Cæsar, happened, as it is said, to have had a strange dream the night before; for he dreamed that he was invited by Cæsar to sup with him, and when he excused himself, he was dragged along by Cæsar by the hand, against his will and making resistance the while. Now when he heard that the body of Cæsar was burning in the Forum, he got up and went there, out of respect, though he was somewhat alarmed at his dream and had a fever on him. One of the multitude who saw Cinna told his name to another who was inquiring of him, and he again told it to a third, and immediately it spread through the crowd, that this man was one of those who had killed Cæsar; and indeed there was one of the conspirators who was named Cinna; and taking this man to be him, the people forthwith rushed upon him and tore him in pieces on the spot. It was principally through alarm at this that the partisans of Brutus and Cassius after a few days left the city.

I

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN

N my opinion mothers ought to bring up and nurse their own children; for they bring them up with greater affection and with greater anxiety, as loving them from the heart, and, so to speak, every inch of them. But the love of a nurse is spurious and counterfeit, as loving them only for hire.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

EDGAR ALLAN POE, poet and romancer, was born at Boston in 1809; died at Baltimore in 1849. He was, for a while, a cadet at West Point, but decided on a literary career in preference to the army. His first volume of poems he published at the age of nineteen. Subsequently he was editor of several magazines. Poe was not properly appreciated in his own day, nor has he been since, but over a half century after his death has passed and his fame is increasing and time will undoubtedly give him his rightful place among the greatest of America's literary geniuses. Although a New Englander by birth he had no great sympathy with the exclusively Boston idea of literature, at a time when no other was supposed to be of importance in this country. The public seem to have been unpleasantly affected by the melancholy strain in his writing, and overlooked his originality and real power. Among his best known are "Tamerlane and Other Poems." "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque,” “The Raven,” and short stories.

THE RAVEN

ONCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered,

weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping-rapping at my chamber door.

""Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door:

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore,

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,

Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me-filled me-with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood

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repeating,

'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

door;

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door:

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,

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Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I

implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than

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before.

Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window-lattice:

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore:

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore:

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days

of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he:

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance

it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore.

Tell me what they lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy

bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did

out pour.

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered:

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before!

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before!"

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."