This, as we know, had not been the case; he had pretty broadly hinted that he did not believe it to be Shakespeare’s play at all, and even that there might be plenty more where the ‘Vortigern’ came from, but so bound up in these wondrous discoveries had Mr. Erin’s mind become, that it was distressing and humiliating to have to confess as much, even to his son and niece. ‘Why, yes; he wanted it cheap, and therefore of course depreciated it. He only offered one hundred and fifty pounds for it and half profits.’ William Henry looked up amazed. For the first time his self-control deserted him. In his heart he thought the antiquary a fool for having refused such terms; but it was not the rejection of the terms that annoyed him so much as the rejection of the chance of having the play produced at a theatre like Covent Garden. His feelings, in fact, were precisely the same as those on which Mr. Harris had counted—without his host. ‘The money in hand may be small, sir, but the half profits—in case the play were successful—as I feel it must have been, might have been well worth having.’ Mr. Erin began to think so too by this time. After all, what did it matter whether the manager were a believer in the play or not, had his theatre been only made the channel of its introduction to the public? He sat in moody silence, thinking whether it would be possible, after what had passed, ‘to win that tassel gentle,’ Mr. Harris, ‘back again.’ It was certain that he (Mr. Erin) would have to swallow a very large leek first. The servant-girl entered, bringing a slip of paper upon a salver, the name, no doubt, of one of those thousand and one persons who were now always coming to ask permission to see the MS. ‘Two gentlemen to see you, sir,’ said the maid. The antiquary glanced at the name, and then, as high as a gentleman of sixty _can_ leap, he leapt from his chair. Margaret, thinking her uncle had been seized with some malady—presumably ‘the jumps’—uttered a little scream of terror. ‘Good heavens! what is it?’ ‘Sheridan!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘There are more fish in the sea, Samuel, than have come out of it, and better ones; see, lad, it’s in his own handwriting; he is here in person—”Richard Brinsley Sheridan, favoured by Dr. Parr.”’ CHAPTER XXV. TWO DISTINGUISHED VISITORS. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN— The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall, The orator, dramatist, minstrel who ran Through each mode of the lyre and was master of all— was a very great man in those days in many ways; but what made him just now of especial importance to Mr. Samuel Erin was that he was the manager of Drury Lane Theatre. That Mr. Harris, of Covent Garden, should have snapped at the ‘Vortigern’ bait had been a satisfactory circumstance enough (though indeed he had only ‘sucked it’ and got off the hook), but the coming of Sheridan was quite another matter. Compared with him, all other managers were small fry.