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others. Like a very few beauties who have passed their meridian, she still commands admiration; though she never more can inspire love !
Mercury continues to evince his volatile predilections. Balanced on the breath of a Zephyr, he has stood ready for ages, to execute the messages of the gods. But his masters have ceased to issue their commands-probably because they are no longer obeyed.
It would be endless to even glance at the numerous divinities who have descended from the skies, to take part in the celebration of the MARBLE MILLENNIUM on earth. Elysium and Tartarus have furnished their quota of representatives for this interesting scene. In fact, the infernal regions appear to have been nearly deserted—for Pluto and PROSERPINE, with almost the whole of their illustrious subjects, as well as their stern judges, Minos, Æachus, and Radamanthus, and their no less stern gaoler Cerberus, have re-crossed the Styx, and (to the no small astonishment and annoyance of old Charon, who never contracted for return-fares) now breathe the fresh air of Italy.
But enough of the gods. The vast assemblage of mortals, famed for the parts which they acted in a former life, and now re-appearing in the Millennium, might afford copious materials for useful as well as curious meditation ! The long line of rulers, regal, republican and imperial, with their families and connections, each individual peaceably taking the station into which, murder or merit, bribery or right, happened to place them in the jostle of human contention and competition, is one of the most prominent phenomena of the Millennium. There they stand, emblems as well as illustrations of history--facts without feelings, records without bias, narratives without passion. We are distracted and astounded by the prodigious congregation of princes, heroes, legislators, philosophers, orators, poetsof men and women whose fame resounded from Pole to Pole-whose ambition lit the torch of war, whose eloquence roused the passions of applauding multitudes, whose poesy de. lighted the ears, and whose philosophy improved or corrupted the hearts of mankind-all living, or at least residing, in peace, if not in friendship, with each other!
Cæsar calmly surveys his assassins, without uttering the memorable exclamation, et tu quoque Brute ! He has forgiven, if not forgotten the mortal stab of his friend. AGRIPPINA and GERMANICUs are again united; neglecting Piso, and despising Tiberius. The younger AGRIPPINA smiles on her hopeful son, Nero. The remembrance of incest crimsons not the cheek of the former-the remorse of párricide disturbs not the count ence of the latter. Nero's features are as tranquil as when he tuned his lyre to the conflagration of Rome. Marius and Sylla stand reconciled. They have evidently experienced the benefits of purgatory. The former has washed off the mud of the Minturnian marshes, and the murder of his fellow citizens :--the latter
is purified from the slaughter of ten thousand Romans, and,--of what he considered as far more important—the MORBUS PEDICULOsus of which he died amidst the fumes of wine and the riot of debauchery, in the beastly haunts of Puteoli. Julian has got his wish. He is surrounded by the Heathen gods and goddesses, whose worship he laboured to re-establish on earth. Geta has forgiven the fratricide of his brother Caracalla--Arcadius and Honorius have narrowed the boundaries of their joint dominions--Constantine enjoys a double triumph ; over Maxentius in life, and over sincerity in death -Eliogabalus has recovered his sex, and lost his appetitemhe has been dragged from the Tiber, which was polluted by his bleeding corpse, and re-instated as a Cæsar, in that city whose inhabitants he degraded (with little compunction on their parts) beneath the level of the most obscene animals that crawl on earth :-in a word, the mighty and the puny, the virtuous and the wicked race of Roman emperors and rulers have re-assembled on the Capitoline hill, from whence their empire first extended to the boundaries of the earth, and to whose narrow summit it is now again contracted !
But to descend from rulers to their subjects :--Behold the venerable, the highly-gifted patriot and philosopher-CICERO. He stands unmoved in the presence of the murderous Triumvirs. He breathes no vengeance against Antony, who proscribed him—he casts no reproach upon Augustus, who sacrificed him. He is silent when he might denounce with safety. But he has probably seen more than the page of history has revealed—though that may convince us that the anguish of soul which terminated in his proscriber's suicide on the sands of Egypt, was fully an equivalent to the bodily fear which preceded his own assassination among the rocks of Gaeta. If he upbraid not his friend Augustus for surrendering him up a victim to the hatred of Antony, it is perhaps because he is conscious that, on the great political stage where he chose to act his part, FRIENDSHIP is only a character assumed, like other theatrical characters, during the time it is wanted. Or does the presence of TERENTIA, that faithful wife who fought his battles during liis timorous exile-to whom he indited his unmanly epistles from Dyrrachium-and whom he afterwards repudiated, without cause, in the hour of prosperity, and at the age of 61, for a flirting girl-does her presence, I say, prevent him from hurling the charge of ingratitude at the head of Augustus ?
