world" of Guiana. The sincerity of his belief in the wealth of the latter country has been unreasonably questioned. If Elizabeth had hoped for a hyperborean Peru in the arctic seas of America, why might not Raleigh expect to find the city of gold on the banks of the Oronoco? His lavish efforts in colonizing the soil of our republic, his sagacity which enjoined a settlement within the Chesapeake bay, the publications of Hariot and Hakluyt which he countenanced, if followed by losses to himself, diffused over England a knowledge of America, and an interest in its destinies, and sowed the seeds, of which the fruits were to ripen during his lifetime, though not for him. Raleigh had suffered from palsy before his last expedition. He returned brokenhearted by the defeat of his hopes, by the decay of his health, and by the death of his eldest son. What shall be said of King James, who would open to an aged paralytic no other hope of liberty but through success in the discovery of mines in Guiana? What shall be said of a monarch, who could at that time, under a sentence which was originally unjust, and which had slumbered for fifteen years, order the execution of the decrepid man, whose genius and valor shone brilliantly through the ravages of physical decay, and whose English heart, within a palsied frame, still beat with an undying love for his country? The judgments of the tribunals of the Old World are often reversed at the bar of public opinion in the New. The family of the chief author of early colonization in the United States was reduced to beggary by the government of England, and he himself was beheaded. After a lapse of nearly two centuries, the state of NorthCarolina, by a solemn act of legislation, revived in its capital, "the city of Raleigh," and thus expressed its confidence in the integrity, and a grateful respect for the memory, of the extraordinary man, whose name is indissolubly connected with the early period of its history. This sketch of character, brief as it is and masterly, is we think surpassed by a yet shorter notice of the protector. A naval war soon followed, which Cromwell eagerly desired, and Holland as earnestly endeavored to avoid. The spirit of each people was kindled with the highest national enthusiasm; the commerce of the world was the prize contended for; the ocean was the scene of the conflict; and the annals of recorded time had never known so many great naval actions in such quick succession. This was the war in which Blake and Ayscue and De Ruyter gained their glory; in which Tromp fixed a broom to his mast in bravado, as if he would sweep the English flag from the seas. Cromwell was not disposed to trammel the industry of Virginia, and Maryland, and New-England. His ambition aspired to make England the commercial emporium of the world. His plans extended to the possession of the harbors in the Spanish Netherlands; France was obliged to pledge her aid to conquer, and her consent to yield Dunkirk, Mardyke, and Gravelines; and Dunkirk, in the summer of 1658, was given up to his ambassador by the French king in person. Nor was this all; he desired the chief harbors in the North Sea and the Baltic; and an alliance with Sweden, made not simply from a zeal for protestantism, was to secure him Bremen, and Helsingör, and Dantzig, as his reward. In the West Indies, his genius had planned the capture of Jamaica, which succeeded; and the attempt at the reduction of Hispaniola, then the chief possession of Spain among the islands, failed only through the incompetency or want of concert of his agents. It is as the rival of Holland, the successful antagonist of Spain, the protector of English shipping, that Cromwell has claims to glory. The crown passed from the brow of his sons; his wide plans for the possession of commercial places on the continent, were defeated; Dunkirk was restored; the monarchy, which he subverted, was re-established; the nobility, which he humbled, recovered its pride: Jamaica and the Act of Navigation are the permanent monuments of Cromwell. After bestowing thus much of praise upon this work-and if possible it deserves even more than we have bestowed-we must in justice descend to the far less agreeable task of reprehension. The truth is-and we regret it the more that faults of style often deter readers even more than faults of matter-the truth is, that Mr. Bancroft's style is at times not only inelegant but incorrect. Utterly as we despise the wretched criticism which exists only by carping at verbal errors, we should be doing justice neither to ourselves nor to our author, were we to pass over his faults without remark. Much of his writing is so chaste and eloquent, that it is evident, that, when he errs, he errs from want of care, not want of knowledge. The man who can compose the passages we have selected above, cannot be ignorant that to conduct is a transitive verb, and that such a phrase as "the republican leaders of Great Britain, conducting with true magnanimity—” for conducting themselves, &c. is a mere barbarism. Nor can he be unaware that and and for are copulative conjunctions, and can only be correctly used for connecting dependent words or clauses! Yet we