Daily Yellowstone journal., 1891-10-13

white fountain IN mellow old High street
Everything modern here that seeks &c
memorabilia men or committees OF today
through fantastic memorials 20 this very
sun Of the English race and tongue hurts
you with its hrazen impertinence.
You turn, pass through the churchyard,
and saunter along in the quiet Of Mill Lane.
At its end is a ramshackle mill, nobody
knows how many centuries old. The
splash Of the wheel has a drowsy sound
A footpath 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 a
typical English village, crisscrossed with
stone walls, and hedges cut in high box
patterns, and brown with thatched roofs,
so old that birds and mice use them for
nests, while wild field flowers and weeds
grow luXuriously upon them. Instructive
ly you approach the oldest IA quaint
est structure in Shottery. Its gable over
hangs the lane. Its south side faces a maze
of vines and flowers; and four tiny win
dows, hooded by the matching. peep over
into the breeze and bloom. II is Ann Hath
away's cottage.
A pleasant old woman. whom you feel
must ave known the maid and the man,
hustles about, shows you the interior. the
ancient settle" where the lovemaking was
done, the visitors book with its priceless
autographs, even the heirlooms Of linen,
more lasting than efigy or |cenotaph Of
stone, the while chatting cheerily. "a if the
lids Of tim always opened upon her as
upon a 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 Won have
heard came trembling down the -sileucas Of
more than 800 years, and your heart has
thrilled uuuuuerably because, for "A mo
meut, so close have come hat day % this
those wO 20 YOU.
Back across the Avon over the great
stone bridge, and a few minutes walk
brings you 10 humble Henley street. There
is still the seeming OF GreamfoIk 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 gran
dams ruddy of face and white OF hair. who
seem To- have stepped out of the olden
times 20 look around their former haunt-
for a little, and very quiet children with
demure old ways. l0u wonder if the in
hueuce Of 50 surprising "a shrine goes this
far among Stratford jewellers, or whether
it is the glamour Of your own fancy. This.
as you stand before the birthplace OF
Shakespeare-a spruce enough structure
since its restoration" with gabled porch.
an Elizebethau window 10 the next story.
and a peaked cormer window outjutting
from the steep pitched roof above-al
with a pretty garden 40 the sides aud back.
II seems a long time before the jangling
bell Is answered.
Finally another beaming old lady ap.
pears and you follow her silently within.
There is very LITTLE % see. iucommuuicaale
Sec g. 81
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 powerfully
that here first saw the light Of day the
great r~evealer 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 20 what was So
Immortality revealed
II is as though one had for the first time
come into wOndrOus communion with them
all, and il is now more than ever a dream.
as you turn from the spot and by and by
awaken 70 the consciousness that you are
but one Of a horde Of pilgrims, aud are
again passing beneath the portal Of Holy
Trinity Church.
Yet how little is there for simply the
eyes 70 look upon-the interior Of a mod
est church OF the Thirteenth, Fourteenth
and Fifteenth centuries, cruciform, with
central tower and spire. and aisles to the
nave only. a narrow chancel iuclining
strangely 20 the north. ancient oaken
pews, with ~curiously carved mtscrcrcs be
meath. a west window representing the
twelve apostles and our Lords baptism.
a clerestory beautifully imposed on the
arches below; a north chaucel window, the
gift Of Americans, illustrating from As
You Like IL" the Seven Ages Of Man. q
few ancient sedllia or priests seats; an
entablature Of stone, in which Is set the
painted stone bust Of a pleasant faced
man, with twirled mustichois and slight.
pointed beard, and below a grave. with
four lines of descriptive duplication 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 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 cor.
ner beneath protecting pillar, and see, still
as in a dream, the motley throng, from
peasant 70 prince, come and 90, come and
20, as if the great world heart pushed its
strongest, warmest, most unfaltering pull
sation here. The evening descends, and
the last soft football has ~recrossed the worn
threshold and passed like a whisper
over the wind strewn lime leaves beyond
ancient verger dons his hat and jangles
his keys. Like a wrath of your own
dreaming self you pass swiftly TO the chan
eel and kneel in the darkening old church
beside one grave for a moment alone
AT sHAKsPEARE's TOMB.
Once where a spray Of apple bloom
Hung DER my garden wall
There came a vagrant oriole
To flood the music OF his soul
Full in my open-windowed room
A heck Of gold, with voice Of lutte,
Within my easement swung
Ny own sweet prisoned singing-bird-
Whose tribute, which the master stirred
Left IL aghast aud mute.
Thus came his fight and c~anticle,
Flooding Songs dawn with Day.
Thus we. athril aud tribute-sttrred,
Like my poor prsoned singing-bird,
Falter, love-dumb and stil.
EDGAR L. WAKEMAN.
Queen VictOria's Watches.