‘Do you not think, sir,’ observed William Henry, ‘that such a couplet is somewhat inappropriate to the occasion?’ ‘How so?’ inquired the antiquary. It was noteworthy that he took the objection with such mildness. The notion of anything in Shakespeare being inappropriate was like suggesting to a fire-worshipper that there were spots on the sun. ‘Well, sir, it strikes me as somewhat too brief and trivial, considering the subject on which he speaks. Now what do you think of this by way of an emendation?’ He drew from his pocket a slip of paper on which the following lines were written in his own handwriting:— Thanks, sir; but I go to that unknown land That chains each pilgrim fast within its soil, By living men most shunned, most dreaded. Still my good master this same journey took: He calls me; I am content and straight obey. Then farewell, world; the busy scene is done: Kent lived most true; Kent died most like a man. The antiquary’s face was a study. A few months ago it is doubtful whether anything from William Henry’s pen would have obtained so much as patient consideration. Of his son’s genius Mr. Erin had always thought very little; he esteemed him indeed no more worthy of the title of man of letters than his friend Mr. Talbot himself; but his productions were now on a very different plane. They demanded his best attention and such admiration as it was possible to give. ‘Still my good master this same journey took: He calls me; I am content and straight obey,’ he murmured. ‘That is harmonious and natural; a certain simplicity pervades it: yes, my lad, that is creditable.’ ‘I venture to think,’ said the young man deferentially, ‘that the opening lines— Thanks, sir; but I go to that unknown land, &c— are not devoid of merit.’ ‘Devoid? No, certainly not devoid. Courteous in expression and—um—to the point, but somewhat modern in tone.’ Without speaking, but with a smile full of significance, the young man produced a roll of paper and laid it before his companion. ‘Great heavens! what is this?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, straightening out the manuscript with trembling fingers, while he devoured it with his eyes. ‘It is something that you hoped to find at Stratford—at Clapton House,’ returned William Henry, quietly. ‘How often have you told me that some manuscripts of Shakespeare’s plays must needs be in existence somewhere! You were right; this is the original, or at all events a very early manuscript, of “Lear.”’ ‘“Lear”? Shakespeare’s “Lear”? My dear Samuel, you take my breath away. And yet the handwriting seems incontestable; and here is the jug watermark, a clear proof at least of its antiquity. You have read it, of course: does it differ from the quartos?’ ‘Yes, materially.’ ‘Thank Heaven!—I mean, how extraordinary! One can hardly, indeed, wish a line of Shakespeare’s to differ from what is already engraven in our hearts; but still to get his first thoughts! Truly a rapturous day!’