constantly find these and similar words standing at the commencement of new and independent sentences, and immediately following periods. In the eighth page of the preface, we find not only a sentence, but a paragraph commencing with the word for. We do not point out these small defects in a mean or captious spirit, but because we feel certain that Mr. Bancroft may avoid them, if he please; and we assure him that he must do so if he wish his book to take rank, as it is otherwise well qualified to do, among the standards of the world. One word in conclusion-we trust that, by the phrase to the present times, on the title page, we are not meant to infer that our author will plunge into the wretched and bewildering maze of the politics of the present day. We entreat him, as he values his own reputation, if such be his intention, to pause and consider. No contemporary history can be impartial-if he once defile his hands with the pitch of party-politics, his book may be the text-book of a faction, but never of a country. Let him persevere as he has begun, let him bring his History down to the recognition of the United States by foreign powers as free and sovereign, or if he pleases to the death of Washington; but let him pause there-beyond that point he cannot go with safety, or even with propriety. What we ourselves have seen, we have no need to learn; and if we had, we are unwilling to be taught.-We trust he will spare himself the risk of being deemed a partizan rather than a historian, and if he take our advice, we dare prophecy to him an ample reward in the reputation he will assuredly obtain. MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. SINCE writing the remarks, which made their appearance in our last number, concerning the alleged plagiarism of these beautiful lines, and the pretended fragment of Alcæus, from which it was said they were translated, we have been put in possession of the facts, which, while they entirely prove the justice of our former observations, materially alter our view of the case. We are authorized to state, that the Greek lines are a translation of Mr. Wilde's beautiful verses by a gentleman, whose name has been confided to us; and who has accounted in the most handsome and satisfactory manner to the real author for the use to which his jeu d'esprit was perverted through a scandalous breach of confidence by some persons unknown. VOL. IV. 44 The author of the Greek version-whom we know to be a gentleman of reputation both as a man of letters and a man of honor-states that the "Greek translation was written for individual amusement with exclusively half a dozen acquaintance in Savannah, and without the slightest intention of its going farther.” "This assertion," he adds, "will account for the abundant defects, and they will vouch for its truth." He further adds that its publication has been caused" by the mischievous design of some other person, and is deeply regretted by himself." We believe ourselves to be justified in adding, on our own judgment, that the object of the translation was the testing-for private amusementthe real attainment of some pretended scholars; and that the numerous grammatical and prosodiacal blunders were purposely introduced with this intention; and, consequently, that the author had no idea whatever of passing off his joke upon the world, much less of committing a literary fraud, or in any wise injuring the reputation of Mr. Wilde. For the truth of this exposition, we pledge ourselves; and further, that the whole mystery has been unravelled to us since the publication of our last number, and indeed so recently, that we had actually prepared an article proving, on internal evidence, the spuriousness of the ode, which it would be of course superfluous at present to insert. In conclusion, we are happy to give it as our decided opinion that the author of the Greek translation stands wholly acquitted of any thing further than a little innocent mystification for the entertainment of a private circle. To the creature who has infamously violated confidence and honor by the surreptitious publication of a friend's jest, we sincerely wish a speedy detection, and the utter contempt of all honest men ;—and to the worthy gentlemen, who have so stubbornly maintained the genuineness of the Greek version,-going so far as even to assert the existence of a copy of Alceus containing the pretended fragment, we wish better judgment and better sense in future. We cannot wind up this admirable illustration of "Much ado about nothing," better than by old Horace's adage. Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Which we flatter ourselves is both an appropriate and classical quotation to a classical humbug. THE FALL OF CESAR. Through this, the well beloved Brutus stabbed, For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel: This was the most unkindest cut of all: For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms, Quite vanquished him-then burst his mighty heart! SHAKSPEARE. THE evening preceding the fate of the last survivor of the first triumvirate, was unusually beautiful. The sun retired in full splendor in the west, enveloping the summit of the lofty Capitolium in a blaze of ether, and impressing with his beams the varied colors of an iris, on the cerulean softness of an Italian sky. The Collis Hortulorum, or hill of flowers, at the northern boundary of the city, scented the air with its rich and varied perfume. The waters in the aqueducts rippled in obedience to the gentle breeze, which slightly agitated their currents; and the janitor of the temple on the golden mountain, contemplating, in silent rapture, the scene of unrivalled beauty, stood ready to perform his vesper duties to the god of peace, as the last rays of the setting luminary cast their shadows on the distant horizon. As the sun thus sunk in majesty, to enlighten another hemisphere, the moon rose, veiled in splendor, over the scene from which he had just departed. Her horns formed a lovely arch over the blue and silent waters of the Mediterranean; while her beams, reflected from the brazen doors of the Capitol, glimmered on the fatal rock of Tarpeia-exposing, at the base of its terrific declivity, the Tiber, dwindled to a stream. The interior of the Capitolium, a relic of the elder Tarquin, presented a striking contrast to the rock on which it stood. Pleasure-barges and smaller Roman galleys glided along the Tiber, before its western fronton the right wing of which stood the temple of Minerva, enriched with a marble statue of the goddess, holding in her right hand a spear, and in the left her awful ægis. On the opposite wing, a temple had been dedicated to Juno, whose image, carved in the purest alabaster, reposed on a royal couch -her head encircled by a crown, her hand grasping a sceptre. The supremacy of Jupiter was ackowledged by the erection of a splendid apartment between those of the goddesses, the doors of which were of gold-the pavement of the purest marble: a statue of the powerful deity, holding in one hand a thunderbolt, and in its opposite a sceptre surmounted by an eagle, graced a niche in the temple, and proclaimed his rank and dominion over all the gods. The gates of the city were shut. Nature had sunk to repose: the only sounds which vibrated on the gentle breeze, as it floated over the city of the Cæsars, were those from the sentinels on the temple of Romulus, or the guardians of that of Diana. This deep and universal hush of humanity was the precursor to a storm, destined to shake Rome to her centre-to depopulate her cities-to turn her rivers into blood-to grace the walls of the Forum with the bleeding head of her darling orator-to banish justice and mercy from her confines-to rend asunder the iron bonds of nature— to prostrate virtue on the shrine of revenge-and to shame even the demon of cruelty, by a refinement on the tortures he had invented. The calm interval resembled that in which the world rose from chaos, and Eden bloomed in beauty. Nature viewed the horrible catastrophe, and shuddered through the elements of the tempest, Dark clouds, hitherto unknown in the mild region of Italy, are seen to gather in the east: the sky becomes suddenly obscured-loud and repeated thunder echoes through the seven hills of the imperial city-livid lightning darts along the walls of the Capitol-the waves of the Tiber dash against the Tarpeian rock, as if agitated by the angry spirit of Manlius-the wind, hitherto scarcely agitating the leaves of the aspen, shakes the massive doors of the Capitol-the statues of the gods tremble to their base-one vivid electric flash, penetrating the chamber of Pompey's statue, displays drops of sweat, mingled with blood, on the lifeless forehead of the sculptured hero-the opposing elements, at length concentrating, burst with an awful concussion, over the fated city, as though the knell of her destiny had been rung in an incensed assembly of the gods. At this moment Calphurnia, the wife of Cæsar, suddenly started from her couch, shrieking in a voice of terror, heightened by despair, which rang through the vaulted ceilings of the palace-"Help! they murder Cæsar!" The horror-stricken cry awakened the conqueror of Pompey." What midnight vision has disturbed thee, my lovely Calphurnia?"—exclaimed he. "Thine eyes are wild-thy countenance unearthly-the vital stream has left thy cheek:-fear not, thou art the wife of Cæsar." 66 "I am," replied Calphurnia-" but ere to-morrow's sun shall cease to enlighten our hemisphere, the bleeding body of Julius shall be the bridegroom of Calphurnia. See'st thou the convulsion of external nature: the Tarpeian rock trembles. And look-I see the spirit of Manlius rise from the waves of Tiber to greet the headless shade of Pompey, as it approaches from the Egyptian shore-Cornelia rends the elements with shouts of joy-she beckons me, pointing to the waves yet tinged with the blood of her hero, exclaiming, as she clasps a hand sheathing a dagger. To-morrow, thus shall it be with Cæsar: the fates have passed the Rubicon-retreat is vain-they come-they come welcome ye gloomy messengers-thrice welcome to your charnel-house of death!!-prepare your mansion for the mighty Cæsar-the conqueror of Gaul-the destroyer of Pompey-the friend of Brutus'-look on the hellish grin with which she shrieks the name of Brutus will grace the regions of infer |