nalism with superior lustre. Ye daughters of Nox and Acheron, on with your black and bloody vestments-twine an eternal garland to grace the brow of the mighty Julius-and thou, Charon, waft the conqueror of Britain in safety, across the bosom of Cocytus into the never ending guardianship of Pluto. How will the daughters of Erebus welcome their new companion ! - Hades will resound with echoes of infernal joy at the approach of the lofty dictator-mighty Cæsar-Pompey, thy rival on the plains of Pharsalia, shall haunt thee in the regions of Tartarus : the serpents of Dirce and the Eumenedes shall charm thee-thou shall see the fields of Elysium but not taste their fruits-shalt quench thy thirst with Tantalus and labor with Sisyphus'-again in savage exultation she screams, 'behold the preparation-the altar of sacrifice-the priests impatient to perform their office-the victim-the victim is ready-ha! ha! ha!' She vanishes :-I see them pierce thy body-their daggers glitter in the air, wet with the blood of Cæsar--ye gods, protect my Julius." The bride of Cæsar on uttering the last words, bent in the attitude of prayer, but the tongue refused to perform its office: the tempest of passion had been too strong for the frail tenement against which it had beaten -excitement had suspended the functions of life-the lips became blue -the vital stream fled from the surface to its source--the eyes were fixed with that peculiar expression which attends the prostration of the mental powers the countenance assumed that ghastly paleness which remains on the features immediately succeeding the dissolution of life, and uttering a shriek that echoed through every avenue of the palace, with one convul. sive effort she essayed to throw herself on the bosom of Cæsar, and fell senseless on the floor. The shriek of Calphurnia, had awakened the inmates of the palace, and the chamber was quickly filled with domestics, each striving to restore the victim of unbounded affection. In a corner of the room stood the dictator, firm, but shaken by the passing scene, like some oak of the forest which the lightning has blasted but not consumed. A stranger to fear, yet strongly tinctured with the superstition of his age-the wild, terrific, yet solemn horror of Calphurnia, had inverted the natural order of his mind. He stood contemplating in silence, the beautiful ruin before him as one who, deserted by hope, disdained to seek for pity. He was roused from his reverie by the entrance of a domestic from the city, who, with hair erect, and eyes starting from their sockets, rushed furiously forward, and fell at the feet of Julius. "What means this attitude?" said he, “what tidings from without have thus excited the torpor of slavery itself?" "Thou wilt spurn me from thy presence," replied the slave, "should I dare utter what I have heard." "By the sacred smiles of the goddess of morning, who has risen in her wonted beauty, thou art safe," exclaimed Cæsar-" Speak on." “The Tiber has risen midway up the Tarpeian rock," cried the domestic in a voice of terror, “bloody horsemen have fought in the air-the graves have burst their portals-the souls of the dead have mingled with the living-Pompey's statue has sweated blood-his headless corse, accompa, nied by the spirit of Manlius has stalked through the city: Cornelia, attended by the fatal sisters, followed in the train-the latter held, suspended in her hand-but I dare not, cannot name it," said the faithful domestic, and swooned at the footstool of his master. "This confirmation of thy vision, my lovely, miserable, bride," said Julius, "portends some event my mind's eye cannot reach-the gods must be appeased-go, fellow, bid the priests prepare a sacrifice worthy the acceptance of the gods-Cæsar will present the offering." Calphurnia, who had been removed to another part of the palace, having recovered from her swoon again entered the apartment of her lord. Throwing her white arm around Cæsar, and pointing to the moon, whose beams were yet shining on the city, she said, in a tone of deep and awful solemnity, "I conjure thee by the beams of that bright orb-which now shed their light-perhaps their final light-on this devoted capital-by thy love for Calphurnia-by thy veneration for the gods-by the awful vision of this midnight hour-go not to the senate house, to-day." "Beautiful Calphurnia,” replied Julius, "whatever the gods have woven in the leaf of our destiny cannot be averted—as well might we attempt to arrest the lightning, guided in its course by Jove, or to stay the thunderbolt directed by his arm: shall I, who have founded a second Carthage, and another Corinth-whom the gods have prospered and protected-whose arms they have crowned with conquests--whose name they have loaded with eternal honors-shall I, because the elements have been convulsed, and the spirits of the dead have stalked through the midnight gloomdare to believe that the immortal deities have forsaken me? No! by the eternal Jove-though the ghost of Pompey have traversed the streets of Rome, in darkness, attended by the furies-the Tiber and the clouds have met--the heavens been streaked with blood, and the earth rent to its foundation-yet shall not the soul of Cæsar shrink. Unappalled by the terrors which surround him, he shall once more meet the demon of danger, so often vanquished, and again return triumphant from the contest." "I know the strength and nobleness of