University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE SENATE.

Othello.

The second morning had arrived, after that regularly
appointed for the Consular elections.

No tumult had occurred, nor any overt act to justify the
apprehensions of the people; yet had those apprehensions
in no wise abated. The very indistinctness of the rumored
terror perhaps increased its weight; and so wide-spread
was the vague alarm, so prevalent the dread and
excitement, that in the hagard eyes and pale faces of the
frustrated conspirators, there was little, if anything, to call
attention; for whose features wore their natural expression,
during those fearful days, each moment of which
might bring forth massacre and conflagration? Whose,
but the great Consul's?

The second morning had arrived; and the broad orb of
the newly risen sun, lurid and larger than his wont, as it
struggled through the misty haze of the Italian autumn,
had scarcely gained sufficient altitude to throw its beams
over the woody crest of the Esquiline into the hollow of
the Sacred Way.

The slant light fell, however, full on the splendid terraces
and shrines of the many-templed Palatine, playing upon
their stately porticoes, and tipping their rich capitals
with golden lustre.

And at that early hour, the ancient hill was thronged
with busy multitudes.

The crisis was at hand—the Senate was in solemn session.
The knights were gathered in their force, all arm

ed. The younger members of the patrician houses were
mustered with their clients. The fasces of the lictors displayed
the broad heads of the axes glittering above the
rods, which bound them—the axes, never borne in time of
peace, or within the city walls, save upon strange emergency.

In the old temple of Jupiter Stator, chosen on this occasion
for the strength of its position, standing on the very
brink of the steep declivity of the hill where it overlooked
the great Roman forum, that grand assembly sate in grave
deliberation.

The scene was worthy of the actors, as were the actors
of the strange tragedy in process.

It was the cella, or great circular space of the inner
temple. The brazen doors of this huge hall, facing the
west, as was usual in all Roman temples, were thrown
open; and without these, on the portico, yet so placed that
they could hear every word that passed within the building,
sat on their benches, five on each side of the door, the
ten tribunes[1] of the people.

Within the great space, surrounded by a double peristyle
of tall Tuscan columns, and roofed by a vast dome,
richly carved and gilded, but with a circular opening at
the summit, through which a flood of light streamed down
on the assembled magnates, the Senate was in session.

Immediately facing the doors stood the old Statue of
the God, as old, it was believed by some, as the days of
Romulus, with the high altar at its base, hung round with
votive wreaths, and glittering with ornaments of gold.

Around this altar were grouped the augurs, each clad,
as was usual on occasions of high solemnity, in his trabea,
or robe of horizontal stripes, in white and purple; each
holding in his hand his lituus, a crooked staff whereby to
designate the temples of the heaven, in which to observe
the omens.

On every side of the circumference, except that occupied
by the altar and the idol, were ranged in circular
state the benches of the order.

Immediately to the right of the altar, were placed the
curule chairs, rich with carved ivory and crimson cushions,
of the two consuls; and behind them, erect, with their
shouldered axes, stood the stout lictors.

Cicero, as the first chosen of the consuls, sat next the
statue of the God; calm in his outward mien, as the severe
and placid features of the marble deity, although
within him the soul labored mightily, big with the fate of
Rome. Next him Antonius, a stout, bold, sensual-looking
soldier, filled his place—worthily, indeed, so far as stature,
mien, and bearing were concerned; but with a singular
expression in his eye, which seemed to indicate embarrassment,
perhaps apprehension.

After these, the presiding officers of the Republic, were
present, each according to his rank, the conscript fathers—
first, the Prince of the Senate, and then the Consulars, Censorians,
and Prætorians, down to those who had filled the
lowest office of the state, that of Quæstor, which gave its
occupant, after his term of occupancy expired, admission to
the grand representative assembly of the commonwealth.

For much as there has been written on all sides of this
subject, there now remains no doubt that, from the earliest
to the latest age of Rome, the Senate was strictly,
although an aristocratical, still an elective representative
assembly.

