ory of Jefferson, of Hamilton, of Washington, like the voice
of Gladstone during his retirement. Now Cicero had pre-eminently this
influence as long as he lived; and it was ever exerted for the good of
his country. Had his country been free, he would have died in honor. But
his country was enslaved, and his voice was drowned, and he had to pay
the penalty of speaking the truth about those unscrupulous men who
usurped authority.

On his return to Rome the state of public affairs was most alarming.
Caesar and Pompey were in antagonism. He must choose between them, and
he distrusted both. Caesar was the more able, accomplished, and
magnanimous, but he was the more unscrupulous and dangerous. He had
ventured to cross the Rubicon,--the first general who ever dared thus
openly to assail his country's liberties. Pompey was pompous, overrated,
and proud, and had been fortunate in the East. But then he sided with
the Constitutional authorities,--that is, with the Senate,--so far as
his ambition allowed. So Cicero took his side feebly, reluctantly, as
the least of the evils he had to choose, but not without vacillation,
which is one of the popular charges against him. "His distraction almost
took the form of insanity." "His inconsistency was an incoherence."
Never did a more wretched man than Cicero resort to Pompey's camp, where
he remained until his cause was lost. He returned, after the battle of
Pharsalia, a suppliant at the feet of Caesar, the conqueror. This, to
me, is one of his weakest acts. It would have been more lofty and heroic
to have perished in the camp of Pompey's sons.

In the midst of these public misfortunes which saddened his soul, his
private miseries began. He was now prematurely an old man, under sixty
years of age, almost broken down with grief. His beloved daughter
Tullia, with whom his life was bound up, died; and he was divorced from
his wife Terentia,--a proceeding the cause of which remains a mystery.
Neither in his most confidential letters, nor in his conversations with
most intimate friends, does it appear that he ever unbosomed himself,
although he was the frankest and most social of men. In his impressive
silence he has set one of the noblest examples of a man afflicted with
domestic infelicities. He buries his conjugal troubles in eternal
silence; although he is forced to give vent to sorrows, so plaintive and
bitter that both friend and foe were constrained to pity. He expects no
sympathy, eve