Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or how, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. When the Glen all is Still.-By H. S. RIDDell. When the glen all is still, save the stream from the fountain; When the shepherd has ceased o'er the heather to roam; And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, Thy locks shall be braided with pearls of the gloaming; Thy cheek shall be fanned by the breeze of the lawn; The angel of love shall be 'ware of thy coming, Can equal the joys of such meeting to me; Florence Nightingale."-By F. BENNOCH. With lofty song we love to cheer The hearts of daring men, Applauded thus, they gladly hear But now we sing of lowly deeds Devoted to the brave, When she, who stems the wound that bleeds, A hero's life may save : And heroes saved exulting tell How well her voice they knew ; How Sorrow near it could not dwell, But spread its wings and flew. Neglected, dying in despair, They lay till woman came To soothe them with her gentle care, She called their fluttering spirits back, When words of wrath profaning rung, They knew that they were cared for then; In dreamy sleep they lost their pain, Of early years when all was fair, They woke the angel bending there This lady, the daughter of William Shore Nightingale, Esq., of Embley Park, Hampshire, is justly celebrated for her exertions in tending the sick and wounded at Scutari during the Crimean war in 1854-55 In directing and presiding over the band of female nurses, the services of Miss Nightingale were invaluable, and gratefully acknowledged by her sovereign and the country. She still (1876) continues her career of disinterested usefulness. Wae's me for Prince Charlie.-By WILLIAM GLEN. Was, 'Wae's me for Prince Charlie!' I took my bannet aff my head, For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. Quoth I: 'My bird, my bonny, bonny bird, Is that a sang ye borrow? Are these some words ye 've learnt by heart, Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow?' 'Oh, no, no, no!' the wee bird sang; 'I've flown since mornin' early, But sic a day o' wind and rain Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie. 'On hills that are by right his ain, My heart maist bursted fairly, 'Dark night cam' on, the tempest roared But now the bird saw some red-coats, And he shook his wings wi' anger : 'Oh, this is no a land for me; I'll tarry here nae langer.' Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the fareweel strain Was, ' Wae's me for Prince Charlie.' The Wee Pair o' Shoon.—By JAMes Smith. Oh, lay them canny doon, Jamie, Oh, lay them saftly doon beside The lock o' silken hair; For the darlin' o' thy heart an' mine But oh! the silvery voice, Jamie, An' the wee bit hands sae aft held oot The eastlin' wind blaws cauld, Jamie, But sair's the sicht that blin's my ee- grave DRAMATISTS. Some of the dramatic productions of Mr Tom THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. Dramatic literature no longer occupies the prominent place it held in former periods of our hisTwo classic and two romantic dramas were protory. Various causes have been assigned for this duced by THOMAS NOON TALFOURD, an eloquent decline—as, the more fashionable attractions of English barrister and upright judge, whose sudden the opera, the great size of the theatres, the love death was deeply lamented by a most attached of spectacle or scenic display, which has usurped circle of literary and accomplished friends, as well the place of the legitimate drama, and the late as by the public at large. Mr Talfourd was born dinner-hours now prevalent among the higher and at Doxey, a suburb of Stafford, January 26, 1795. even the middle classes. The increased compe- His father was a brewer in Reading. Having tition in business has also made our 'nation of studied the law, Talfourd was called to the bar in shopkeepers' a busier and harder-working race 1821, and in 1833 got his silk gown. As Sergeant than their forefathers; and the diffusion of cheap Talfourd, he was conspicuous for his popular eloliterature may have further tended to thin the quence and liberal principles, and was returned to theatres, as furnishing intellectual entertainment parliament for the borough of Reading. In 1835, for the masses at home at a cheaper rate than he published his tragedy of Ion, which was next dramatic performances. The London managers appear to have had considerable influence in this year produced at Covent Garden Theatre with success. His next tragedy, The Athenian Captive, matter. They lavish enormous sums on scenic was also successful. His subsequent dramatic decoration and particular actors, and aim rather works were The Massacre of Glencoe, and The Casat filling their houses by some ephemeral and tilian, a tragedy. Besides these offerings to the dazzling display, than by the liberal encourage- dramatic muse, Talfourd published Vacation Ramment of native talent and genius. To improve, bles, 1851, comprising the recollections of three or rather re-establish the acted drama, a writer continental tours; a Life of Charles Lamb; and in the Edinburgh Review suggested that there an Essay on the Greek Drama. In 1849, he was should be a classification of theatres in the me- elevated to the bench; and in 1854 he died of tropolis, as in