[The people make a show of resistance; but, upon the advance of the soldiers, retreat, and leave ICILIUS, VIRGINIUS, and his daughter, etc., in the hands of APPIUS and his party]. Deserted!-Cowards! traitors! Let me free But for a moment! I relied on you;

Had I relied upon myself alone,

I had kept them still at bay! I kneel to you—
Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only

To rush upon your swords.

Vir. Icilius, peace!

You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left

Alone by our friends, surrounded by our enemies,

[Aside. Nerveless and helpless.

To idle with thee; give her to my Lictors.

Vir. Appius, I pray you wait! If she is not
My child, she hath been like a child to me

[Aside. For fifteen years. If I am not her father,
I have been like a father to her, Appius,
For even such a time. They that have lived
So long a time together, in so near
And dear society, may be allowed
A little time for parting. Let me take
The maid aside, I pray you, and confer

App. Take her, Lictors!

I saw, at last, the ruddy dawn of health

[Virginia shrieks, and falls half-dead upon Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form,

her father's shoulder.

Vir. Another moment, pray you. Bear with me
A little 'Tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try
Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man!
Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it
Long. My dear child! My dear Virginia!

There is one only way to save thine honor'Tis this.

And glow-and glow-till forth at last it burst
Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day!
Lor. You loved, and he did love?
Mar. To say he did,

Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouched,
What many an action testified-and yet-
[Kissing her. What wanted confirmation of his tongue.
But if he loved, it brought him not content!
'Twas now abstraction-now a start-anon
A pacing to and fro-anon a stillness,
As nought remained of life, save life itself,
And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct.
Then all again was action! Disinclined
To converse, save he held it with himself;
Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing,
And ever and anon invoking honor,

[Stabs her, and draws out the knife. Icilius
breaks from the soldiers that held him,
and catches her.

Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood

I do devote thee to the infernal gods!

Make way there!

App. Stop him! Seize him!

Vir. If they dare

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

[Exit through the soldiers.
JAMES SHERIdan Knowles.

FROM "THE WIFE, A TALE OF MANTUA.”

LORENZO, an Advocate of Rome, and MARIANA.

As some high contest there were pending 'twixt
Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed.

Lor. This spoke impediment; or he was bound
By promise to another; or had friends
Whom it behooved him to consult, and doubted;
Or 'twixt you lay disparity too wide
For love itself to leap.

Mar. I saw a struggle,

But knew not what it was. I wondered still,
That what to me was all content, to him
Was all disturbance; but my turn did come.

ORENZO. That's right-you are collected and At length he talked of leaving us; at length

direct

In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion
Was such a thing, as, by its neighborhood,

Made piety and virtue twice as rich

As e'er they were before. How grew it? Come,
Thou know'st thy heart-look calmly into it,
And see how innocent a thing it is

Which thou dost fear to shew-I wait your answer.

How grew your passion?

Mariana. As my stature grew,

Which rose without my noting it, until
They said I was a woman. I kept watch

Beside what seemed his death-bed. From beneath

An avalanche my father rescued him,

Sole survivor of a company

He fixed the parting-day-but kept it not-
O how my heart did bound! Then first I knew
It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank
When next he fixed to go; and sank it then
To bound no more! He went.

Lor. To follow him

You came to Mantua?

Mar. What could I do?

Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood,
Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him!
Could I remain behind? My father found
My heart was not at home; he loved his child,
And asked me, one day, whither we should go?

I said: 'To Mantua.' I followed him

To Mantua! to breathe the air he breathed,

To look upon the things he looked upon,

Who wandered through our mountains. A long time To walk upon the ground he walked upon,
His life was doubtful, signor, and he called
For help, whence help alone could come, which I,
Morning and night, invoked along with him;
So first our souls did mingle!

Lor. I perceive: you mingled souls until you mingled
hearts?

You loved at last. Was't not the sequel, maid?
Mar. I loved, indeed! If I but nursed a flower
Which to the ground the wind and rain had beaten,
That flower of all our garden was my pride:
What then was he to me, for whom I thought
To make a shroud, when, tending on him still
With hope, that, baffled still, did still keep up;

To look, perchance, on him! perchance to hear him,
To touch him! never to be known to him,
Till he was told I lived and died his love.

