New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1882-09-10
A RAMBLE IN ENGLAND.
BY WILLIAM WINTER.

lawns of emerald velvet. Overhead n few light
clouds are drifting and the green boughs of the
great Gins are gently stirred by breeze from the
west Across one of the more distant fields flock
of sable rocks some of them lluttering and cav
mp-winps its SLOW and melancholy fight There
is the sound OF the whettins of scythe, and near
BY the twittorIng Of many birds upon cottage
roof. On either side of the country road. which
runs like a white rivuet through banks of green,
the hawthorne hedges are shining, and the bright
sod is spangled with all the wild flowers OF an
English summer. An OdOT of lime trees and OF
new-mown hay sweetehs the air, for miles ana
miles around. Far of. on the horizons verge JUST
glimmering through the haze, rises the imperial
citadel Of Wnlsor And close at hand nttlc
child points TO a gray spire peerng out of mast of
ivy and tells me that this is Stoke POgis Church.
If peace dwes anywhere upon this earth its
dwelling-p place is here. You come into this little
churchyard Ivy pathway across the park, ana
through n wooden turn-ste; and in one moment
the whole world is left behind and forgotten.
Here are the nolding clms here is The yew trees
shade: here hcavcs the turf in many moulder-
ing heap All these graves seem very old. The
long grass waves over them. and some Ct the low
stones that mark them are entirely shrOudel with
iyv MANY of the " frai! memorials are made of
wool None Of them is neglected or fOrlOrn, but
all Of them seem TO have been scattered here in that
sweet disorder which il the perfection OF rural
lovelincss There never, of course. could have
been any thought Of creating this effect yet here II
remains to win your heart forever. And here.
amid this mnnrnful beauty the little church itself
ne,tles close to the ground. while every tree That
wayrs its branches around it, and every vino that
Chambers on its surface seems TO clasp it IN the
arms of logc. Nothing breaks the -ilence but he
srhius of the wind in the great yew tree, at the
fra HNt.Tf.
favorte seat and where the brown needles, falling
through many an autumn, have made dense
Garnet on the turf Now and then there is a faint
rustic in the ivy; ftful bird note serves Int to
deepen the stiffness: and from rose tree noar at
hand few leaves tluttcr down, III sOuudless bene-
diction the dust beneath.
Gray WAS laid in the same grave with his
mother the careful tcndcr mother Of many
children. one alone OF whom as he wrote upon
her gravestone had the misfortune to survive
her" Their tomb-;s low, obong. brick structure,
covered with large sab-stands few feet away
from the church wall upon which is a small tablet
to denote its place. The poets name has not been
inscribed above INN. There need here of
stored urn or animated bust The whole place
is his monument. and the majestic Elcgy giving
to the soul of the place a form of seraphic beauty
and a voice of celestial musIc--is his immortal
eptaph:
Here scattered oft. the earliest OF the year.
By hands unseen arc showers Of yoies found.
The red-brc,sf loves 10 build and NarOle here,
Aod little footsteps lightly PRINT tn ground
There is a monument to Gray IN Stoke Park,
about three, hundred yards from the church, bnt
If seems commemorative of the builder rather than
the poet They intend TO set a memorial window
in the church. to honor him. and the visitor finds
there n money-box for the reception of conrlbu-
tiOns in aid Of this pious design. NOthiOg will be
done amss that serves to direct closer and closer
attention to his life. 1t one OF the best lives
ever recorded IN the history OF literature. 1t WAS
a life sngulary pure, noble and beautiful In
two qualities sincerity aud retcence, it
emplarv almost beyond a parallel; and those
qualities which literary character in the present
day has great need to acquire. Gray was avcISe 10
publicity. He did not sway by the censnre of
other men: neither did he need their admiration
as his breath of life Poetry to him, was great
art : and ne added nothing to literature nrtil he
had FIRST made it nearly perfect as 1t could be
made by the thoughtful, laboriOus eXcrtion of his
best powers. superadded TO the spontaneous I'M
pulse and DOW of his genius More yolumrnous
writers. Charles Dickens among the rest, have
sncerci at him because he wrote little. The
most colossal form of human couCoit. probably. IS
that Of the individual VINO thinks all other crea-
tures inferior who happen to be unlike himself
This rcticcncc the part of Gray III fact, the
grand emblem Of his sincerity and the cornerstone
of his impoIishable renOwn. There Is u better
thing than the great man who is al ways speaking:
anl that is the great man who only speaks when
he has a great word to say. Gray has left only a
few poems; but of his principal works each is
perfect in ITS kind supreme and unapproachable
He did not test merit by reference 10 l-informcd
and caprcious public opinion, bur wrought ac-
l.. "a.
ing and taste could furnish. His Letters form
English Classic. There is no better prose in eX-
istcnce: there is very little cxtant that is good
But the crowr ing glory Of Gray's nature the ele-
ment that makes il 81 impressive, the charm thaV
brings the pilgrim to stoke Pogs Church to muse
upon t. wns tine self-poScd sincere and lovely
cxaltation of its contcmplGtiye spirit. llr was
man whose conduct Of lite would first Of all
purify cXtend and ad6ru the temple of his own
SOUL ont % which should aiterwlfd dow, i'm then
own Tree way. those choral harmDnie- that soothe,
guide and exalt the human race lie lived before
lie wrote The soul of thc Elegy is the soul OF the
man. Il WIS his thought which he has somewhere
EXPRESSED IN better words than thcse-that human
beings are on, worthy whilo those feelings endure
which are cugendered when death has Just taken
from Us tie objects OF our love. That WAS the
point of view from which he hahitually looked
upon the world: ana man who has learned the
lessons OF experience can doGbt that he was right
Gray was twcnty-s% years old when he wrote
the first draf; OF the Elcsy. He began tins poem
IN I7I2 ut stoke rogiS and he finished AMI pub
lishcl it in 100. No visitor TO this churchyard
can miss either ts inspiration or IT'S imagery. The
poet has been dead more than a hundred years;
bui the scene of his ramblcs and reyerirs has
suffered No material change. One Of his yew trees,
indeed much weakened with age was some time
since blown down in storm, and its fragments
have been carried away. a picturesque house