Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1897-01-19
FROM PARIS, MAINE, TO PARIS.
FRANCE.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY AND ST. rAuL's.

4
LONDON, ENGLAND.
Il We take It for granted that the first
place you will want to visit 10 renowned
Westminster Abbey. Our host remarked
that he 0had been there good many
times, but had never seen anything oi
Abby" TO which his wife retorted, "IIet
me catch you looking for Abby"
j But, frivolity aside, dear friend, II sou
have pictured the Poets Corner as a
sacred nook In the corner Of quiet
churchysrd, where you can kneel over
the grsss-grown grave Of ths poet you
most have worshipped and water 1t with
your tears Of thanksgiving for the great
privilege. and perhaps pluck blade OF
grass nurtured by the sacred dust to
send home to some loved friend, you
will be disappointed; for there Is no
churchyard, no grass-covered mound, no
headstone whercon you trace the name
OF the one you most revere.
To US the names OF all names for
which we search, are Alfred Tennyson,
aud simple, gentle, tender, though per-
haps weak aud pltifully humsn-Bobbie
Burns. We care not for your Cospers,
your Millions, your Chaucers snd your
Drydens, though Of course ''they are
well enough In their places" but for the
two poet souls whose songs OF tender
ness, of compassion, OF simplicity, OF
JOY, hope, despair. death, life, love, s0r-
row, woe, glory and triumph, have
touched the Choir Is In mems souls that all
the sublimity OF a Shakespeare could not
vibrate.
As we enter the sacred edifice and ask
to be directed to the Poets Corner, the
attendant says, "This Is the Poets
Corner" We look about US, seeing only
seats, the same rs In any church, and
statues, figures and busts attached to
the walls, one above another. ln vain
we search for Tennyson's, till st last.
looking down nj our feet, we find with
almost a shock that We have been walk
ing over his grave, for the slab that
marks the spot with only this inscrip-
ton. "Alfred, Lord Tennyson," Is a part
OF the stone flooring, on which profane
feet may tread. Instinctively We step
aside. feeling almost as II II were sacri-
lege, and In so doing step on the grave
OF the poet Browning, lying side by side
with that Of Tennyson.
1
died Just one hundred years ago, but fnf
only bust In niche In the wall, erect
ed TO his memory, for his body sleeps In
his own bonnie Scotlsnd-lndeedi it could
rest nowher but BY BANKS aud braes
Of Bonnie Doom" In the land OF his
Highland Mary.
We shall not attempt to tell you OF all
the illustrious dead who sleep here un-
derneath the walls OF this vast edifice,
but only OF those whose lives have
touched ours most closely; so the next
to which our footsteps turn IL the monu-
ment to Shakespeare, though his ashes
have never been disturbed from their
resting place In the quiet old church
by the gently flowing Avon. Though
he went out into the great world and
conquered the phantom Of immortal
glory aud fame, he came back at last TO
the peaceful home OF his childhood.
When Pope was asked 10 write an epi-
taph he exclaimed, ~ cannot praise
Shakespeare, take his own words. "Thus
his own fingers penned his epitaph:
"The cloud-cappcl towers. the Gorgeous palaces.
The solemn temples. the great globe itself.
| Yea all which n inberits shall dissolve
/ And IKE the bascless fabric OF vision
| Leave not q wreck behind
Until the great globe" does dissolve
the fame and name Of this great poet Of
nsture-tl,is great magician OF language,
whose genius still sways the pulses OF all
poetic souls, will not cease TO thrill
every human heart. The memorial Is a
figure OF the poet leaning on y pile Of his
works, the left hand holding q roll OF
MSS.
Nearby il a bust Of Ben Jonson, who
WAS buried underneath, upright. His
epitaph Is by Shakespeare, 80 rare Ben
Jonsou." They were fast friends, and
his lines on Shakespeare are admirably
true:
Thou art monument without tomb;
| And art alive still while thy book doth live.
| And we have wits TO read, and praise 70 give"
The next that rivets our attention Is
the grave OF Haendel, the composer Of
the grandest OF all great music "'rhe
Messiah" A life-size statue OF the COM
poser Is surrounded by music and instru-
ments. Above, among the clouds, Is
heavenly choir, In the background an
organ, and as we gaze, we listen, TO hear
that heavenly choir peal forth the glori-
ous, triumphant strains of that immortal
Hallelujah Chorus!
Right beside iii the medallion portrait
head over the grave OF Jenny Lind. who
died but nine years ago, and we listen
again, enraptured, seeming TO hear that
voice, or its counterpart the wild wood
thrush Of the forest, TO which only 1t
could be compared, for hers WAS voice
not trained by esrth's masters but by
the master voice Of Nature.
The grave OF Charles Dickens Is sur
rounded BY the graves of Coleridge,
Campbell, Southey, Milton and. Godfrey
Chaucer (died 1900, the father Of Eng
lish poetry; and here also Is the grave
Of him who wrote the greatest poem
ever penued, Gray's "Elegy In a Coun-
try Churchyard.- Near by are the
graves Of Darwin, Wordsworth, Thack-
cray, Charles Kingsley and John Wesley
| (died 1870. John Gay the poet has
written his own inscription, which some
how seems different when we see 1t actu-
ally cut into the stone, from what 1t did
when we read 1t in the school book 1000
miles away, and almost 200 years from
the time it was penned:
"Life Is jest, and all things show t.;
| thought 30 once. but now know IT."
Then We pass to the monuments to the
great statesmen, VIM. Pitt, Fox, Chan
ming and Chatham; and think there Is
not an American he rt that does not
quiver with feeling when 1t recalls the
words spoken by him in the House Of
Lords, with the impassioned eloquence
of truth and the inspiration Of prophecy /:
lssYou cannot cOnouer America ~