Fort Worth gazette. [volume] (Fort Worth, Tex.) 1891-1898, 1891-10-11

AY, OCTOBER II.
have already turned away from the perky
| white fountain in mellow cid High street
Everything modern here that seeks TO me-
1norialize men or committees of to-day
through fantastic memorials to this very
sun of the English race and tongue, hurts
you with its brazen impertinence.
You turn, pass through the churchyard,
| and saunter along in the quiet OF iiill
Lane. AT its end is a ramshackie mill, no.
body knows how many centuries old. The
| splash of the wheel has q drowsy sound.
| A foOt-path leads to a messy wooden
bridge. You cross this, take to the
meadows, with the river, church and town TO
| your left, and cross the fields TO Shottery.
| Here is typical English village, criss-
crossed with stone walls, and hedges cut in
| high box patterns, and brown with matched
| roofs, so old that birds and mice use them
| for nests, while wild field flowers and
weeds grow luxuriously upon them. In
stinctivey you approach the Oldest and
| quaintest structure in Shottery. Its gable
! overhangs the lane. Its south side faces
maze of vines and flowers: and four tiny
windows, hooded by the matching, peep
| over into the breeze and bloom. II is
ANN HATHAwAY's COTTAGE.
A pleasant old woman, whom you feel
! must have known the maid and the man,
| hustles about; shows you the interior: the
| ancient 'settle," where the love-making
| was done, the visitors book with its price
| less autographs. even the heirlooms of linen
| more lasting than effigy or cenotaph of
stone, the while chatting cheerily, as if the
lids of time always opened upon her, as
| upon bright and stainless page. But you
| have not heard what was said. The old
lady's words have blended with the autumn
voices without The voices you have heard
than three hundred years; and your heart
has thrilled unutterably, because, for mo-
nent, SO close have come that day to this,
those two to you.
| Back across the Avon over the great
stone bridge, and few minutes walk
| brings you to humble Henley street. There
| is still the seeming of dream-folk walking
| about in the soft autumn air. There are
| few OF them, and they seem either very
| old or very young; quaint old men and
| granddams ruddy of face and white of hair,
| who seem to have stepped out OF the oden
| times to look around their former haunts
| for Il little; and very quiet children with
demure old ways. You wonder if the ilfu-
ence of SO surprising shrine goes this far
| among Stratford jewellers, or whether it is
| the glamor of your own fancy. This, as
you stand before the birthplace of Shake
| Speare-a spruce enough structure since its
s'restoration." with gabled porch, an Eliza
| peaked dorIner window outjutting from the
| steep-pitched roof above; all with pretty
garden at the sides and back. 1t seems
long time before the jangling bell is an
| swered. Finally another beaming old lady
appears and you follow her silently within.
| There is very little to see; incommunicable
things TO feel. There are two rooms below
and two above. One of the latter is a sort
of museum, and you find little interest
here In the other, the bard was born.
Which fact thrills you most power
fully-that here first saw the light
of day the great revealer Of humanity to
| men, or that the once white wall is
black with the names of the great and
mighty of all lands and climes, who have
come and reverently left these signs of
tribute to what was so Immortality re-
vealeda
1t is as though one had for the first time
come into wondrous communion with them
all; and it is now more than ever q dream,
as you turn from the spot and by and by
awaken to the consciousness that you are
but one Of horde of pilgrims, and are
again passing beneath
THE PORTAL OF HOLY TRINITY CHURCH.
Yet how little is there for simply the eyes
to look upon!-the interior of a modest
church of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth and
Fifteenth centuries, cruciform, with CEN
trail tower and splre, and aisleS to the nave
only; a narrow chancel inclining strangely
TO the north; ancient oaken pews with cur
iOuSly carved misereres beneath; a west
window representing the twelve apostles
and our Lords baptism; clereStOry beau
tifully imposed on the arches below;
north chancel window, the gift of Ameri-
cans, illustrating, from ''As You Like It,"
the Seven Ages of Man; few ancient
sedilia or priests seats; an entablature of
stone in which is set the painted stone bust
of pleasant-faced man with twirled mus
ard. no
low, grave with four lines of descriptive
supplication that the dust and bones be-
meath shall never be disturbed by mortal
man. This is all. Yet every day Of every
year men and women, III increasing num-
bers, come from the earth's remotest
bounds, to stand beside this silent but never
voiceless tomb.
The day passes and the shadows lengthen
among the lines. You shrink into a corner
beneath protecting pillar, and see, still as
in dream, the motley throng, from peasant
to prince, come and go, come and 60, as if
the great world-heart pushed its strongest,
warmeSt, most unfaltering pulSatiOn here.
The evening descends, and the last soft
football has recrossed the worn stone
threshold and passed like whisper over
the wind-strewn lime-leaves beyond. The
ancient verger dOns his hat and jangles his
keys. Like wrath of your own dreaming
self, you pass swiftly to the chancel and
one grave for moment alone
AT SHAKESPEARE TOMB.
Once where spray OF apple bloom
Hung Der my garden wall
There came q yagrant oriole
To food the music of its soul
Full in my open-windowed room.
A fiecll Of gold. with voice of Lutte,
Within my easement swung
My own sweet prisoned singing bird
Whose tribute, which the master stirred,
Left It aghast and mute
Thus came his fight and canticie.
Flooding Song dawn with Day,
Thus we, athrill and trbute-stirred.
Like my poor prisoned singing bird
Falter loye-dumb and still.
EDGAR L. WAKENAAn
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RAMS HORNETS.
To become wise is 10 find out how little
you know.
Philosophy lights no candle in the night
~