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

brown with thatched roofs, so old that
birds and mice use them for nests, while
wild field flowers and weeds grow luxuri-
ously upon them. 1nstinctiyeiy YOU ap-
proaoh the Oldest and quaintest structure
in Shottery. Its gable overhangs the lane.
Its south side faces a maze of vines and
flowers; and four tiny windows, hooded
by the thatching, peep over into the breeze
and bloom. 1t is Ann Hsthaway'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 OF cenotaph
of stone, the while chatting cheerfly, 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 au-
tumn voices without. The voices you
have heard came trembling down the 81
lences of more than three hundred wears:
and your heart has thrilled unutterably.
because, for a moment, 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 dseam-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
grandans ruddy of face and white of hair.
who seem to have stepped out of the olden
times to look around their former haunts
for little; and very quiet children with
demnre old ways. You wander If the in
fuence of so SURPRISING shrine goes this
Tar among Stratford dwellers, or whether
1t is the glamor of your own fancy. This.
as you stand before the birthplace of
Shakespeare-s spruce enough structure
since its restoration" with gabled porch.
an Elizabethsn window in the next story,
and peaked dormer window outjutring
from the steep-pitched roof above; all
with a pretty garden at the sides and
back. 1t seems long time before the IAN
| Cling bell is answered. Finally another
oeamlng 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 sort of museum and
you find little interest here. In the other
the bard was born. Which fact thrills
you most powerfully-that here first was
the light of day the great revealer of hu-
manity 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 reverentiy left these signs of
tribute to what was SO Immortality re-
vealedi
1t is as though one had for the first time
| come into wondrous communion with
them all; and it is now more tdan ever a
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 upl-the interior Of a modest
| church of the thirteenth, fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries, cruciform, with cen
tral tower and spire, and isles to the nave
| only; narrow chsncel inclining strangely
10 the north; ancient osken pews with Gu
riously carved misereres beneath; a west
window representing the twelve apostles
and our Lords baptism; clerestory beau
tifully imposed on the arches below; a
north chancel window, the gift of Ameri-
cans, illustrating, from "As You Like II, -
the Seven Ages of Man: few ancient Sc
dilia or priests seats: an entsblsture of
stone in which is set the painted stone
bust of plesssnt-faced man with twiried
mustachois and slight, pointed beard; and
below grave with four lines of inscrip-
tive supplicstion that the dust and bones
beneath shall never be disturbed by NOR
tai man. This is all. Yet every day of
every year men and women, in increasing
numbers, come from the earth's remotest
bounds, to stand beside this silent but
/ never voiceless tomb.
The day passes and the shadows length
/ en- among the lmes. You shrink into q
corner beneath protecting pillar, and see,
| still as in a dream, the motley throng,
from peasant to prince, come and go, come
and go, 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 a
| 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 kneel in the darkening
old church beside one grave for moment
| alone
sHAREsPEARE's ToNB.
| Once where a spray of apple bloom
| Hung Der my garden wall
| There came n vagrznt oriole
| To Hood the music OF its soul
Full in my open n-windowed room
| fieck OF gold, with voice OF Lutte
Within my easement swung
| My own sweet prisoned singing.bind-
| Whose tribute which the master stirred
Left il aghast and mute.
Thus came his flight and canticle
| Flooding Songs dawn with Day.
| Thus we, athriu and tribute stirred,
| Like my poor prisoned singing bird,
Falter love-dumb and still
EDGAR L. WAKEMAS.