Shakespeare, and from such a reconstruction judge the portraits brought before us. From what we have, therefore, we may presume that Shakespeare was of the middle height, fairly built and proportioned, broad-chested and upright. His hair was a warm brown, his beard lighter than the hair of his head; his chin round and full (bust, Droeshout print, and print by Marshall); the jaw strong and powerful (Droeshout print, and bust); the forehead ample, broad, and high, the supra-orbital ridges oval, and well marked (Felton head, bust, and Droeshout); the hair, at an early period, thin, and well off the forehead-at the close of his life he was bald, and the forehead seemed very much higher; his complexion was fair, and the tint of a warm healthy hue, with probably a full colour in the cheeks; the mouth not very small, the lips full and red, the eyes hazel, and, we may presume, instinct with life and intelligence. This is as near an approach to a correct description of Shakespeare as we can well form. There can be no reason why he should not have had many portraits painted, but we must remember that we have no direct proof that he ever sat to any artist of the highest excellence."

Selecting from a large number, I think right to give a place here to the following commendatory verses :—

"TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR,
MR. WILLIAM SHAKSPERE,

AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

"To draw no envy, Shakspere, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such,
As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much;
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage: but these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise :
These are as some infamous bawd, or whore,

Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more?

But thou art proof against them; and, indeed,
Above the ill-fortune of them, or the need:
I, therefore, will begin :-Soul of the age,
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,
My Shakspere, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser; or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument, without a tomb;
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;
I mean, with great, but disproportion'd Muses:
For, if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers;
And tell-how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlow's mighty line.

And, though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek
From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles, to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead;
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread
And shake a stage: or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone-for the comparison

Of all, that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome,
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time,
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm.
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines;
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit:
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give nature all; thy art,
My gentle Shakspere, must enjoy a part:-
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion: and that he,
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are), and strike a second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same

(And himself with it), that he thinks to frame; Ör, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn

For a good poet's made, as well as born:

And such wert thou: Look, how the father's face
Lives in his issue; even so the race

Of Shakspere's mind, and manners, brightly shines
In his well-toned and true-filed lines;

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet swan of Avon! what a sight it were,

To see thee in our waters yet appear;

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!

But stay; I see thee in the hemisphere

Advanc'd, and made a constellation there:

Shine forth, thou star of poets! and with rage,

Or influence, chide, or cheer, the drooping stage;

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but by thy volume's light!"

BEN JONSON.

"AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET,
WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

"What needs my Shakspere for his honour'd bones,
The labour of an age in piled stones;

Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid

Under a star-ypointing pyramid ?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

Hast built thyself a live-long monument:

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulcher'd, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die."

JOHN MILTON.

58

STRATFORD:

A WALK THROUGH THE TOWN.

Or the many places in our own country from which the ordinary tourist's attention is withdrawn by scenes to which distance lends enchantment, and that very arbitrary deity, "Fashion," their main attraction, no region can, in ordinary times, prefer a stronger complaint of ingratitude than the picturesque town of Stratford-upon-Avon. True, during the last London Exhibition year some seven thousand names were enrolled in the visitors' book of the church containing Shakespeare's tomb, but many of these were Germans and Americans; and in the course of the past fortnight at least one hundred thousand persons came to Stratford. But, generally speaking, tourists have not taken that interest in the locality which it is to be hoped the late celebration may create.

Yet Stratford-upon-Avon is the true "British Mecca" -to which every thoughtful pilgrim, every man of poetic feeling, every traveller with the slightest tincture of philosophy or philanthropy, must ever delight to wend his way. Here he will find food for meditation-a town scarcely surpassed in the beauty of its situation on the lovely

"Winding Avon's willowed banks,"

and unapproachable in the universal interest of its associations. For here, it can never be forgotten, in Stratfordupon-Avon, William Shakespeare was born; here the man for whose fame " Kings might wish to die," and which has been for generations "as broad and general as the casing air," first saw the light; here he received such

education as he possessed; and from this picturesque spot his young muse, destined to ascend "invention's highest heaven," first began her upward flight. Here his wondrous mind expanded and received glowing impressions of external nature and that marvellous insight into the mysteries of humanity which enabled him to produce those creations "not for an age, but for all time." In this greatlyfavoured place occurred all the important events of his life; and in this spot, so far as a being "born for the universe" could be limited by locality, he may be said, in his own words, to have "garner'd up his heart with his life's dearest treasures." Here his honoured dust lies entombed, and his "sacred relics" are with all due reverence preserved; and, furthermore, in Stratford-upon-Avon has been gleaned all that is known of the personal history of the "genius of our isle."

Stratford-upon-Avon is a very ancient, very clean, very quiet, and, at the same time, very cosy market town, located nearly in the centre of England, about a hundred miles from London, and to general tourists be it known, not more than twenty or thirty off the direct route from the North to South. It is scarcely possible to proceed with its history without at once touching on Shakespeare, for all the public institutions are more or less mixed up with his name, and some notion may be thereby formed of their antiquity. As the stranger steps out of the train, he may discover that the "iron horse" which has brought him along is called "Will Shakspere." His attention will be next attracted to the portrait of Shakespeare, surrounded by certain mystic emblems, appropriately on "the counterfeit presentment" of the man who said, "One touch of nature makes the whole world kin," whether "Will” was "a brother" or not. This tablet informs those whom it concerns that Mr. Fred. Bolton, grandson of an alderman who officiated at Garrick's Stratford Jubilee in 1769, now keeps the "Shakespeare Hotel." On emerging from the station, half a minute's walk will bring our travelling companion to the Shakespearian Foundry (!) A few steps beyond that point is Garrick Court. Then a hundred