hole of the last year he must have been tortured by various
turns of mind. Had he done well in joining himself to Pompey? and having
done so, had he done well in severing himself, immediately on Pompey's
death, from the Pompeians? Looking at the matter as from a stand-point
quite removed from it, we are inclined to say that he had done well in
both. He could not without treachery have gone over to Caesar when Caesar
had come to the gate of Italy, and, as it were with a blast of his
trumpet, had demanded the Consulship, a triumph, the use of his legions,
and the continuance of his military power. "Let Pompey put down his, and
I will put down mine," he had said. Had Pompey put down his, Pompey and
Cicero, Cato and Brutus, and Bibulus would all have had to walk at the
heels of Caesar. When Pompey declared that he would contest the point, he
declared for them all. Cicero was bound to go to Pharsalia. But when, by
Pompey's incompetence, Caesar was the victor; when Pompey had fallen at
the Nile, and all the lovers of the fish-ponds, and the intractable
oligarchs, and the cutthroats of the Empire, such as young Pompey had
become, had scattered themselves far and wide, some to Asia, some to
Illyricum, some to Spain, and more to Africa--as a herd of deer shall be
seen to do when a vast hound has appeared among them, with his jaws
already dripping with blood--was Cicero then to take his part with any
of them? I hold that he did what dignity required, and courage also. He
went back to Italy, and there he waited till the conqueror should come.

It must have been very bitter. Never to have become great has nothing in
it of bitterness for a noble spirit. What matters it to the unknown man
whether a Caesar or a Pompey is at the top of all things? Or if it does
matter--as indeed that question of his governance does matter to every
man who has a soul within him to be turned this way or that--which way
he is turned, though there may be inner regrets that Caesar should become
the tyrant, perhaps keener regrets, if the truth were all seen, that
Pompey's hands should be untrammelled, who sees them? I can walk down to
my club with my brow unclouded, or, unless I be stirred to foolish wrath
by the pride of some one equally vain, can enjoy myself amid the
festivities of the hour. It is but a little affair to me. If it come in
my way to do a thing, I will do my best, and there is an end of it. The
sense of responsibility is not there, nor the gri