The Censors, themselves, elected by the Patricians out
of their own order, in the assembly of the Curiæ, had the
appointment of the Senators; but from those only who
had filled one of the magistracies, all of which were conferred
by the popular vote of the assembly of the centuries;
and all of which, at this period of the Republic,
might be, and sometimes were, conferred on Plebeians—
as in the case of Marius, six times elected Consul in spite
of Patrician opposition.

Such was the constitution of the Senate, purely elective,
though like all other portions of the Roman constitution,
under such checks and balances as were deemed sufficient
to ensure it from becoming a democratical assembly.

And such, in fact, it never did become. For having

been at first an elective body chosen from an hereditary
aristocracy, it was at that time, save in the varying principles
of individuals, wholly aristocratic in its nature.
Nor, after the tenure of the various magistracies, which
conferred eligibility to the Senate, was thrown open to
the plebeians, did any great change follow; since the preponderance
of patrician influence in the assembly of the
centuries, and the force perhaps of old habit, combined to
continue most of the high offices of state in the hands of
members of the Old Houses. Again, when plebeians were
raised to office, and became, as they were styled, New
Men, they speedily were merged in the nobility; and
were no less aristocratic in their measures, than the oldest
members of the aristocracy.

For when have plebeians, anywhere, when elevated to
superior rank, been true to their origin; been other than
the fellest persecutors of plebeians?

The senate was therefore still, as it had been, a calm
and conservative assembly.

It was not indeed, what it had been, before Marius first,
and then Sylla, the avenger, had decimated it of their foes
with the sword; and filled the vacancies with unworthy
friends and partizans.

Yet it was still a grand, a wise, a noble body—when
viewed as a body—and, for the most part, its decisions
were worthy of its dignity and power—were sage, conservative,
and patriotic.

On this occasion, all motives had conspired to produce
a full house; doubt, anger, fear, excitement, curiosity,
the love of country, the strong sense of right, the fiery impulses
of interest, hate, vengeance, had urged all men of
all parties, to be participants in the eventful business of
the day.

About five hundred senators were present; men of all
ages from thirty-two years[2] upward—that being the earliest
at which a man could fill this eminent seat. But the
majority were of those, who having passed the prime of
active life, might be considered to have reached the highest
of mental power and capacity, removed alike from the

greenness of inconsiderate youth, and the imbecility of
extreme old age.

The rare beauty of the Italian race—the strength and
symmetry of the unrivalled warrior nation, of which these
were, for the most part, the noblest and most striking specimens;
the grand flow of the snow-white draperies, faced
with the broad crimson laticlave—the classic grace of their
positions—the absence of all rigid angular lines, of anything
mean or meagre, fantastic or tawdry in the garb of
the solemn concourse, rendered the meeting of Rome's
Fathers a widely different spectacle from the convention
of any other representative assembly, the world has ever
witnessed.

There was no flippancy, no affectation, no light converse
—The members, young or old, had come thither to perform
a great duty, in strength of purpose, singleness of spirit—
and all felt deeply the weight of the present moment, the
vastness of the interests concerned. The good and the
true were there convened to defend the majesty, perhaps
the safety, of their country—the wicked to strive for interest,
for revenge, for life itself!

For Catiline well knew, and had instilled his knowledge
carefully into the minds of his confederates, that now
to conquer was indeed to triumph; that now to be defeated
was to fail, probably, forever—to die, it was most like, by
the dread doom of the Tarpeian.

Not one of the conspirators but was in his appointed place,
firm, seemingly unconscious, and unruffled; and as the
eye of the great consul glanced from one to another of that
guilty throng, he could not, even amid his detestation of
their crimes, but admire the cool hardihood with which
they sat unmoved on the brink of destruction; could not
but think, within himself, how vast the good that might be
wrought by such resolution, under a virtuous leader, and
in an upright cause. Catiline noticed the glance; and as
he marked it run along the crowded benches, dwelling a
moment on the face of each one of his own confederates, he
saw in an instant, that all was discovered; and, as he saw,
resolved that since craft had failed to conceal, henceforth
he would trust audacity alone to carry out his detected
villainy.

But now the augurs had performed their rites; the day

was pronounced fortunate; the assembly formal; and nothing
more remained, but to proceed to the business of the
moment.

