History’s Great Speeches

Had the question for debate been any thing new, Athenians, I should have waited till most of the usual speakers had been heard; if any of their counsels had been to my liking, I had remained silent, else proceeded to impart my own. But as the subjects of discussion is one upon which they have spoken oft before, I imagine, though I rise the first, I am entitled to indulgence. For if these men had advised properly in time past, there would be no necessity for deliberating now.

First I say, you must not despond, Athenians, under your present circumstances, wretched as they are; for that which is worst in them as regards the past, is best for the future. What do I mean? That our affairs are amiss, men of Athens, because you do nothing which is needful; if, notwithstanding you performed your duties, it were the same, there would be no hope of amendment.

Consider next, what you know by report, and men of experience remember; how vast a power the Lacedaemonians had not long ago, yet how nobly and becomingly you consulted the dignity of Athens, and undertook the war against them for the rights of Greece. Why do I mention this? To show and convince you, Athenians, that nothing, if you take precaution, is to be feared, nothing, if you are negligent, goes as you desire. Take for examples the strength of the Lacedaemonians then, which you overcame by attention to your duties, and the insolence of this man now, by which through neglect of our interests we are confounded. But if any among you, Athenians, deem Philip hard to be conquered, looking at the magnitude of his existing power, and the loss by us of all our strongholds, they reason rightly, but should reflect, that once we held Pydna and Potidaea and Methone and all the region round about as our own, and many of the nations now leagued with him were independent and free, and preferred our friendship to his. Had Philip then taken it into his head, that it was difficult to contend with Athens, when she had so many fortresses to infest his country, and he was destitute of allies, nothing that he has accomplished would he have undertaken, and never would he have acquired so large a dominion. But he saw well, Athenians, that all these places are the open prizes of war, that the possessions of the absent naturally belong to the present, those of the remiss to them that will venture and toil. Acting on such principle, he has won every thing and keeps it, either by way of conquest, or by friendly attachment and alliance; for all men will side with and respect those, whom they see prepared and willing to make proper exertion. If you, Athenians, will adopt this principle now, though you did not before, and every man, where he can and ought to give his service to the, state, be ready to give it without excuse, the wealthy to contribute, the able-bodied to enlist; in a word, plainly, if you will become your own masters, and cease each expecting to do nothing himself, while his neighbor does every thing for him, you shall then with heaven's permission recover your own, and get back what has been frittered away, and chastise Philip. Do not imagine, that his empire is everlastingly secured to him as a god. There are who hate and fear and envy him, Athenians, even among those that seem most friendly; and all feelings that are in other men belong, we may assume, to his confederates. But now they are all cowed, having no refuge through your tardiness and indolence, which I say you must abandon forthwith. For you see, Athenians, the case, to what pitch of arrogance the man has advanced, who leaves you not even the choice of action or inaction, but threatens and uses (they say) outrageous language, and, unable to rest in possession of his conquests, continually widens their circle, and, while we dally and delay, throws his net all around us. When then, Athenians, when will you act as becomes you? In what event? In that of necessity, I suppose. And how should we regard the events happening now? Methinks, to freemen the strongest necessity is the disgrace of their condition. Or tell me, do you like walking about and asking one another:—is there any news? Why, could there be greater news than a man of Macedonia subduing Athenians, and directing the affairs of Greece? Is Philip dead? No, but he is sick. And what matters it to you? Should any thing befall this man, you will soon create another Philip, if you attend to business thus. For even he has been exalted not so much by his own strength, as by our negligence. And again; should any thing happen to him; should fortune, which still takes better care of us than we of ourselves, be good enough to accomplish this; observe that, being on the spot, you would step in while things were in confusion, and manage them as you pleased; but as you now are, though occasion offered Amphipolis, you would not be in a position to accept it, with neither forces nor counsels at hand.

However, as to the importance of a general zeal in the discharge of duty, believing you are convinced and satisfied, I say no more.

As to the kind of force which I think may extricate you from your difficulties, the amount, the supplies of money, the best and speediest method (in my judgment) of providing all the necessaries, I shall endeavor to inform you forthwith, making only one request, men of Athens. When, you have heard all, determine; prejudge not before. And let none think I delay our operations, because I recommend an entirely new force. Not those that cry, quickly! to-day! speak most to the purpose; (for what has already happened we shall not be able to prevent by our present armament;) but he that shows what and how great and whence procured must be the force capable of enduring, till either we have advisedly terminated the war, or overcome our enemies: for so shall we escape annoyance in future. This I think I am able to show, without offense to any other man who has a plan to offer. My promise indeed is large; it shall be tested by the performance; and you shall be my judges.

First, then, Athenians, I say we must provide fifty warships, and hold ourselves prepared, in case of emergency, to embark and sail. I require also an equipment of transports for half the cavalry  and sufficient boats. This we must have ready against his sudden, marches from his own country to Thermopylae, the Chersonese, Olynthus, and any where he likes. For he should entertain the belief, that possibly you may rouse from this over-carelessness, and start off, as you did to Euboea, and formerly (they say) to Haliartus, and very lately to Thermopylae. And although you should not pursue just the course I would advise, it is no slight matter, that Philip, knowing you to be in readiness—know it he will for certain; there are too many among our own people who report every thing to him—may either keep quiet from apprehension, or, not heeding your arrangements, be taken off his guard, there being nothing to prevent your sailing, if he give you a chance, to attack his territories. Such an armament, I say, ought instantly to be agreed upon and provided. But besides, men of Athens, you should keep in hand some force, that will incessantly make war and annoy him: none of your ten or twenty thousand mercenaries, not your forces on paper, but one that shall belong to the state, and, whether you appoint one or more generals, or this or that man or any other, shall obey and follow him. Subsistence too I require for it. What the force shall be, how large, from what source maintained, how rendered efficient, I will show you, stating every particular. Mercenaries I recommend—and beware of doing what has often been injurious—thinking all measures below the occasion, adopting the strongest in your decrees, you fail to accomplish the least—rather, I say, perform and procure a little, add to it afterward, if it prove insufficient. I advise then two thousand soldiers in all, five hundred to be Athenians, of whatever age you think right, serving a limited time, not long, but such time as you think right, so as to relieve one another; the rest should be mercenaries. And with them two hundred horse, fifty at least Athenians, like the foot, on the same terms of service; and transports for them. Well; what besides? Ten swift galleys: for, as Philip has a navy, we must have swift galleys also, to convoy our power. How shall subsistence for these troops be provided? I will state and explain; but first let me tell you why I consider a force of this amount sufficient, and why I wish the men to be citizens.

Of that amount, Athenians, because it is impossible for us now to raise an army capable of meeting him in the field: we must plunder and adopt such kind of warfare at first: our force, therefore, must not be over-large, (for there is not pay or subsistence,) nor altogether mean. Citizens I wish to attend and go on board, because I hear that formerly the state maintained mercenary troops at Corinth, commanded by Polystratus and Iphicrates and Chabrias and some others, and that you served with them yourselves; and I am told, that these mercenaries fighting by your side and you by theirs defeated the Lacedaemonians. But ever since your hirelings have served by themselves, they have been vanquishing your friends and allies, while your enemies have become unduly great. Just glancing at the war of our state, they go off to Artabazus or any where rather, and the general follows, naturally; for it is impossible to command without giving pay. What therefore ask I? To remove the excuses both of general and soldiers, by supplying pay, and attaching native soldiers, as inspectors of the general's conduct. The way we manage things now is a mockery. For if you were asked: Are you at peace, Athenians? No, indeed, you would say; we are at war with Philip. Did you not choose from yourselves ten captains and generals, and also captains and two generals of horse? How are they employed? Except one man, whom you commission on service abroad, the rest conduct your processions with the sacrificers. Like puppet-makers, you elect your infantry and cavalry officers for the market-place, not for war. Consider, Athenians, should there not be native captains, a native general of horse, your own commanders, that the force might really be the state's? Or should your general of horse sail to Lemnos, while Menelaus commands the cavalry fighting for your possessions? I speak not as objecting to the man, but he ought to be elected by you, whoever the person be.

Perhaps you admit the justice of these statements, but wish principally to hear about the supplies, what they must be and whence procured. I will satisfy you. Supplies, then, for maintenance, mere rations for these troops, come to ninety talents and a little more: for ten swift galleys forty talents, twenty minas a month to every ship; for two thousand soldiers forty more, that each soldier may receive for rations ten drachms a month; and for two hundred horsemen, each receiving thirty drachms a month, twelve talents. Should any one think rations for the men a small provision, he judges erroneously. Furnish that, and I am sure the army itself will, without injuring any Greek or ally, procure every thing else from the war, so as to make out their full pay. I am ready to join the fleet as a volunteer, and submit to any thing, if this be not so. Now for the ways and means of the supply, which I demand from you.

[Statement of ways and means.]

This, Athenians, is what we have been able to devise. When you vote upon the resolutions, pass what you approve, that you may oppose Philip, not only by decrees and letters, but by action also.

I think it will assist your deliberations about the war and the whole arrangements, to regard the position, Athenians, of the hostile country, and consider, that Philip by the winds and seasons of the year gets the start in most of his operations, watching for the trade-winds or the winter to commence them, when we are unable (he thinks) to reach the spot. On this account, we must carry on the war not with hasty levies, (or we shall be too late for every thing,) but with a permanent force and power. You may use as winter quarters for your troops Lemnos, and Thasus, and Sciathus, and the islands in that neighborhood, which have harbors and corn and all necessaries for an army. In the season of the year, when it is easy to put ashore and there is no danger from the winds, they will easily take their station off the coast itself and at the entrances of the sea-ports.

How and when to employ the troops, the commander appointed by you will determine as occasion requires. What you must find, is stated in my bill. If, men of Athens, you will furnish the supplies which I mention, and then, after completing your preparations of soldiers, ships, cavalry, will oblige the entire force by law to remain in the service, and, while you become your own paymasters and commissaries, demand from your general an account of his conduct, you will cease to be always discussing the same questions without forwarding them in the least, and besides, Athenians, not only will you cut off his greatest revenue—What is this? He maintains war against you through the resources of your allies, by his piracies on their navigation—But what next? You will be out of the reach of injury yourselves: he will not do as in time past, when falling upon Lemnos and Imbrus he carried off your citizens captive, seizing the vessels at Geraestus he levied an incalculable sum, and lastly, made a descent at Marathon and carried off the sacred galley from our coast, and you could neither prevent these things nor send succors by the appointed time. But how is it, think you, Athenians, that the Panathenaic and Dionysian festivals take place always at the appointed time, whether expert or unqualified persons be chosen to conduct either of them, whereon you expend larger sums than upon any armament, and which are more numerously attended and magnificent than almost any thing in the world; while all your armaments are after the time, as that to Methone, to Pagasae, to Potidaea? Because in the former case every thing is ordered by law, and each of you knows long before-hand, who is the choir-master. This was one of his tribe, who the gymnastic master, when, from whom, and what he is to receive, and what to do. Nothing there is left unascertained or undefined: whereas in the business of war and its preparations all is irregular, unsettled, indefinite. Therefore, no sooner have we heard any thing, than we appoint ship-captains, dispute with them on the exchanges,  and consider about ways and means; then it is resolved that resident aliens and householders shall embark, then to put yourselves on board instead: but during these days the objects of our expedition are lost; for the time of action we waste in preparation, and favorable moments wait not our evasions and delays. The forces that we imagine we possess in the mean time, are found, when the crisis comes, utterly insufficient. And Philip has arrived at such a pitch of arrogance, as to send the following letter to the Euboeans:

[The letter is read.]

Of that which has been read, Athenians, most is true, unhappily true; perhaps not agreeable to hear. And if what one passes over in speaking, to avoid offense, one could pass over in reality, it is right to humor the audience; but if graciousness of speech, where it is out of place, does harm in action, shameful is it, Athenians, to delude ourselves, and by putting off every thing unpleasant to miss the time for all operations, and be unable even to understand, that skillful makers of war should not follow circumstances, but be in advance of them; that just as a general may be expected to lead his armies, so are men of prudent counsel to guide circumstances, in order that their resolutions may be accomplished, not their motions determined by the event. Yet you, Athenians, with larger means than any people—ships, infantry, cavalry, and revenue—have never up to this day made proper use of any of them; and your war with Philip differs in no respect from the boxing of barbarians. For among them the party struck feels always for the blow; strike him somewhere else, there go his hands again; ward or look in the face he can not nor will. So you, if you hear of Philip in the Chersonese, vote to send relief there if at Thermopylae, the same; if any where else, you run after his heels up and down, and are commanded by him; no plan have you devised for the war, no circumstance do you see beforehand, only when you learn that something is done, or about to be done. Formerly perhaps this was allowable: now it is come to a crisis, to be tolerable no longer.

And it seems, men of Athens, as if some god, ashamed for us at our proceedings, has put this activity into Philip. For had he been willing to remain quiet in possession of his conquests and prizes, and attempted nothing further, some of you, I think, would be satisfied with a state of things, which brands our nation with the shame of cowardice and the foulest disgrace. But by continually encroaching and grasping after more, he may possibly rouse you, if you have not altogether despaired. I marvel, indeed, that none of you, Athenians, notices with concern and anger, that the beginning of this war was to chastise Philip, the end is to protect ourselves against his attacks. One thing is clear: he will not stop, unless some one oppose him. And shall we wait for this? And if you dispatch empty galleys and hopes from this or that person, think you all is well? Shall we not embark? Shall we not sail with at least a part of our national forces, now though not before? Shall we not make a descent upon his coast? Where, then, shall we land? some one asks. The war itself, men of Athens, will discover the rotten parts of his empire, if we make a trial; but if we sit at home, hearing the orators accuse and malign one another, no good can ever be achieved. Methinks, where a portion of our citizens, though not all, are commissioned with the rest, Heaven blesses, and Fortune aids the struggle: but where you send out a general and an empty decree and hopes from the hustings, nothing that you desire is done; your enemies scoff, and your allies die for fear of such an armament. For it is impossible—ay, impossible, for one man to execute all your wishes: to promise, and assert, and accuse this or that person, is possible; but so your affairs are ruined. The general commands wretched unpaid hirelings; here are persons easily found, who tell you lies of his conduct; you vote at random from what you hear: what then can be expected?

How is this to cease, Athenians? When you make the same persons soldiers, and witnesses of the generals conduct, and judges when they return home at his audit; so that you may not only hear of your own affairs, but be present to see them. So disgraceful is our condition now, that every general is twice or thrice tried before you for his life, though none dares even once to hazard his life against the enemy: they prefer the death of kidnappers and thieves to that which becomes them; for it is a malefactor's part to die by sentence of the law, a general's to die in battle. Among ourselves, some go about and say that Philip is concerting with the Lacedaemonians the destruction of Thebes and the dissolution of republics; some, that he has sent envoys to the king; others, that he is fortifying cities in Illyria: so we wander about, each inventing stories. For my part, Athenians, by the gods I believe, that Philip is intoxicated with the magnitude of his exploits, and has many such dreams in his imagination, seeing the absence of opponents, and elated by success; but most certainly he has no such plan of action, as to let the silliest people among us know what his intentions are; for the silliest are these newsmongers. Let us dismiss such talk, and remember only that Philip is an enemy, who robs us of our own and has long insulted us; that wherever we have expected aid from any quarter, it has been found hostile, and that the future depends on ourselves, and unless we are willing to fight him there, we shall perhaps be compelled to fight here. This let us remember, and then we shall have determined wisely, and have done with idle conjectures. You need not pry into the future, but assure yourselves it will be disastrous, unless you attend to your duty, and are willing to act as becomes you.

As for me, never before have I courted favor, by speaking what I am not convinced is for your good, and now I have spoken my whole mind frankly and unreservedly. I could have wished, knowing the advantage of good counsel to you, I were equally certain of its advantage to the counselor: so should I have spoken with more satisfaction. Now, with an uncertainty of the consequence to myself, but with a conviction that you will benefit by adopting it, I proffer my advice. I trust only, that what is most for the common benefit will prevail.

