and so perfectly that you can feel proud of it. Such pride is true pride, and thoroughly justifiable, and the independence that comes from work thoroughly well done is a noble independence. I would not change such independence as that to be a king and be waited on by courtiers all day long. To me the honest workman is a thousand times better than the king. The king can do no work. It is all done for him,—poor king! He can hardly call his soul his own. He is not allowed to put his own coat on, and do you call him an independent man! I call him a slave! I would rather have a man here in Stratford, who could do something of his own accord, turn out a piece of work, perfect—carving, finishing, or anything of that sort—and say, 'That is mine! The king can't do that, but I can!' Money is nothing; pride, independence, and self-respect are everything; and money gained by bad work is bad money. You can't make it anything else. Good work always commands good money, and good money brings a blessing with it. We are told that the danger of the twentieth century is greed of gold. Our upper classes are all craving for yet still more money, and as much money is spent in a single night on a dinner in London as would keep nearly all Stratford. We are told that England will lose her prestige through the money-craving mania of her people. More than one great empire has fallen from an excessive love of luxury and self-indulgence, but we will hope that no such mischief will come to our beloved England. At any rate, in this little corner of it—Shakespeare's greenwood—where the greatest of thinkers, philosophers, and poets was born, and to which he was content to return, when he had made sufficient means, and die among his own people—here, I say, let us try and keep up high ideals of mutual help, love, and labor. Let us keep them up to their highest spirit. The