Paris, where each theatre has its apoplexy, while delivering his charge to the grand distinct species of the drama, and performs it well. jury at Stafford. Ion, the highest literary effort of 'We believe,' he says, 'that the evil is mainly its author, seems an embodiment of the simplicity occasioned by the vain endeavour of managers and grandeur of the Greek drama, and its plot to succeed by commixing every species of enter- is founded on the old Grecian notion of destiny, tainment-huddling together tragedy, comedy, apart from all moral agencies. The oracle of farce, melodrama, and spectacle-and striving by Delphi had announced that the vengeance which alternate exhibitions, to draw all the dramatic the misrule of the race of Argos had brought on public to their respective houses. Imperfect- the people, in the form of a pestilence, could very imperfect companies for each species are en-only be disarmed by the extirpation of the guilty gaged; and as, in consequence of the general imperfection, they are forced to rely on individual excellence, individual performers become of inordinate importance, and the most exorbitant salaries are given to procure them. These individuals are thus placed in a false position, and indulge themselves in all sorts of mannerisms and absurdities. The public is not unreasonably dissatisfied with imperfect companies and bad performances; the managers wonder at their ruin ; and critics become elegiacal over the mournful decline of the drama! Not in this way can a theatre flourish; since, if one species of performance proves attractive, the others are at a discount, and their companies become useless burdens; if none of them proves attractive, then the loss ends in ruin.' Too many instances of this have occurred within the last thirty years. Whenever a play of real excellence has been brought forward, the public has shewn no insensibility to its merits; but so many circumstances are requisite to its successful representation-so expensive are the companies, and so capricious the favourite actors-that men of talent are averse to hazard a competition. The tragedies of Miss Mitford and Lord Lytton were highly successful in representation, but the fame of their authors must ever rest on those prose fictions by which they are chiefly known. The Lady of Lyons is, however, one of our most popular acting plays; it is picturesque and romantic, with passages of fine poetry and genuine feeling. race; and Ion, the hero of the play, at length offers Ion, our sometime darling, whom we prized Agenor. Pardon me Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request; Grant me thy help till this distracted state Rise tranquil from her griefs-'twill not be long, If the great gods smile on us now. Remember, Meanwhile, thou hast all power my word can give, Whether I live or die. Agenor. Die! Ere that hour, May even the old man's epitaph be moss-grown! Crythes. I kneel to crave Humbly the favour which thy sire bestowed Ion. I cannot mark thee, That wak'st the memory of my father's weakness, Crythes. Dost intend To banish the firm troops before whose valour Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave Our city naked to the first assault Of reckless foes? Ion. No, Crythes; in ourselves, In our own honest hearts and chainless hands Hard 'midst the gladness of heroic sports, I would not grieve thee; but thy valiant troop- Crythes. My lord Ion. No more-my word hath passed.- To those thou hast grown old in; thou wilt guard Medon. Think of thee, my lord? Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign. Ion. Prithee, no more.-Argives! I have a boon Like a blest family, by simple laws May tenderly be governed-all degrees, Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest chords Medon. Wherefore ask this now? Thou shalt live long; the paleness of thy face, Ion. The gods approve me then! Medon and others. We swear it! Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers! Now give me leave a moment to approach That altar unattended. [He goes to the altar. Gracious gods! In whose mild service my glad youth was spent, As at this solemn time I feel there is, Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes The spirit of the beautiful that lives In earth and heaven; to ye I offer up This conscious being, full of life and love, CLEMANTHE rushes forward. Clemanthe, Hold! [Stabs himself. Let me support him-stand away-indeed I have best right, although ye know it not, To cleave to him in death. Ion. This is a joy I did not hope for-this is sweet indeed. Clem. And for this it was Thou wouldst have weaned me from thee! I would be so divorced? Ion. Thou art right, Clemanthe It was a shallow and an idle thought; Clem. I will treasure all. Although long engaged in public business-in the Colonial Office-MR (now SIR) HENRY TAYLOR is distinguished both as a poet and prose essayist. He is a native of the county of Durham, born in 1800, only son of George Taylor, of Wilton Hall. In 1827 appeared his play of Isaac Comnenus,' which met with few readers,' says Southey, ' and was hardly heard of.' In 1834 was published Philip van Artevelde, a play in two parts, characterised by its author as an 'historical romance cast in a dramatic and rhythmical form.' The subject was suggested by Southey, and is