me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor
Found thee a way out of his wreck to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it!
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me,
Cromwell, I charge thee fling away ambition,
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his own maker hope to win by it?
Love thyself least; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty!
Still in thy right hand carry gentle place
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not!
Let all the aims thou aim'st at be thy country's;
Thy God's and Truth's; then if thou fall'st, O, Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr; serve the King;
And, pray thee, lead me in;
There take an enventory of all I have
To the last penny; 'tis the King's; my robe
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O, Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my King, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!"_

At the conclusion of this greatest of monologues King James arose at the
head of the royal banquet board, and lifting a glass of sparkling
champagne, proposed three cheers for Shakspere, which were given with
intense feeling, echoed and re-echoed through those royal halls like
thunder music from the realms of Jupiter.

The King beckoned William to approach the throne chair, and there, in the
presence of the nobility of the realm, placed upon his lofty brow a wreath
of oak leaves, with a monogram crown ring to decorate the digit finger of
the brilliant Bard.

It was worth the gold and glory of all the ages to have heard the "Divine"
William scatter his nuggets of eloquence; and until my pilgrimage of a
thousand years reincarnates me again into the "Island of Immortality," I
shall cherish that banquet night as the greatest milestone in the memory of
my ruminating rambles.

_Glory, like the sun on rushing river,
Shines down the years, forever, and forever!_

CHAPTER XIX.

STRATFORD. SHAKSPERE'S DEATH. PATRIOTISM DOWN THE AGES.

_"The sands are numbered that make up my life;
Here must I stay, and here my life must end."_

_"Time is the King of man,
For he is their parent, and he is their grave,
And gives them what he will, no