This circumstance, joined to his demure behaviour, caused Mr. Samuel Erin to take a much more favourable view of his son’s friend than that he had originally entertained, and, finding him deeply interested in the country of his birth and in its early history, related to him at considerable length the story of the disruption of the Knight Templars, and the escape of the survivors to Ireland, of which he happened to have an account in black letter, which he hoped, as he said, at no distant date to have the pleasure of showing Mr. Talbot under his own roof. This naturally led on to some conversation respecting the labours of Mr. Erin in the Shakespearean field, concerning which the young man paid him several compliments, wherein what was wanted in appropriateness (for the young gentleman laboured under the disadvantage of knowing nothing whatever of the subject) was more than compensated for by their impassioned warmth. Then by an easy gradation they fell to talking on the new-found manuscripts. It amazed Mr. Erin to find that Talbot had not yet seen the Profession of Faith. ‘I have been out of town, sir,’ he replied, for falsehood to this son of Erin was as natural as mother’s milk, and laid on like water, on the perpetual supply system, ‘and have not had the opportunity of seeing it, though, as you may well imagine, I have heard of little else. And that reminds me that I have a favour to ask of you. There is an old friend of mine, or rather of my late father’s, Mr. Albany Wallis—— ‘ Mr. Erin frowned. ‘I have heard of the gentleman,’ he put in stiffly, ‘and in a sense I know him.’ ‘I trust you know nothing to his disadvantage, sir,’ said Talbot with humility. ‘I can only say that he has always spoken to me of yourself, and of your extraordinary erudition and attainments, with the greatest regard and consideration.’ ‘Indeed,’ returned the other, still drily, but with some relaxation of stiffness in his tone, ‘I am only acquainted with Mr. Wallis myself by hearsay; and judging him by the company he keeps—for he is known to be a friend of one Malone, of whom in Christian charity I will say no more than that he is a fellow whose shallow pretence and pompous ignorance would disgrace the name of charlatan—I have certainly hitherto had but a bad opinion of him.’ ‘Of that, sir, he is aware,’ said Talbot, ‘and it troubles him just now exceedingly. The sense of your ill-will has prevented him, although a near neighbour, from calling in Norfolk Street; and knowing that I was a friend of your son’s, he has earnestly entreated me, in case I had the opportunity, to beg permission for him to pay you a visit.’ ‘From twelve to one, sir, the Shakespearean manuscripts are open to the inspection of all comers,’ said Mr. Erin, with a grand air. ‘We invite investigation, and even criticism.’