[45] Once, when visiting Stratford-on-Avon with Toole, he saw a rustic sitting on a fence, whom they submitted to an interrogatory. “That’s Shakespeare’s house, isn’t it?” it was asked innocently. “Ees.” “Ever been there?” “Noä.” “How long has he been dead?” “Dunno.” “What did he do?” “Dunno.” “Did he not write?” “Oh yes, he did summat.” “What was it?” “Well, I think he writ _Boible_.” A pleasantry that both the players once contrived in Scotland, at the expense of an old waiter at a hotel, is of a higher order of merit than such hoaxes usually offer. At this country inn they had noted that the spoons, forks, etc., seemed to be of silver, and with some artfully designed emphasis they questioned the waiter about the property. As soon as he had gone out, they concealed all the plate, and, having rung the bell, jumped out of the window, which was close to the ground, and hid themselves in the shrubbery. The old man re-entered: they heard his cries of rage and astonishment at the robbery, and at the disappearance of the supposed thieves. He then rushed from the room to summon the household. The rest of the story is worth giving in Irving’s words, as reported by Mr. Hatton. “We all crept back to the room, closed the window, drew down the blind, relighted the gas and our cigars, put each piece of silver back into its proper place, and sat down to wait for our bill. In a few minutes we heard evidently the entire household coming pell-mell to the dining-room. Then our door was flung open; but the crowd, instead of rushing in upon us, suddenly paused _en masse_, and Sandy exclaimed, ‘Great God! Weel, weel! Hae I just gane clean daft?’ “‘Come awa’, drunken foo’, come awa’!’ exclaimed the landlord, pulling Sandy and the rest back into the passage and shutting the door.” [46] Quite a number of relics of great actors have, as we have already shown, found their way to Irving’s custody; and there is always something pleasant for him to think of when he recalls the presentation. Thus on his visit to Oxford he had spoken of the last days of Edmund Kean, who had died in sore straits. A few days later he received a purse of faded green silk found in the pocket of the great actor just after his death, and found empty. It had been given by Charles Kean to John Forster, and by him to Robert Browning. Edmund and Charles Kean, Forster, Browning, and Irving form a remarkable pedigree. “How can I more worthily place it,” wrote Browning, “than in your hands, if they will do me the honour to take it, with all respect and regard?”