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
HUSBAND AND BRIDE.

ESPERUS. See, here's a bower
Of eglantine with honeysuckles woven,
Where not a spark of prying light creeps in,
So closely do the sweets enfold each other.
'Tis twilight's home; come in, my gentle love,

PICKING TO PIECES THE CHARACTERS OF whenever I hear the current running against the

Mrs. Candour. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how of mine, Sir Benjamin Backbite, has just have you been this century? Mr. Surface, what called at my guardian's with his odious uncle, Crab-news do you hear?-though indeed it is no matter, tree; so I slipt out, and ran hither to avoid them.

Lady S. Nay, now you are severe; for I dare swear the truth of the matter is, Maria heard you were here. But, my dear, what has Sir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so?

Maria. Oh, he has done nothing-but 'tis for what he has said: his conversation is a perpetual libel on all his acquaintance.

Joseph S. Ay, and the worst of it is, there is no advantage in not knowing him-for he'il abuse a stranger just as soon as his best friend; and his uncle Crabtree's as bad.

was but yesterday I was told that Miss Gadabout had has a pretty wit, and is a pretty poet, too; isn't he, eloped with Sir Filligree Flirt. But there's no mind-Lady Sneerwell?

ing what one hears; though, to be sure, I had this from very good authority.

Sir Benjamin. O fie, uncle!

Crab. Nay, egad, it's true; I back him at a rebus or a charade against the best rhymer in the kingdom. Has your ladyship heard the epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's feather catching fire? Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the charade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione. Come now; your first is the name of a fish, your second, a great

Maria. Such reports are highly scandalous. Mrs. C. So they are child-shameful, shameful! But the world is so censorious, no character escapes. Well, now, who would have suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion? Yet such is the illnature of people that they say her uncle stopped her last week, just as she was stepping into the York mail | naval commander, andwith her dancing master.

Maria. I'll answer for 't, there are no grounds for that report.

Mrs. C. Ah, no foundation in the world, I dare swear; no more, probably than for the story circulated last month of Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino; though, to be sure, that matter was never rightly cleared up.

Sir B. Uncle, now—prithee

Crab. I' faith, ma'am, 'twould surprise you to hear how ready he is at these things.

Lady S. I wonder, Sir Benjamin you never publish anything.

Sir B. To say truth, ma'm, 'tis very vulgar to print; and as my little productions are mostly satires and lampoons on particular people, I find they circulate more Joseph S. The license of invention some people by giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties. However, I have some love elegies, which, when favored with this lady's smiles, I mean to give the public.

take is monstrous indeed.

Maria. 'Tis so-but, in my opinion, those who report such things are equally culpable.

Mrs. C. To be sure they are; tale-bearers are as bad as the tale-makers—'tis an old observation, and a very true one: but what's to be done, as I said before? how will you prevent people from talking? To-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon were at last become mere man and wife, like the rest of their acquaintance. * * No, no! tale-bearers, as I said before, are just as bad as the tale-makers. Joseph S. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your forbearance and good-nature!

Mrs. C. I confess, Mr. Surface, I cannot bear to hear people attacked behind their backs; and when ugly circumstances come out against our acquaintance, I own I always love to think the best. By the by, I hope 'tis not true that your brother is absolutely ruined?

Joseph S. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, ma'am.

Mrs. C. Ah! I heard so-but you must tell him to keep up his spirits; everybody almost is in the same way-Lord Spindle, Sir Thomas Splint, and Mr. Nickit ---all up, I hear, within this week; so, if Charles is undone, he'll find half his acquaintance ruined too; that, you know, is a consolation.

· Joseph S. Doubtless, ma'am-a very great one. [Enter SERVANT.]

and

Serv. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite. [Exit Servant. Lady S. So, Maria, you see your lover pursues you; positively you shan't escape.

[Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE.) Crabtree. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour, I don't believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir Benjamin Backbite? Egad! ma'am, he

Crab. 'Fore heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you! You will be handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa.

Sir B. Yes, madam, I think you will like them, where a neat rivulet of text shall murmur through a when you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, meadow of margin. 'Fore gad, they will be the most elegant things of their kind!

Crab. But, ladies, that's true-have you heard the news?

