‘I rather think, sir,’ said William Henry, ‘that after investigation you will acknowledge that these were not only his first thoughts but his best thoughts. There is a polish on the gem that has heretofore been lacking. The manuscript will, if I am not mistaken, prove Shakespeare to have been a more finished writer than has been hitherto imagined. There are many new readings, but once again to refer to that speech of Kent’s: you admired it in its modern form, into which I purposely cast it, confident that its merits would not escape you even in that guise; out in its proper and antique dress just be so good as to reperuse it; perhaps you will give it voice, the advantage of a trained utterance.’ Thus advised, Mr. Erin, nothing loth, repeated the lines aloud:— Thanks, Sir; butte I goe toe thatte unknowne land That chaynes each Pilgrime faste within its soyle. He read sonorously and with a somewhat pompous air, but effectively; the dignity of the subject sustained him; moreover the sight of the old spelling and quaint calligraphy stirred him as the clang of the trumpet moves the war-horse to exhibit his best paces. ‘It is certainly very fine,’ was his verdict upon his own performance. ‘Who does not pronounce that speech replete with pathos and energy must resign all pretensions to poetical taste.’ ‘But as an emendation on the received version,’ persisted William Henry— ‘I have a journey, sir, shortly to go— will you not admit that it compares favourably with _that_?’ ‘I consider it, my dear Samuel,’ was the solemn reply, ‘a decided improvement.’ He spoke in a tone of conviction, which admitted of no question; sudden as his conversion was (for in praising what in fact he had believed to be his son’s composition he had gone to the extreme limit that his conscience would permit), it was perfectly genuine. There are only a very few people in the world who form an independent judgment on anything upon its intrinsic merits. Most of us are the slaves of authority, or what is supposed to be authority, in matters of opinion. In letters men are almost as much victims to a name as in art. The scholar blind to the beauties of a modern poem can perceive them in an ancient one even where they do not exist. He cannot be persuaded that Æschylus was capable of writing a dull play; the antiquary prefers a _torso_ of two thousand years old to a full-length figure by Canova. This may not be good sense, but it is human nature. ‘I need not ask you,’ continued Mr. Erin, after a pause, during which he gazed at the manuscript like Cortez, on his peak, at the Pacific, ‘whether this precious document came from the same treasure house as the rest?’ ‘Yes, sir; it almost seems as if there were no end to them. I have not yet explored half the curious papers on which my patron seems to set so little store.’