I think, men of Athens, that those who have spoken on the Arcadian side and those who have spoken on the Spartan, are alike making a mistake. For their mutual accusations and their attacks upon one another would suggest that they are not, like yourselves, Athenians, receiving the two embassies, but actually delegates of the two states. Such attacks it was for the two deputations to make. The duty of those who claim to advise you here was to discuss the situation impartially, and to inquire, in an uncontentious spirit, what course is best in your interests.

 As it is, if one could alter the fact that they are known to us, and that they speak the dialect of Attica, I believe that many would imagine that those on the one side actually were Arcadians, and those on the other, Spartans. For my part, I see plainly enough the difficulty of offering the best advice. For you, like them, are deluded, in your desire for one extreme or the other: and one who endeavours to propose an intermediate course, which you will not have the patience to understand, will satisfy neither side and will forfeit the confidence of both.

 But in spite of this, I shall prefer, for my own part, to risk being regarded as an idle chatterer (if such is really to be my lot), rather than to abandon my conviction as to what is best for Athens, and leave you to the mercy of those who would deceive you. And while I shall deal with all other points later, by your leave, I shall take for my starting-point, in explaining the course which I believe to be best, those principles which are admitted by all.

 There can be no possible question that it is to the interest of the city that both the Spartans and these Thebans should be weak; and the present situation, if one may judge at all from what has constantly been asserted in your presence, is such, that if Orchomenus, Thespiae, and Plataeae are re-established, Thebes becomes weak; and that if the Spartans can reduce Arcadia to subjection and destroy Megalopolis, Sparta will recover her former strength.

 We must, therefore, take care not to allow the Spartans to attain a formidable degree of strength, before the Thebans have become insignificant, lest there should take place, unobserved by us, such an increase in the power of Sparta as would be out of proportion to the decrease in the power of Thebes which our interests demand. For it is, of course, out of the question that we should desire merely to substitute the rivalry of Sparta for that of Thebes: that is not the object upon which we are bent. Our object is rather that neither people shall be capable of doing us any injury. That is what will best enable us to live in security.

 But, granted that this is what ought to be, still, we are told, it is a scandalous thing to choose for our allies the men against whom we were arrayed at Mantineia, and further, to help them against those whose perils we shared that day. I agree; but I think that we need to insert the condition, 'provided that the two parties are willing to act rightly.'

 For if all alike prove willing to keep the peace, we shall not go to the aid of the Megalopolitans, since there will be no need to do so; and so there will be no hostility whatever on our part towards our former comrades in battle. They are already our allies, as they tell us; and now the Arcadians will become our allies as well. What more could we desire?

 But suppose they act wrongfully and think fit to make war. In that case, if the question before us is whether we are to abandon Megalopolis to Sparta or not, then I say that, wrong though it is, I will acquiesce in our permitting this, and declining to oppose our former companions in danger. But if you all know that, after capturing Megalopolis, they will march against Messene, let me ask any of those who are now so harshly disposed towards Megalopolis to say what action he will then advise. No answer will be given.

 In fact you all know that, whether they advise it or not, we must then go to the rescue, both because of the oath which we have sworn to the Messenians, and because our interests demand the continued existence of that city. Ask yourselves, then, on which occasion you can most honourably and generously interpose to check the aggressions of Sparta—in defence of Megalopolis, or in defence of Messene?

 On the present occasion it will be understood that you are succouring the Arcadians, and are anxious that the Peace, which you fought for and risked your lives to win, may be secure. But if you wait, all the world will see plainly that it is not in the name of right that you desire the existence of Messene, but because you are afraid of Sparta. And while we should always seek and do the right, we should at the same time take good care that what is right shall also be advantageous.

 Now an argument is used by speakers on the other side to the effect that we ought to attempt to recover Oropus, and that if we make enemies of those who might come to our assistance against it we shall have no allies. I too say that we should try to recover Oropus. But the argument that the Spartans will be our enemies now, if we make alliance with those Arcadians who desire our friendship, is an argument which no one has less right even to mention, than those who induced you to help the Spartans when they were in danger.

 Such was not their argument, when all the Peloponnesians came to you, entreating you to support them in their campaign against Sparta, and they persuaded you to reject the entreaty, with the result that the Peloponnesians took the only remaining course and applied to Thebes—when they bade you contribute funds and imperil your lives for the deliverance of the Spartans. Nor, I presume, would you have been willing to protect them, had they warned you that you must expect no gratitude for their deliverance, unless, after saving them, you allowed them once more to do as they pleased and commit fresh aggressions.

 And further, however antagonistic it may be to the designs of the Spartans, that we should make the Arcadians our allies, they are surely bound to feel a gratitude towards us for saving them when they were in the utmost extremity, which will outweigh their vexation at our preventing their present wrongdoing. Must they not then either assist us to recover Oropus, or else be regarded as the basest of mankind? For, by Heaven, I can see no other alternative.

 I am astonished, also, to hear it argued that if we make the Arcadians our allies, and carry out my advice, it will seem as though Athens were changing her policy, and were utterly unreliable. I believe that the exact reverse of this is the case, men of Athens, and I will tell you why. I suppose that no one in the world can deny that when this city saved the Spartans, and before them the Thebans, and finally the Euboeans, and subsequently made them her allies, she had one and the same end always in view.

 And what was this? It was to deliver the victims of aggression. And if this is so, it is not we that should be changing, but those who refuse to adhere to the right; and it will be manifest that, although circumstances change from time to time with the ambitious designs of others, Athens does not change.

 I believe that the Spartans are playing a very unscrupulous part. At present they tell us that the Eleans are to recover part of Triphylia, and the Phliasians, Tricaranum; other Arcadians are to recover their own possessions, and we ourselves are to recover Oropus—not that they have any desire to see every state enjoying its own—far from it!— such generosity on their part would be late indeed in showing itself.

 They wish rather to present the appearance of co-operating with each separate state in the recovery of the territory that it claims, in order that when they themselves march against Messene, all may take the field with them, and give them their hearty assistance, on pain of seeming to act unfairly, in refusing to return an equivalent for the support which each of them received from Sparta in regard to their own several claims.

 My own view is that, even without the tacit surrender of some of the Arcadians to Sparta, we can recover Oropus, aided not only by the Spartans, if they are ready to act honourably, but by all who disapprove of allowing Thebes to retain what is not her own. But even if it were made quite plain to us, that without allowing Sparta to subdue the Peloponnese, we should not be able to take Oropus, I should still think it preferable, if I may dare to say so, to let Oropus go, rather than sacrifice Messene and the Peloponnese to Sparta. For our quarrel with them would not, I believe, be confined to this; since—I will not say what occurs to me; but there are many risks which we should run.

 But, to pass on, it is a monstrous thing to use the hostile actions which, they say, the Megalopolitans committed against us, under the influence of Thebes, as a ground of accusation against them to-day; and, when they wish to be friends and so atone for their action by doing us good, to look askance at them, to seek for some way of avoiding their friendship, to refuse to recognize that in proportion to the zeal which my opponents can prove the Megalopolitans to have shown in supporting Thebes will be the resentment to which my opponents themselves will deservedly be exposed, for depriving the city of such allies as these, when they have appealed to you before appealing to Thebes.

 Such a policy is surely the policy of men who wish to make the Arcadians for the second time the allies of others. And so far as one can forecast the future by calculation, I am sure, and I believe that most of you will agree with me, that if the Spartans take Megalopolis, Messene will be in peril; and if they take Messene also, then I predict that we shall find ourselves allies of Thebes.

 It is a far more honourable, a far better, course that we should ourselves take over the Theban confederacy, refusing to leave the field open to the cupidity of the Spartans, than that we should be so afraid of protecting the allies of Thebes, as first to sacrifice them, and then to save Thebes itself; and, in addition, to be in a state of apprehension for our own safety.

 For if the Spartans capture Megalopolis and become a great power once more, the prospect, as I conceive it, is not one which this city can view without alarm. For I can see that even now they are determining to go to war, not to prevent any evil which threatens them, but to recover their own ancient power: and what their aims were when they possessed that power, you, I think, know perhaps better than I, and with that knowledge may well be alarmed.

 Now I should be glad if the speakers who profess their hatred for Thebes on the one side, or for Sparta on the other, would tell me if their professed hatred is based on consideration for you and your interests, or whether the one party hates Thebes from an interest in Sparta, and the other Sparta from an interest in Thebes. If the latter is the case, you should not listen to either, but treat them as insane: but if the former, why this inordinate exaltation of one side or the other?

 For it is possible, perfectly possible, to humiliate Thebes without rendering Sparta powerful. Indeed, it is by far the easier course; and I will try to tell you how it can be done. We all know that, however unwilling men may be to do what is right, yet up to a certain point they are ashamed not to do so, and that they withstand wrongdoers openly, particularly if there are any who receive damage through the wrong done: and we shall find that what ruins everything and is the source of all evil is the unwillingness to do what is right without reserve.

 Now in order that no such obstacle may stand in the way of the humiliation of Thebes, let us demand the re-establishment of Thespiae, Orchomenus, and Plataeae, co-operating with their citizens ourselves, and requiring others to do so; for the principle of refusing to allow ancient cities to lie desolate is a right and honourable one. But let us at the same time decline to abandon Megalopolis and Messene to the aggressors, or to suffer the destruction of existing and inhabited cities, on the pretext of restoring Plataeae and Thespiae.

 Then, if our policy is made plain to all, there is no one who will not wish to terminate the Thebans' occupation of territory not their own. But if it is not, not only will our designs be opposed by the Arcadians, in the belief that the restoration of these towns carries with it their own ruin, but we shall have troubles without end. For, honestly, where can we expect to reach an end, when we permit the annihilation of existing cities, and require the restoration of those that have been annihilated?

 It is demanded by those whose speeches display the strongest appearance of fairness, that the Megalopolitans shall take down the pillars which commemorate their alliance with Thebes, if they are to be trustworthy allies of Athens. The Megalopolitans reply that for them it is not pillars, but interest, that creates friendship; and that it is those who help them, that they consider to be their allies. Well, that may be their attitude. Nevertheless, my own view is, roughly speaking, this:—I say that we should simultaneously require the Megalopolitans to take down the pillars, and the Spartans to keep the peace: and that in the event of either side refusing to fulfil our request, we should at once take the part of those who are willing to fulfil it.

 For if the Megalopolitans obtain peace, and yet adhere to the Theban alliance, it will be clear to all that they prefer the grasping policy of Thebes to that which is right. If, on the other hand, Megalopolis makes alliance frankly with us, and the Spartans then refuse to keep the peace, it will surely be clear to all that what the Spartans desire so eagerly is not the re-establishment of Thespiae, but an opportunity of subduing the Peloponnese while the Thebans are involved in the war.

 And I am surprised to find that there are some who are alarmed at the prospect of the enemies of Sparta becoming allies of Thebes, and yet see nothing to fear in the subjugation of these enemies by Sparta herself; whereas the experience of the past can teach us that the Thebans always use such allies against Sparta, while, when Sparta had them, she used to use them against us.

 There is another point which I think you should consider. Suppose that you reject the overtures of the Megalopolitans. If they are annihilated and dispersed, Sparta can recover her power at once. If they actually survive—for things have happened before now beyond all hope—they will quite rightly be the firm allies of Thebes. But suppose you receive them. Then the immediate result, so far as they are concerned, is that they are saved by you: and as to the future, let us now transfer our calculation of possible risks to the case of the Thebans and Spartans.

 If the Thebans are crushed, as they ought to be, the Spartans will not be unduly powerful, for they will always have these Arcadians at their doors to hold them in check. But if the Thebans actually recover and survive the attack, they will at least be weaker; for the Arcadians will have become our allies, and will owe their preservation to us. Thus on every ground it is to our interest not to sacrifice the Arcadians, nor to let them think that their deliverance, if they are really saved, is due to themselves, or to any other people than you.

 And now, men of Athens, I solemnly declare that what I have said has been prompted by no personal feeling, friendly or hostile, towards either side. I have told you only what I believe to be expedient for you; and I exhort you not to sacrifice the people of Megalopolis, and to make it your rule, never to sacrifice a smaller power to a greater.

 Those who praise your forefathers, men of Athens, desire, no doubt, to gratify you by their speeches; and yet I do not think that they are acting in the interests of those whom they praise. For the subject on which they attempt to speak is one to which no words can do justice; and so, although they thus win for themselves the reputation of capable speakers, the impression which they convey to their hearers of the merit of our forefathers is not adequate to our conception of it. For my part I believe that their highest praise is constituted by Time: for the time that has passed has been long, and still no generation has arisen, whose achievements could be compared with advantage to theirs.

 As for myself, I shall attempt to point out the way in which, in my opinion, you can best make your preparations. For the truth is, that if all of us who propose to address you were to succeed in proving to you our rhetorical skill, there would not be the slightest improvement in your condition—I am sure of it; but if a single speaker were to come forward, whoever he might be, who could instruct and convince you as to the nature of the preparations which would meet the city's need, as to their extent, and the resources upon which we can draw for them, your present fears would instantly be dissolved. This I will attempt to do—if indeed it is in my power. But first I must briefly express my views as to our relations with the king.

 I hold the king to be the common enemy of all the Hellenes; and yet I should not on that account urge you, alone and unsupported, to raise war against him. For I observe that there is no common or mutual friendship even among the Hellenes themselves: some have more faith in the king than in some other Hellenes. When such are the conditions, your interest requires you, I believe, to see to it that you only begin war from a fair and just cause, and to make all proper preparations: this should be the basis of your policy.

 For I believe, men of Athens, that if it were made plain to the eyes and understandings of the Hellenes, that the king was making an attempt upon them, they would both fight in alliance with those who undertook the defence for them and with them, and would feel very grateful to them. But if we quarrel with him prematurely, while his intentions are still uncertain, I am afraid, men of Athens, that we may be forced to fight not only against the king, but also against those for whose benefit we are exercising such forethought.

 For he will pause in the execution of his project, if indeed he has really resolved to attack the Hellenes, and will bribe some of them with money and offers of friendship; while they, desirous of bringing their private wars to a successful end, and animated only by such a spirit, will disregard the common safety of all. I urge you then, not to hurl the city needlessly into the midst of any such chaos of selfish passions.

 Moreover, I see that the question of the policy to be adopted towards the king does not even stand on the same footing for the other Hellenes as for you. It is open, I think, to many of them to manage certain of their own interests as they please, and to disregard the rest of the Hellenes. But for you it is not honourable, even if you are the injured party, and are dealing with those who have injured you, to punish them so severely as to leave some of them to fall under the domination of the foreigner: and this being so, we must take care, first, that we do not find ourselves involved in an unequal war, and secondly, that he, whom we believe to be plotting against the Hellenes, does not gain credit from the supposition that he is their friend. How then can this be achieved? It will be achieved if it is manifest to all that the forces of Athens have been overhauled and put in readiness, and if her intentions in regard to their use are plainly righteous.

 But to those who take a bold line, and urge you, without any hesitation whatever, to go to war, my reply is this—that it is not difficult to win a reputation for bravery, when the occasion calls for deliberation; nor to prove yourself an accomplished orator, when danger is at the door: but to display your courage in the hour of danger, and, in debate, to have wiser advice to offer than others—that is the hard thing, and that is what is required of you.

 For my part, men of Athens, I consider that the proposed war with the king would be a difficult undertaking for the city; while the decisive conflict in which the war would result would be an easier matter, and for this reason. Every war, I suppose, necessarily requires ships and money and the command of positions. All such advantages the king, I find, possesses more abundantly than we. But a conflict of forces requires nothing so much as brave men; and of these, I believe, the larger number is with us, and with those who share our danger.

