‘After all, Maggie,’ he would say, after receiving the congratulations of the dilettanti, ‘it is nothing but luck.’
As he straightened out the half-sheets of paper on the table, where their homely supper stood untouched and unnoticed, he only permitted himself a smile of gratification.
‘It is too long,’ he said, ‘to read aloud, and the old spelling is difficult.’
His uncle drew his chair close to him, on one side, and Margaret did the like on the other, so that each could read for themselves. Their looks were full of eagerness; the one was thinking of Shakespeare and Samuel Erin, the other of William Henry—and _longo intervallo_—of William Shakespeare.
The MS., which was headed ‘William Shakespeare’s Profession of Faith,’ ran as follows:—
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S PROFESSION OF FAITH.
I beynge nowe offe sounde Mynde doe hope thatte thys mye wyshe wille, att mye deathe, bee acceded toe, as I nowe lyve in Londonne, and as mye soule maye perchance, soone quittee thys poore bodye, itte is mye desire thatte inne suche case I maye bee carryed toe mye native place, ande thatte mye Bodye bee there quietlye interred wythe as little pompe as canne bee, and I doe nowe, inne these mye seryouse moments, make thys mye professione of faythe, and which I doe moste solemnlye believe. I doe fyrste looke toe oune lovynge and Greate God and toe his glorious sonne Jesus. I doe alsoe beleyve thatte thys mye weake and frayle Bodye wille returne to duste, butte for mye soule lette God judge thatte as toe himselfe shalle seeme meete. O omnipotente and greate God I am fulle offe synne, I doe notte thinke myeselfe worthye offe thye grace and yette wille I hope, forre evene thee poore prysonerre whenne bounde with gallying irons evene he wille hope for Pittye and whenne the teares of sweete repentance bathe hys wretched pillowe he then looks and hopes for pardonne thenne rouse mye soule and lette hope, thatte sweete cherysher offe all, afforde thee comforte also. O Manne whatte arte thou whye consideres thou thyselfe thus gratelye, where are thye great, thye boasted attrybutes; buryed, loste forre everre in colde Death. O Manne whye attemptest thou toe searche the greatnesse off the Almyghtye thou doste butte loose thye laboure. More thou attempteste, more arte thou loste, tille thye poore weake thoughtes arre elevated toe theyre summite and thenne as snowe from the leffee tree droppe and dystylle themselves tille theye are noe more. O God, manne as I am frayle bye nature, fulle offe synne, yette great God receyve me toe thye bosomme where alle is sweete contente and happyness alle is blyss where dyscontente isse neverre hearde, butte where oune Bonde offe freyndeshippe unytes alle Menne forgive O Lorde alle our synnes, ande withe thye greate goodnesse take usse alle toe thye Breaste; O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings Receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge overre themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.