caped from the Vivaria.'

'Thy laugh,' said the figure, 'is the music of a sick and dying soul. It
is a rebel's insult against the majesty of Heaven; ay, laugh on! That is
what the devils do; it is the merriment of hell. What time they burn
not, they laugh. But enough. Hold now thy scoffing, Prefect Varus, for,
high as thou art, I fear thee not: no! not wert thou twice Aurelian,
instead of Varus. I have somewhat for thee. Wilt hear it?'

'With delight, Bubo. Say on.'

'It was thy word just now, 'Rome needs not this doctrine,' was it not?'

'If I said it not, it is a good saying, and I will father it.'

''Rome needs not this doctrine; she is well enough; let her alone!'
These were thy words. Need not, Varus, the streets of Rome a cleansing
river to purify them? Dost thou think them well enough, till all the
fountains have been let loose to purge them? Is Tarquin's sewer a place
to dwell in? Could all the waters of Rome sweeten it? The people of Rome
are fouler than her highways. The sewers are sweeter than the very
worshippers of our temples. Thou knowest somewhat of this. Wast ever
present at the rites of Bacchus?--or those of the Cyprian goddess? Nay,
blush not yet. Didst ever hear of the gladiator Pollex?--of the woman
Caecina?--of the boy Laelius, and the fair girl Fannia--proffered and sold
by the parents, Pollex and Caecina, to the loose pleasures of Gallienus?
Now I give thee leave to blush! Is it nought that the one half of Rome
is sunk in a sensuality, a beastly drunkenness and lust, fouler than
that of old, which, in Judea, called down the fiery vengeance of the
insulted heavens? Thou knowest well, both from early experience and
because of thy office, what the purlieus of the theatres are, and places
worse than those, and which to name were an offence. But to you they
need not be named. Is all this, Varus, well enough? Is this that
venerable order thou wouldst not have disturbed? Is that to be charged
as impiety and atheism, which aims to change and reform it? Are they
conspirators, and rebels, and traitors, whose sole office and labor is
to mend these degenerate morals, to heal these corrupting sores, to pour
a better life into the rotting carcass of this guilty city? Is it for
our pastime, or our profit, that we go about this always dangerous work?
Is it a pleasure to hear the gibes, jests, and jeers of the streets and
the places of public resort? Will you not believe that it is for some
great end that we