 For this reason I exhort you not to be the first, in any way whatever, to take up the war; but for the decisive struggle I think you ought to be ready and your preparations made. And further, if the forces with which foreigners and Hellenes could respectively be repelled were really different in kind, the fact that we were arraying our forces against the king would naturally, it may be, admit of no concealment.

 But since all military preparations are of the same character, and the main points of a force must always be the same—the means to repel enemies, to help allies, and to retain existing advantages—why, when we have our acknowledged foes, do we seek to procure others? Let us rather prepare ourselves to meet the enemies whom we have, and we shall then repel the king also, if he takes the aggressive against us.

 Suppose that you yourselves summon the Hellenes to your side now. If, when the attitude of some of them towards you is so disagreeable, you do not fulfil their demands, how can you expect that any one will listen to you? 'Why,' you say, 'we shall tell them that the king is plotting against them.' Good Heavens! Do you imagine that they do not foresee this themselves? Of course they do. But their fear of this does not yet outweigh the quarrels which some of them have against you and against each other. And so the tour of your envoys will end in nothing but their own rhapsodies.

 But if you wait, then, if the design which we now suspect is really on foot, there is not one of the Hellenes who stands so much upon his dignity that he will not come and beg for your aid, when he sees that you have a thousand cavalry, and infantry as many as any one can desire, and three hundred ships: for he will know that in these lies his surest hope of deliverance. Appeal to them now, and we shall be suppliants, and, if unsuccessful, rejected suppliants. Make your own preparations and wait, and then they will be the suppliants and we their deliverers; and we may rest assured that they will all come to us for help.

 In thinking out these points and others like them, men of Athens, my object was not to devise a bold speech, prolonged to no purpose: but I took the greatest pains to discover the means by which our preparations could be most effectively and quickly made; and therefore, if my proposal meets with your approval, when you have heard it, you ought, I think, to pass it. Now the first element in our preparation, men of Athens (and it is the most important), must be this: your minds must be so disposed, that every one of you will perform willingly and heartily any service that is required of him.

 For you see, men of Athens, that whenever you have unanimously desired any object, and the desire has been followed by a feeling on the part of every individual, that the practical steps towards it were for himself to take, the object has never yet slipped from your grasp: but whenever the wish has had no further result than that each man has looked to his neighbour, expecting his neighbour to act while he himself does nothing, the object has never yet been attained.

 But supposing you to be filled with the keenness that I have described, I am of opinion that we should make up the Twelve Hundred to their full number, and increase it to 2,000, by the addition of 800. For if you can display this total, then, when you have allowed for the unmarried heiresses and orphans, for property outside Attica, or held in partnership, and for any persons who may be unable to contribute, you will, I believe, actually have the full 1,200 persons available.

 These you must divide into twenty boards, as at present, with sixty persons to each board; and each of these boards you must divide into five sections of twelve persons each, taking care in every case to associate with the richest man the poorest men, to maintain the balance. Such is the arrangement of persons which I recommend, and my reason you will know when you have heard the nature of the entire system.

 I pass to the distribution of the ships. You must provide a total complement of 300 ships, forming twenty divisions of fifteen ships apiece, and including in each division five of the first hundred vessels, five of the second hundred, and five of the third hundred. Next, you must assign by lot to each board of persons its fifteen ships, and each board must assign three ships to each of its sections.

 This done, in order that you may have the payments also systematically arranged, you must divide the 6,000 talents (for that is the taxable capital of the country) into 100 parts of sixty talents each. Five of each of these parts you must allot to each of the larger boards—the twenty—and each board must assign one of these sums of sixty talents to each of its sections;  in order that, if you need 100 ships, there may be sixty talents to be taxed for the expense of each ship, and twelve persons responsible for it; if 200, thirty talents will be taxed to make up the cost, and six persons will be responsible; if 300, then twenty talents must be taxed to defray the expense, and four persons will be responsible.

 In the same way, men of Athens, I bid you make a valuation according to the register of all those fittings of the ships which are in arrear, divide them into twenty parts, and allot to each of the large boards one-twentieth of the debtors: these must then be assigned by each board in equal numbers to each of its sections, and the twelve persons composing each section must call up their share of the arrears, and provide, ready-equipped, the ships which fall to them.

 Such is the plan by which, in my opinion, the expense, the ships, the trierarchs, and the recovery of the fittings could best be provided for and put into working order. I proceed to describe a simple and easy scheme for the manning of the vessels. I recommend that the generals should divide the whole space of the dockyards into ten, taking care to have in each space thirty slips for single vessels close together. This done they should apportion to each space two of the boards and thirty ships; and should then assign a tribe to each space by lot.

 Each captain should divide into three parts the space which falls to his tribe, with the corresponding ships, and should allot these among the three wards of each tribe, in such a way that if each tribe has one division of the entire docks, each ward will have a third of one of these divisions; and you will know, in case of need, first the position assigned to the tribe; next, that of the ward; and then the names of the trierarchs and their ships; each tribe will be answerable for thirty, and each ward for ten ships. If this system is put in train, circumstances as they arise will provide for anything that I may have overlooked to-day (for perhaps it is difficult to think of everything), and there will be a single organization for the whole fleet and every part of it.

But what of funds? What resources have we immediately at our command? The statement which I am about to make on this subject will no doubt be astonishing; but I will make it nevertheless; for I am convinced that upon a correct view of the facts, this statement alone will be proved true, and will be justified by the event. I say then, that this is not the time to discuss the financial question. We have large resources upon which, in case of necessity, we may honourably and rightly draw: but if we inquire for them now, we shall not believe that we can rely upon them even against the hour of need; so far shall we be from supplying them now. 'What then,' you will ask me, 'are these resources, which are non-existent now, but will be ours then? This is really like a riddle.' I will tell you.

 Men of Athens, you see all this great city. In this city there is wealth which will compare, I had almost said, with the united wealth of all other cities. But such is the disposition of those who own it, that if all your orators were to raise the alarm that the king was coming—that he was at the doors—that there was no possible escape; and if with the orators an equal number of prophets foretold the same thing; even then, far from contributing funds, they would show no sign [and make no acknowledgement] of their possession of them.

 If, however, they were to see in course of actual realization all the terrors with which at present we are only threatened in speeches, not one of them is so blind that he would not both offer his contribution, and be among the first to pay the tax. For who will prefer to lose his life and property, rather than contribute a part of his substance to save himself and the remainder of it? Funds, then, we can command, I am certain, if there is a genuine need of them, and not before; and accordingly I urge you not even to look for them now. For all that you would provide now, if you decided upon a levy, would be more ludicrous than nothing at all.

 Suppose that we are told to pay 1 per cent. now; that gives you sixty talents. Two per cent. then—double the amount; that makes 120 talents. And what is that to the 1,200 camels which (as these gentlemen tell us) are bringing the king's money for him? Or would you have me assume a payment of one-twelfth, 500 talents? Why, you would never submit to this; and if you paid the money down, it would not be adequate to the war.

 You must, therefore, make all your other preparations, but allow your funds to remain for the present in the hands of their owners—they could nowhere be more safely kept for the use of the State; and then, if ever the threatened crisis arises, you will receive them as the voluntary gift of their possessors. This, men of Athens, is not only a possible course of action, but a dignified and a politic one. It is a course of action which is worthy to be reported to the ears of the king, and which would inspire him with no slight apprehension.

 For he well knows that by two hundred ships, of which one hundred were Athenian, his ancestors were deprived of one thousand; and he will hear that Athens alone has now equipped three hundred; so that, however great his infatuation, he could certainly not imagine it a light thing to make this country his foe. But if it is his wealth that suggests proud thoughts to his mind, he will find that in this respect too his resources are weaker than ours.

 It is true that he is said to be bringing a great quantity of gold with him. But if he distributes this, he must look for more: for just so it is the way of springs and wells to give out, if large quantities are drawn from them all at once; whereas we possess, as he will hear, in the taxable capital of the country, resources which we defend against attack in a way of which those ancestors of his who sleep at Marathon can best tell him: and so long as we are masters of the country there is no risk of our resources being exhausted.

 Nor again can I see any grounds for the fear, which some feel, lest his wealth should enable him to collect a large mercenary force. It may be that many of the Hellenes would be glad to serve under him against Egypt, against Orontas, or against certain other foreign powers—not from a wish that the king should conquer any such enemies, but because each desires individually to obtain some private means to relieve his present poverty. But I cannot believe that any Hellene would march against Hellas. Whither will he turn afterwards? Will he go to Phrygia and be a slave?

 For the war with the foreigner is a war for no other stake than our country, our life, our habits, our freedom, and all that we value. Where is the wretch who would sacrifice self, parents, sepulchres, fatherland, for the sake of some short-lived gain? I do not believe that he exists. And indeed it is not even to the king's own interest to conquer the Hellenes with a mercenary force; for an army which has conquered us is, even more certainly, stronger than he; and his intention is not to destroy us only that he may fall into the power of others: he wishes to rule, if it may be, over all the world; but if not, at least over those who are already his slaves.

 It may be supposed that the Thebans will be on the king's side. Now this subject is one upon which it is hard to address you. For such is your hatred of them, that you cannot hear a good word about them, however true, without displeasure. And yet those who have grave questions to consider must not on any pretext pass over any profitable line of argument.

 I believe, then, that so far are the Thebans from being likely ever to march with him against the Hellenes, that they would give a great deal, if they had it to give, for an opportunity of cancelling their former sins against Hellas. But if any one does believe that the Thebans are so unhappily constituted, at least you are all aware, I presume, that if the Thebans take the part of the king, their enemies must necessarily take the part of the Hellenes.

 My own belief is that our cause, the cause of justice, and its supporters, will prove stronger in every emergency than the traitor and the foreigner. And therefore I say that we need feel no excessive apprehension, and that we must not be led on into taking the first step towards war. Indeed, I cannot even see that any of the other Hellenes has reason to dread this war.

 Are they not all aware, that so long as they thought of the king as their common foe, and were at unity with one another, they were secure in their prosperity; but that ever since they imagined that they could count upon the king as their friend, and fell to quarrelling over their private interests, they have suffered such evils as no malediction could have devised for them? Must we then dread a man whose friendship, thanks to Fortune and Heaven, has proved so unprofitable, and his enmity so advantageous? By no means! Let us not, however, commit any aggression, in view of our own interests, and of the disturbed and mistrustful spirit which prevails among the rest of the Hellenes.

 Were it possible, indeed, to join forces with them all, and with one accord to attack the king in his isolation, I should have counted it no wrong even were we to take the aggressive. But since this is impossible, we must be careful to give the king no pretext for trying to enforce the claims of the other Hellenes against us. If you keep the peace, any such step on his part would arouse suspicion; but if you are the first to begin war, his hostility to you would make his desire to befriend your rivals appear natural enough.

 Do not then lay bare the evil condition of Hellas, by calling the powers together when they will not obey, or undertaking a war which you will be unable to carry on. Keep the peace; take courage, and make your preparations. Resolve that the news which the king hears of you shall certainly not be that all Hellas, and Athens with it, in distress or panic or confusion. Far from it!

 Let him rather know that if falsehood and perjury were not as disgraceful in Hellenic eyes as they are honourable in his, you would long ago have been on the march against him: and that though, as it is, your regard for yourselves forbids you to act thus, you are praying to all the gods that the same madness may seize him as once seized his ancestors. And if it occurs to him to reflect upon this, he will find that your deliberations are not conducted in any careless spirit.

 He at least shares the knowledge that it was your wars with his own ancestors that raised Athens to the summit of prosperity and greatness; while the peaceful policy which she previously pursued never gave her such a superiority as she now enjoys over any single state in Hellas. Aye, and he sees that the Hellenes are in need of one who, whether intentionally or not, will reconcile them one to another; and he knows that if he were to stir up war, he himself would assume that character in relation to them; so that the news which he will hear of you will be intelligible and credible to him.

 But I do not wish to trouble you, men of Athens, by unduly prolonging my speech. I will therefore recapitulate my advice and retire. I bid you prepare your forces with a view to the enemies whom you have. If the king or any other power attempts to do you injury, you must defend yourselves with these same forces. But you must not take the aggressive by word or deed; and you must take care that it is your deeds, and not your platform speeches, that are worthy of your forefathers. If you act thus, you will be consulting both your own interests and those of the speakers who are opposing me; since you will have no cause to be angry with them afterwards, because you have decided wrongly to-day.

Demosthenes is generally acknowledged as the greatest orator in history. Born to a sword maker and orphaned at 7, he overcame a stammer and the theft of his inheritance by his legal guardians to become as foundational to oratory as his contemporaries Plato and Aristotle are to philosophy.

Much like a major contemporary political figure, he overcame a stammer on his journey to greatness, with “inarticulate and stammering pronunciation.” He was known as “a water drinker”; a stern and serious presence at all times.

His great battle was against the waning of Athenian democracy, which slowly disintegrated into oligarchy and treason over his lifetime. As a legislator, ambassador, and leader he fought against the inexorable rise of Philip of Macedon and, later, Philip’s son Alexander. Fighting for the peace, democracy and equality that Athenian ancestors brought to all Greece, his tale ends in ruin as Athens finally falls, after more than thirty years trying to hold the line. In many ways, Demosthenes resonates with the figure of Cicero, who was a fellow great statesman three hundred years later in the Roman Republic, during it’s collapse and turn into the Empire. Both were animated by the state’s founding ideology, and horrified by the lassitude and corruption that had become endemic in their time.

The first speech is from when he was 30, and recognizing the immediate need for preparation. The navy has become toy and a sinecure for the wealthy,  and Athens must professionalise before it is too late.  This set the theme for the next few speeches, each of a different theme of Athenian ideals; helping a fellow Hellenic state caught between Sparta and Arcadia, preparing Athens for war, and railing against oligarchy and corruption of the senate and public sphere.

The next few speeches cover the need for war against Philip, and the need for haste in sending military aid to states besieged by Phillip. There follows a brief interregnum of a false peace, used to further corrupt the body politic, the central theme of On The Peace and the second and third Philippics.

After a prestigious career of public service, the tide turned against him, and in his greatness he lived long enough to see himself become the villain. An accusation of bribery leads to his most famous speech, On The Crown, delivered at 54. This defense of his career as the tides turned against him has been described as “the greatest speech of the greatest orator in the world.”

In his Funeral Oration forty years before, Pericles defined the height of the golden age of Athens; in the final speech, given by Dinarchus at Demosthenes’ trial for bribery, we see the final downfall of the once-great city-state. The man who strove to keep the city honourable and faithful to its past democracy was brought down by scurrilous accusations of corruption, and his actions in defence of the country described as an offence against ‘the will of the people’, a catchphrase second only to nationalism for the truly corrupted.

After his conviction, he escaped from prison and went on the run. He was exiled,  brought back, then sentenced to death; eventually, fleeing the city again, this time to the island of Kalaureia (modern-day Poros). Discovered by Archias, he asked for time to write a letter to his family, and took poison from a reed.

His final words were "Now, as soon as you please you may commence the part of Creon in the tragedy, and cast out this body of mine unburied. But, O gracious Neptune, I, for my part, while I am yet alive, arise up and depart out of this sacred place; though Antipater and the Macedonians have not left so much as the temple unpolluted."

Eventually, the pendulum swung again, and the Athenians erected a statue of him, and provided meals for his descendants in the Prytaneum. By the rise of the Roman Republic, he was once again a legendary and paradigmatic stateman and orator.

In historical terms, many of the patterns, descriptions and arguments presented here will seem eerily familiar, like listening to Songs In The Key Of Life for the first time. Every part of it has been reused a thousand times by people ever since its creation, so you are intimately familiar with the style, even if you have never come across it before.

As history’s second greatest orator, Cicero was taught Demosthenes’ speeches as part of his own training and often mimicked their pattern and tone. Other Romans who adored him included Longinus, Caecilius, and Juvenal, who described him as "largus et exundans ingenii fons", or a large and overflowing fountain of genius. Plutarch even wrote a book about him.