A little pause ensued, after the sanction of the augurs
had been given; a short space, during which each man
drew a deep breath, as though he were aware that ere
long he should hear words spoken, that would thrill his every
nerve with excitement, and hold him breathless with
awe and apprehension.

There was not a voice, not a motion, not the rustling of
a garment, through the large building; for every living
form was mute, as the marble effigies around them, with
intense expectation.

Every eye of conspirator, or patriot, was riveted upon
the consul, the new man of Arpinum.

He rose, not unobservant of the general expectation,
nor ungratified; for that great man, with all his grand
genius, solid intellect, sound virtue, had one small miserable
weakness; he was not proud, but vain; vain beyond the
feeblest and most craving vanity of womanhood.

Yet now he showed it not—perhaps felt it, in a less degree
than usual; it might be, it was crushed within him for
the time, by the magnitude of vast interests, the consciousness
of right motives, the necessity of extraordinary efforts.

He rose; advanced a step or two, in front of his curule
chair, and in a clear slow voice gave utterance to the solemn
words, which formed the exordium to all senatorial
business.

“May this be good, and of good omen, happy, and fortunate
to the Roman people, the Quirites; which now I lay
before you, Fathers, and Conscript Senators.”

He paused, emphatically, with the formula; and then
raising his voice a little, and turning his eyes slowly round
the house, as if in mute appeal to all the senators.

“For that,” he said, “on which you must this day detemine,
concerns not the majesty or magnitude of Rome
—the question is not now of insolent foes to be chastised,
or of faithful friends to be rewarded—is not, how the city
shall be made more beautiful, the state more proud and
noble, the empire more enduring. No, conscript fathers;
for the round world has never seen a city, so flourishing in
all rare beauty, so decorated with the virtue of her living

citizens, so noble in the memories of her dead heroes—the
sun has never shone upon a state, so solidly established;
upon an empire so majestical and mighty; extending from
the Herculean columns, the far limits of the west, beyond
the blue Symplegades; from Hyperborean snows, to the
parched sands of Ethiopia!—no! Conscript Fathers, for
we have no foes unsubdued, from the wild azure-tinctured
hordes of Gaul to the swart Eunuchs of the Pontic
king—for we have no friends unrewarded, unsheltered by
the wings of our renown.

“No! it is not to beautify, to stablish, to augment—but to
preserve the empire, that I now call upon you; that I now
urge you, by all that is sweet, is sacred, is sublime in the
name of our country; that I implore you, by whatever earth
contains of most awful, and heaven of most holy!

“I said to preserve it! And do you ask from whom?
Is there a Gallic tumult? Have Cimbric myriads again
scaled the Alps, and poured their famished deluge over
our devastated frontiers? Hath Mithridates trodden on
the neck of Pompey? By the great gods! hath Carthage
revived from her ashes? is Hannibal, or a greater one
than Hannibal, again thundering at our gates, with Punic
engines visible from the Janiculum?

“If it were so, I should not despair of Rome—my heart
would not throb, as it now does, nor my voice tremble with
anxiety.

“Cisalpine Gaul is tranquil as the vale of Arno! No
bow is bended in the Teutonic forests, unless against the
elk or urus! The legions have not turned their backs before
the scymetars of Pontus! The salt sown in the market-place
of Carthage hath borne no crop, but desolation.
The one-eyed conqueror is nerveless in the silent grave!

“But were all these, now peaceful, subjugated, lifeless,
were all these, I say, in arms, victorious, present, upon
this soil of Italy, around these walls of Rome, I should
doubt nothing, fear nothing, expect nothing, but present
strife, and future victory!

“There is—there is, that spark of valor, that clear light
of Roman virtue, alive in every heart; yea! even of our
maids and matrons, that they would brook no hostile step
even upon the threshold of our empire!

“What then do I foresee? what fear? Massacre—

parricide—conflagration—treason! Treason in Rome itself—in
the Forum—in the Campus—here! Here in this
holiest and safest spot! Here in the shrine of that great
God, who, ages since, when this vast Rome was but a mud-built
hamlet, that golden capitol, a straw-thatched shed,
rolled back the tide of war, and stablished here, here, where
my foot is fixed, the immortal seat of empire!

