Then, while Mr. Erin sat apart affecting to be immersed in a folio (but with his ears wide open), the two sat down to the manuscript, from which Kemble now and then read aloud in deep sonorous tones, which were not always so sarcastic as he intended them to be. There was a certain rhythmical roll in many lines like the thunder of the surf, and also (as in its case) a head of foam which gave the impression of strength. For example:— Full fifty breathless bodies struck my sight; And some with gaping mouths did seem to mock me; Whilst others, smiling in cold death itself, Scoffingly bade me look on that which soon Would wrench from off my brow this sacred crown, And make me too a subject like themselves. From Kemble’s mouth at least such lines were not wanting in majestic vigour, though he lent it to them involuntarily. It was evident enough, indeed, that he was adverse to the acceptance of the play, while Sheridan was in favour of it. What doubtless furthered Mr. Erin’s hopes was that Sheridan had notoriously no very high opinion of Shakespeare himself; he thought his genius exaggerated. Presently Kemble came to the three best lines in the tragedy— Give me a sword, I have so clogged and badged this with blood And slippery gore, that it doth mock my grasp; A sword I say! A speech he delivered with fine emphasis. ‘Come, that is better than “Titus Andronicus,” anyway,’ said Sheridan slily. ‘An echo, sir, a mere echo of “Richard the Third,”’ growled the tragedian. ‘Let us hope it will answer with “Richard the Fourth,”’ was the laughing rejoinder. Their disagreement was like the conflict between the whale and a sword-fish, and could have but the same end. ‘I don’t mean to say that some things here are not better than others,’ said Kemble doggedly, ‘though perhaps I may be permitted to add that you hear them to the best advantage; but to me the whole thing has a false ring.’ ‘Perhaps it’s my want of ear,’ returned the manager; ‘but do you think, Mr. Kemble,’ here he sank his voice to a whisper, ‘that many people _have_ good ears?’ The drollery and even roguishness of his face as he hazarded this inquiry was indescribable. The tragedian ‘put the question by’ and pursued his argument. ‘Whatever you think of Shakespeare, Mr. Sheridan, you must allow that he at least always wrote poetry. Now, much of what I have had the honour to read to you is not poetry.’ ‘But let us suppose Shakespeare was drunk.’ ‘Sir!’ exclaimed the tragedian in an offended tone. ‘Sir!’ echoed the antiquary, dropping the folio with a crash. ‘Good Heavens! gentlemen, may not one even put a postulate? Even Euclid, a writer of little imagination, permits that much. It is not such a very impossible supposition. Have you never heard of a man of genius with a turn for the bottle?’