In the middle ages, his name was invoked to describe especially eloquent speakers. Among his praise-singers in recent centuries have been Henry Clay, who mimicked Demosthenes' technique; through Clay, Demosthenes inspired the authors of The Federalist Papers. Georges Clemenceau wrote a book about him, and Friedrich Nietzsche also copied his style. Demosthenes is deeply and truly embedded in the DNA of western discourse and politics, his style, tactics and influence intimately familiar to people living twenty-four hundred years later.

The tribune of the people was borne along in a chariot, lictors crowned with laurels preceded him, among whom, on an open litter, was carried an actress; whom honorable men, citizens of the different municipalities, coming out from their towns under compulsion to meet him, saluted not by the name by which she was well known on the stage, but by that of Volumnia. A car followed full of pimps; then a lot of debauched companions; and then his mother, utterly neglected, followed the mistress of her profligate son, as if she had been her daughter-in-law. Oh, the disastrous fecundity of that miserable woman! With the marks of such wickedness as this did that fellow stamp every municipality, and prefecture, and colony, and, in short, the whole of Italy.

When victorious, you returned with the legions from Thessaly to Brundusium. There you did not put me to death. It was a great kindness! for I confess that you could have done it. But there was no one of those men who were with you at that time, who did not think that I ought to be spared. For so great is men's affection for their country, that I was sacred even in the eyes of your legions, because they recollected that the country had been saved by me. However, grant that you did give me what you did not take away from me, and that I have my life as a present from you, since it was not taken from me by you; was it possible for me, after all your insults, to regard that kindness of yours as I regarded it at first, especially after you saw that you must hear this reply from me?

You came to Brundusium, to the bosom and embraces of your actress. What is the matter? Am I speaking falsely? How miserable is it not to be able to deny a fact which it is disgraceful to confess! If you had no shame before the municipal towns, had you none even before your veteran army? For what soldier was there who did not see her at Brundusium? who was there who did not know that she had come so many days' journey to congratulate you? who was there who did not grieve that he was so late in finding out how worthless a man he had been following?

Again, you made a tour through Italy, with that same actress for your companion. Cruel and miserable was the way in which you led your soldiers into the towns; shameful was the pillage in every city, of gold and silver, and above all, of wine. And besides all this, while Cæsar knew nothing about it, as he was at Alexandria, Antonius, by the kindness of Cæsar's friends, was appointed his master of the horse. Then he thought that he could live with Hippia by virtue of his office, and that he might give horses which were the property of the state to Sergius the buffoon. At that time he had selected for himself to live in, not the house which he now dishonors, but that of Marcus Piso. Why need I mention his decrees, his robberies, the possessions of inheritances which were given him, and those, too, which were seized by him? Want compelled him; he did not know where to turn. That great inheritance from Lucius Rubrius, and that other from Lucius Turselius, had not yet come to him. He had not yet succeeded as an unexpected heir to the place of Cnæus Pompeius, and of many others who were absent. He was forced to live like a robber, having nothing beyond what he could plunder from others.

However, we will say nothing of these things, which are acts of a more hardy sort of villainy. Let us speak rather of his meaner descriptions of worthlessness. You, with those jaws of yours, and those sides of yours, and that strength of body suited to a gladiator, drank such quantities of wine at the marriage of Hippia, that you were forced to vomit the next day in the sight of the Roman people. O action disgraceful not merely to see, but even to hear of! If this had happened to you at supper amid those vast drinking cups of yours, who would not have thought it scandalous? But in an assembly of the Roman people, a man holding a public office, a master of the horse, to whom it would have been disgraceful even to belch, vomiting filled his own bosom and the whole tribunal with fragments of what he had been eating reeking with wine. But he himself confesses this among his other disgraceful acts. Let us proceed to his more splendid offenses.

Cæsar came back from Alexandria, fortunate, as he seemed at least to himself; but in my opinion no one can be fortunate who is unfortunate for the republic. The spear was set up in front of the temple of Jupiter Stator, and the property of Cnæus Pompeius Magnus—(miserable that I am, for even now that my tears have ceased to flow, my grief remains deeply implanted in my heart)—the property, I say, of Cnæus Pompeius the Great was submitted to the pitiless voice of the auctioneer. On that one occasion the state forgot its slavery, and groaned aloud; and though men's minds were enslaved, as everything was kept under by fear, still the groans of the Roman people were free. While all men were waiting to see who would be so impious, who would be so mad, who would be so declared an enemy to gods and to men as to dare to mix himself up with that wicked auction, no one was found except Antonius, even though there were plenty of men collected round that spear who would have dared anything else. One man alone was found to dare to do that which the audacity of every one else had shrunk from and shuddered at. Were you, then, seized with such stupidity—or, I should rather say, with such insanity—as not to see that if you, being of the rank in which you were born, acted as a broker at all, and above all as a broker in the case of Pompeius's property, you would be execrated and hated by the Roman people, and that all gods and all men must at once become and forever continue hostile to you? But with what violence did that glutton immediately proceed to take possession of the property of that man, to whose valor it had been owing that the Roman people had been more terrible to foreign nations, while his justice had made it dearer to them.

When, therefore, this fellow had begun to wallow in the treasures of that great man, he began to exult like a buffoon in a play, who has lately been a beggar, and has become suddenly rich. But, as some poet or other says,—

"Ill-gotten gain comes quickly to end."

It is an incredible thing, and almost a miracle, how he in a few, not months, but days, squandered all that vast wealth. There was an immense quantity of wine, an excessive abundance of very valuable plate, much precious apparel, great quantities of splendid furniture, and other magnificent things in many places, such as one was likely to see belonging to a man who was not indeed luxurious, but who was very wealthy. Of all this in a few days, there was nothing left. What Charybdis was ever so voracious? Charybdis, do I say? Charybdis, if she existed at all, was only one animal. The ocean, I swear most solemnly, appears scarcely capable of having swallowed up such numbers of things so widely scattered, and distributed in such different places, with such rapidity. Nothing was shut up, nothing sealed up, no list was made of anything. Whole storehouses were abandoned to the most worthless of men. Actors seized on this, actresses on that; the house was crowded with gamblers, and full of drunken men; people were drinking all day, and that, too, in many places; there were added to all this expense (for this fellow was not invariably fortunate) heavy gambling losses. You might see in the cellars of the slaves couches covered with the most richly embroidered counterpanes of Cnæus Pompeius. Wonder not, then, that all these things were so soon consumed. Such profligacy as that could have devoured not only the patrimony of one individual, however ample it might have been (as indeed his was), but whole cities and kingdoms.

And then his houses and gardens! Oh, the cruel audacity! Did you dare to enter into that house? Did you dare to cross that most sacred threshold? and to show your most profligate countenance to the household gods who protect that abode? A house which for a long time no one could behold, no one could pass by without tears! Are you not ashamed to dwell so long in that house? one in which, stupid and ignorant as you are, still you can see nothing which is not painful to you.

When you behold those beaks of ships in the vestibule, and those warlike trophies, do you fancy that you are entering into a house which belongs to you? It is impossible. Although you are devoid of all sense and all feeling—as in truth you are—still you are acquainted with yourself, and with your trophies, and with your friends. Nor do I believe that you, either waking or sleeping, can ever act with quiet sense. It is impossible but that, were you ever so drunk and frantic—as in truth you are—when the recollection of the appearance of that illustrious man comes across you, you should be roused from sleep by your fears, and often stirred up to madness if awake. I pity even the walls and the roof. For what had that house ever beheld except what was modest, except what proceeded from the purest principles and from the most virtuous practice. For that man was, O conscript fathers, as you yourselves know, not only illustrious abroad, but also admirable at home; and not more praiseworthy for his exploits in foreign countries, than for his domestic arrangements. Now in his house every bedchamber is a brothel, and every dining-room a cookshop. Although he denies this—do not, do not make inquiries: he is become economical. He desired that mistress of his to take possession of whatever belonged to her, according to the laws of the Twelve Tables. He has taken his keys from her, and turned her out of doors. What a well-tried citizen! of what proved virtue is he! the most honorable passage in whose life is the one when he divorced himself from this actress.

Tho you yourself took no personal share in it, partly through timidity, partly through profligacy, you had tasted, or rather had sucked in, the blood of fellow citizens: you had been in the battle of Pharsalia as a leader; you had slain Lucius Domitius, a most illustrious and highborn man; you had pursued and put to death in the most barbarous manner many men who had escaped from the battle, and whom Cæsar would perhaps have saved, as he did some others.

And, after having performed these exploits, what was the reason why you did not follow Cæsar into Africa—especially when so large a portion of the war was still remaining? And accordingly, what place did you obtain about Cæsar's person after his return from Africa? What was your rank? He whose questor you had been when general, whose master of the horse when he was dictator, to whom you had been the chief cause of war, the chief instigator of cruelty, the sharer of his plunder, his son, as you yourself said, by inheritance, proceeded against you for the money which you owed for the house and gardens, and for the other property which you had bought at that sale. At first you answered fiercely enough; and that I may not appear prejudiced against you in every particular, you used a tolerably just and reasonable argument. "What, does Caius Caesar demand money of me? Why should he do so, any more than I should claim it of him? Was he victorious without my assistance? No; and he never could have been. It was I who supplied him with a pretext for civil war; it was I who proposed mischievous laws; it was I who took up arms against the consuls and generals of the Roman people, against the senate and people of Rome, against the gods of the country, against its altars and hearths, against the country itself. Has he conquered for himself alone? Why should not those men whose common work the achievement is, have the booty also in common?" You were only claiming your right, but what had that to do with it? He was the more powerful of the two.

Oh, how splendid was that eloquence of yours, when you harangued the people stark naked! What could be more foul than this? more shameful than this? more deserving of every sort of punishment? Are you waiting for me to prick you more? This that I am saying must tear you and bring blood enough if you have any feeling at all. I am afraid that I may be detracting from the glory of some most eminent men. Still my indignation shall find a voice. What can be more scandalous than for that man to live who placed a diadem on a man's head when every one confesses that that man was deservedly slain who rejected it? And, moreover, he caused it to be recorded in the annals, under the head of Lupercalia, "That Marcus Antonius, the consul, by command of the people, had offered the kingdom to Caius Cæsar, perpetual dictator; and that Cæsar had refused to accept it." I now am not much surprised at your seeking to disturb the general tranquility; at your hating not only the city but the light of day; and at your living with a pack of abandoned robbers, disregarding the day, and yet regarding nothing beyond the day. For where can you be safe in peace? What place can there be for you where laws and courts of justice have sway, both of which you, as far as in you lay, destroyed by the substitution of kingly power? Was it for this that Lucius Tarquinius was driven out; that Spurius Cassius, and Spurius Mælius, and Marcus Manlius were slain; that many years afterward a king might be established at Rome by Marcus Antonius, tho the bare idea was impiety? However, let us return to the auspices.

Oh, what a splendid progress of yours was that in the months of April and May, when you attempted even to lead a colony to Capua! How you made your escape from thence, or rather how you barely made your escape, we all know. And now you are still threatening that city. I wish you would try, and we should not then be forced to say "barely." However, what a splendid progress of yours that was! Why need I mention your preparations for banquets, why your frantic hard drinking? Those things are only an injury to yourself; these are injuries to us. We thought that a great blow was inflicted on the republic when the Campanian district was released from the payment of taxes, in order to be given to the soldiery; but you have divided it among your partners in drunkenness and gambling. I tell you, O conscript fathers, that a lot of buffoons and actresses have been settled in the district of Campania. Why should I now complain of what has been done in the district of Leontini? Although formerly these lands of Campania and Leontini were considered part of the patrimony of the Roman people, and were productive of great revenue, and very fertile. You gave your physician three thousand acres; what would you have done if he had cured you? and two thousand to your master of oratory; what would you have done if he had been able to make you eloquent?

In public transactions nothing is more authoritative than law; in private affairs the most valid of all deeds is a will. Of the laws, some he abolished without giving the least notice; others he gave notice of bills to abolish. Wills he annulled; tho they have been at all times held sacred even in the case of the very meanest of the citizens. As for the statues and pictures which Cæsar bequeathed to the people, together with his gardens, those he carried away, some to the house which belonged to Pompeius, and some to Scipio's villa.

And are you then diligent in doing honor to Cæsar's memory? Do you love him even now that he is dead? What greater honor had he obtained than that of having a holy cushion, an image, a temple, and a priest? As then Jupiter, and Mars, and Quirinus have priests, so Marcus Antonius is the priest of the god Julius. Why then do you delay? why are you not inaugurated? Choose a day; select some one to inaugurate you; we are colleagues; no one will refuse, O you detestable man, whether you are the priest of a tyrant, or of a dead man! I ask you, then, whether you are ignorant what day this is? Are you ignorant that yesterday was the fourth day of the Roman games in the Circus? and that you yourself submitted a motion to the people, that a fifth day should be added besides, in honor of Cæsar? Why are we not all clad in the pretexta? Why are we permitting the honor which by your law was appointed for Cæsar to be deserted? Had you no objection to so holy a day being polluted by the addition of supplications, while you did not choose it to be so by the addition of ceremonies connected with a sacred cushion? Either take away religion in every case, or preserve it in every case.

Recollect then, O Marcus Antonius, that day on which you abolished the dictatorship. Set before you the joy of the senate and people of Rome; compare it with this infamous market held by you and by your friends, and then you will understand how great is the difference between praise and profit. But in truth, just as some people, through some disease which has blunted the senses, have no conception of the niceness of food, so men who are lustful, avaricious, and criminal, have no taste for true glory. But if praise can not allure you to act rightly, still can not even fear turn you away from the most shameful actions? You are not afraid of the courts of justice. If it is because you are innocent, I praise you; if because you trust in your power of overbearing them by violence, are you ignorant of what that man has to fear, who on such an account as that does not fear the courts of justice?

But if you are not afraid of brave men and illustrious citizens, because they are prevented from attacking you by your armed retinue, still, believe me, your own fellows will not long endure you. And what a life is it, day and night to be fearing danger from one's own people! Unless, indeed, you have men who are bound to you by greater kindnesses than some of those men by whom he was slain were bound to Cæsar; or unless there are points in which you can be compared with him.

In that man were combined genius, method, memory, literature, prudence, deliberation, and industry. He had performed exploits in war which, though calamitous for the republic, were nevertheless mighty deeds. Having for many years aimed at being a king, he had with great labor, and much personal danger, accomplished what he intended. He had conciliated the ignorant multitude by presents, by monuments, by largesses of food, and by banquets; he had bound his own party to him by rewards, his adversaries by the appearances of clemency. Why need I say much on such a subject? He had already brought a free city, partly by fear, partly by patience, into a habit of slavery.

With him I can, indeed, compare you as to your desire to reign; but in all other respects you are in no degree to be compared to him. But from the many evils which by him have been burnt into the republic, there is still this good: that the Roman people has now learnt how much to believe every one, to whom to trust itself, and against whom to guard. Do you never think on these things? And do you not understand that it is enough for brave men to have learnt how noble a thing it is as to the act, how grateful it is as to the benefit done, how glorious as to the fame acquired, to slay a tyrant? When men could not bear him, do you think they will bear you? Believe me, the time will come when men will race with one another to do this deed, and when no one will wait for the tardy arrival of an opportunity.

Consider, I beg you, Marcus Antonius, do some time or other consider the republic: think of the family of which you are born, not of the men with whom you are living. Be reconciled to the republic. However, do you decide on your conduct. As to mine, I myself will declare what that shall be. I defended the republic as a young man; I will not abandon it now that I am old. I scorned the sword of Catiline; I will not quail before yours. No; I will rather cheerfully expose my own person, if the liberty of the city can be restored by my death.