“Even now as I turn my eyes around me they fall abhorrent
on the faces, they read indignant the designs, of their
country's parricides!

“Aye! Conscript Fathers, prætorians, patricians of the
great old houses, I see them in their places here; ready to
vote immediately on their own monstrous schemes! I see
them here, adulterers, forgers of wills, assassins, spend-thrifts,
poisoners, defilers of vestal virgins, contemners of
the Gods, parricides of the Republic! I see them, with
daggers sharpened against all true Romans, lurking beneath
their fringed and perfumed tunics! Misled by
strange ambition, maddened with lust, drunk with despairing
guilt, athirst for the blood of citizens!

“I see them! you all see them! Will you await in
coward apathy, until they shake you from your lethargy—
until the outcries of your murdered children, of your ravished
wives arouse you, until you awake from your sleep
and find Rome in ashes?

“You hear me—you gaze on me in wonder, you ask me
with your eyes what it is that I mean? who are the traitors?
Lend me your ears then, and fix well your minds,
lest they shrink in disgust and wonder. Lend me your
ears only, and I fear not that you will determine, worthily
of yourselves, and of the Republic!

“You all well know that on the 16th day before the calends
of November, which should have been the eve of the
consular Elections, I promised that I would soon lay before
you ample proofs of the plot, which then I foretold to
you but darkly.

“Mark, now, the faces of the men I shall address, and
judge whether I then promised vainly; whether what I
shall now disclose craves your severe attention—your immediate
action.”

He paused for a moment, as if to note the effect of his
words: then turning round abruptly upon the spot, where

Catiline sat, writhing with rage and impatience, and gnawing
his nether lip, until the blood trickled down his chin,
he flung forth his arm with an indignant gesture, and instantly
addressed him by his name, in tones that rang
beneath the vaulted roof, over the heads of the self-convicted
traitors, like heaven's own thunder, and found a fearful
echo in their dismayed and guilty souls.

“Where wert thou, Catiline?” he thundered forth the
charge, amid the mute astonishment of all—“Where wert
thou on the evening of the Ides? what wert thou doing?
Speak! Unless guilt and despair hold thee silent, I say to
thee, speak, Catiline!”

Again he stopped in mid-speech, as if for an answer, fixed
his eye steadily on the face of the arch conspirator.
But he, though he spoke not to reply, quailed not, nor
shunned that steady gaze, but met it with a terrible and
porteatous glare, pregnant with more than mortal hatred.

“Thou wilt not—can'st not—darest not! Now hear
and tremble! Hear, and know that no step of thine, or
deed, or motion escapes my eye—no, traitor, not one movement!

“On the eve of the Ides, thou wert in the street of the
Scythemakers! Ha! does thy cheek burn now? In the
house of a senator—of Marcus Porcus Læca. But thou
wert not there, till thou hadst added one more deed of
murder to those which needed no addition. Thou wert, I
say, in the house of Læca; and many whom I now see
around me, with trim and well-curled beards, with long-sleeved
tunics and air-woven togas, many whom I could
name, and will, if needs be, were there with thee!

“What beverage didst thou send around? what oath
didst thou administer, thou to thy foul associates? and on
the altar of what God?

“Fathers, my mind shrinks, as I speak, with horror—
that bowl mantled to the brim with the gore of a human
victim; those lips reeked with that dread abomination!
His lips, and those of others, fitter to sip voluptuous nectar
from the soft mouths of their noble paramours than to quaff
such pollution!

“That oath was to destroy Rome, utterly, with fire and
the sword, till not one stone should stand upon another, to
mark the site of empire!

“The silver eagle was the god to whom he swore! The
silver eagle, whose wings were dyed so deep in massacre
by Marius—to whom he had a shrine in his own house, consecrated
by what crimes, adored by what sacrilege, I say
not!

“The consular election was the day fixed; and, had the
people met on that day in the Campus, on that day had
Rome ceased to be!

“To murder me in my robes of peace, at the Comitia,
to murder the consuls elect, to murder the patricians to a
man, was his own task, most congenial to his own savage
nature!