Near to Tully stands his quondam friend and firm supporter, the stern, the inflexible, the stoic Cato. He is no longer “pent up in Utica” by the sword of Cæsar, but now confronts him on the summit of the Capitol. This rigid censor, who stumbled over straws and leaped over temples—who arraigned a Roman consul for the crime of dancing, while he himself turned brigand to plunder a rich but defenceless miser of all his pelf—who deposed an unoffending prince, because he was weak, and robbed him because he was
wealthy—who was 80 astute as to boast of this transaction which all the sophistry of his friend Cicero failed to palliate—who, in fine, viewed other men's failings through a powerful lens, and the springs of his own actions through an opaque medium :-such is the Roman patriot whom Addison wishes us to admire, but whom philosophy teaches us to distrust. And “ mark the end.” Ptolemy, the miser, could not survive the loss of his gold, and therefore destroyed himself-Cato, the stoic, could not bear the ascen. dancy of Cæsar, and therefore stabbed himself! There is sometimes-perhaps oftener than is imagined retributive justice even on this side of the grave!
Seneca is as pale as when he opened his veins by order of his inhuman pupil. His death was more lingering and painful than that of the infamous Nero, who commanded him to die—but it was more philosophic and cheerful, because unaccompanied by remorse.* Hannibal has, at last, out.generaled Fabius, and gained the Capitol-Scipio still maintains his continence, though surrounded by many fair ones, and some that were not less frail than fair !
* It is remarkable that the ancient Romans did not discover the means of speedy death produced by the cutting of an artery, instead of the slow and painful dissolution resulting from the opening of numerous small veins. The latter mode of terminating existence is one of the most torturous that can be imagined. The gradual exhaustion by venous hæmorrhage is attended by horrible pains, spasms, and even convulsions; whereas the wound of an artery, as of the carotid, extinguishes the vital spark in a torrent of blood, and consciousness is annihilated in an instant, without suffering. In Seneca's case, even with the aid of the warm-bath, death could not be induced by venesection-and his friends, in pity for his sufferings, were obliged to suffocate him! His wife, Paulina, who, in imitation of the Hindoo widows, was induced to have her veins opened also, was spared immediate death, to die by a lingering disease, the consequence of loss of blood. The moderns are wiser, or at least more scientific, in their generation. They know how to extinguish life by the opening of an artery. The author once witnessed a horrifying instance of this modern science of suicide in the Straits of Malacca. A surgeon in His Majesty's Service, without any apparent cause, laid a razor across the upper part of his thigh, and, taking a volume of Darwin's Zoonomia, struck the back of the instrument, cut the femoral artery, and was dead in twenty seconds ! The blow was heard by the officers of the mess--they rushed into his cabin--but he was a corpse !
How is it that, among the ancients, the act of suicide is seldom recorded but as the means of escaping tortures, degradation, or captivity, -whereas, among the moderns, it is every day perpetrated without any apparent, or at least apparently adequate cause? The solution is to be sought, and I think to be found, in a combination of moral and physical circumstances distressing the mind and disordering the body. I firmly believe that suicide rarely, if
The Millennium, like love, levels all distinctions of rank and character, and has introduced into each other's society and acquaintance many contrasting personages, besides a considerable number that still choose to remain incogNITO. Here are seen associating, without the slightest symptom of collision, hatred, or jealousy, princes and peasants, senators and centurions, fauns and philosophers, satyrs and vestals, matrons and courtezans, despots and democrats (differing more in name than in nature), patriots and traitors, priests and bacchanals, together with every variety of men and animals that prey on or devour each other from the Equator to the Pole, from the banks of the Ganges to the Pillars of Hercules !