thy nature-the weakness and inefficiency of my own," said Calphurnia; "yet, ere thou rejectest my advice, consult the augurs." "To calm thy fears, thou noble woman, I have already ordered the priests to prepare a sacrifice, which I will offer to the gods; the man approaches who bore to them my commands. Slave! what say the priests -is the offering ready?" "Mighty Julius," replied the man, already have three beasts been slain -the haruspex Spurinna bids me tell thee they were deficient in a heartthe seat of life is not-the omen is unfavorable to thy departure for the senate-house." "The gods have sported, or the priest played foul," replied Cæsar. "The senators are sitting; Julius had better die a single death, than live --and fear-a thousand." In thoughtful meditation, he withdrew to a window fronting the Tiber. The morning dawn had been resplendent-the beautiful sky of Italy had again assumed its wonted serenity-a speck of white occasionally varie gated the blue concave, and a few streaks of lake-colored cloud tinged the edge of the horizon. Julius was contemplating the effect of the sun's rays, as, penetrating the haze of the yet unruffled Tiber, they threw a beautiful prismatic arch over its channel, when Decius Brutus, who attended to conduct him to the capitol, was announced. The sight of his conductor-the remembrance of his past glories-his present reputation and his future fame, contrasted with the weakness which had inclined him to yield to the request of Calphurnia, rushed upon his mind in a moment. "Thou art my better genius," cried Cæsar; "the die is cast-I go to the capitol-Cæsar is safe. Yon sun would be stopped in his coursethe heavens be darkened-the waters be turned into blood, and nature sink into annihilation, had the gods decreed that Cæsar should perish; yet look on the scene, Calphurnia, lovely and beautiful as it is. Farewell -the gods protect thee!" The parting benediction had scarcely been uttered, when a thunder-clap resounded through the caverns of Rome. Cæsar had ascended the litter, as the cloud burst over his head. "Another frolic of the gods," said he; "proceed!" The pathway leading to the capitol had been strewn with flowers-virgins, arrayed in white, filled the air with songs, as they preceded the litter on which Cæsar was borne-a band of music awaited his approach in the marble hall of the capitol. The shout of the plebeian masters of the uni verse from the citadel, at length announced his arrival. At that moment, a flight of vultures, which had hovered for some time around the Tarpeian hill, suddenly descended to the plain-the foremost tore the heart from the body of a lamb-uttered a screech, and bore away in triumph the bloody spoil,—an awful omen of a more bloody scone. A band of conspirators, Marcus Brutus, Caius Cassius, Casca, Metellus Cimber, and others,-whose deeds had been matured amid the terrors of the preceding night,-anxiously beheld Cæsar dismount from the litter. He ascended the lofty flight of steps leading to the capitol. A soothsayer approached. "Cæsar," said he, "beware the Ides of March!" "That sepulchral note is familiar to my ear," exclaimed Cæsar; "who art thou, mysterious visitant, that thus, in a voice as hollow as that of the bittern in the wilderness, a second time crossest the pathway of Julius? 1 charge thee answer me." "Thy saviour,” replied the seer, "if thou attendest to my warning-thy prophet, if thou rejectest it. Thy lot has been cast-the depths of thy fortunes have been sounded. Again I conjure thee, in the name of those with whom I hold intelligence-by the secrets of the tomb-by the infernal horrors that await the souls of the guilty, sent impurified into the presence of the gods, beware the Ides of March!" "They are come," said Cæsar "But not yet gone," muttered the stranger, and rushed into the crowd. "Heardst thou the sayings of that wizard?" said Julius to Marcus Brutus, whom he had saved and adopted, and who was now leaning, in a thoughtful posture against one of the pillars of the capitol. "I do not pretend to divination," replied Brutus, "nor have I faith in these erratic beings. His saying admits of that double interpretation, if any, with which these astrologers mystify their forebodings, and screen themselves from the charge of falsehood. Think not of him-thy senators await thee." “I go,” said Julius, "perhaps, to the revelation of this mystery-the gods direct it!" Cæsar now approached the senate-chamber-the doors were opened, and the assembly rose in respectful silence. "Most noble senators, I greet you!” said Julius. "The senate sends this greeting back to Cæsar," replied several voices. Julius now seated himself in the midst of the assembly. Again the elements were convulsed. Casca, a conspirator, approached-the dagger glittered in his hand, at the back of Julius-he was seen to tremblethe assassins shuddered, in that awful feeling of suspense which attends the felon between condemnation and execution. Cæsar, startled by the rustling behind his chair, suddenly turned his face on his murderer-the fear of discovery and death nerved the assassin's arm, and the dagger lodged in the throat of the dictator. The signal had now been given—the blow struck-the assassins approached-dagger after dagger found its restingplace in the bosom of Julius. With that force which nature sometimes imparts to the last throes of mortal agony, he defended himself with vigor against