the history of the two Van Arteveldes, father and son, 'citizens of revolted Ghent, each of whom swayed for a season almost the whole power of Flanders against their legitimate prince, and each of whom paid the penalty of ambition by an untimely and violent death.' There is no game so desperate which wise men As the portrait of a revolutionary champion, Philip is powerfully delineated by the dramatist, and there are also striking and effective scenes in the play. The style and diction resemble those of Joanna Baillie's dramas-pure, elevated, and well sustained, but wanting the brief electric touches and rapid movement necessary to insure complete success in this difficult department of literature. Two years after the historical romance had established Henry Taylor's reputation as a poet, he produced a prose treatise, The Statesman, a small volume treating of 'such topics as experience rather than inventive meditation suggested to him.' The counsels and remarks of the author are distinguished by their practical worldly character; he appears as a sort of political Chesterfield, and the work was said by Maginn to be 'the art of official humbug systematically digested and familiarly explained.' It abounds, however, in acute and sensible observations, shewing that the poet was no mere visionary or romantic dreamer. The other works of Sir Henry are-Edwin the Fair, an historical drama, 1842; The Eve of the Conquest, and other Poems, 1847; Notes from Life, 1847; Notes from Books, 1849; The Virgin Widow, a play, 1850; St Clement's Eve, a play, 1862; A Sicilian Summer, and Minor Poems, 1868. The poetical works of Sir Henry Taylor enjoy a steady popularity with the more intellectual class of readers. Philip van Artevelde has gone through eight editions, Isaac Comnenus and Edwin through five, and the others have all been reprinted. The Death of Launoy, one of the Captains of Ghent. From Philip van Artevelde, Part I. Second Dean. Beside Nivelle the Earl and Launoy met. Six thousand voices shouted with the last : But from that force thrice-told there came the cry The earl waxed wrothful, and bade fire the church. Second Dean. 'Twas done-and presently was heard a yell, And after that the rushing of the flames! First Burgher. A brave end. 'Tis certain we must now make peace by times; The city will be starved else.-Will be, said I? Starvation is upon us. Van Artevelde. I never looked that he should live so long. He was a man of that unsleeping spirit, In Crabb Robinson's Diary, vol. iii., is the following notice Office: Taylor is known as literary executor of Southey, and of Henry Taylor, then under Sir James Stephen in the Colonial author of several esteemed dramas, especially Philip van Artevelde. He married Lord Monteagle's daughter. He is now one of my most respected acquaintance. His manners are shy, and he is more a man of letters than of the world. He published a book called The Statesman, which some thought presumptuous Taylor was the only one of a generation younger than his own in a junior clerk in a government office.' Southey said Henry whom he had taken into his heart of hearts. FROM 1830 CYCLOPÆDIA OF And peril to his body. He was one Who, gifted with predominating powers, Father John. Had Launoy lived, he might have But not by conquests in the Franc of Bruges. Van Artevelde. They will be dim, and then be All is in busy, stirring, stormy motion; And many a cloud drifts by, and none sojourns. And lightly is death mourned: a dusk star blinks As fleets the rack, but look again, and lo! Twinkles the re-illuminated star, And all is out of sight that smirched the ray. Father John. The worse for us! He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. The Lay of Elena?-From the same. A little sail is loosed to take The night-wind's breath, and waft The castle lights are lost. . . . It was not for the forms-though fair, Though grand they were beyond compareIt was not only for the forms Of hills in sunshine or in storms, Or only unrestrained to look On wood and lake, that she forsook Her home, and far Of sun or star. It was to feel her fancy free, Free in a world without an end, With ears to hear, and eyes to see, And heart to apprehend. It was to leave the earth behind, Be it avowed, when all is said, ... She trod the path the many tread. Too young she loved, and he on whom Yet gay and sportive as a child, At times o'ertook him in his course, Their due deserts, betrayed a heart Which might have else performed a prouder part. First love the world is wont to call In soil which needed not the plough; And passion with her growth had grown, A tenderness had filled her mind We add a few sentences of Sir Henry's prose writings : On the Ethics of Politics.-From The Statesman.' The moral principle of private life which forbids one man to despoil another of his property, is outraged in the last degree when one man holds another in slavery. Carry it therefore in all its absoluteness into political life, and you require a statesman to do what he can, under any circumstances whatever, to procure immediate freedom for any parties who may be holden in slavery Yet, take in the dominion of the state which he serves. the case of negro slaves in the British dominions in the condition of barbarism in which they were thirty years |