“To fire the city in twelve several places was destined
to his worthy comrades, whose terror my eye now beholds,
whose names for the present my tongue shall not disclose.
For I would give them time to repent, to change their frantic
purpose, to cast away their sin—oh! that they would
do so! oh! that they would have compassion on their
prostrate and imploring country—compassion on themselves—on
me, who beseech them to turn back, ere it be
too late, to the ways of virtue, happiness, and honor!

“But names there are, which I will speak out, for to conceal
them would avail nothing, since they have drawn the
sword already, and raised the banner of rebellion against
the majesty of Rome.

“Septimius of Camerinum has stirred the slaves even now
to a fresh servile war! has given out arms! has appointed
leaders! by the Gods! has a force on foot in the Picene
district! Julius is soliciting the evil spirits of Apulia; and,
ere four days have flown, you shall have tidings from the
north, that Caius Manlius is in arms at Fæsulæ. Already
he commands more than two legions; not of raw levies,
not of emancipated slaves, or enfranchised gladiators—
though these ere long will swell his host. No! Sylla's
veterans muster under his banner—the same swords gleam
around him which conquered the famed Macedonian phalanx
at bloody Chæronea, which stormed the long walls of
Piræus, which won Bithynia, Cappadocia, Paphlagonia,
which drove great Mithridates back to his own Pontus!

“Nor is this all—for, if frustrated by the postponement
of the consular comitia, believe not that the rage of the

parricide is averted, or his thirst for the blood of Romans
quenched forever.

“No, Fathers, he hath but deferred the day; and even
now he hath determined on another. The fifth before the
calends! Await that day in quiet, and ye will never rue
your apathy. For none of you shall live to rue it, save those
who now smile grimly, conscious of their own desperate
resolve, expectant of your apathy.

“Nor is his villainy all told, even now; for so securely
and so wisely has he laid his plans, that, had not the great
Gods interfered and granted it to me to discover all, he
must needs have succeeded! On the night of the calends
themselves he would have been the master of Præneste,
that rich and inaccessible strong-hold, by a nocturnal escalade!
That I myself have already made impossible—the
magistrates are warned, the free burghers armed, and the
castle garrisoned by true men, and impregnable.

“Do ye the like, Fathers and Conscript Senators, and
Rome also shall be safe, inaccessible, immortal. Give me
the powers to save you, and I devote my mind, my life.
I am here ready to die at this instant—far worse than death
to a noble mind, ready to go hence, and be forgotten, if I
may rescue Rome from this unequalled peril!”

Again, he ceased speaking for a moment, and many
thought that he had concluded his oration; but in a second's
space he resumed, in a tone more spirited and fiery yet,
his eyes almost flashing lightning, and his whole frame appearing
to expand, as he confronted the undaunted traitor.

“Dost thou not now see, Catiline, that in all things thou
art my inferior? Dost thou not feel thyself caught, detected
like a thief? baffled? defeated? beaten? and wilt
thou not now lay down thine arms, thy rage, thy hate,
against this innocent republic? wilt thou not liberate me
now from great fear, great peril, and great odium?

“No! thou wilt not—the time hath flown! thou canst
not repent—canst not forgive, or be forgiven—the Gods
have maddened thee to thy destruction—thy crimes are
full-blown, and ripening fast for harvest—earth is aweary of
thy guilt—Hades yawns to receive thee!

“Tremble, then, tremble! Yea! in the depths of thy
secret soul—for all thine eye glares more with hate than
terror, and thy lip quivers, not with remorse but rage—

yea! thou dost tremble—for thou dost see, feel, know,
thy schemes, thy confederates, thyself, detected, frustrated,
devoted to destruction!

“Enough! It is for you, my Fathers, to determine;
for me to act your pleasure. And if your own souls, your
own lives, your own interests, yea! your own fears, cry
not aloud to rouse you, with a voice stronger than the eternal
thunder, why should I seek to warn you? Whom his
own, his wife's, children's, country's safety, the glory of
his great forefathers, the veneration of the everlasting
Gods awaiting his decision from the tottering pinnacle of
Rome's capitol—whom all these things excite not to action
—no voice of man, no portent of the Gods themselves can
stir to energy or valor; and I but waste my words in
exhorting you to manhood!