To what destiny of mine, O conscript fathers, shall I say that it is owing, that none for the last twenty years has been an enemy to the republic without at the same time declaring war against me? Nor is there any necessity for naming any particular person; you yourselves recollect instances in proof of my statement. They have all hitherto suffered severer punishments than I could have wished for them; but I marvel that you, O Antonius, do not fear the end of those men whose conduct you are imitating. And in others I was less surprised at this. None of those men of former times was a voluntary enemy to me; all of them were attacked by me for the sake of the republic. But you, who have never been injured by me, not even by a word, in order to appear more audacious than Catiline, more frantic than Clodius, have of your own accord attacked me with abuse, and have considered that your alienation from me would be a recommendation of you to impious citizens.

What am I to think?—that I have been despised? I see nothing either in my life, or in my influence in the city, or in my exploits, or even in the moderate abilities with which I am endowed, which Antonius can despise. Did he think that it was easiest to disparage me in the senate?—a body which has borne its testimony in favor of many most illustrious citizens that they governed the republic well, but in favor of me alone, of all men, that I preserved it. Or did he wish to contend with me in a rivalry of eloquence? This, indeed, is an act of generosity; for what could be a more fertile or richer subject for me, than to have to speak in defense of myself, and against Antonius? This, in fact, is the truth. He thought it impossible to prove to the satisfaction of those men who resembled himself, that he was an enemy to his country, if he was not also an enemy to me. And before I make him any reply on the other topics of his speech, I will say a few words respecting the friendship formerly subsisting between us, which he has accused me of violating—for that I consider a most serious charge.

He has complained that I pleaded once against his interest. Was I not to plead against one with whom I was quite unconnected, in behalf of an intimate acquaintance, of a dear friend? Was I not to plead against interest acquired not by hopes of virtue, but by the disgrace of youth? Was I not to plead against an injustice which that man procured to be done by the obsequiousness of a most iniquitous interposer of his veto, not by any law regulating the privileges of the pretor? But I imagine that this was mentioned by you, in order that you might recommend yourself to the citizens, if they all recollected that you were the son-in-law of a freedman, and that your children were the grandsons of Quintus Fabius, a freedman.

But you had entirely devoted yourself to my principles (for this is what you said); you had been in the habit of coming to my house. In truth, if you had done so, you would more have consulted your own character and your reputation for chastity. But you did not do so, nor, if you had wished it, would Caius Curio have ever suffered you to do so.

But I availed myself of your friendly assistance. Of what assistance? Although the instance which you cite I have myself at all times openly admitted. I preferred confessing that I was under obligations to you, to letting myself appear to any foolish person not sufficiently grateful. However, what was the kindness that you did me? not killing me at Brundusium? Would you then have slain the man whom the conqueror himself, who conferred on you, as you used to boast, the chief rank among all his robbers, had desired to be safe, and had enjoined to go to Italy? Grant that you could have slain him, is not this, O conscript fathers, such a kindness as is done by banditti, who are contented with being able to boast that they have granted their lives to all those men whose lives they have not taken? and if that were really a kindness, then those who slew that man by whom they themselves had been saved, and whom you yourself are in the habit of styling most illustrious men, would never have acquired such immortal glory. But what sort of kindness is it, to have abstained from committing nefarious wickedness? It is an ease in which it ought not to appear so delightful to me not to have been killed by you, as miserable, that it should have been in your power to do such a thing with impunity. However, grant that it was a kindness, since no greater kindness could be received from a robber; still in what point can you call me ungrateful? Ought I not to complain of the ruin of the republic, lest I should appear ungrateful toward you?

But he also read letters which he said that I had sent to him, like a man devoid of humanity and ignorant of the common usages of life. For who ever, who was even but slightly acquainted with the habits of polite men, produced in an assembly and openly read letters which had been sent to him by a friend, just because some quarrel had arisen between them? Is not this destroying all companionship in life, destroying the means by which absent friends converse together? How many jests are frequently put in letters, which, if they were produced in public, would appear stupid! How many serious opinions, which, for all that, ought not to be published! Let this be a proof of your utter ignorance of courtesy. Now mark, also, his incredible folly. What have you to oppose to me, O you eloquent man, as you seem at least to Mustela Tamisus, and to Tiro Numisius? And while these men are standing at this very time in the sight of the senate with drawn swords, I, too, will think you an eloquent man if you will show how you would defend them if they were charged with being assassins. However, what answer would you make if I were to deny that I ever sent those letters to you? By what evidence could you convict me? By my handwriting? Of handwriting indeed you have a lucrative knowledge. How can you prove it in that manner? for the letters are written by an amanuensis. By this time I envy your teacher, who for all that payment which I shall mention presently, has taught you to know nothing.

You have said that Publius Clodius was slain by my contrivance. What would men have thought if he had been slain at the time when you pursued him in the forum with a drawn sword, in the sight of all the Roman people; and when you would have settled his business if he had not thrown himself up the stairs of a bookseller's shop, and shutting them against you, checked your attack by that means? And I confess that at that time I favored you, but even you yourself do not say that I had advised your attempt. But as for Milo, it was not possible even for me to favor his action; for he had finished the business before any one could suspect that he was going to do it. Oh, but I advised it! I suppose Milo was a man of such a disposition that he was not able to do a service to the republic if he had not some one to advise him to do it. But I rejoiced at it! Well, suppose I did; was I to be the only sorrowful person in the city, when every one else was in such delight? Although that inquiry into the death of Publius Clodius was not instituted with any great wisdom. For what was the reason for having a new law to inquire into the conduct of the man who had slain him, when there was a form of inquiry already established by the laws? However, an inquiry was instituted. And have you now been found, so many years afterward, to say a thing which, at the time that the affair was under discussion, no one ventured to say against me? But as to the assertion that you have dared to make, and that at great length, too, that it was by my means that Pompeius was alienated from his friendship with Cæsar, and that on that account it was my fault that the civil war was originated; in that you have not erred so much in the main facts, as (and that is of the greatest importance) in the times.

When Marcus Bibulus, a most illustrious citizen, was consul, I omitted nothing which I could possibly do or attempt to draw off Pompeius from his union with Cæsar. In which, however, Cæsar was more fortunate than I, for he himself drew off Pompeius from his intimacy with me. But afterward, when Pompeius joined Cæsar with all his heart, what could have been my object in attempting to separate them then? It would have been the part of a fool to hope to do so, and of an impudent man to advise it. However, two occasions did arise, on which I gave Pompeius advice against Cæsar. You are at liberty to find fault with my conduct on those occasions if you can. One was when I advised him not to continue Cæsar's government for five years more. The other, when I advised him not to permit him to be considered as a candidate for the consulship when he was absent. And if I had been able to prevail on him in either of these particulars, we should never have fallen into our present miseries.

Moreover, I also, when Pompeius had now devoted to the service of Cæsar all his own power, and all the power of the Roman people, and had begun when it was too late to perceive all those things which I had foreseen long before, and when I saw that a nefarious war was about to be waged against our country, I never ceased to be the adviser of peace, and concord, and some arrangement. And that language of mine was well known to many people,—"I wish, O Cnæus Pompeius, that you had either never joined in a confederacy with Caius Cæsar, or else that you had never broken it off. The one conduct would have become your dignity, and the other would have been suited to your prudence." This, O Marcus Antonius, was at all times my advice both respecting Pompeius and concerning the republic. And if it had prevailed, the republic would still be standing, and you would have perished through your own crimes, and indigence, and infamy.

But these are all old stories now. This charge, however, is quite a modern one: that Cæsar was slain by my contrivance. I am afraid, O conscript fathers, lest I should appear to you to have brought up a sham accuser against myself (which is a most disgraceful thing to do); a man not only to distinguish me by the praises which are my due, but to load me also with those which do not belong to me. For who ever heard my name mentioned as an accomplice in that most glorious action? and whose name has been concealed who was in the number of that gallant band! Concealed, do I say? Whose name was there which was not at once made public? I should sooner say that some men had boasted in order to appear to have been concerned in that conspiracy, though they had in reality known nothing of it, than that any one who had been an accomplice in it could have wished to be concealed.

Moreover, how likely it is, that among such a number of men, some obscure, some young men who had not the wit to conceal any one, my name could possibly have escaped notice? Indeed, if leaders were wanted for the purpose of delivering the country, what need was there of my instigating the Bruti, one of whom saw every day in his house the image of Lucius Brutus, and the other saw also the image of Ahala? Were these the men to seek counsel from the ancestors of others rather than from their own? and out of doors rather than at home? What! Caius Cassius, a man of that family which could not endure, I will not say the domination, but even the power of any individual,—he, I suppose, was in need of me to instigate him? a man who, even without the assistance of these other most illustrious men, would have accomplished this same deed in Cilicia, at the mouth of the river Cydnus, if Cæsar had brought his ships to that bank of the river which he had intended, and not to the opposite one. Was Cnæus Domitius spurred on to seek to recover his dignity, not by the death of his father, a most illustrious man, nor by the death of his uncle, nor by the deprivation of his own dignity, but by my advice and authority? Did I persuade Caius Trebonius, a man whom I should not have ventured even to advise? On which account the republic owes him even a larger debt of gratitude, because he preferred the liberty of the Roman people to the friendship of one man, and because he preferred overthrowing arbitrary power to sharing it. Was I the instigator whom Lucius Tillius Cimber followed? a man whom I admired for having performed that action, rather than ever expected that he would perform it; and I admired him on this account, that he was unmindful of the personal kindnesses which he had received, but mindful of his country. What shall I say of the two Servilii? Shall I call them Cascas, or Ahalas? And do you think that those men were instigated by my authority rather than by their affection for the republic? It would take a long time to go through all the rest; and it is a glorious thing for the republic that they were so numerous, and a most honorable thing also for themselves.

But recollect, I pray you, how that clever man convicted me of being an accomplice in the business. When Cæsar was slain, says he, Marcus Brutus immediately lifted up on high his bloody dagger, and called on Cicero by name, and congratulated him on liberty being recovered. Why on me above all men? Because I knew of it beforehand? Consider rather whether this was not his reason for calling on me, that, when he had performed an action very like those which I myself had done, he called me above all men to witness that he had been an imitator of my exploits. But you, O stupidest of all men, do not you perceive, that if it is a crime to have wished that Cæsar should be slain—which you accuse me of having wished—it is a crime also to have rejoiced at his death? For what is the difference between a man who has advised an action, and one who has approved of it? or what does it signify whether I wished it to be done, or rejoice that it has been done? Is there any one then, except you yourself and those men who wished him to become a king, who was unwilling that that deed should be done, or who disapproved of it after it was done? All men, therefore, are guilty as far as this goes. In truth, all good men, as far as it depended on them, bore a part in the slaying of Cæsar. Some did not know how to contrive it, some had not courage for it, some had no opportunity,—every one had the inclination.

Shall we then examine your conduct from the time when you were a boy? I think so. Let us begin at the beginning. Do you recollect that, while you were still clad in the pretexta, you became a bankrupt? That was the fault of your father, you will say. I admit that. In truth, such a defense is full of filial affection. But it is peculiarly suited to your own audacity, that you sat among the fourteen rows of the knights, though by the Roseian law there was a place appointed for bankrupts, even if any one had become such by the fault of fortune and not by his own. You assumed the manly gown, which you soon made a womanly one; at first a public prostitute, with a regular price for your wickedness, and that not a low one. But very soon Curio stepped in, who carried you off from your public trade, and, as if he had bestowed a matron's robe upon you, settled you in a steady and durable wedlock. No boy bought for the gratification of passion was ever so wholly in the power of his master as you were in Curio's. How often has his father turned you out of his house? How often has he placed guards to prevent you from entering? while you, with night for your accomplice, lust for your encourager, and wages for your compeller, were let down through the roof. That house could no longer endure your wickedness.

Do you not know I am speaking of matters with which I am thoroughly acquainted? Remember that time when Curio, the father, lay weeping in his bed; his son throwing himself at my feet with tears recommended to me you; he entreated me to defend you against his own father, if he demanded six millions of sesterees of you; for that he had been bail for you to that amount. And he himself, burning with love, declared positively that because he was unable to bear the misery of being separated from you, he should go into banishment. And at that time what misery of that most flourishing family did I allay, or rather did I remove! I persuaded the father to pay the son's debts; to release the young man, endowed as he was with great promise of courage and ability, by the sacrifice of part of his family estate; and to use his privileges and authority as a father to prohibit him not only from all intimacy with, but from every opportunity of meeting you. When you recollected that all this was done by me, would you have dared to provoke me by abuse if you had not been trusting to those swords which we behold?

But let us say no more of your profligacy and debauchery. There are things which it is not possible for me to mention with honor; but you are all the more free for that, inasmuch as you have not scrupled to be an actor in scenes which a modest enemy can not bring himself to mention. Mark now, O conscript fathers, the rest of his life, which I will touch upon rapidly. For my inclination hastens to arrive at those things which he did in the time of the civil war, amid the greatest miseries of the republic, and at those things which he does every day. And I beg of you, tho they are far better known to you than they are to me, still to listen attentively, as you are doing, to my relation of them. For in such cases as this, it is not the mere knowledge of such actions that ought to excite the mind, but the recollection of them also. And we must at once go into the middle of them, lest otherwise we should be too long in coming to the end.

He was very intimate with Clodius at the time of his tribuneship—he, who now enumerates the kindnesses which he did me. He was the firebrand to handle all conflagrations; and even in his house he attempted something. He himself well knows what I allude to. From thence he made a journey to Alexandria, in defiance of the authority of the senate, and against the interests of the republic, and in spite of religious obstacles; but he had Gabinius for his leader, with whom whatever he did was sure to be right. What were the circumstances of his return from thence? What sort of return was it? He went from Egypt to the farthest extremity of Gaul before he returned home. And what was his home? For at that time every man had possession of his own house; and you had no house anywhere, O Antonius. House, do you say? What place was there in the whole world where you could set your foot on anything that belonged to you, except Mienum, which you farmed with your partners, as if it had been Sisapo?

You came from Gaul to stand for the questorship. Dare to say that you went to your own father before you came to me. I had already received Cæsar's letters, begging me to allow myself to accept of your excuses; and, therefore, I did not allow you even to mention thanks. After that, I was treated with respect by you, and you received attentions from me in your canvass for the questorship. And it was at that time, indeed, that you endeavored to slay Publius Clodius in the forum, with the approbation of the Roman people; and though you made the attempt of your own accord, and not at my instigation, still you clearly alleged that you did not think, unless you slew him, that you could possibly make amends to me for all the injuries which you had done me. And this makes me wonder why you should say that Milo did that deed at my instigation; when I never once exhorted you to do it, who of your own accord attempted to do me the same service. Although, if you had persisted in it, I should have preferred allowing the action to be set down entirely to your own love of glory rather than to my influence.

It was you, you, I say, O Marcus Antonius, who gave Caius Cæsar, desirous as he already was to throw everything into confusion, the principal pretext for waging war against his country. For what other pretense did he allege? What cause did he give for his own most frantic resolution and action, except that the power of interposition by the veto had been disregarded, the privileges of the tribunes taken away, and Antonius's rights abridged by the senate? I say nothing of how false, how trivial these pretenses were; especially when there could not possibly be any reasonable cause whatever to justify any one in taking up arms against his country. But I have nothing to do with Cæsar. You must unquestionably allow, that the cause of that ruinous war existed in your person.

