jockey, jury, fashion, etc., that the English had themselves made out of bougette, tonnel (tonneau), jacquet, juré, façon, etc.

The English language of the present day borrows entire phrases from our own: à outrance, par excellence, hors de combat, and hundreds of others.

French fashions have quite taken root over here, and have brought a vocabulary of their own with them. Besides, Englishwomen, who are much more easily shocked by the name of a thing than by the thing itself, have been very happy in avoiding the English names of certain more or less unmentionable parts of their dress. The words chemise, corset, corsage, veste, tournure, etc., are all English words now. Indispensable pieces of bedroom furniture are all called by their French names. These foreign words just suit the euphemistic character of the English language, which always expresses less than it leaves to be guessed; which employs undecided words, and always beats about the bush.

A French schoolboy who has not prepared his lessons, will say to his master: "I have not done my lessons, sir." To appease the master's wrath, he may shed one or two crocodile's tears; the young English schoolboy will employ circumlocution. "Please, sir, I am afraid I have not learnt my lesson," or, "I don't think I have learnt my lesson; " he is seldom very sure. If he is quite certain, and has a valid excuse, he has more assurance. "Please, sir," said a little fellow to a professor of my acquaintance one day, "I have not prepared my translation; Grandmamma died last night." "Well, I suppose you must be excused this time, but tell your grandmother not to let it happen again," replied the master. Another time an exercise full of barbarisms and solecisms was presented. "The work you have brought me this morning is shameful," said my friend. "It isn't my fault, sir; papa always will help me," pleaded the pupil.

One of the most eminent professors of French in England told me one day that there is a certain class of students incapable of learning our language. They are the sneaks, the tartufes, the children of puritan people, who at home never speak above a whisper. Our language, so frank and outspoken in tone as well as expression, sticks in their throats, and will not pass those teeth that are never unclosed, or those lips that open with difficulty: undecided, vague, sticky phrases suit them best phrases such as only the English language admits.

"When I am going to examine a class,” he said to me, "I run my eyes along over the pupils' faces and discover at a glance those that will give me good answers- those who will reply in French if I ask them; they have good open faces that do not shun your gaze. Those that look askance, squinting and looking ill at ease, you will get no French out of, take it for granted."

The English language is composed of about 43,000 words, of which 29,000 are of Latin origin and 14,000 of Teutonic extraction. The greater part of the Latin ones passed into the English language through the Norman dialect. This being so, the French language ought to be easier for the English than for the Germans; yet the latter speak it much better than they.

An impetus should be given to the improvement of the teaching of French in England. The two most free and intelligent nations in the world, already united by so many links of race and language, ought to understand and study each other better. It may fairly be hoped that these two nations, who already respect each other, will, at no distant future, change that respect into a love to be shaken by no calumny, by no earthly power.

ROBIN HOOD.

BY JOHN KEATS.

[JOHN KEATS: An English poet, sometimes called "The Poets' Poet"; born at Moorsfield, London, October 31, 1795; died at Rome, Italy, February 23, 1821. His first poem, "Endymion," was issued when he was twenty-three. It has beautiful passages, but is incoherent. Its great promise was more than fulfilled in his second volume, published in 1820, and containing many noble sonnets, the immortal "Ode on a Grecian Urn," "The Eve of St. Agnes," etc. The "Love Letters to Fanny Brawne " appeared in 1878; his "Letters to his Family and Friends," in 1891.]

No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the downtrodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast

Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill

Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,

She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fallen beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is: yet let us sing, Honor to the old bowstring!