There was a very renowned Roman general, by the name of Agricola, who, under Titus, had been very efficiently employed in Britain in endeavoring to civilize the barbarous natives. He taught them many of the manners and customs of the more enlightened Romans. It is said that Domitian, fearing that Agricola was acquiring reputation, caused him to be poisoned. Sin and insanity are closely allied. Domitian wished to enjoy the splendors of a Roman triumph; but he had never won a victory. He was no soldier. Still he got up a magnificent civil and military display, and with streaming banners, and pealing music, and the tramp of armed legions, entered Rome, charioted like a conqueror returning from the most triumphant campaign. A large number of slaves, disguised as captives of war, were led in the train to grace a triumph which exposed Domitian to universal ridicule and contempt. He assumed divine honors; reared statues of himself in gold and silver in conspicuous positions, and required his subjects to address him as a god. Any who were suspected of being unfriendly to him were mercilessly punished with torture and death. The extravagance of his expenditure was so enormous, that Martial says, in one of his epigrams,―― “If the emperor would call in all his debts, Jupiter himself, even though he had made a general auction of Olympus, would have been unable to pay two shillings in the pound.” The tyrant kept a tablet, upon which he wrote the names of those whom he had doomed to die. His infamous wife Domitia, for some cause suspecting him, got a peep at the tablet while her husband was asleep. To her consternation, she found her own name, with those of several others, on the fatal list. She immediately entered into a conspiracy with them for the assassination of her husband. One of the conspirators approached the emperor under the pretence of presenting him a memoir disclosing a conspiracy. Assuming that his right arm was crippled, it was hung in a sling. As he presented the memorial with his left hand, he suddenly drew a concealed dagger, and plunged it into the heart of the tyrant. Thus died Domitian, as is reported, on the 17th of September, A.D. 96. He was but forty-five years of age, and had reigned fifteen years. This wicked world of ours has produced many monsters. Among them all, it would be difficult to find any one more execrable than Domitian. In his character, not a redeeming trait could be found to mitigate the hatred and contempt with which he was universally regarded. The tidings of his death were hailed with joy throughout the empire. His statues were demolished, and his name consigned to infamy.