O miserable man, if you are aware, more miserable still if you are not aware, that this is recorded in writings, is handed down to men's recollection, that our very latest posterity in the most distant ages will never forget this fact, that the consuls were expelled from Italy, and with them Cnæus Pompeius, who was the glory and light of the empire of the Roman people; that all the men of consular rank, whose health would allow them to share in that disaster and that flight, and the pretors, and men of pretorian rank, and the tribunes of the people, and a great part of the senate, and all the flower of the youth of the city, and, in a word, the republic itself was driven out and expelled from its abode. As, then, there is in seeds the cause which produces trees and plants, so of this most lamentable war you were the seed. Do you, O conscript fathers, grieve that these armies of the Roman people have been slain? It is Antonius who slew them. Do you regret your most illustrious citizens? It is Antonius, again, who has deprived you of them. The authority of this order is overthrown; it is Antonius who has overthrown it. Everything, in short, which we have seen since that time (and what misfortune is there that we have not seen) we shall, if we argue rightly, attribute wholly to Antonius. As Helen was to the Trojans, so has that man been to this republic—the cause of war, the cause of mischief, the cause of ruin. The rest of his tribuneship was like the beginning. He did everything which the senate had labored to prevent, as being impossible to be done consistently with the safety of the republic. And see, now, how gratuitously wicked he was in accomplishing his wickedness. Then in this same tribuneship, when Cæsar while on his way into Spain had given him Italy to trample on, what journeys did he make in every direction! how did he visit the municipal towns! I know that I am only speaking of matters which have been discussed in every one's conversation, and that the things which I am saying and am going to say are better known to every one who was in Italy at that time, than to me, who was not. Still I mention the particulars of his conduct, although  my speech can not possibly come up to your own personal knowledge. When was such wickedness ever heard of as existing upon earth? or such shamelessness? or such open infamy?

Before, O conscript fathers, I say those things concerning the republic which I think myself bound to say at the present time, I will explain to you briefly the cause of my departure from, and of my return to the city. When I hoped that the republic was at last recalled to a proper respect for your wisdom and for your authority, I thought that it became me to remain in a sort of sentinelship, which was imposed upon me by my position as a senator and a man of consular rank. Nor did I depart anywhere, nor did I ever take my eyes off from the republic, from the day on which we were summoned to meet in the temple of Tellus; in which temple I, as far as was in my power, laid the foundations of peace, and renewed the ancient precedent set by the Athenians; I even used the Greek word, which that city employed in those times in allaying discords, and gave my vote that all recollection of the existing dissensions ought to be effaced by everlasting oblivion.

The oration then made by Marcus Antonius was an admirable one; his disposition, too, appeared excellent; and lastly, by his means and by his sons', peace was ratified with the most illustrious of the citizens and everything else was consistent with this beginning. He invited the chief men of the state to those deliberations which he held at his own house concerning the state of the republic; he referred all the most important matters to this order. Nothing was at that time found among the papers of Caius Cæsar except what was already well known to everybody; and he gave answers to every question that was asked of him with the greatest consistency. Were any exiles restored? He said that one was, and only one. Were any immunities granted? He answered, None. He wished us even to adopt the proposition of Servius Sulpicius, that most illustrious man, that no tablet purporting to contain any decree or grant of Cæsar's should be published after the Ides of March were expired. I pass over many other things, all excellent—for I am hastening to come to a very extraordinary act of virtue of Marcus Antonius. He utterly abolished from the constitution of the republic the dictatorship, which had by this time attained to the authority of regal power. And that measure was not even offered to us for discussion. He brought with him a decree of the senate, ready drawn up, ordering what he chose to have done; and when it had been read, we all submitted to his authority in the matter with the greatest eagerness; and, by another resolution of the senate, we returned him thanks in the most honorable and complimentary language.

A new light, as it were seemed to be brought over us, now that not only the kingly power which we had endured, but all fear of such power for the future, was taken away from us; and a great pledge appeared to have been given by him to the republic that he did wish the city to be free, when he utterly abolished out of the republic the name of dictator, which had often been a legitimate title, on account    of our late recollection of a perpetual dictatorship. A few days afterward the senate was delivered from the danger of bloodshed, and a look was fixed into that runaway slave who had usurped the name of Caius Marius. And all these things he did in concert with his colleague. Some other things that were done were the acts of Dolabella alone; but, if his colleague had not been absent, would, I believe, have been done by both of them in concert.

I have now explained to you, O conscript fathers, my design in leaving the city. Now I will set before you, also, my intention in returning which may, perhaps, appear more unaccountable. As I had avoided Brundusium, and the ordinary route into Greece, not without good reason, on the first of August I arrived at Syracuse, because the passage from that city into Greece was said to be a good one. And that city, with which I had so intimate a connection, could not, though it was very eager to do so, detain me more than one night. I was afraid that my sudden arrival among my friends might cause some suspicion if I remained there at all. But after the winds had driven me, on my departure from Sicily, to Leucopetra, which is a promontory of the Rhegian district, I went up the gulf from that point, with the view of crossing over. And I had not advanced far before I was driven back by a foul wind to the very place which I had just quitted. And as the night was stormy, and as I had lodged that night in the villa of Publius Valerius, my companion and intimate friend, and as I remained all the next day at his house waiting for a fair wind, many of the citizens of the municipality of Rhegium came to me. And of them there were some who had lately arrived from Rome; from them I first heard of the harangue of Marcus Antonius, with which I was so much pleased that, after I had read it, I began for the first time to think of returning. And not long afterward the edict of Brutus and Cassius is brought to me; which (perhaps because I love those men, even more for the sake of the republic than of my own friendship for them) appeared to me, indeed, to be full of equity. They added besides (for it is a very common thing for those who are desirous of bringing good news to invent something to make the news which they bring seem more joyful) that parties were coming to an agreement; that the senate was to meet on the first of August; that Antonius having discarded all evil counselors, and having given up the provinces of Gaul, was about to return to submission to the authority of the senate.

But on this I was inflamed with such eagerness to return, that no oars or winds could be fast enough for me; not that I thought that I should not arrive in time, but lest I should be later than I wished in congratulating the republic; and I quickly arrived at Velia, where I saw Brutus; how grieved I was, I can not express. For it seemed to be a discreditable thing for me myself, that I should venture to return into that city, from which Brutus was departing, and that I should be willing to live safely in a place where he could not. But he himself was not agitated in the same manner that I was; for, being elevated with the consciousness of his great and glorious exploit, he had no complaints to make of what had befallen him, though he lamented your fate exceedingly. And it was from him that I first heard what had been the language of Lucius Piso, in the senate of August; who, although he was but little assisted (for that I heard from Brutus himself) by those who ought to have seconded him, still according to the testimony of Brutus (and what evidence can be more trustworthy?) and to the avowal of every one whom I saw afterward, appeared to me to have gained great credit. I hastened hither, therefore, in order that as those who were present had not seconded him, I might do so; not with the hope of doing any good, for I neither hoped for that, nor did I well see how it was possible; but in order that if anything happened to me (and many things appeared to be threatening me out of the regular course of nature, and even of destiny), I might still leave my speech on this day as a witness to the republic of my everlasting attachment to its interests.

What reason had Marcus Antonius for endeavoring, with such bitter hostility, to force me into the senate yesterday? Was I the only person who was absent? Have you not repeatedly had thinner houses than yesterday? Or was a matter of such importance under discussion, that it was desirable for even sick men to be brought down? Hannibal, I suppose, was at the gates, or there was to be a debate about peace with Pyrrhus, on which occasion it is related that even the great Appius, old and blind as he was, was brought down to the senate house. There was a motion being made about some supplications—a kind of measure when senators are not usually wanting; for they are under the compulsion, not of pledges, but of the influence of those men whose honor is being complimented; and the case is the same when the motion has reference to a triumph. The consuls are so free from anxiety at these times, that it is almost entirely free for a senator to absent himself if he pleases. And as the general custom of our body was well known to me, and as I was hardly recovered from the fatigue of my journey, and was vexed with myself, I sent a man to him, out of regard for my friendship with him, to tell him that I should not be there.

But he, in the hearing of you all, declared that he would come with masons to my house; this was said with too much passion and very intemperately. For what known crime is there such a heavy punishment appointed as that—that any one should venture to say in this assembly that he, with the assistance of a lot of common operatives, would pull down a house which had been built at the public expense in accordance with a vote of the senate? And who ever employed such compulsion as the threat of such an injury as that to a senator? or what severer punishment has ever been imposed for absence than the forfeiture of a pledge, or a fine? But if he had known what opinion I should have delivered on the subject, he would have remitted somewhat of the rigor of his compulsion.

Do you think, O conscript fathers, that I would have voted for the resolution which you adopted against your own wills, of mingling funeral obsequies with supplications? of introducing inexplicable impiety into the republic? of decreeing supplications in honor of a dead man? I say nothing about who the man was. Even had he been that great Lucius Brutus who himself also delivered the republic from kingly power, and who has produced posterity nearly five hundred years after himself of similar virtue, and equal to similar achievements—even then I could not have been induced to join any dead man in a religious observance paid to the immortal gods; so that a supplication should be addressed by public authority to a man who has nowhere a sepulcher at which funeral obsequies may be celebrated.

I, O conscript fathers, should have delivered my opinion, which I could easily have defended against the Roman people, if any heavy misfortune had happened to the republic, such as war, or pestilence, or famine; some of which, indeed, do exist already; and I have my fears lest others are impending. But I pray that the immortal gods may pardon this act, both to the Roman people, which does not approve of it, and to this order, which voted it with great unwillingness. What! may I not speak of the other misfortunes of the republic? At all events it is in my power, and it always will be in my power, to uphold my own dignity and to despise death. Let me have only the power to come into this house, and I will never shrink from the danger of declaring my opinion!

In the first place, then, I declare my opinion that the acts of Cæsar ought to be maintained; not that I approve of them (for who indeed can do that?) but because I think that we ought above all things to have regard to peace and tranquility. I wish that Antonius himself were present, provided he had no advocates with him. But I suppose he may be allowed to feel unwell, a privilege which he refused to allow me yesterday. He would then explain to me, or rather to you, O conscript fathers, to what extent he himself defended the acts of Cæsar. Are all the acts of Cæsar which may exist in the bits of note-books, and memoranda, and loose papers, produced on his single authority, and indeed not even produced, but only recited, to be ratified? And shall the acts which he caused to be engraved on brass, in which he declared that the edicts and laws passed by the people were valid forever, be considered as of no power? I think, indeed, that there is nothing so well entitled to be called the acts of Cæsar as Cæsar's laws. Suppose he gave any one a promise, is that to be ratified, even if it were a promise that he himself was unable to perform? As, in fact, he has failed to perform many promises made to many people. And a great many more of those promises have been found since his death, than the number of all the services which he conferred on and did to people during all the years that he was alive would amount to.

What law was ever better, more advantageous, more frequently demanded in the best ages of the republic, than the one which forbade the pretorian provinces to be retained more than a year, and the consular provinces more than two? If this law be abrogated, do you think that the acts of Cæsar are maintained? What! are not all the laws of Cæsar respecting judicial proceedings abrogated by the law which has been proposed concerning the third decury? And are you the defenders of the acts of Cæsar who overturn his laws? Unless, indeed, anything which, for the purpose of recollecting it, he entered in a note-book, is to be counted among his acts, and defended, however unjust or useless it may be; and that which he proposed to the people in the comitia centuriata and carried, is not to be accounted one of the acts of Cæsar. But what is that third decury? The decury of centurions, says he. What! was not the judicature open to that order by the Julian Law, and even before that by the Pompeian and Aurelian Laws? The income of the men, says he, was exactly defined. Certainly, not only in the case of a centurion, but in the case, too, of a Roman knight. Therefore, men of the highest honor and of the greatest bravery, who have acted as centurions, are and have been judges.

I am not asking about those men, says he. Whoever has acted as centurion let him be a judge. But if you were to propose a law, that whoever had served in the cavalry, which is a higher post, should be a judge, you would not be able to induce any one to approve of that; for a man's fortune and worth ought to be regarded in a judge. I am not asking about those points, says he; I am going to add as judges, common soldiers of the legion of Alaudæ, for our friends say, that that is the only measure by which they can be saved. Oh, what an insulting compliment it is to those men whom you summon to act as judges tho they never expected it! For the effect of the law is to make those men judges in the third decury who do not dare to judge with freedom. And in that how great, O ye immortal gods! is the error of those men who have desired that law. For the meaner the condition of each judge is, the greater will be the severity of judgment with which he will seek to efface the idea of his meanness; and he will strive rather to appear worthy of being classed in the honorable decuries, than to have deservedly ranked in a disreputable one.

Men have been recalled from banishment by a dead man; the freedom of the city has been conferred, not only on individuals, but on entire nations and provinces by a dead man; our revenues have been diminished by the granting of countless exemptions by a dead man. Therefore, do we defend these measures which have been brought from his house on the authority of a single, but, I admit, a very excellent individual; and as for the laws which he, in your presence, read, and declared, and passed—in the passing of which he gloried, and on which he believed that the safety of the republic depended, especially those concerning provinces and concerning judicial proceedings—can we, I say, we who defend the acts of Cæsar, think that those laws deserve to be upset?

And yet, concerning those laws which were proposed, we have, at all events, the power of complaining; but concerning those which are actually passed we have not even had that privilege. For they, without any proposal of them to the people, were passed before they were framed. Men ask, what is the reason why I, or why any one of you, O conscript fathers, should be afraid of bad laws while we have virtuous tribunes of the people? We have men ready to interpose their veto; ready to defend the republic with the sanctions of religion. We ought to be strangers to fear. What do you mean by interposing the veto? says he; what are all these sanctions of religion which you are talking about? Those, forsooth, on which the safety of the republic depends. We are neglecting those things, and thinking them too old-fashioned and foolish.

The forum will be surrounded, every entrance of it will be blocked up; armed men will be placed in garrison, as it were, at many points. What then?—whatever is accomplished by those means will be law. And you will order, I suppose, all those regularly—passed decrees to be engraved on brazen tablets. "The consuls consulted the people in regular form"—(is this the way of consulting the people that we have received from our ancestors?)—"and the people voted it with due regularity." What people? That which was excluded from the forum? Under what law did they do so? Under that which has been wholly abrogated by violence and arms? But I am saying all this with reference to the future, because it is the part of a friend to point out evils which may be avoided; and if they never ensue, that will be the best refutation of my speech. I am speaking of laws which have been proposed, concerning which you have still full power to decide either way. I am pointing out the defects; away with them! I am denouncing violence and arms; away with them, too!

You and your colleague, O Dolabella, ought not, indeed, to be angry with me for speaking in defense of the republic. Although I do not think that you yourself will be, I know your willingness to listen to reason. They say that your colleague, in this fortune of his, which he himself thinks so good, but which would seem to me more favorable if (not to use any harsh language) he were to imitate the example set him by the consulship of his grandfathers and of his uncle,—they say that he has been exceedingly offended. And I see what a formidable thing it is to have the same man angry with me and also armed; especially at a time when men can use their swords with such impunity. But I will propose a condition which I myself think reasonable, and which I do not imagine Marcus Antonius will reject. If I have said anything insulting against his way of life or against his morals, I will not object to his being my bitterest enemy. But if I have maintained the same habits that I have already adopted in the republic—that is, if I have spoken my opinions concerning the affairs of the republic with freedom—in the first place, I beg that he will not be angry with me for that; but, in the next place, if I can not obtain my first request, I beg, at least, that he will show his anger only as he legitimately may show it to a fellow citizen.

Let him employ arms, if it is necessary, as he says it is, for his own defense; only let not those arms injure those men who have declared their honest sentiments in the affairs of the republic. Now, what can be more reasonable than this demand? But if, as has been said to me by some of his intimate friends, every speech which is at all contrary to his inclination is violently offensive to him, even if there be no insult in it whatever—then we will bear with the natural disposition of our friend. But those men, at the same time, say to me, "You will not have the same license granted to you who are the adversary of Cæsar as might be claimed by Piso his father-in-law." And then they warn me of something which I must guard against; and certainly, the excuse which sickness supplies me with, for not coming to the senate, will not be a more valid one than that which is furnished by death.

But, in the name of the immortal gods! for while I look upon you, O Dolabella, who are most dear to me, it is impossible for me to keep silence respecting the error into which you are both falling; for I believe that you, being both men of high birth, entertaining lofty views, have been eager to acquire, not money, as some too credulous people suspect—a thing which has at all times been scorned by every honorable and illustrious man—nor power procured by violence and authority such as never ought to be endured by the Roman people, but the affection of your fellow citizens, and glory. But glory is praise for deeds which have been done, and the fame earned by great services to the republic; which is approved of by the testimony borne in its favor, not only by every virtuous man, but also by the multitude. I would tell you, O Dolabella, what the fruit of good actions is, if I did not see that you have already learned it by experience beyond all other men.