ANTINOUS is more admired now than in the days of Adrian, and for less equivocal reasons—the GLADIATOR dies, not to gain plaudits from the popu. lace, but applause from posterity-Diogenes and Alexander meet once more ; but the cynic no longer snarls at the hero-Cleopatra applies the asp to her arm, though she need not now dread the triumphal procession of Augustus Demosthenes is silently eloquent-Hercules rests on his club, though his muscles are still in action-Archimedes has solved the great problem !
And this reminds me of the end of all things—and especially of these reflections. It is said that Shakespeare was obliged to kill Mercutio in the third act, else Mercutio would have killed him. · So I perceive that a much longer sojourn on the Capitol would throw myself into a fever, or my readers. (if any) into a sleep. I shall therefore sound a retreat. I cannot, however, leave this spot (probably for the last time) without paying one short tribute of respect to a class of its inhabitants to whom I am deeply indebted for many of the most exquisite pleasures I have enjoyed during my earthly pilgrimage -I mean the Poets! To the Millennian favourites of the Nine, the vdious epithet of “ genus irritabile vatum” is no longer applicable. A rival's fame excites not envy in their breast3-a contemporary's merit is not now denied.
Homer, who long wandered as a beggar bard, has rested after his travels, and is freed from the labour or pleasure of rehearsing his own poems. He left no issue-or at least successor. But his spirit has gone abroad and mul, tiplied exceedingly. So long as “pity melts us or as passion warms,” the soul of the Grecian bard will animate every heart, and speak every language. This itself is no mean immortality; but it is to be hoped that the bard enjoys a still more lasting one! He is blind-that-does not surprise us. But that he should be deaf, or at least insensible to the incense of adoration which
ever, occurs from purely mental agony, and before perturbations of the mind have disordered the functions of the body. The corporeal disorder re-acts on the mind, and induces temporary insanity. The coroner's verdict, which is often looked upon as a humane or merciful fiction, is in fact founded, though not always clearly understood, upon a physiological truth.
rises before his shrine in every region of the earth, is remarkable in his order of beings ! It seems to indicate, that if memory of the past accompany us to another state of existence, we shall not be indulged with a consciousness of what takes place after our exit from the theatre of this life.
Horace no longer latters Mæcenas--for Mæcerras has no longer the ear of Augustus. Virgil weeps not for the loss of his few acres of marsh near Mantua. He has wisely preferred the arid rock of Pausilipo for his grave. Plautus, notwithstanding the coarseness of his expressions and the indelicacy of his allusions, on the comic stage, is not without honours in the marble Millennium. The epitaph inscribed on his tomb by Varro, is the usual compliment paid to every Hero of the Buskin, when the last exit is made from the mimic and the mundane scene !
“ Comædia luget-scena est deserta." Ovid indites no more of his Tristia from the gloomy shores of Pontus. His exile has terminated, and he is restored to his beloved Capitol. His amorous effusions can no longer inflame the passions of his Millennian neighbours. He has undergone one of his own metamorphoses ; and the glow of a corrupted and corrupting heart is changed into the icy coldness of Parian marble. Perseus and Juvenal have dropped the pen of satire. The vices which they scourged have fled from the Capitol-many of them to more favourable soils while some of them still linger among the seven hills.
I would fain prolong my stay on this interesting mount; but Time warns me to depart. Saluting the equestrian statue of Aurelian, we descend, with reluctance, the long flight of marble steps on the northern side of the hill, and bid adieu to the Capitol !
We have scarcely quitted the marble stair-case, eying, on each side, the basaltic lions formed by Egyptian hands, when we find ourselves involved in a labyrinth of lanes, and among a people who seem to have few claims to consanguinity with their venerable, or, at least, venerated ancestors above ! The wynds of modern Athens were never considered as patterns of cleanliness; but they might fairly challenge comparison with the streets at the very foot of the ancient Capitol! The first time I wandered through them was at night-and I confess I was exceedingly glad to get back to the Corso from places which seemed equally calculated for wretched poverty, and the crimes to which it leads! The eye of the stranger is attracted by a notice on the corner, and often in many other parts of every street-"IMMONDEZZAIO.” Not being an Italian scholar, I at first took this to be synonymous with what we see occasionally in the streets of London—"COMMIT NO NUISANCE.” An interpreter beneath each notice, and which, it would be difficult to misundere stand, soon convinced me that I was quite mistaken-and that what I consi.