Morning journal and courier. [volume] (New Haven [Conn.]) 1848-1894, 1891-10-10

L
land autumnal morning, there is still sur
rounding you the glamor of bewitching
unreelity you cannot and would not dis
pei.
| Tramping over this witching way, what
/ flood of historic memories sweeps in
| with the breath of the ROSY morningi
Here upon this noble eminence, with his
toric Clopton House to the right and
Hampton Lucy to the left. beneath the
arching elms is caught the first glimpse of
the valley of the Avon. An hundred
lesser gentle verdure-clsd eminences rise
| and fall, as if with the throbbing of ma
ture's heart in its fair, far sweep. Far
| away in the northeast winds a thread of
silver. 1t broadens as it disappears and
| reappears in its course towards the Severn,
and is finally lost completely, where,
above a mass of elms and lines and red
tiled roofs, rises a slender spire. The sill
very thread is the Avon. The mass of
| elms and lines and red-liled roofs is STRAIT
| ford. The slender spire of its Holy Trim
| ity church marks the tomb and shrine of
| the worlds immortal bard.
Lettering here the old days, places and
stirring scenes fit quickly into the wide
horizon rim. The three spires of ancient
| Coventry can almost be seen not far away
to the north; Coventry with its legends of
| pilgrimages and the deed of fair Godivs
which brought freedom from tine oppres-
sion of her fierce grim lord to the people
| of her well-beloved town. The grand ruin
| of Kenilworth, with it's memories of
| jousts, tournaments and revelries of Eliz-
abeth and her favorites are nearer still.
| Gray old Warwick, with its walls still as
mighty as in the furious times of the
third Henry, is just behind You to the
north Over to the west Eyesham and
Tewksbury recall grewsome tale. Only
fifteen miles to the north, just at the edge
| of Oxfordshire, the first great battle be-
tween the kings and parliamentary forces
was fodght in the seventeenth century at
Edge Hill. Not far away, in Northamp-
tonshire, is Fotheringay, notably connect
ed with the lives and fates of princes, and
famous and infamous as the places of exc
cution of Mary Queen of Scots.
| Below Edge Hill is Banbury of cherished
nursery-rhyme memory, to whose tooth
some cheese Shakespeare likened Falstsff
for his rich and unctious habit. 1t is but
a few miles away, Just over there in North
ampton, beyond the ivy-hid Rugby of
"Tom Browns School Days." that the
| Avon springs from the hills about Naseby,
| where Cromwell and Fairfax drove the
| hapless Charles from his throne and king
| dom. Sixty-four great seats with their
castles or halls, from Allesley Park to
| Wroxall House, besides many fine castle
4
| chiwneys and minarated turrets of one
rise above primeval trees down there to
the east in the dreamful Avon valley.
They mark old Charlecots, scene of GER
tain rhyming poacher's escapade And
| this same Charlecote once stood in the
| greatest of all British forests, the forest of
| Arden, whose name and fame can never
grow old, SO long as the fair and tender
Rosalind and all the other winsome brood
in GAS You Like 1t" shall repeat their
wise and wondrous human truths to those
who own and love the English thought and
| tongue.
AS you descend into the old town every
| thing is strangely still On the way you
see few blackbirds hopping ssgely among
the stubble, close to the sheltering hedge.
Here and there wary pheasant that has
escaped the annual autumnal slaughter
whisks into the road, trots along it's grassy
border for a little, and then as suddenly
and silently disappears. The kline are
sleepily chewing their cuds against the
farmhouse byres. A few "stooks" of late
gathered grain are huddled in the little
| fields. The smoke sscends family from
the chimneys of cottage and hall. They
are late risers, these English folk, and the
| low sun is far up in its slender arc before
dwellers give sign of being astir. Even
| the sable rocks that haunt the dead trees
| and high, wine chimneys of ancient de-
mesnes, rise sluggishly from their hiding,
wheel Iazily about it and settle down
| quietly again, not yet ready to unloose
their sauoy, chattering tongues. =
You know, as everybody knows, when
you have come to the little closely -hedged,
tiled houses, where the open highway has
merged into long, picturesque though
| humble street, that were you to remain in
Stratford for months time there could
be only Just the half dozen places immedi-
ately identified with Shakespeare, to visit
the house where he was born, the vacant
site of the house where he lived at New
Place, the church where he is buried, Ann
Hathaway's cottage, and the memorial
fountain and theater. And while you
could see these in an hours time, the i'm
pulse, now that they are so near your ken,
| is to avoid them; to wander away through
the town for little at first, and, shaking
off the dreamful captivity of it all, to try
and come back to those objects and places
one by one, with increased attitude and
power of recognition and compsnionship.
You are now in the center of Stratford,
on High street You suddenly recall the
curious fact that in all the hundreds of
English towns you have visited you have
| always found High street, and that eve
ry place of interest to be seen, as at STRAIT
ford, is only few moments walk from
every other place off on this old famil-
lar High street. Here is an open space,
the ancient "mercate square," Jagged,
zigzag thoroughfares lead to 1t from outly-
ing picturesque spots and quarters. All
about are half timbered houses projecting
story over story into the market-place;
and you wonder how long before, from
sheer age, they will tumble, red roofs
, first, over into the clean, cool square be-
: low. Quaint shops, just now opening,
are pinched in between staid old man
sions. Bandboxes of inns, scores of them
' each striving to outdo the other in curl
3 GUS name or escutcheon suggestive of the
t one memory of the slumberous old town
t speck the gray facades with gilt and color
Down one of these streets, old Henley
street, through whose windings glimpst
of the uplsnds is caught, you know is tt
be found the house of all others in STRAIT
= ford. But you turn in the opposite direc
. ton You pass an ancient inn named fo
r the bard. Each of its rooms is given th
name of some one of the characters h
created. Servants are higgle-hagglinl
with a rosy-faced huckster over the pric
of vegetables on its comfortable porch
q Old stone houses with the oldest of peaks
gables and pent-houses over huge oakel
It doors are passed, At some old men an
women are nodding, even in these morn
ing hours, at the open windows. Sool
II there is vista of trees shutting out a
h beyond save gray stone porch. Withou
At knowledge of Stratford topography yo
have come with unerring instinct straigh
10 to Holy Trinity church and graveyard
g An ancient verger with snow-white hair
1t shutting along the leaf-strewn pavement
I He pauses, and with loud janglipg of hi
huge keys, he unlocks the wicket, then tt
III wide, low oaken doors, and is shortly loi
4 among the shadows within. You ste,
le softly after him. Somewhere in the dill
IN place the old man is whistlipg as If fc
company, in low tones as becomes an ole
y old man; but somehow it checks your in
pulse to enter; and you wander aroun
If and around the shadowy shrine, halting
/ last next the side of the chsncsl nearei
where you know that Shakespeare lie
n You lay your hand gently on the cold gra
st stones as if cropping for the touch of
,e near but unseen friend. How long yor
,f reverie has been you know not; but q tin,
iconoclastic sparrow, scratching among Il
g. gravel at your feet, looks SO quizzicall
y into your face that you hurry ashame
ye away.
le A few steps among the graves benea.
huge elms bring you TO the river side, fl
the Avon he loved laves the sides of Il