1 A critic in the Pall Mall Gazette says this play "has claims to be accounted the most popular of modern tragedies. It established the reputation both of its author and of Mr. Macready-the actor who first sustained in London the part of its hero. It obtained a long career of success and a measure of fame sufficient to withstand many years' wear and tear. 'Virginius' is indeed half a century old. It was originally written for Edmund Kean, whom Knowles had first met at Waterford about 1813, when both were strolling-players. But in 1820, when the dramatist tendered his tragedy to the Drury Lane management, it was discovered that a play dealing with the same subject and written by Mr. Soane had already been accepted. So Knowles' 'Virginius' was produced at Covent Garden on the 17th of May, 1820. Soane's 'Virginius, or the Fall of the Decemviri,' was played at Drury Lane a few days later; but notwithstanding Kean's exertions in the leading character, the tragedy wholly failed to please, and was withdrawn after three representations. 'Virginius' (Knowles') continued to be one of Mr. Macready's most attractive impersonations to the time of his final retirement from the stage in 1851." The story of the play is one of Livy's, and several dramatic versions of it have been given on the English and French stage.

Do I not look at you?
Vir.
Your eye does, truly,
But not your soul.-I see it through your eye
Shifting and shrinking-turning every way
To shun me. You surprise me, that your eye,
So long the bully of its master, knows not
To put a proper face upon a lie,

But gives the port of impudence to falsehood,
When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul
Dares as soon show its face to me.-Go or-
May not please Appius Claudius.
I had forgot; the fashion of my speech

App. Keep back the people, Lictors! What's Your plea? You say the girl's your slave - Produce Your proofs.

Clavd. My proof is here, which, if they can, Let them confront. The mother of the girl

[VIRGINIUS, stepping forward, is withheld by NUMITORIUS. Num. Hold, brother! Hear them out, or suffer me To speak.

Vir. Man, I must speak or else go mad! And if I do go mad, what then will hold me From speaking? She was thy sister, too! Well, well, speak thou.—I'll try, and if I can Be silent. (retires.)

Num. Will she swear she is her child!

Vir. (Starting forward.) To be sure she will-a most wise question that!

Is she not his slave! Will his tongue lie for him-
Or his hand steal-or the finger of his hand
Beckon, or point, or shut, or open for him?
To ask him if she'll swear-Will she walk or run,
Sing, dance, or wag her head; do anything
That is most easy done? She'll as soon swear!
What mockery it is to have one's life

In jeopardy by such a bare-faced trick!
Is it to be endured? I do protest

Against her oath!
App.
No law in Rome, Virginius,
Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her child,
The evidence is good, unless confronted
By better evidence. Look you to that,
Virginius. I shall take the woman's oath.
Virginia. Icilius!

You swear the girl's your child,
And that you sold her to Virginius' wife,
Who pass'd her for her own. Is that your oath?
Slave. It is my oath.

App. Your answer now, Virginius.
Vir.

Here it is!

Is this the daughter of a slave? I know
'Tis not with men, as shrubs and trees, that by
The shoot you know the rank and order of

The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look
For such a shoot. My witnesses are these-
The relatives and friends of Numitoria,
Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain
The burden which a mother bears, nor feels
The weight, with longing for the sight of it.
Here are the ears that listened to her sighs
In nature's hour of labour, which subsides
In the embrace of joy-the hands, that when
The day first look'd upon the infant's face,
And never look'd so pleased, help'd them up to it,
And bless'd her for a blessing-Here, the eyes

That saw her lying at the generous

And sympathetic fount, that at her cry
Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl

To cherish her enamell'd veins. The lie

Is most unfruitful then, that takes the flowerThe very flower our bed connubial grew

To prove its barrenness! Speak for me, friends; Have I not spoke the truth?

Already have begun-Friends! Fellow Citizens!
Look not on Claudius-Look on your Decemvir!
He is the master claims Virginia!

The tongues that told him she was not my child
Are these-the costly charms he cannot purchase,
Except by making her the slave of Claudius,
His client, his purveyor, that caters for
His pleasures-markets for him-picks, and scents.
And tastes, that he may banquet-serves him up
His sensual feast, and is not now ashamed,
In the open, common street, before your eyes-
Frighting your daughters' and your matron's cheeks
With blushes they ne'er thought to meet-to help him
To the honour of a Roman maid! my child!
Who now clings to me, as you see, as if,
This second Tarquin had already coil'd

His arms around her. Look upon her, Romans!
Befriend her! succour her! see her not polluted
Before her father's eyes!-He is but one.
Tear her from Appius and his Lictors, while
She is unstain'd-Your hands! your hands! your hands!
Citizens. They are yours, Virginius.

App.
Keep the people back-
Support my Lictors, soldiers! Seize the girl,
And drive the people back.

No, my Virginia-come along with me.
Virginia. Will you not leave me? Will you take me
with you?

Will you take me home again? O bless you, bless you!
My father! my dear father! Art thou not
My father!

[VIRGINIUS, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously around the Forum; at length his eye falls on a butcher's stall, with a knife upon it.

Vir. This way, my child-No, no! I am not going To leave thee, my Virginia! I'll not leave thee.

App. Keep back the people, soldiers! Let them not Approach Virginius! Keep the people back!

There is one only way to save thine honour'Tis this!

[Stabs her, and draws out the knife. ICILIUS breals from the soldiers that held him, and catches her. Lo! Appius! with this innocent blood

I do devote thee to th' infernal gods!
Make way there!

