of fortune, had come, in the bloom of life, to violent and shameful ends. She had herself been banished by her brother to the island of Pontia, and had been made to carry on her journey, in her bosom, the inurned ashes of her brother-in-law, Lepidus, with whom, as with others, her name had been dishonourably involved. She had already been twice a widow, and the world said that she had poisoned her second husband, Crispus Passienus. What did she care what the world said? But even if she had poisoned that old and wealthy orator--what then? His wealth had been and would be very useful to her. Since that day her fortunes had been golden. She had been recalled from her dreary banishment. Her soul had been as glowing iron in the flame of adversity; but the day of her adversity had passed. When the time was ripe she had made her magnificent way in the Court of her uncle Claudius until she became his wife, and had swept all her rivals out of her path by her brilliant beauty and triumphant intrigues. She thought of some of those rivals, and as she thought of them an evil smile lighted up her beautiful features. Messalina, her predecessor--did not everything seem to be in her favour? Claudius had doted on her; she fooled him to the top of his bent. She had borne him two fair children, and the emperor loved them. Who could help loving the reserved but noble Britannicus, the gentle and innocent Octavia? No doubt Messalina had felt certain that her boy should succeed his father. But how badly she had managed! How silly had been her preference for pleasure over ambition! How easily Agrippina had contrived that, without her taking any overt share in the catastrophe, Messalina should destroy herself by her own shamelessness, and perish, while still little more than girl, by the sword of the executioner, in a pre-eminence of shame!