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lofty stature, their great strength and courage ; and then came the Norman as a second branch of the Norseman.
The military adventurers who followed the fortunes of the Conqueror were mostly of Gothic extraction, the descendants of the military order who vanquished the Romans. These admixtures of the Celt, the Phænician, the Teuton, and the Roman, have left a mixed people. The various elements were destined in process of time to amalgamate and become a racial type; and the Anglo-Saxon has a composite character, in which are found the well-known characteristics of Englishmen. The features become marked, prominent, and distinct, or otherwise, according as the original racial types unite, amalgamate, or separate.
These various races, which have conjoined to form the English nation, appear to have met in tỏe midland districts, and as the baronial castles of Warwick and Kenilworth would be awarded to the followers of the Conqueror, to make them lords over “tower and town," they would attract numerous dependants in their train; these again would ultimately become blended with the Anglo-Saxon race, and will serve in some degree to explain the apparent anomalous facial contours seen in the Warwickshire people and their neighbours in the midland counties.
The Mask said to be from the face of Shakspere does not possess the broad characteristics of the Warwickshire type. The majority of the people have the Anglo-Saxon or Teutonic physiognomy--a broad-set body, full face, long upper lip, straight or composite nose, hazel eyes, and auburn hair. There is, however, another though less numerous type, blending elements of the Norman with the Anglo-Saxon characteristics, where the aquiline feature in the nose unites with other traits in the long upper lip and fair complexion of the Teuton or Frisian race. These are the marked characteristics of the Jansen portrait, and the mask said to be taken from the face of Shakspere, and also belong to the portraits to which I have drawn attention as likenesses of the family of Shakspere, and which formerly belonged on one side to the Harts, and on the other to the Hathaways.
(To be continued.)
London: FRED. PITMAN, 20, Paternoster Row, E.C.
Printed by J. WARD, Dowsbury.
[Continued from the close of Vol. 8, 1863.] Y
HAVE spoken so much of Byron that I have but little
time left for Shelley. I may refer you, however, to his comparison of Sleep and Death, and his description of Night, both in “Queen Mab.”
How wonderful is Death,
How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh
Tinge not the moon's pure beam; yon castled steep,
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;
So cold, so bright, so still. Let us also take “The Cloud” and “The Skylark," which, for true poetry, stand unrivalled. It seldom a poet is so happy in continuous conceptions as Shelley has been in both these poems. He thus speaks for the cloud :
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
In their noon-day dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
And their great pines groan aghast;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning my pilot sits;
It struggles and howls by tits :
This pilot is guiding me;
In the depths of the purple sea :
Over the lakes and the plains,
The Spirit he loves remains;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead : As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer:
Like a swarm of golden bees,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
In the million-coloured bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I change, but I cannot die :
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
Build up the blue dome of air,
And out of the caverns of rain,
I arise and unbuild it again.
Hail to thee, blythe Spirit !
Bird thou never wert,
Pourest thy full heart
Higher still, and higher,
From the earth thou springest
The blue deep thou wingest,
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
Thou dost float and run;
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
In the broad day-light
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
In the white dawn clear,