With quiet sadness and no gloom
I learn to think upon him;
With meekness that is gratefulness,

To God, whose heaven hath won him.
Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud
To His own love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along,

Where breath and bird could find him;

And wrought within his shatter'd brain
Such quick poetic senses,

As hills have language for, and stars
Harmonious influences!

The pulse of dew upon the grass
Kept his within its number;
And silent shadows from the trees
Refresh'd him like a slumber.

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES, 1784-1862.

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES deserves a primary place here, as the most successful tragic dramatist of this century. He was born in Cork in 1784, where his father was an English master and a teacher of elocution. About 1792 the family removed to London, where young Knowles received his education, and in a very few years his passion for the drama displayed itself. He became an actor, and made his first appearance in Dublin; but he never attained to much eminence in this profession. Subsequently he lived several years in Belfast and Glasgow, as a teacher of elocution, and laid the foundation of his fame as a dramatic writer. His first tragedy, Caius Gracchus, was performed at Belfast in 1815. This was followed by Virginius, which established his reputation as the first of living dramatists. He afterwards brought out William Tell; The Beggar of Bethnal Green; The Hunchback; The Wife, a Tale of Mantua; Alfred the Great; Love-Chase; Woman's Wit; Love, &c. He also published The Elocutionist, a collection of pieces in prose and verse, which passed through seven editions.

About 1836 he came over to our country, and was very cordially received. A few years after his return, about 1845, his religious views undergoing a decided change, he relinquished all writing for the stage, and in 1849, his health beginning to fail, he received from Government a pension of £200 for “his labors in the cause of Literature and Virtue." In 1852 he united himself with the Baptist Church, and preached occasionally as opportunities offered. About this time he published two works on religious subjects: The Rock of Rome, and The Idol Demolished by its own Priest,-the latter being an answer to Cardinal Wiseman's Lectures on Transubstantiation. He died at Torquay, in December, 1862, in triumphant Christian faith. Among his last words were, "How infinite the goodness of God to me, a miserable sinner! I have offered only the dregs of my life to God."1

It is evident from reading the dramas of Knowles that he was an earnest student of the great dramatists of the Elizabethan era, and especially of Massinger, upon whose style he seems to have formed his own; and if he be not equal to his original in genius, he certainly has the honor of having produced better acting plays, and such as are destined to be far more popular.

WILLIAM TELL AND HIS SON.

[William Tell, the great champion of liberty in Switzerland, has been taken prisoner by the tyrant Gesler, who promises him his life on the condition that he hits with his arrow an apple placed on the head of his son, at the distance of a hundred paces. Characters, GESLER, TELL, ALBERT, VERNER.]

Ges. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence A hundred paces. Take the distance.

1 Read an excellent Sermon on his Life and Character, by Rev. Alfred C. Thomas, Minister of Cross Street Chapel (Baptist), Islington, London. I may add that Mr. Thomas was a noble friend of our country in her great struggle with the slaveholders' rebellion, and

on December 21, 1862, preached an admirable Sermon, entitled Prayerful Sympathy Invoked for America, showing not only a heart right and sound for "Union and Liberty," but also a thorough understanding of the principles involved in our contest.

Tell. Is

The line a true one?

Ges. Be thankful, slave,

Our grace accords thee life on any terms.

Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler! Villain, stop! You measure to the sun. [To the attendant.]

Ges. And what of that?

What matter, whether to or from the sun?

Tell. I'd have it at my back. The sun should shine Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.

I cannot see to shoot against the sun:

I will not shoot against the sun!

Ges. Give him his way. Thou hast cause to bless my mercy. Tell. I shall remember it. I'd like to see

The apple I'm about to shoot at.

Thy skill will be the greater, if thou hit'st it.

Tell. True, true,-I didn't think of that;-I wonder

I did not think of that. Give me some chance

To save my boy,-[Throws away the apple) I will not murder him, If I can help it,-for the honor of

The form thou wear'st, if all the heart is gone.

