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SHAKSPEARE'S WILL.

[By J. N. Brewer.]

I LATELY inspected the genuine will of Shakspeare, which is preserved in Doctors' Commons. A fervent admirer of the bard must needs behold the last stroke of his inspired pen with a feeling of respect approaching to awe! His named is signed in three places; and it was with reverential grief that I observed his weakness and extremity of distress to have evidently increased in the short time required for these three signatures. His hand trembled at the first; when he came to the second, the pauses occasioned by lassitude or anguish would appear to be perceptible, from the tremulous breaks in the writing. When his name was to be signed for the last time; when the pen, gifted with powers to instruct and delight all succeeding ages, was to make its last, lingering mark; the spirit of Shakspeare, and all his incalculable energies, appear to have been subdued! The name is almost indistinct, and the eye which guided the hand in its melancholy office seems to have been filmed.

The orthography used by Shakspeare in this instance, of course, prescribes the mode in which his name is to be spelt; yet many fearned commentators have erroneously used the e final in regard to the first syllable of the word. The way in which his name was pronounced during his life may be learned from an inspection of his will. The notary (who had been called hastily to the performance of his duty) had no opportunity of correction, and he spelt the name of his immortal client from the recollection of accustomed orthorpy alone, Shackspeare.

I presume that I am correct in asserting the signature of the will to be the only specimen extant of Shakspeare's handwriting.

SIR,

CURIOUS ADVERTISEMENT OF POPE.

[From the Universal Magazine.]

LOOKING over some loose numbers of the Daily Post, I found the following singular advertisement, and copied it off for the perusal and amusement of your readers.

66

Daily Post, June 14, 1728.

"Whereas there has been a scandalous paper cried about the streets, under the title of a Popp upon Pope,' insinuating that I

was whipped in Ham Walks on Thursday last; this is to give notice that I did not stir out of my house at Twickenham, and that the same is a malicious and ill grounded report.

"ALEXANDER POPE."

Who the person was that was insinuated to have whipped the poet, I have never heard; but the fact of such an advertisement appearing is another proof, if another were wanting, of the morbid irritability of his character. Would any other man have thought it necessary to repel a charge of being whipped. The only excuse is, that his diminutive and feeble person rendered such a transaction not impossible.

Sir, your obedient servant,

X.

ARMED SKELETON.

SOME workmen, while digging lately in an old castle in the Canton of Argovia, (Switzerland,) came to a vault in which was deposited a coffin, containing the skeleton of a knight in full armourin one hand he held a dagger, and in the other a sword. At his feet was placed a cross and a Turkish sabre. From the inscription, it appears that he had commanded in the crusade led by Peter the Hermit.

POETRY.

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TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER

By Lord Byron.

SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain:
I would not say "I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will;
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt.
In vain I check the rising sighs,

Another to the last replies;

Perhaps this is not love, but yet

Our meeting I can ne'er forget:

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes in sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering language deals
And tells a tale it never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,

And hush the mandates of the heart;
But souls' interpreters, the eyes,

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise;
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit from within reproved us,
Say rather 'twas the spirit moved us.
Though what they uttered I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
Thus for myself at least I'll say,

Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;

The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,

Which makes me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or wo my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.
Alas, again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictates of my bosom's care:

"May Heaven so guard my lovely Quaker

That anguish ne'er may overtake her,

But blessed be aye her heart's partaker."

Oh, may the happy mortal fated

To be by dearest ties related,

For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!

May that fair bosom never know,
What 'tis to feel the restless wo,
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget.

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ADDRESS TO THE SPIRIT OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.

By J. Connor.

BLEST spirit of my sainted friend,
Which, in this vale of misery,
So oft with mine was wont to blend,
With all an angel's sympathy;
Bending from Heaven's exalted sphere,
Ah deign again my voice to hear.

When gloomy Sorrow gives her tear,
Deep o'er my darkened eye to roll,
O then, as thou didst oft, appear

To tranquillize my troubled soul;
For soon as I perceive thee nigh
I know the shades of grief will fly

When, as calm evening o'er the bowers,
From golden clouds her dews doth shed,

I cull the loveliest, sweetest flowers,

And, weeping, wreathe them round thy bed;
O then, light hovering o'er the soil,
With smiles of love reward my toil.

And, when my voice and lyre combine
To swell the vesper hymn of praise,
O let me hear thy harp divine,

That sounds on high to Zion's lays;
And through the silent air, my song
In strains of sweeter tone prolong.

When on thy monumental stone

I lean, and mourn in accents low,
Whilst o'er the church-yard still and lone,
The watchful stars of midnight glow;
O then on Pity's wing descend,
To whisper comfort to thy friend.

And let me hear thee softly say,

"Repress those tears, and hush that sight,

"Soon will arrive the happy day,

"When here by mine thy dust will lie;

"Then in the beams of endless light,

"Our blissful spirits will unite."

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