cutioner kneeled down and asked him forgiveness, which Raleigh, laying his hand upon his shoulder, granted. Then being asked, which way he would lay himself on the block, he answered, So the heart be right, it is no matter which way the head lies.' As he stooped to lay himself along, and reclined his head, his face being towards the east, the executioner spread his own cloak under him. After a little pause, he gave the sign, that he was ready for the stroke, by lifting up his hand, and his head was struck off at two blows, his body never shrinking nor moving.

FRENCH-ENGLISH.

"It is curious," remarks Southey, "to observe how the English Catholics of the 17th century wrote English like men who habitually spoke French. Corps is sometimes used for the living body, and when they attempt to versify, their rhymes are only rhymes according to a French pronunciation.

This path most fair I walking winde

By shadow of my pilgrimage,

Wherein at every step I find

An heavenly draught and image

Of my fraile mortality,

Tending to eternity.

*

The tree that bringeth nothing else
But leaves and breathing verdure

Is fit for fire, and not for fruit,

And doth great wrong to Nature,

* * *

But the finest specimen of French-English verse is certainly the inscription which M. Girardin placed at Ermenonville to the memory of Shenstone.

VOL. I.

E

This plain stone,

To William Shenstone.

In his writings he display'd

A mind natural.

At Leasowes he laid

Arcadian Greens rural.

Shenstone used to thank God that his name was not liable to a pun. He little thought that it was liable to such a rhyme as this.

SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTH-DAY.

THE birth-days of such men as Shakspeare ought to be kept, in common gratitude and affection, like those of relations whom we love. He has said, in a line full of him, that

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." How near does he become to us with his thousand touches! The lustre and utility of intellectual power is so increasing in the eyes of the world, that we do not despair of seeing the time when his birth-day will be a subject of public rejoicing; when the regular feast will be served up in tavern and dwelling-house, the bust be crowned with laurel, and the theatres sparkle with illumination.

In the mean time, it is in the power of every admirer of Shakspeare to honour the day privately. Rich or poor, busy or at leisure, all may do it. The busiest finds time to eat his dinner, and may pitch one considerate glass of wine down his throat. The poorest may call him to mind, and drink his memory in honest water. We had mechanically written health, as if he were alive. So he is in spirit ;-and the spirit of such a writer is so constantly with us, that it would be a good thing, a judicious extravagance, a contemplative piece of jollity, to drink his health instead of his memory. But this, we fear, should be an impulse. We must content ourselves with having felt it here, and drinking it in imagination. To act upon it, as a proposal of the day before yesterday, might be too much like getting up an extempore gesture, or practising an unspeakable satisfaction.

The following outline may be drawn of the manner, in which such a birth-day might be spent. The tone and colouring would be filled up, of course, according to the taste of the parties. If any of our readers then have leisure as well as inclination to devote a day to the memory of Shakspeare, we would advise them, in

the first place, to walk out, whether alone or in company, and enjoy, during the morning, as much as possible of those beauties of nature, of which he has left us such exquisite pictures. They would take a volume of him in their hands, the most suitable to the occasion; not to hold themselves bound to sit down and read it, if the original work of nature should occupy them too much, but to read it, if they read any thing; and to feel that Shakspeare was with them substantially as well as spiritually;that they had him with them under their arm. There is another thought connected with his presence, which may render the Londoner's walk the more interesting. Shakspeare had neither the vanity, which induces a man to be disgusted with what every body can enjoy; nor, on the other hand, the involuntary self-degradation, which renders us incapable of enjoying what is abased by our own familiarity of acquaintanceship. About the metropolis, therefore, there is perhaps not a single rural spot, any more than about Stratford-upon-Avon, which he has not himself enjoyed. The south side of London was the one nearest his theatre. Hyde Park was then, as it is now, one of the fashion