Ges. Well, choose thyself.

[Hands a basket of apples. Tell takes one.]

Tell. Have I a friend among

The lookers on?

Verner. Here, Tell!

Tell. I thank thee, Verner! Take the boy

And set him, Verner, with his back to me.

Set him upon his knees;-and place this apple
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me,—
Thus, Verner: charge him to keep steady,-tell him
I'll hit the apple! Verner, do all this

More briefly than I tell it thee.

Alb. May I not speak with him before I go?
Tell. My boy! [Holding out his arms to him.]
Alb. My father! [Running into Tell's arms.]

Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I?-Go now,

My son, and keep in mind that I can shoot.

Go, boy,-be thou but steady, I will hit

The apple. Go:-God bless thee!-Go.

My bow! [Sarnem gives the bow.]

Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou? Thou
Hast never fail'd him yet, old servant. No,

I'm sure of thee,-I know thy honesty;

Thou'rt stanch, stanch :-I'd deserve to find thee treacherous,

Could I suspect thee so. Come, I will stake

My all upon thee! Let me see my quiver. [Retires.]
Ges. Give him a single arrow. [To an attendant.]

Tell. Is't so you pick an arrow, friend?
The point, you see, is bent, the feather jagged;
That's all the use 'tis for. [Breaks it.]

Ges. Let him have
Another. [Tell examines it.]

Tell. Why, 'tis better than the first,
But yet not good enough for such an aim
As I'm to take. 'Tis heavy in the shaft:

I'll not shoot with it! [Throws it away.] Let me see my quiver.
Bring it! 'tis not one arrow in a dozen

I'd take to shoot with at a dove, much less

I'm but

A dove like that! What is't you fear?
A naked man, a wretched naked man!
Your helpless thrall, alone in the midst of you,
With every one of you a weapon in

His hand. What can I do in such a strait
With all the arrows in that quiver? Come,
Will you give it me or not?

Ges. It matters not.

Show him the quiver.

[Tell kneels and picks out an arrow, then secretes one in his vest.] Tell. I'm ready! Keep silence, for [To the people]

Heaven's sake! and do not stir, and let me have

Your prayers,your prayers:-and be my witnesses,
That, if his life's in peril from my hand,

'Tis only for the chance of saving it.

Now friends, for mercy's sake, keep motionless

And silent!

[Tell shoots; and a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd.] Ver. [Rushing in with Albert.] Thy boy is safe! no hair of him is touch'd!

Alb. Father, I'm safe!-your Albert's safe! Dear father,

Speak to me! speak to me!

Ver. He cannot, boy!

Open his vest, and give him air.

[Albert opens his father's vest, and an arrow drops; Tell starts, fixes his eyes on

Albert, and clasps him to his breast.]

Tell. My boy! my boy!

Ges. For what

Hid you that arrow in your breast? Speak, slave!
Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!

Liberty

Would, at thy downfall, shout from every peak!
My country then were free!

EMBLEMS OF LIBERTY IN NATURE.

Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!
I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
To show they still are free. Methinks I hear
A spirit in your echoes answer me,
And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again!-O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!
How huge you are, how mighty, and how free!
Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile

Makes glad-whose frown is terrible; whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear
Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,
I'm with you once again!-I call to you
With all my voice!-I hold my hands to you,
To show they still are free. I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!

Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow,
O'er the abyss. His broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoy'd him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight

Of measuring the ample range beneath

And round about; absorb'd, he heeded not

The death that threaten'd him. I could not shoot'Twas Liberty! I turn'd my bow aside,

And let him soar away!

Heavens! with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And think the land was free. Yes, it was free-
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free-
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks
And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun.

How happy was I then! I loved

Its very storms. Yes, I have often sat

In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake-
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.
--On the wild jutting clift, o'ertaken oft
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along;
And while gust follow'd gust more furiously,

As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,

Then I have thought of other lands, whose storms

Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

Have wish'd me there; the thought that mine was free

Has check'd that wish; and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,
Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

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