For Mr. Erin had been sent for to Carlton House, and had shown the precious Shakespearean manuscripts to the future ruler of the realm, who had expressed himself as ‘greatly interested.’ He had been unable, he said, to resist the weight of evidence which had been adduced in favour of their authenticity, and had especially admired the ‘Vortigern.’ The old man’s head was almost turned with the royal praises; and it was not to be wondered at that he had expressed his satisfaction with the youth by whose means he had been introduced into so serene an atmosphere. ‘I do not think I am without desert, Madge, though there was a time when you used to think so [an allusion, of course, to her old scepticism as to his genius]; but I do not deserve _you_,’ was William Henry’s grave reply. A modest rejoinder, which, we may be sure, secured its reward. Margaret thought that there never had been, and never would be, so deserving a youth as her Willie, or one who, having received his deserts, bore his honours so unassumingly. Nevertheless—for, in spite of the proverb, ‘It never rains but it pours,’ good fortune seldom befalls us mortals without alloy—there were drops of bitterness in his full cup. The Poet Laureate Pye had been reminded of his promise to write a prologue for the ‘Vortigern,’ and had performed it, but by no means in a satisfactory manner. It had come to them one morning at breakfast, and had been received with rapture by Mr. Erin—till he came to read it. It commenced as follows:— If in our scenes your eyes, delighted, find, Marks that denote the mighty master’s mind; If at his words the tears of pity flow, Your hearts with horror fill, with rapture glow, Demand no other proof; But if these proofs should fail, if in the strain Ye seek the drama’s awful sire in vain, Should critics, heralds, antiquaries, join To give their fiat to each doubtful line, Believe them _not_. ‘Curse the fellow!’ cried the antiquary, throwing down the manuscript in disgust; ‘why, this is worse than useless. What the devil does he mean by his “ifs“ and “nots”?’ ‘I fancy Mr. Malone could tell us,’ observed William Henry quietly. ‘No doubt, lad, no doubt,’ said Mr. Erin, eagerly catching at this solution of the Laureate’s change of front. ‘That man would drop his poison into the ear of an archangel. Not that Pye is an archangel, nor anything like it.’ ‘Archangels must write very indifferent poetry if he is,’ remarked William Henry smiling. ‘Just so—a deuced bad poet!’ rejoined Mr. Erin. ‘His prologue, even without an “if“ in it, would damn any play; I’ll write to Burgess—Sir James will do it, I’ll warrant.’ And Sir James did it accordingly, and in a fashion much more agreeable to ‘Vortigern’s’ sponsors. No common cause your verdict now demands, Before the court immortal Shakespeare stands; * * * * * Stamp it your own, assert your poet’s fame, And add fresh wreaths to Shakespeare’s honoured name.