The Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1865-1903, 1891-10-10

thrilled unutterably. because, for u mo-
ment, SO close have como that day to
this, those two to you.
Ills BIRTHPLACE.
Back across tho Avon over the great
stone bridge, and a few minutes walk
brings you to humble Henley street.
There Is still the seeming drcam.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 grandamB rGddy OF face
and white OF hair, who seemed to have
stepped out Of the olden times TO look
around their former hannts Tor Il little;
and very quaint children with demure
old wnys. You wonderful the influence
OF 90 surprising Il shrine goes this far
among Stratlord dwellers, or whether 1t
IL the glamor OF you own fancy. This,
as you stand before the birthplace OF
Shakespeare a spruce enough structure
since It's restoration, with gablcd
porch, an Eli2abo,han window
in the next story, md a peaked
dormer window ouijuttinS from the
stccp.pilchcd roof above; I'LL with II
pretty garden ut tho sides and back. 1t
scems II long time before tho jNngling
bell is answered.. Finally another bcum-
ing 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 q sort OF
museum, and you find little interest
here. In tho other, the bard was born.
Which fact thrills you most powerfully
that here first saw The light OF day
the great rcvcaler OF humanity to men,
or that the once white wall is black
with the names OF the gIcat and mighty
Of Ill lands and climcs, who have come
aud rovcrently lett these signsoi tribute
to what was 80 Immortality revealed?
II is as though one had for the first
time colnc into wondrous communion
with them all; and 1t is now more than
ever Il dream. us you turn from the spot
and by and by awaken TO the conscious
ness that you are but one OF II horde OF
pilgrims, and are again passing beneath
the portal OF Holy Trinity Church.
THE INTERIOR.
Yet how little istl!crc Tor simply the
eyes to look upon!-thc interior OF a
modest church OF the 18th, 14th and
10Th centuries, cruciiorm, with central
tower and spire, and aislcs to the nave
only;anarrowc hanccl inclinius strange
Is to the north; ancient oaEcn pews
with curiously carved miSercrcS beneath;
4 west window representing the twelve
apostles and our Lords baptism;
4 ciorestory beautifully imposed
on the arches below; q north
clianccl window, the gilt OF Americans,
illustrating, from "As You Like It." the
Seven Ages OF a few ancicu. scdiIia
or priests seats; an entamblaturc Of
stone in which is set the painted stone
bust OF y pleasaut-faccd man with
twirlcd mustachois and slight, pointed
beard and below, Il grave with four
lines OF descriptive suppIication that
the dust and bones beneath shall never
be disturbed by mortal man. This is
all. Yet every day OF every year men
and women, in increasing numbers,
come from the earth's rcmotcst bounds,
to stand beside this silent but never
voicclcas tomb.
The Clay passes and tho shadows
lcngthen among the lines. You shrink
into q corncr beneath protecting pillar,
and see, still as in 4 dream, the motley
throng, from peasant to prince, come
and 20, rs ii the great worldlieart,
pushed its strongest. warmcst, most
unialtcring pulsation hero. The even
ing dcsccnds. and the last soft football
has recrosscd the worn stone threshold
and passed like a whisper over the
wind-strcwn lime leaves beyond. Tho
ancienE vcrger lons his hat and janglcs
his keys. Like q wrath OF your drcam-
ing sell, you pass swiftly to the chancel
and knceli in the darltcning old church
beside II grave for Il moment alone.
At s~IiAEspEARE'S TOMB.
Once where n spray OF apple bloom
HING Ger my garden wall
There came Il vRgrnnt U-iOlc
10 Hood the music OF It's soul
Full IN my Opcu-wludUwed room.
a tlccl o! rod, with voice otlute. la"H.y..,
NIthiI my easement SN Jung.
Ms own sweet prisonGd slnging-bird-
Whose tribute. which the master stirred.
Lett II mghHst and mute.
Thus came his flight mud c~auticie,
Flooding Song dawn With bay
Thus we. uihrill md tributc stirred.
Like my poor rrlSoued siIging-bird,
Faiicr ~!uSc:dMnb and still.
ETGAnI I. WAKEMAx.