App. Stop him! Seize him!
Vir.

If they dare

To tempt the desperate weapon that is madden'd
With drinking my daughter's blood, why let them: Thus,
It rushes in amongst them. Way there! Way!

[Exit through the soldiers.

THE SCHOOL BANK.

Upon this bank we met, my friend and I-
A lapse of years had intervening pass'd
Since I had heard his voice or seen him last:
The starting tear-drop trembled in his eye.
Silent we thought upon the school-boy days
Of mirth and happiness for ever flown;
When rushing out the careless crowd did raise
Their thoughtless voices-now, we were alone,
Alone, amid the landscape-'twas the same:
Where were our loved companions? some, alas!
Silent reposed among the church-yard grass,
And some were known, and most unknown, to Fame;
And some were wanderers on the homeless deep;
And where they all were happy- -we did weep!

A LAMENT.

I stand where I last stood with thee! Sorrow, O sorrow!

D. M. MOIR.

There is not a leaf on the trysting-tree; There is not a joy on the earth to me;

Sorrow, O sorrow!

When shalt thou be once again what thou wert? Oh, the sweet yesterdays fled from the heart!

Have they a morrow?

Here we stood, ere we parted, so close side by side; Two lives that once part are as ships that divide, When, moment on moment, there rushes between The one and the other, a sea.

Ah, never can fall from the days that have been A gleam on the years that shall be!

[ICILIUS is borne off.

LORD LYTTON.

THOUGHTS ON SMALL-TALK.

The science of small-talking is as valuable as it is difficult to be acquired. I never had the least aptitude for it myself, yet Heaven knows the labour I have bestowed in order to master it. It is not that I have nothing to say; but when I am in company a sort of spell seems to hang over me, and I feel like some fat sleeper who has a vision of thieves, and dreams that he cannot call out for assistance. It is in vain that I observe others, and endeavour to imitate them; a shallow-headed chatterer will make himself agreeable in society, while I sit by in silence. I have taken very considerable pains in my time to observe the various kinds of small-talk, with a view of turning my knowledge to some account; but, though the scheme has totally failed in my own person, a few remarks upon the subject may not be useless to others.

I hold it to be an incontrovertible truth, that every subject is to be best treated of dis tributive, under proper divisions and subdivisions. In pursuance of this plan, I shall distribute all small-talk into two species, I. General small-talk; II. Special, or professional small-talk. The former class includes the small-talk which we hear in mixed society, where men and women, young and old, wise and foolish, are all mingled together. In the latter division I would include the small-talk of persons of the same profession or mode of life, as between two apothecaries, two dissenters, two lawyers, two beggars, two reviewers, two butchers, two statesmen, two thieves, &c. &c. &c.; in short, all conversations which are tinctured with the art, craft, mystery, occupation, or habits of the interlocutors.

And, first, of general small-talk. However simple the art of general small-talking may seem, and however plain and intelligible the topics may be upon which it is employed; yet, in fact, it is more difficult than the special kind. The materials out of which it is formed are few in number, and easily accessible. The following is a pretty complete assortment. The weather-the health of your friends-the funds any accidents which have happened to any of your acquaintances, such as deaths or marriages the king-Bonaparte-Lord Byron-the cheapness of meat-any wateringplace the corn-bill-the author of Waverleyand the theatre. These are the coin that will pass current in any society. Thus, in a morning call, if two strangers happen to be left

together, how agreeably they may pass the time in enlarging upon the above topics. very hot day, sir!"-"Yes, indeed, sir; my thermometer stood 80 in the shade. Pray. sir, are you related to the Rev. Jeremiah Jollison? I hope he is well."-"I am his brother, sir: he died two years ago.”—“God bless me! but it's more than two years since I saw him. Pray, sir, what do you think of Spanish bonds?" &c. &c. Such is the conversation you generally hear after dinner (before dinner there is none), in stage-coaches, at hotels, and at watering places. It is most suitable for adults. The grand difficulty in this kind of small-talk is to discover any subject; for as I imagine it to be a metaphysical truth that the mind cannot, ex mero motu suo, call up any subject it pleases, the dialogue must necessarily depend on the power of association in the brain of the individuals who maintain it. It requires great presence of mind to call up a sufficient number of topics to meet a sudden emergency. Thus, when you meet a friend in the street, who, in spite of your attempts to pass him with a nod, will stop and speak to you, how awkward is it to have nothing to say! This happens to me continually. When you have shaken hands, and the one has said, "A fine day," and the other, "Yes, very," you stand for a few moments gazing with a vacant sort of look upon one another, shake hands again, and part. The same accident sometimes happens in morning calls. After having exhausted all the commonplaces of civility, you feel yourself suddenly run on shore. It is in vain you attempt to think of some subject of discourse; the longer you search, the further you are from it; except the conviction that you can find nothing to talk about, your mind is à tabula rasa. Your guest at last rises, and puts you out of your agony.

There are some people, however, who have a genius for small-talk. Their stock seems boundless. It is no matter where, or with whom, or upon what they are talking; still it flows on and on "in one weak washy, everlasting flood." It is a great infliction to be the only person in company with these inveterate small-talkers. Their discourse makes one's head ache. It is like the perpetual dropping of water upon the crown of one's pericranium. To me, however, such people, if their conversation is not addressed to me, are a great relief. They save me the trouble of attempting to talk, and the mortification of a failure.

Every one must have occasionally experienced the up-hill, heart-breaking labour of talking