thstanding his success and honors, his life was saddened by the
growing dissensions between Caesar and Pompey, the decline of public
spirit, and the approaching fall of the institutions in which he
gloried. It was clear that one or the other of these fortunate generals
would soon become the master of the Roman world, and that liberty was
about to perish. His eloquence now became sad; he sings the death-song
of departing glories; he wails his Jeremiads over the demoralization
which was sweeping away not merely liberty, but religion, and
extinguishing faith in the world. To console himself he retired to one
of his beautiful villas and wrote that immortal essay, "De Oratore,"
which has come down to us entire. His literary genius now blazed equally
with his public speeches in the Forum and in the Senate. Literature was
his solace and amusement, not a source of profit, or probably of
contemporary fame. He wrote treatises on the same principles that he
talked with friends, or that Fra Angelico painted pictures. He renewed
his attempts in poetry, but failed. His poetry is in the transcendent
rhythm of his prose compositions, like that of Madame de Stael, and
Macaulay, and Rousseau.

But he was dragged from his literary and forensic life to accept the
office of a governor of a province. It was forced upon him,--an honor to
him without a charm. Had he been venal and unscrupulous, he would have
seized it with avidity. He was too conscientious to enrich himself by
public corruption, as other Senators did, and unless he could accumulate
a fortune the command of a distant province was an honorable exile. He
was fifty-six years of age when he became Proconsul of Cilicia, an
Eastern province; and all historians have united in praising his
proconsulate for its justice, its integrity, and its ability. He
committed no extortions, and returned home, when his term of office
expired, as poor as when he went. One of the highest praises which can
be given to a public man who has chances of enriching himself is, that
he remains poor. When a member of Congress, known not to be worth ten
thousand dollars, returns to his home worth one hundred thousand
dollars, the public have an instinct that he has, somehow or other, been
untrue to himself and his country. When a great man returns home from
Washington poorer than when he went, his influence is apt to survive his
power; and this perpetuated influence is the highest glory of a public
man,--the gl