t what they crave."_

During the years 1614, 1615 and 1616 Shakspere sauntered about for pleasure
and business among the bohemians and nobility of London, Oxford and
Stratford, piecing and renewing his personal and real estate for the
benefit of his two daughters, Susannah and Judith, and thus making every
preparation for that eternal sleep that never fails to shut down the pale
and bloodless eyelids of meandering, melancholy man.

The spectacular play of "King Henry the Eighth" was given at the Globe
Theatre on the evening of the 29th of June, 1613.

It had been largely advertised as a royal historical dramatic treat, and
the nobility were there in great force.

William and myself before leaving London occupied a private box as
spectators on the left of the great stage. The audience numbered nearly two
thousand, pit, gallery and cockloft being filled to overflowing.

During the third act of the play a cannon was fired, giving a grand salute
to the mimic King Henry and his royal train as they appeared before the
assembled multitude.

Part of the gun wadding fired by the mock cannon was thrown on the open
roof of the Globe, and immediately ignited the thatch, spreading flames
around the top rim of the great octagonal playhouse.

Shakspere saw at once the danger of stampeding the audience through the two
great, high doors, and with his natural calmness and imperial courage
rushed in front of the footlights and said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is no danger if you be calm and brave, and
file out of the building in good order."

"Those near the right and left doors will please go out slowly, and all the
actors will remain on the stage until the people disappear." At this
juncture, at the suggestion of William, the actors were ordered to sing
"God Save the King," and every mortal escaped unhurt from the building. Yet
two hours after it was a mass of blazing cinders and ashes.

Burbage, Jonson, Fletcher, Drayton, Condell, Heming and Peele continued to
furnish rare sports and masks for theatrical and court edification, but the
brilliant star that had shone with undimmed luster for thirty years on the
dramatic stage of London was only glowing with a lambent light, throwing
its last rays over the world as it went down in crimson glory over the
western hills of Warwickshire.

Yet, while the great poet and dramatist himself would never again tread the
play platform, or throw his sonorous, magic voice over a London a