What day can you recollect in your whole life, as ever having beamed on you with a more joyful light than the one on which, having purified the forum, having routed the throng of wicked men, having inflicted due punishment on the ringleaders in wickedness, and having delivered the city from conflagration and from fear of massacre , you returned to your house? What order of society, what class of people, what rank of nobles even was there who did not then show their zeal in praising and congratulating you? Even I, too, because men thought that you had been acting by my advice in those transactions, received the thanks and congratulations of good men in your name. Remember, I pray you, O Dolabella, the unanimity displayed on that day in the theater, when every one, forgetful of the causes on account of which they had been previously offended with you, showed that in consequence of your recent service they had banished all recollection of their former indignation. Could you, O Dolabella—(it is with great concern that I speak)—could you, I say, forfeit this dignity with equanimity?

And you, O Marcus Antonius—(I address myself to you, though in your absence)—do you not prefer that day on which the senate was assembled in the temple of Tellus, to all those months during which some who differ greatly in opinion from me think that you have been happy? What a noble speech was that of yours about unanimity! From what apprehensions were the veterans, and from what anxiety was the whole state relieved by you on that occasion! when, having laid aside your enmity against him, you on that day first consented that your present colleague should be your colleague, forgetting that the auspices had been announced by yourself as augur of the Roman people; and when your little son was sent by you to the Capitol to be a hostage for peace. On what day was the senate ever more joyful than on that day? or when was the Roman people more delighted? which had never met in greater numbers in any assembly whatever. Then, at last, we did appear to have been really delivered by brave men, because, as they had willed it to be, peace was following liberty. On the next day, on the day after that, on the third day, and on all the following days, you went on without intermission, giving every day, as it were, some fresh present to the republic; but the greatest of all presents was that when you abolished the name of the dictatorship. This was in effect branding the name of the dead Cæsar with everlasting ignominy, and it was your doing—yours I say. For as, on account of the wickedness of one Marcus Manlius, by a resolution of the Manlian family it is unlawful that any patrician should be called Manlius, so you, on account of the hatred excited by one dictator, have utterly abolished the name of dictator.

When you had done these mighty exploits for the safety of the republic, did you repent of your fortune, or of the dignity and renown and glory which you had acquired? Whence then is this sudden change? I can not be induced to suspect that you have been caught by the desire of acquiring money; every one may say what he pleases, but we are not bound to believe such a thing, for I never saw anything sordid or anything mean in you. Although a man's intimate friends do sometimes corrupt his natural disposition, still I know your firmness; and I only wish that, as you avoid that fault, you had been able also to escape all suspicion of it.

What I am more afraid of is lest, being ignorant of the true path to glory, you should think it glorious for you to have more power by yourself than all the rest of the people put together, and lest you should prefer being feared by your fellow citizens to being loved by them. And if you do think so, you are ignorant of the road to glory. For a citizen to be dear to his fellow citizens, to deserve well of the republic, to be praised, to be respected, to be loved, is glorious; but to be feared, and to be an object of hatred, is odious, detestable; and moreover, pregnant with weakness and decay. And we see that, even in the play, the very man who said,

"What care I tho all men should hate my name,

So long as fear accompanies their hate?"

found that it was a mischievous principle to act upon.

I wish, O Antonius, that you could recollect your grandfather, of whom, however, you have repeatedly heard me speak. Do you think that he would have been willing to deserve even immortality, at the price of being feared in consequence of his licentious use of arms? What he considered life, what he considered prosperity, was the being equal to the rest of the citizens in freedom, and chief of them all in worth. Therefore, to say no more of the prosperity of your grandfather, I should prefer that most bitter day of his death to the domination of Lucius Cinna, by whom he was most barbarously slain.

But why should I seek to make an impression on you by my speech? For, if the end of Caius Cæsar can not influence you to prefer being loved to being feared, no speech of any one will do any good or have any influence with you; and those who think him happy are themselves miserable. No one is happy who lives on such terms that he may be put to death not merely with impunity, but even to the great glory of his slayer. Wherefore, change your mind, I entreat you, and look back upon your ancestors, and govern the republic in such a way that your fellow citizens may rejoice that you were born; without which no one can be happy nor illustrious.

And, indeed, you have both of you had many judgments delivered respecting you by the Roman people, by which I am greatly concerned that you are not sufficiently influenced. For what was the meaning of the shouts of the innumerable crowd of citizens collected at the gladiatorial games? or of the verses made by the people? or of the extraordinary applause at the sight of the statue of Pompeius? and at that sight of the two tribunes of the people who are opposed to you? Are these things a feeble indication of the incredible unanimity of the entire Roman people? What more? Did the applause at the games of Apollo, or, I should rather say, testimony and judgment there given by the Roman people, appear to you of small importance? Oh! happy are those men who, though they themselves were unable to be present on account of the violence of arms, still were present in spirit, and had a place in the breasts and hearts of the Roman people. Unless, perhaps, you think that it was Accius who was applauded on that occasion, and who bore off the palm sixty years after his first appearance, and not Brutus, who was absent from the games which he himself was exhibiting, while at that most splendid spectacle the Roman people showed their zeal in his favor tho he was absent, and soothed their own regret for their deliverer by uninterrupted applause and clamor.

I myself, indeed, am a man who have at all times despised that applause which is bestowed by the vulgar crowd; but at the same time, when it is bestowed by those of the highest, and of the middle, and of the lowest rank, and, in short, by all ranks together, and when those men who were previously accustomed to aim at nothing but the favor of the people kept aloof, I then think that, not mere applause, but a deliberate verdict. If this appears to you unimportant, which is in reality most significant, do you also despise the fact of which you have had experience—namely, that the life of Aulus Hirtius is so dear to the Roman people? For it was sufficient for him to be esteemed by the Roman people as he is; to be popular among his friends, in which respect he surpasses everybody; to be beloved by his own kinsmen, who do love him beyond measure; but in whose case before do we ever recollect such anxiety and such fear being manifested? Certainly in no one's.

What, then, are we to do? In the name of the immortal gods, can you interpret these facts, and see what is their purport? What do you think that those men think of your lives, to whom the lives of those men who they hope will consult the welfare of the republic are so dear? I have reaped, O conscript fathers, the reward of my return, since I have said enough to bear testimony of my consistency whatever event may befall me, and since I have been kindly and attentively listened to by you. And if I have such opportunities frequently without exposing both myself and you to danger, I shall avail myself of them. If not, as far as I can I shall reserve myself not for myself, but rather for the republic. I have lived long enough for the course of human life, or for my own glory. If any additional life is granted to me, it shall be bestowed not so much on myself as on you and on the republic.

To what destiny of mine, O conscript fathers, shall I say that it is owing, that none for the last twenty years has been an enemy to the republic without at the same time declaring war against me? Nor is there any necessity for naming any particular person; you yourselves recollect instances in proof of my statement. They have all hitherto suffered severer punishments than I could have wished for them; but I marvel that you, O Antonius, do not fear the end of those men whose conduct you are imitating. And in others I was less surprised at this. None of those men of former times was a voluntary enemy to me; all of them were attacked by me for the sake of the republic. But you, who have never been injured by me, not even by a word, in order to appear more audacious than Catiline, more frantic than Clodius, have of your own accord attacked me with abuse, and have considered that your alienation from me would be a recommendation of you to impious citizens.

What am I to think?—that I have been despised? I see nothing either in my life, or in my influence in the city, or in my exploits, or even in the moderate abilities with which I am endowed, which Antonius can despise. Did he think that it was easiest to disparage me in the senate?—a body which has borne its testimony in favor of many most illustrious citizens that they governed the republic well, but in favor of me alone, of all men, that I preserved it. Or did he wish to contend with me in a rivalry of eloquence? This, indeed, is an act of generosity; for what could be a more fertile or richer subject for me, than to have to speak in defense of myself, and against Antonius? This, in fact, is the truth. He thought it impossible to prove to the satisfaction of those men who resembled himself, that he was an enemy to his country, if he was not also an enemy to me. And before I make him any reply on the other topics of his speech, I will say a few words respecting the friendship formerly subsisting between us, which he has accused me of violating—for that I consider a most serious charge.

He has complained that I pleaded once against his interest. Was I not to plead against one with whom I was quite unconnected, in behalf of an intimate acquaintance, of a dear friend? Was I not to plead against interest acquired not by hopes of virtue, but by the disgrace of youth? Was I not to plead against an injustice which that man procured to be done by the obsequiousness of a most iniquitous interposer of his veto, not by any law regulating the privileges of the pretor? But I imagine that this was mentioned by you, in order that you might recommend yourself to the citizens, if they all recollected that you were the son-in-law of a freedman, and that your children were the grandsons of Quintus Fabius, a freedman.

But you had entirely devoted yourself to my principles (for this is what you said); you had been in the habit of coming to my house. In truth, if you had done so, you would more have consulted your own character and your reputation for chastity. But you did not do so, nor, if you had wished it, would Caius Curio have ever suffered you to do so.

But I availed myself of your friendly assistance. Of what assistance? Although the instance which you cite I have myself at all times openly admitted. I preferred confessing that I was under obligations to you, to letting myself appear to any foolish person not sufficiently grateful. However, what was the kindness that you did me? not killing me at Brundusium? Would you then have slain the man whom the conqueror himself, who conferred on you, as you used to boast, the chief rank among all his robbers, had desired to be safe, and had enjoined to go to Italy? Grant that you could have slain him, is not this, O conscript fathers, such a kindness as is done by banditti, who are contented with being able to boast that they have granted their lives to all those men whose lives they have not taken? and if that were really a kindness, then those who slew that man by whom they themselves had been saved, and whom you yourself are in the habit of styling most illustrious men, would never have acquired such immortal glory. But what sort of kindness is it, to have abstained from committing nefarious wickedness? It is an ease in which it ought not to appear so delightful to me not to have been killed by you, as miserable, that it should have been in your power to do such a thing with impunity. However, grant that it was a kindness, since no greater kindness could be received from a robber; still in what point can you call me ungrateful? Ought I not to complain of the ruin of the republic, lest I should appear ungrateful toward you?

But he also read letters which he said that I had sent to him, like a man devoid of humanity and ignorant of the common usages of life. For who ever, who was even but slightly acquainted with the habits of polite men, produced in an assembly and openly read letters which had been sent to him by a friend, just because some quarrel had arisen between them? Is not this destroying all companionship in life, destroying the means by which absent friends converse together? How many jests are frequently put in letters, which, if they were produced in public, would appear stupid! How many serious opinions, which, for all that, ought not to be published! Let this be a proof of your utter ignorance of courtesy. Now mark, also, his incredible folly. What have you to oppose to me, O you eloquent man, as you seem at least to Mustela Tamisus, and to Tiro Numisius? And while these men are standing at this very time in the sight of the senate with drawn swords, I, too, will think you an eloquent man if you will show how you would defend them if they were charged with being assassins. However, what answer would you make if I were to deny that I ever sent those letters to you? By what evidence could you convict me? By my handwriting? Of handwriting indeed you have a lucrative knowledge. How can you prove it in that manner? for the letters are written by an amanuensis. By this time I envy your teacher, who for all that payment which I shall mention presently, has taught you to know nothing.

You have said that Publius Clodius was slain by my contrivance. What would men have thought if he had been slain at the time when you pursued him in the forum with a drawn sword, in the sight of all the Roman people; and when you would have settled his business if he had not thrown himself up the stairs of a bookseller's shop, and shutting them against you, checked your attack by that means? And I confess that at that time I favored you, but even you yourself do not say that I had advised your attempt. But as for Milo, it was not possible even for me to favor his action; for he had finished the business before any one could suspect that he was going to do it. Oh, but I advised it! I suppose Milo was a man of such a disposition that he was not able to do a service to the republic if he had not some one to advise him to do it. But I rejoiced at it! Well, suppose I did; was I to be the only sorrowful person in the city, when every one else was in such delight? Although that inquiry into the death of Publius Clodius was not instituted with any great wisdom. For what was the reason for having a new law to inquire into the conduct of the man who had slain him, when there was a form of inquiry already established by the laws? However, an inquiry was instituted. And have you now been found, so many years afterward, to say a thing which, at the time that the affair was under discussion, no one ventured to say against me? But as to the assertion that you have dared to make, and that at great length, too, that it was by my means that Pompeius was alienated from his friendship with Cæsar, and that on that account it was my fault that the civil war was originated; in that you have not erred so much in the main facts, as (and that is of the greatest importance) in the times.

When Marcus Bibulus, a most illustrious citizen, was consul, I omitted nothing which I could possibly do or attempt to draw off Pompeius from his union with Cæsar. In which, however, Cæsar was more fortunate than I, for he himself drew off Pompeius from his intimacy with me. But afterward, when Pompeius joined Cæsar with all his heart, what could have been my object in attempting to separate them then? It would have been the part of a fool to hope to do so, and of an impudent man to advise it. However, two occasions did arise, on which I gave Pompeius advice against Cæsar. You are at liberty to find fault with my conduct on those occasions if you can. One was when I advised him not to continue Cæsar's government for five years more. The other, when I advised him not to permit him to be considered as a candidate for the consulship when he was absent. And if I had been able to prevail on him in either of these particulars, we should never have fallen into our present miseries.

Moreover, I also, when Pompeius had now devoted to the service of Cæsar all his own power, and all the power of the Roman people, and had begun when it was too late to perceive all those things which I had foreseen long before, and when I saw that a nefarious war was about to be waged against our country, I never ceased to be the adviser of peace, and concord, and some arrangement. And that language of mine was well known to many people,—"I wish, O Cnæus Pompeius, that you had either never joined in a confederacy with Caius Cæsar, or else that you had never broken it off. The one conduct would have become your dignity, and the other would have been suited to your prudence." This, O Marcus Antonius, was at all times my advice both respecting Pompeius and concerning the republic. And if it had prevailed, the republic would still be standing, and you would have perished through your own crimes, and indigence, and infamy.

But these are all old stories now. This charge, however, is quite a modern one: that Cæsar was slain by my contrivance. I am afraid, O conscript fathers, lest I should appear to you to have brought up a sham accuser against myself (which is a most disgraceful thing to do); a man not only to distinguish me by the praises which are my due, but to load me also with those which do not belong to me. For who ever heard my name mentioned as an accomplice in that most glorious action? and whose name has been concealed who was in the number of that gallant band! Concealed, do I say? Whose name was there which was not at once made public? I should sooner say that some men had boasted in order to appear to have been concerned in that conspiracy, though they had in reality known nothing of it, than that any one who had been an accomplice in it could have wished to be concealed.

Moreover, how likely it is, that among such a number of men, some obscure, some young men who had not the wit to conceal any one, my name could possibly have escaped notice? Indeed, if leaders were wanted for the purpose of delivering the country, what need was there of my instigating the Bruti, one of whom saw every day in his house the image of Lucius Brutus, and the other saw also the image of Ahala? Were these the men to seek counsel from the ancestors of others rather than from their own? and out of doors rather than at home? What! Caius Cassius, a man of that family which could not endure, I will not say the domination, but even the power of any individual,—he, I suppose, was in need of me to instigate him? a man who, even without the assistance of these other most illustrious men, would have accomplished this same deed in Cilicia, at the mouth of the river Cydnus, if Cæsar had brought his ships to that bank of the river which he had intended, and not to the opposite one. Was Cnæus Domitius spurred on to seek to recover his dignity, not by the death of his father, a most illustrious man, nor by the death of his uncle, nor by the deprivation of his own dignity, but by my advice and authority? Did I persuade Caius Trebonius, a man whom I should not have ventured even to advise? On which account the republic owes him even a larger debt of gratitude, because he preferred the liberty of the Roman people to the friendship of one man, and because he preferred overthrowing arbitrary power to sharing it. Was I the instigator whom Lucius Tillius Cimber followed? a man whom I admired for having performed that action, rather than ever expected that he would perform it; and I admired him on this account, that he was unmindful of the personal kindnesses which he had received, but mindful of his country. What shall I say of the two Servilii? Shall I call them Cascas, or Ahalas? And do you think that those men were instigated by my authority rather than by their affection for the republic? It would take a long time to go through all the rest; and it is a glorious thing for the republic that they were so numerous, and a most honorable thing also for themselves.