“But they will burst the bonds of your long stupor;
they will re-kindle, in your hearts, that blaze of Roman
virtue, which may sleep for a while, but never can be all
extinguished!—and ye will stir yourselves like men; ye
will save your country! For this thing I do not believe;
that the immortal Gods would have built up this common-wealth
of Rome to such a height of beauty, of glory, of puissance,
had they foredoomed it to destruction, by hands
so base as those now armed against it. Nor, had it been
their pleasure to abolish its great name, and make it such
as Troy and Carthage, would they have placed me here, the
consul, endowed by themselves with power to discern, but
with no power to avert destruction!”

His words had done their work. The dismayed blank
faces of all the conspirators, with the exception of the arch
traitor only, whom it would seem that nothing could disconcert
or dismay, confirmed the impression made upon
all minds by that strong appeal. For, though he had mentioned
no man's name save Catiline's and Læca's only, suspicion
was called instantly to those who were their known
associates in riot and debauchery; and many eyes were
scrutinizing the pale features, which struggled vainly to appear
calm and unconcerned.

The effect of the speech was immediate, universal.
There were not three men of the order present who were
not now convinced as fully in their own minds of the truth
of Cicero's accusation, as they would, had it come forth in

thunder from the cold lips of the marble God, who overlooked
their proud assembly.

There was a long drawn breath, as he ceased speaking
—one, and simultaneous through the whole concourse;
and, though there were a few men there, Crassus, especially,
and Caius Julius Cæsar, who, though convinced of
the existence of conspiracy, would fain have defended the
conspirators, in the existing state of feeling, they dared not
attempt to do so.

Then Cicero called by name on the Prince of the Senate,
enquiring if he would speak on the subject before the
house, and on receiving from him a grave negative gesture,
he put the same question to the eldest of the consulars, and
thence in order, none offering any opinion or showing any
wish to debate, until he came to Marcus Cato. He rose
at once to speak, stern and composed, without the least
sign of animation on his impassive face, without the least
attempt at eloquence in his words, or grace in his gestures;
yet it was evident that he was heard with a degree
of attention, which proved that the character of the man
more than compensated the unvarnished style and rough
phraseology of the speaker.

“As it appears to me,” he said, “Fathers and Conscript
Senators, after the very luminous and able oration which
our wise consul has this day held forth, it would be great
folly, and great loss of time, to add many words to it.
This I am not about to do, I assure you, but I arise in my
place to say two things. Cicero has told you that a conspiracy
exists, and that Catiline is the planner, and will be
the executor of it. This, though I know not by what sagacity
or foresight, unless from the Gods, he discovered it
—this, I say, I believe confidently, clearly—all things declare
it—not least the faces of men! I believe therefore,
every word our consul has spoken; so do you all, my
friends. Nevertheless, it is just and right, that the man,
villain as he may be, shall be heard in his own behalf. Let
him then speak at once, or confess by his silence! This is
the first thing I would say—the next follows it! If he
admit, or fail clearly to disprove his guilt, let us not be
wanting to ourselves, to our country, or to the great and
prudent consul, who, if man can, will save us in this crisis.
Let us, I say, decree forthwith, `That the Consuls see

the Republic takes no harm!' and let us hold the consular
election to-morrow, on the field of Mars—There, with our
magistrates empowered to act, our clients in arms to defend
us, let us see who will dare to disturb the Roman people!
Let who would do so, remember that not all the power or
favor of Great Marius could rescue Saturninus from the
death he owed the people—remember that we have a consul
no less resolute and vigorous, than he is wise and good
—that there are axes in the fasces of the Lictors—that
there stands the Tarpeian!”

And as he spoke, he flung wide both his arms; pointing
with this hand to the row of glittering blades which shone
above the head of the chief magistrate, with that, through
the open door-way of the temple, to the bold front of the
precipitous and fatal rock, all lighted up by the gay sunbeams,
as it stood fronting them, beyond the hollow Velabrum,
crowned with the ramparts of the capitol.