the daring and determined band, until Marcus Brutus advanced, and, plunging his dagger into the heart of his friend and benefactor, exclaimed, "I love thee, tyrant, but my country more." “Et tu, mi fili," faintly articulated Julius. Then, turning to the majestic form of Pompey, he murmured, “Shade of THE GREAT, thou art appeased. Miserable, lost, undone Calphurnia!" The eyes became fixed-the vital stream rushed in torrents through the channels ploughed by the poniards of the assassins. The functions of the brain alone seemed to retain their wonted vigor-to assert their supremacy-to triumph over the wreck of mortal existence, and to watch the machine, as the wheels, one after another, ceased from their revolution. Anxious, even in death, to preserve his dignity,-with one final convulsive effort, Julius enveloped himself in the more than royal-the ROMAN robes. The eye dilated-the tongue in vain endeavored to articulate-the livid paleness of the features marked the near approach of death; and, as the spirit shed the last beams of intelligence over the frame it had so lately animated, the mighty Cæsar reeled to the base of Pompey's statue-fell -and expired without a groan. EPIGRAM. Tom says, on such as me he still looks down,— I doubt not this, provided he can show, That, in the moral pillory of the town, MISCELLANEOUS NOTICES OF THE FINE ARTS, LITERATURE, SCIENCE, THE DRAMA, &c. ROLLIN'S ANCIENT HISTORY. Dearborn's edition. New York. Our city is indeed fortunate in the possession of two such publishers as Harper and Dearborn; the one supplying us with novelty after novelty, in a constant and luxurious flow, the other sending forth at intervals his beautiful and correct editions of the standards of literature. The latter has given to the world, within a comparatively short space, more handsome library copies of the British Classics than have been published, we believe, since the independent existence of the United States. Nor is it, by the way, a matter of small importance, that such works should be handsomely got up; a novel, a light publication for the mere amusement of a passing hour, will be eagerly devoured, for the sake of the excitement it may create, whether it be printed on hot-pressed or on outsides, whether it be done up in blotting paper or bound in vellum; but not so a grave and perhaps dry disquisition, replete indeed with valuable information, but presenting to the general reader no prospect of interest or hope of entertainment.-Let our romances then be published with regard to cheapness-as becomes books to be read once and laid aside for ever-but let our histories, our standing dishes, our literary beef and mutton, be dished up to us, in such a guise as may be likely to stimulate the fastidious palate of the dissipated novel-reader, and to induce him -if we may venture on a homely but not inappropriate phrase-to cut and come again. Concerning the merits of Rollin's history there has ever been but one opinion; from the moment of its first appearance to the present day, it has been confessedly the best and most complete compendium of ancient story, faithful even to a fault to old authorities, and laying before the student, as it were at a single view, a panorama of the classic world. We said that it is faithful to a fault, nor did we use the phrase as an hyperbole--for it is indeed a fault to adhere with servility to the records even of VOL. IV. 45 the classics. But, we must remember that, when Rollin wrote, the application of analytics to history was unknown.❤❤ The admirable method introduced by Niebuhr and other German sages, was at that period unimagined--and the highest merit an historian could possess, was thoroughly to comprehend, and ac curately to compile, the various labors of Greek and Roman authors. Men had not then learned to doubt the truth of what was stated by Livy, Herodotus, and Plutarch, as ascertained realities-antiquarian and topographical research had not been called in as tests of historical accuracy-it had not then been noticed that the works-for instance-ascribed to the elder Tarquin in the walls and cloace of Rome, could not possibly have been executed by a prince of so small resources or of so limited a territory-it had not, in short, been taken into consideration, that not only the good faith, but the intelligence and information, of the ancient should be tested, by the man writing the history of ages enveloped in pagan dark. ness, under the lights of science and re vealed religion. This, therefore, cannot be looked for in the pages of Rollin. We too often find doubtful, and even notoriously fabulous, events related as if they were ascertained facts, but the references are in all cases subjoined; nor can there possibly be a more valuable work to read in conjunction with the fastidious and shrewd inquiries of the modern school of history, than this excellent compendium of all the narratives, to which these scrutinies relate, and from which all that we know, and, in all human probability, all that we shall ever know, of the dead kingdoms and repub lics of the earth, must be derived. We should be much misapprehended, were any to suppose from our observations on the over-credulity of this excellent and learned writer, that we would in any wise imply that he should be cast aside or neglected; all that we would inculcate is this, that the reader should be careful how he places implicit confidence |