New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1878-07-27
THE TRIP TO ENGLAND.
sRoM WARWIcK no STRATFORD.

OF THE sHAKEsPEAREAN REGfoN-THE RUINS OF
NEUTRALITY-SUSPICIOUS. HoMEs-TBE DRIVE TO
sTRATFORD-A HAPPY OMEN-THE RED-HORsE
INN-MEMORIALs OF WASHINGTON IRVING.
All the way from London to Warwick it rained
not heavily, but with gentle fall The gray clouds
hung low over the landscape. and softly darkened
It; SO that meadows of scarlet and emerald. the
shining foliage of elms gray turret, nestled cottage
and limpid river were mysterious and evanescent
as pictures seen in dreams. At Warwick the ram
had fallen aud ceased. and the walk from the sta
ton to the inn was on a road-Or on foot-path by
the roadside-stil hard and damp with the water 1T
had absorbed. A fresh wind blew from the fields,
sweet with the ram and fragrant with the odor OF
leaves and flowers. The streets of the ancient
town-entered through an old Norman arch-were
deserted and silent. 1t was Sunday when first
came to the country of Shakespeare; and over all
the region there broOded sacred stiffness peculiar
TO the time and harmonious beyond all utterance
with the sanctity of the place. As strive, after
many days. to call back and to fix in words the i'm
pressiOns of that sublime experience, the same awe
falls upon me now which fell upon me then. Moth
ing else upon earth-nO natural scene, no relic OF
the past, no pageantry of the present-can we
with the shrine of Shakespeare in power to impress
TO humble, and TO exat the devout spirit that has
been nurtured at the fountain of his transcendent
genius.
fortunate way to approach Standardization is
by Warwick and Keniworth. These places arc not
on direct line of travel but the and asso-
Citations which they successfully present are such as
assume a symmetrical ORDER increase in interest,"
and grow to a delightful elimination Objects
which Shakespeare himself must have seen are still
visible there; and little by little, in contact with
these, the pilgrim through this haunted region is
mentally saturated with that atmosphere of serenity
and romance in which the youth of Shakespeare was
passed. and by which his works and his memory are
embalmed. No one should come abruptly upon the
Poets Home. Tie mind needs to be prepared for
the impression that awaits it and in this gradual
approach it finds both suitable and delicious prepar-
alton. The luxuriance of the country-its fertile
fields, its brilliant foliage, its myrads of Wild
flowers, its pOmp of color and of physical
vigor and bloom, do not fail to announce,
to every mind - bowsoever needless that
this is fit place for the birth and nurture of great
man. But this is not ALL As you stroll in the quaint
streets of Warwick, as you drive to Keniworth, as
YOU muse IN that poetic ruin, as you pause In the
old graveyard in the valley below as you pass be-
meath the crumbling arch of the ancient Prory' at
every step of the way you are haunted by vague
sense of some impending grandeur; you are aware
of presence that fills and sanctfes the scene. The
emotion that is thus inspired is very glorous never
to be elsewhere felt; and never to be forgotten
The encyclopedias and the guide-books dilate, with
much particularly and characteristic eloquence,
upon Warwick Castle and other great features OF
Warwick County; and mere Of-hand sketch can
not aspire and should not attempt to emulate those
authentic chronicles. The attribute which all such
records omit is the atmosphere; and this, perhaps,
is rather to be indicated than described. The pre-
yailing quality of il is certain high and sweet
solemnity-a feeling kindred with the placid, happy
melancholy that steals over the mind, when, on
sombre afternoon in Autumn you stand in the
chureh-yard, and listen, amidst rustling branches
and signing grass, to the low music OF distant
organ and chanting choir. Peace, haunted by
romance, dwells here in reverle. The great
tower of Warwick, based in silver Avon and pic
tured in It's slumberng waters, seems musing upon
the centuries over which it has watched, and full
of unspeakable knowledge and thought. The dark
and massive gateways Of the town and the timber
crossed fronts of its antique houses live on in the
same strange dream and perfect repOse; and all
along the drive to KeDilworth are equal images Of
rest-of rest in which there is nothing supine or
suCgish no element of death or decay hut in which
passion, imagination, beauty and sorrow, seized at
their topmOst poise. crystallized in eternal
calm. What opulencc of splendid life is vital
forever in KenilwOrth's erumbliDg ruin
there are no words TO say. What pomp
of royal banners what dignity OF radiant cavaliers!
what ovelinesso of stately and exquisite ladies! what
magnfcence of banquets what wealth of pagean-
tryI what lustre of illumination The same perfect
music that old Gascoigne heard there three hundred
years ago, is still sounding on to-day. The proud
and cruel Leicester still walks in his vaulted hail.
The imperious face of tho Virgin Queen still from
her dals looks down on pumed courtiers and Jew
elled danes: and still the moonlight streaming
,Ior- fu1Ic ov-bif a
and the great, startled, black eyes Of Amy Robsart
waiting for her lover. The gaze of the pilgrim in
deed, rests only upon Old gray broken walls, over
grown with green moss and ivy, and pierced by ir-
regular easements through which the sun shines, and
the winds blow and the rains drive and the birds fly
desOlatiOn But silence and ruin are here
alike eloquent and awful and, much as the place
impresses you by what remains it impresses you far
more by what has vanished. Ambition, love, plea
sure, power, misery, tragedy-these are gone; and
being gone they are Immortal. / plucked in the
garden of Kenilworth, of the most brilliant red
roses that grew and, as pressed 1t to my lips
seemed to touch the lips of that superb. bewilder-
ing beauty who outweighed Engand's crown, and
whose spirit is the everlasting genius OF the place.
There is crescent of thatch-roofed cottages close
by the ruins of the old CASTLE in which cOntentment
seems TO have made her home. The ivy embowers
them The roses cluster around their little win
dows. The greensward slopes away, in front from
the big fat stones that embedded in the grassy
sod before their doors. Down in the valley, hard by
your steps stray through very ancient graveyard
in which modern hands have built tiny church,
with tower and clock and bel-and past the remains
of priory, long since destroyed. AT many another
point, ON the roads betwixt Warwick and Kenil-
worth and Stratford upon such nests of cosey
rustic quiet and seeming happiness. They build
their country houses low In England so that the
trees overhang them and the cool, friendly, flower
gemmed earth-parent andstay. and bourne Ofmor-