuscript plays of Sophocles—an obvious satire upon the Shakespearean discoveries. Greek wit is never so mirth-provoking as to endanger life, but at this specimen it was difficult for Mr. Samuel Erin to force a smile. What even more depressed him was the unexpected arrival of Mr. Reginald Talbot. How this young man had gained admittance he could not understand; but at such a time the real ground of objection to him could not, of course, be stated. Public opinion had been challenged, and on the brink of its decision it would have been madness indeed to have any altercation with one who had evinced his scepticism.

Talbot had come in alone and taken his seat rather apart from the rest: his face looked less florid than usual, but resolute enough; after one glance round the room he fixed his eyes upon the ground. Every moment the antiquary expected to hear his blatant voice giving utterance to some offensive imputation; but he remained silent, listening to the pros and cons of his seniors, with no particular interest, as it seemed, in the matter.

William Henry had seen him enter, of course—there were few things that escaped his observation—but had shown no sign of concern, far less of apprehension. He either did not fear him, or had screwed his courage to the sticking place. Now and then, indeed, he glanced nervously at the door; but from no fear of an enemy. He had some misgiving lest Margaret’s anxiety upon his account might compel her to come and hear for herself how matters were going on; a very groundless apprehension, for nothing could have been more foreign to her retiring and modest nature than to have intruded herself upon such an assembly.

After all who wished to speak had had their say, the Laureate rose and addressed the meeting. He had listened very attentively, he said, to the opinions that had been advanced on both sides upon the subject of controversy; and if he could not say that he had himself come to a definite conclusion, he thought that he had at least gathered the general view of those present. The play before them was undoubtedly a remarkable one; he could not take upon himself to say from internal evidence whether it was, or was not, written by William Shakespeare, but, on the whole, he believed it to have been so. Persons better qualified than himself to judge of such matters had expressed themselves for and against the other proofs of its authenticity. Again, on the whole, these seemed to him to be in its favour. But what, after all, was their great stumbling-block was the mystery—and as it seemed to him the unnecessary mystery—that hung about its discovery.

Here there were audible expressions of assent. Mr. Erin, pale and trembling, but much more with anger than with fear, was about to rise, but the Laureate waved him back. He was not going to have his peroration spoilt by any man. There was a general murmur of ‘Pye, Pye,’ which under any other circumstances, would have sounded exquisitely humorous; it was like a bread riot of the upper classes. ‘Under these circumstances,’ continued the orator, ‘if anyone can be found who has seen the MS. as it were in situ, and has met the unknown patron of the Temple in the flesh, so as to corroborate so far the testimony of this young gentleman’ (here he pointed to William Henry), ‘I, for one, shall have no hesitation in acknowledging myself a believer; but in the absence of such a witness I must take leave, at least, to reserve my judgment.’

There was a long and significant silence. If the speaker had not expressed the views of the majority, he had done so for many of those present; while the want of corroborative testimony, such as he had indicated, was felt by all. Even Mr. Erin, perhaps for the first time, understood how evidence which had been, and was, perfectly conclusive to himself, might well fail, thus unsupported, to satisfy the public mind. He felt like the young blood who had recently been endeavouring for a bet to dispose within five minutes of a hundred sovereigns to as many persons on London Bridge for a penny apiece. His MSS. were genuine, but if he could not persuade people to believe it, where would be his profit?

‘Well,’ continued the Laureate in self-satisfied tones, for he was pleased with the impression his eloquence had produced, and especially that he had reduced the antiquary—in whose mind he had created a desert and called it peace—to silence: ‘Well! the question is, Is there such a witness as I have described?’