Mrs. C. What, sir, do you mean the report of—
Crab. No, ma'm, that's not it-Miss Nicely is going
to be married to her own footman.
Mrs. C. Impossible!

Crab. Ask Sir Benjamin.

Sir B. 'Tis very true, ma'am; everything is fixed, and the wedding liveries bespoke.

Crab. Yes; and they do say there were very pressing reasons for it.

Lady S. Why, I have heard something of this be fore.

Mrs. C. It can't be; and I wonder any one should believe such a story of so prudent a lady as Miss Nicely.

Sir B. O lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

Mrs. C. Why, to be sure, a tale of scandal is as fatal to the credit of a prudent lady of her stamp as a fever is generally to those of the strongest constitutions. But there is a sort of puny sickly reputation that is always ailing, yet will outlive the robuster characters of a hundred prudes.

Sir B. True, madam, there are valetudinarians in reputation as well as constitution; who, being con

scious of their weak part, avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of stamina by care and circumspection.

Mrs. C. Well, but this may be all a mistake. You know, Sir Benjamin, very trifling circumstances often give rise to the most injurious tales.

Crab. That they do, I'll be sworn, ma'am. O lud! Mr. Surface, pray, is it true that your uncle, Sir Oliver, is coming home?

Joseph S. Not that I know of, indeed, sir.
Crab. He has been in the East Indies a long time.
You can scarcely remember him, I believe? Sad com-
fort whenever he returns, to hear how your brother has

gone on.

Joseph S. Charles has been imprudent, sir, to be sure; but I hope no busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him. He may reform.

Sir B. To be sure he may; for my part, I never be lieved him to be so utterly void of principle as people say; and though he has lost all his friends, I am told nobody is better spoken of by the Jews.

Crab. That's true, egad, nephew. If the Old Jewry was a ward, I believe Charles would be an alderman : no man more popular there! I hear he pays as many annuities as the Irish tontine; and that, whenever he is sick, they have prayers for the recovery of his health in all the synagogues.

Sir B. Yet no man lives in greater splendor. They tell me, when he entertains his friends, he will sit down to dinner with a dozen of his own securities; have a score of tradesmen waiting in the antechamber, and an officer behind every guest's chair.

Joseph S. This may be entertainment to you, gentlemen; but you pay very little regard to the feelings of a brother.

Maria. Their malice is intolerable. Lady Sneerwell, I must wish you a good-morning: I'm not very well.

[Exit Maria.

Mrs C. O dear! she changes color very much. Lady S. Do, Mrs. Candour, follow her: she may want your assistance.

Mrs. C. That I will, with all my soul, ma'am. Poor, dear girl, who knows what her situation may be! [Exit Mrs. Candour. Lady S. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear Charles reflected on, notwithstanding their difference.

Sir B. The young lady's penchant is obvious. Crab. But, Benjamin, you must not give up the pursuit for that: follow her, and put her into good humor. Repeat her some of your own verses. Come, I'll assist you.

Sir B. Mr. Surface, I did not mean to hurt you; but, depend on't, your brother is utterly undone.

Crab. O lud, ay! undone as ever man was. Can't raise a guinea!

Crab.
certain.
Sir B.
Crab.

Lady S.

Oh! he has done many mean things, that's

But, however, as he is your brotherWe'll tell you all another opportunity.

[Exeunt Crabtree and Sir Benjamin. Ha, ha! 'tis very hard for them to leave a subject they have not quite run down. Joseph S. And I believe the abuse was no more acceptable to your ladyship than Maria.

Lady S. I doubt her affections are further engaged than we imagine. But the family are to be here this evening, so you may as well dine where you are, and we shall have an opportunity of observing further; in the meantime, I'll go and plot mischief, and you shall study sentiment. [Exeunt. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

AETER DEATH, WHAT?

CATO alone; in his hand Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul.

A drawn sword on the table by him.

T must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well—
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?

Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter;
And intimates eternity to man:

Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass?
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me,
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above
(And that there is all nature cries aloud
Through all her works), he must delight in virtue;
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or where !-this world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures—this must end 'em

[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to an end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secured in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years;

Sir B. And everything sold, I'm told, that was But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
movable.
Unhurt amid the war of elements,