Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1897-02-23
ln Kenllworth's crumbling ruin! What
pomp OF royal banners! What wealth

pomp Of royal banners! What wealth
Of pageantry. And the moon
light streaming through the turret-
window falls on the white bosom and
the great, startled black eyes Of Amy
R0bsart waiting for her lover.
But silence aud ruin are now here, alike
eloquent and awful; and, much as the
place impresses you by what remains, It
impresses you far more by what has
vanished. Ambition, love, pleasure,
power, misery, tragedy-these are gone !;
and being gone they are immortal!
But we must linger no longer, for the
close proximity OF Stratford-on-Avon
invites Us, and the temptation Is too great
TO resist, 80 We wend our way to the
birthplace and burial-place Of the "Bard
Of Av0n," whose presence "msuy time
and oft" was wont to grace these same
remotely festal scenes we have just left,
Tor Shakespeare WAS especially favored
Of the gracious Virgin Queen.
This place has been so often described,
that there seems left nothing for US TO
say, only that unlike all the other de-
scriptions, the sun did not shine In halo
OF glory around III, spire of the little
~
sober background; the water OF the sil-
very Avon WAS not crystalline and
sparkling with light and life, but full OF
shadows and darkness, none the less
beautiful; the birds were not singing
their love-songs In exuberance OF delight
but every song was hushed. and the
stiffness was far more eloquent than the
song Of warblipg bird and droning bee.
The fragrance Of opening bud and flower
did not regale our senses with exquisite
perfume, as did the smell OF autumnal
decay and the moist earth aud sere and
falling leaf. We scarce wonder at the
inspiration OF angelic ministr atoms, or
that the poor Ophelia, the child OF his
dream, grew demented with the melan-
choly beauty and almost uncanny charm
OF this place. We can see her sitting
here calling over the names OF her flow-
ers: There's rosemary, that's for re-
membrance; aud there Is pansies, that's
for thoughts; there's fennel for you, and
columbines; there's rue for you; there's
a daisy-I would give you some violets,
but they withered all when my father
died"
The little town OF Stratford In out
ward appearance Is much like the other
little towns In England, but II Ia the In
ward atmosphere OF the place that you
all Others. Not many things remain as
they were when the worlds great genius
was born here, more than 300 years ago,
but the Avon still ripples on, and the
pathsihe trod will never wear out. The
house In which he was born is still stand
ing, rs also Ia the school Ia which he was
taught, and the cottage where he wooed
his sweetheart, which stands In substan-
TALLY the same condition as when his
FOOTBALLS at the door made music 10 the
ears Of Ann Hathaway. We copy these
lines attributed TO himself, who must
have been the ideal Romeo:
"wouti We be taught, ye fcathcrcd throng,
With loves sweet notes TO frame your song2
Go pierce my heart with thrilling lay,
Listen 10 my Ann Hathaway.
She hath away 20 sing 40 clear,
PhIbus might, wondering. stoop to hear.
To melt the sal. make blithe the gay
To charm all hearts. Ann hAih.a way;
She stb-away,
Ann Hathaway,
To breathe delight, Ann hath h-a-way"
The house Is still occupied by de-
scendant OF the Hathaway family.
Not many details can be traced OF his
life, except that he went to school from
the age Of TO IL, and then had TO work
for living, some say "a an apprentice
TO n butcher-that he attended the re-
ligious entertainments given at the nesr
city Of COventry-that he married at Is,
aud left wife and three children at %,
and went 10 London TO seek his fortune,
and at last came home to his beloved
native heath to live out his remaining
years, aud be buried meath the soil he
loved so well.
Most OF you are doubtless familiar
with the strange epitaph written by him
self, which has ever since marked the
slab that covers him In the little village
church:
GOOD friend, for Jesus sake forbeare
To diyg tie dust enclosed heare.
Ble.e be ye man Ut spares these stones
And curst be he VI moves my bones"
IL Is said that no one for fear Of the
curse dared touch his grave stone,
though his wife and daughter ibid
earnestly desire TO be laid In the same
grave with him. And Ii has also been
imagined that the reason for his fear
that some one might disturb his bones,
was that he intended TO take with him
into his grave q confession that the
works attributed to him were written by
some one else, which question has yet
never been settled in some minds.
We do not consider your correspond
ent capable OF making any criticisms,
but will venture the remark that a man
who can succeed in making the whole
world believe for 300 years that he
knows something, must be genius,
when so many OF ia can't make anybody |
believe IL, for that number of minutes.
But the gathering twilight and ap-
preaching darkness warn US that We
must leave these quiet, peaceful hannts
OF enchanted memory, and return to the |
contrast OF the great metropolis; so, the |
train whirls Us on towards warmth,
light, refreshment and welcoming faces. |
which sfter all We can't get along with |
out, though we dwell for season
amid ideals and dreams.
MARTHA MAXIM.