In association with Mr. Jervis the young man ransacked the little town for mementoes of its patron saint, and was fortunate enough to discover a few, which, though of doubtful authenticity, were very welcome to the enthusiastic collector. If they were not the rose, _i.e._ actual relics, they were near the rose, as proximity is counted in such cases. No doubt it is the same with more sacred relics—in a deficiency of toe-nails of any particular saint it must be something, though not of course so rapturous, to secure a toe-nail of some saint in the next century. As regards Shakespeare, it is certainly one of the marvels in connection with that marvellous man that not a scrap of the handwriting, save his autograph, of one who wrote so much ever turns up to reward the pains of the searcher; nay, there is only one letter extant, even of those that were written to him—a commonplace request for a loan from the man who afterwards became his son-in-law; under which circumstances, when one comes to think about it, there may be some excuse for the language used by Mr. Samuel Erin to that reckless incendiary, Mr. Williams, of Clopton House. If to be indifferent, as William Henry had been suspected of being, to the charms of Shakespeare was a crime in Mr. Erin’s eyes, it may be easily imagined how he resented the least imputation of any portion of his idol having been composed of clay. There were circumstances connected with his union with Anne Hathaway, and also with that little adventure of his with Justice Shallow’s deer, which were dangerous to allude to in Mr. Erin’s presence; and if the moral qualities of his hero (albeit, we may have gathered, Mr. Erin was himself, though Protestant, by no means Puritan) could not in safety be called in question, any suggestion of weakness in him as a writer was still more unendurable. Nevertheless, even prudent Frank Dennis contrived to put his foot in it in this very matter, and thereby narrowly escaped falling out of Mr. Erin’s good graces for the term of his natural life. It was during an expedition to Charlecote; the little party, having left their vehicle at the gate, were walking through the park, Mr. Erin wrapped in contemplation—endeavouring perhaps to identify the very oak (in ‘As You Like It’) where the poor sequestered stag had ‘come to languish’—while the young people a few paces behind were indulging in a little quiet banter upon the forbidden subject of deer-stealing. ‘I suppose that he did steal that deer?’ observed Margaret slily in a hushed whisper. ‘There is no doubt of it,’ answered Frank; ‘he had to fly from Stratford to London for that very reason, to get out of Sir Thomas’s way.’ ‘Nay, nay,’ put in William Henry, I am afraid with some slight imitation of his father’s solemn manner when dealing with the sacred topic; ‘let us not say steal, it was what “the wise do call convey.” We do a good deal of it in New Inn ourselves.’