A general hum, as if of assent, followed, and without
putting the motion to the vote, Cicero turned his eye rapidly
to every face, and receiving from every senator a
slight nod of assent, he looked steadily in the fierce and
ghastly face of the traitor, and said to him;

“Arise, Catiline, and speak, if you will!—But take my
counsel, confess your guilt, go hence, and be forgiven!”

“Forgiven!” cried the traitor, furious and desperate—
“Forgiven!—this to a Roman citizen!—this to a Roman
noble! Hear me, Fathers and Conscript Senators—hear
me!—who am a soldier and a man, and neither driveller
nor dotard. I tell you, there is no conspiracy, hath been
none, shall be none—save in the addled brains of you prater
from Arpinum, who would fain set his foot upon the neck
of Romans. All is, all shall be peace in Rome, unless the
terror of a few dastards drive you to tyranny and persecution,
and from persecution come resistance? For myself,
let them who would ruin me, beware. My hand has
never yet failed to protect my head, nor have many foes
laughed in the end at Sergius Catiline!—unless,” he added
with a ferocious sneer—“they laughed in their death-pang.
For my wrongs past, I have had some vengeance; for these,
though I behold the axes, though I see, whence I stand,
the steep Tarpeian, I think I shall have more, and live to
feast my eyes with the downfall of my foes. Fathers, there

are two bodies in the State, one weak, with a base but
crafty head—the other powerful and vast, but headless.
Urge me a little farther, and you shall find that a wise and
daring head will not be wanting long, to that bold and
puissant body. Urge me, and I will be that head; oppress
me, and —”

But insolence such as this, was not tolerable. There
was an universal burst, almost a shout, of indignation from
that assembly, the wonted mood of which was so stern, so
cold, so gravely dignified, and silent. Many among the
younger senators sprang to their feet, enraged almost beyond
the control of reason; nor did the bold defiance of the
daring traitor, who stood with his arms folded on his breast,
and a malignant sneer of contempt on his lip, mocking their
impotent displeasure, tend to disarm their wrath.

Four times he raised his voice, four times a cry of indignation
drowned his words, and at length, seeing that he
could obtain no farther hearing, he resumed his seat with
an expression fiendishly malignant, and a fierce imprecation
on Rome, and all that it contained.

After a little time, the confusion created by the audacity
of that strange being moderated; order and silence were
restored, and, upon Cato's motion, the Senate was divided.

Whatever might have been the result had Catiline been
silent, the majority was overwhelming. The very partisans
and favorers of the conspiracy, not daring to commit
themselves more openly, against so strong a manifestation,
passed over one by one, and voted with the consul.

Catiline stood alone, against the vote of the whole order.
Yet stood and voted resolute, as though he had been conscious
of the right.

The vote was registered, the Senate declared martial
law, investing the consuls with dictatorial power, by the
decree which commanded them to see that the Republic
takes no harm.

The very tribunes, factious and reckless as they were,
potent for ill and powerless for good, presumed not to interpose.
Not even Lucius Bestia, deep as he was in the
design—Bestia, whose accusation of the consul from the rostrum
was the concerted signal for the massacre, the conflagration—not
Bestia himself, relied so far on the inviolability
of his person, as to intrude his VETO.

The good cause had prevailed—the good Consul triumphed!
The Senate was dismissed, and as the stream
of patrician togas flowed through the temple door conspicuous,
the rash and reckless traitor shouldered the mass
to and fro, dividing it as a brave galley under sail divides
the murmuring but unresisting billows.

Once in the throng he touched Julius Cæsar's robe as
he brushed onward, and as he did so, a word fell on his
ear in the low harmonious tones which marked the orator,
second to none in Rome, save Cicero alone!—

“Fear not,” it said—“another day will come!—”

“Fear!—” exclaimed the Conspirator in a hoarse cry,
half fury, half contempt. “What is fear?—I know not the
thing, nor the word!—Go, prate of fear to Cicero, and
he will understand you!”

These words perhaps alienated one who might have
served him well.

But so it ever is! Even in the shrewdest and most
worldly wise of men, passion will often outweigh interest;
and plans, which have been framed for years with craft
and patience, are often wrecked by the impetuous rashness
of a moment.

END OF VOL. I.