But recollect, I pray you, how that clever man convicted me of being an accomplice in the business. When Cæsar was slain, says he, Marcus Brutus immediately lifted up on high his bloody dagger, and called on Cicero by name, and congratulated him on liberty being recovered. Why on me above all men? Because I knew of it beforehand? Consider rather whether this was not his reason for calling on me, that, when he had performed an action very like those which I myself had done, he called me above all men to witness that he had been an imitator of my exploits. But you, O stupidest of all men, do not you perceive, that if it is a crime to have wished that Cæsar should be slain—which you accuse me of having wished—it is a crime also to have rejoiced at his death? For what is the difference between a man who has advised an action, and one who has approved of it? or what does it signify whether I wished it to be done, or rejoice that it has been done? Is there any one then, except you yourself and those men who wished him to become a king, who was unwilling that that deed should be done, or who disapproved of it after it was done? All men, therefore, are guilty as far as this goes. In truth, all good men, as far as it depended on them, bore a part in the slaying of Cæsar. Some did not know how to contrive it, some had not courage for it, some had no opportunity,—every one had the inclination.

Shall we then examine your conduct from the time when you were a boy? I think so. Let us begin at the beginning. Do you recollect that, while you were still clad in the pretexta, you became a bankrupt? That was the fault of your father, you will say. I admit that. In truth, such a defense is full of filial affection. But it is peculiarly suited to your own audacity, that you sat among the fourteen rows of the knights, though by the Roseian law there was a place appointed for bankrupts, even if any one had become such by the fault of fortune and not by his own. You assumed the manly gown, which you soon made a womanly one; at first a public prostitute, with a regular price for your wickedness, and that not a low one. But very soon Curio stepped in, who carried you off from your public trade, and, as if he had bestowed a matron's robe upon you, settled you in a steady and durable wedlock. No boy bought for the gratification of passion was ever so wholly in the power of his master as you were in Curio's. How often has his father turned you out of his house? How often has he placed guards to prevent you from entering? while you, with night for your accomplice, lust for your encourager, and wages for your compeller, were let down through the roof. That house could no longer endure your wickedness.

Do you not know I am speaking of matters with which I am thoroughly acquainted? Remember that time when Curio, the father, lay weeping in his bed; his son throwing himself at my feet with tears recommended to me you; he entreated me to defend you against his own father, if he demanded six millions of sesterees of you; for that he had been bail for you to that amount. And he himself, burning with love, declared positively that because he was unable to bear the misery of being separated from you, he should go into banishment. And at that time what misery of that most flourishing family did I allay, or rather did I remove! I persuaded the father to pay the son's debts; to release the young man, endowed as he was with great promise of courage and ability, by the sacrifice of part of his family estate; and to use his privileges and authority as a father to prohibit him not only from all intimacy with, but from every opportunity of meeting you. When you recollected that all this was done by me, would you have dared to provoke me by abuse if you had not been trusting to those swords which we behold?

But let us say no more of your profligacy and debauchery. There are things which it is not possible for me to mention with honor; but you are all the more free for that, inasmuch as you have not scrupled to be an actor in scenes which a modest enemy can not bring himself to mention. Mark now, O conscript fathers, the rest of his life, which I will touch upon rapidly. For my inclination hastens to arrive at those things which he did in the time of the civil war, amid the greatest miseries of the republic, and at those things which he does every day. And I beg of you, tho they are far better known to you than they are to me, still to listen attentively, as you are doing, to my relation of them. For in such cases as this, it is not the mere knowledge of such actions that ought to excite the mind, but the recollection of them also. And we must at once go into the middle of them, lest otherwise we should be too long in coming to the end.

He was very intimate with Clodius at the time of his tribuneship—he, who now enumerates the kindnesses which he did me. He was the firebrand to handle all conflagrations; and even in his house he attempted something. He himself well knows what I allude to. From thence he made a journey to Alexandria, in defiance of the authority of the senate, and against the interests of the republic, and in spite of religious obstacles; but he had Gabinius for his leader, with whom whatever he did was sure to be right. What were the circumstances of his return from thence? What sort of return was it? He went from Egypt to the farthest extremity of Gaul before he returned home. And what was his home? For at that time every man had possession of his own house; and you had no house anywhere, O Antonius. House, do you say? What place was there in the whole world where you could set your foot on anything that belonged to you, except Mienum, which you farmed with your partners, as if it had been Sisapo?

You came from Gaul to stand for the questorship. Dare to say that you went to your own father before you came to me. I had already received Cæsar's letters, begging me to allow myself to accept of your excuses; and, therefore, I did not allow you even to mention thanks. After that, I was treated with respect by you, and you received attentions from me in your canvass for the questorship. And it was at that time, indeed, that you endeavored to slay Publius Clodius in the forum, with the approbation of the Roman people; and though you made the attempt of your own accord, and not at my instigation, still you clearly alleged that you did not think, unless you slew him, that you could possibly make amends to me for all the injuries which you had done me. And this makes me wonder why you should say that Milo did that deed at my instigation; when I never once exhorted you to do it, who of your own accord attempted to do me the same service. Although, if you had persisted in it, I should have preferred allowing the action to be set down entirely to your own love of glory rather than to my influence.

It was you, you, I say, O Marcus Antonius, who gave Caius Cæsar, desirous as he already was to throw everything into confusion, the principal pretext for waging war against his country. For what other pretense did he allege? What cause did he give for his own most frantic resolution and action, except that the power of interposition by the veto had been disregarded, the privileges of the tribunes taken away, and Antonius's rights abridged by the senate? I say nothing of how false, how trivial these pretenses were; especially when there could not possibly be any reasonable cause whatever to justify any one in taking up arms against his country. But I have nothing to do with Cæsar. You must unquestionably allow, that the cause of that ruinous war existed in your person.

O miserable man, if you are aware, more miserable still if you are not aware, that this is recorded in writings, is handed down to men's recollection, that our very latest posterity in the most distant ages will never forget this fact, that the consuls were expelled from Italy, and with them Cnæus Pompeius, who was the glory and light of the empire of the Roman people; that all the men of consular rank, whose health would allow them to share in that disaster and that flight, and the pretors, and men of pretorian rank, and the tribunes of the people, and a great part of the senate, and all the flower of the youth of the city, and, in a word, the republic itself was driven out and expelled from its abode. As, then, there is in seeds the cause which produces trees and plants, so of this most lamentable war you were the seed. Do you, O conscript fathers, grieve that these armies of the Roman people have been slain? It is Antonius who slew them. Do you regret your most illustrious citizens? It is Antonius, again, who has deprived you of them. The authority of this order is overthrown; it is Antonius who has overthrown it. Everything, in short, which we have seen since that time (and what misfortune is there that we have not seen) we shall, if we argue rightly, attribute wholly to Antonius. As Helen was to the Trojans, so has that man been to this republic—the cause of war, the cause of mischief, the cause of ruin. The rest of his tribuneship was like the beginning. He did everything which the senate had labored to prevent, as being impossible to be done consistently with the safety of the republic. And see, now, how gratuitously wicked he was in accomplishing his wickedness. Then in this same tribuneship, when Cæsar while on his way into Spain had given him Italy to trample on, what journeys did he make in every direction! how did he visit the municipal towns! I know that I am only speaking of matters which have been discussed in every one's conversation, and that the things which I am saying and am going to say are better known to every one who was in Italy at that time, than to me, who was not. Still I mention the particulars of his conduct, although  my speech can not possibly come up to your own personal knowledge. When was such wickedness ever heard of as existing upon earth? or such shamelessness? or such open infamy?

The tribune of the people was borne along in a chariot, lictors crowned with laurels preceded him, among whom, on an open litter, was carried an actress; whom honorable men, citizens of the different municipalities, coming out from their towns under compulsion to meet him, saluted not by the name by which she was well known on the stage, but by that of Volumnia. A car followed full of pimps; then a lot of debauched companions; and then his mother, utterly neglected, followed the mistress of her profligate son, as if she had been her daughter-in-law. Oh, the disastrous fecundity of that miserable woman! With the marks of such wickedness as this did that fellow stamp every municipality, and prefecture, and colony, and, in short, the whole of Italy.

When victorious, you returned with the legions from Thessaly to Brundusium. There you did not put me to death. It was a great kindness! for I confess that you could have done it. But there was no one of those men who were with you at that time, who did not think that I ought to be spared. For so great is men's affection for their country, that I was sacred even in the eyes of your legions, because they recollected that the country had been saved by me. However, grant that you did give me what you did not take away from me, and that I have my life as a present from you, since it was not taken from me by you; was it possible for me, after all your insults, to regard that kindness of yours as I regarded it at first, especially after you saw that you must hear this reply from me?

You came to Brundusium, to the bosom and embraces of your actress. What is the matter? Am I speaking falsely? How miserable is it not to be able to deny a fact which it is disgraceful to confess! If you had no shame before the municipal towns, had you none even before your veteran army? For what soldier was there who did not see her at Brundusium? who was there who did not know that she had come so many days' journey to congratulate you? who was there who did not grieve that he was so late in finding out how worthless a man he had been following?

Again, you made a tour through Italy, with that same actress for your companion. Cruel and miserable was the way in which you led your soldiers into the towns; shameful was the pillage in every city, of gold and silver, and above all, of wine. And besides all this, while Cæsar knew nothing about it, as he was at Alexandria, Antonius, by the kindness of Cæsar's friends, was appointed his master of the horse. Then he thought that he could live with Hippia by virtue of his office, and that he might give horses which were the property of the state to Sergius the buffoon. At that time he had selected for himself to live in, not the house which he now dishonors, but that of Marcus Piso. Why need I mention his decrees, his robberies, the possessions of inheritances which were given him, and those, too, which were seized by him? Want compelled him; he did not know where to turn. That great inheritance from Lucius Rubrius, and that other from Lucius Turselius, had not yet come to him. He had not yet succeeded as an unexpected heir to the place of Cnæus Pompeius, and of many others who were absent. He was forced to live like a robber, having nothing beyond what he could plunder from others.

However, we will say nothing of these things, which are acts of a more hardy sort of villainy. Let us speak rather of his meaner descriptions of worthlessness. You, with those jaws of yours, and those sides of yours, and that strength of body suited to a gladiator, drank such quantities of wine at the marriage of Hippia, that you were forced to vomit the next day in the sight of the Roman people. O action disgraceful not merely to see, but even to hear of! If this had happened to you at supper amid those vast drinking cups of yours, who would not have thought it scandalous? But in an assembly of the Roman people, a man holding a public office, a master of the horse, to whom it would have been disgraceful even to belch, vomiting filled his own bosom and the whole tribunal with fragments of what he had been eating reeking with wine. But he himself confesses this among his other disgraceful acts. Let us proceed to his more splendid offenses.

Cæsar came back from Alexandria, fortunate, as he seemed at least to himself; but in my opinion no one can be fortunate who is unfortunate for the republic. The spear was set up in front of the temple of Jupiter Stator, and the property of Cnæus Pompeius Magnus—(miserable that I am, for even now that my tears have ceased to flow, my grief remains deeply implanted in my heart)—the property, I say, of Cnæus Pompeius the Great was submitted to the pitiless voice of the auctioneer. On that one occasion the state forgot its slavery, and groaned aloud; and though men's minds were enslaved, as everything was kept under by fear, still the groans of the Roman people were free. While all men were waiting to see who would be so impious, who would be so mad, who would be so declared an enemy to gods and to men as to dare to mix himself up with that wicked auction, no one was found except Antonius, even though there were plenty of men collected round that spear who would have dared anything else. One man alone was found to dare to do that which the audacity of every one else had shrunk from and shuddered at. Were you, then, seized with such stupidity—or, I should rather say, with such insanity—as not to see that if you, being of the rank in which you were born, acted as a broker at all, and above all as a broker in the case of Pompeius's property, you would be execrated and hated by the Roman people, and that all gods and all men must at once become and forever continue hostile to you? But with what violence did that glutton immediately proceed to take possession of the property of that man, to whose valor it had been owing that the Roman people had been more terrible to foreign nations, while his justice had made it dearer to them.

When, therefore, this fellow had begun to wallow in the treasures of that great man, he began to exult like a buffoon in a play, who has lately been a beggar, and has become suddenly rich. But, as some poet or other says,—

"Ill-gotten gain comes quickly to end."

It is an incredible thing, and almost a miracle, how he in a few, not months, but days, squandered all that vast wealth. There was an immense quantity of wine, an excessive abundance of very valuable plate, much precious apparel, great quantities of splendid furniture, and other magnificent things in many places, such as one was likely to see belonging to a man who was not indeed luxurious, but who was very wealthy. Of all this in a few days, there was nothing left. What Charybdis was ever so voracious? Charybdis, do I say? Charybdis, if she existed at all, was only one animal. The ocean, I swear most solemnly, appears scarcely capable of having swallowed up such numbers of things so widely scattered, and distributed in such different places, with such rapidity. Nothing was shut up, nothing sealed up, no list was made of anything. Whole storehouses were abandoned to the most worthless of men. Actors seized on this, actresses on that; the house was crowded with gamblers, and full of drunken men; people were drinking all day, and that, too, in many places; there were added to all this expense (for this fellow was not invariably fortunate) heavy gambling losses. You might see in the cellars of the slaves couches covered with the most richly embroidered counterpanes of Cnæus Pompeius. Wonder not, then, that all these things were so soon consumed. Such profligacy as that could have devoured not only the patrimony of one individual, however ample it might have been (as indeed his was), but whole cities and kingdoms.

And then his houses and gardens! Oh, the cruel audacity! Did you dare to enter into that house? Did you dare to cross that most sacred threshold? and to show your most profligate countenance to the household gods who protect that abode? A house which for a long time no one could behold, no one could pass by without tears! Are you not ashamed to dwell so long in that house? one in which, stupid and ignorant as you are, still you can see nothing which is not painful to you.

When you behold those beaks of ships in the vestibule, and those warlike trophies, do you fancy that you are entering into a house which belongs to you? It is impossible. Although you are devoid of all sense and all feeling—as in truth you are—still you are acquainted with yourself, and with your trophies, and with your friends. Nor do I believe that you, either waking or sleeping, can ever act with quiet sense. It is impossible but that, were you ever so drunk and frantic—as in truth you are—when the recollection of the appearance of that illustrious man comes across you, you should be roused from sleep by your fears, and often stirred up to madness if awake. I pity even the walls and the roof. For what had that house ever beheld except what was modest, except what proceeded from the purest principles and from the most virtuous practice. For that man was, O conscript fathers, as you yourselves know, not only illustrious abroad, but also admirable at home; and not more praiseworthy for his exploits in foreign countries, than for his domestic arrangements. Now in his house every bedchamber is a brothel, and every dining-room a cookshop. Although he denies this—do not, do not make inquiries: he is become economical. He desired that mistress of his to take possession of whatever belonged to her, according to the laws of the Twelve Tables. He has taken his keys from her, and turned her out of doors. What a well-tried citizen! of what proved virtue is he! the most honorable passage in whose life is the one when he divorced himself from this actress.

Tho you yourself took no personal share in it, partly through timidity, partly through profligacy, you had tasted, or rather had sucked in, the blood of fellow citizens: you had been in the battle of Pharsalia as a leader; you had slain Lucius Domitius, a most illustrious and highborn man; you had pursued and put to death in the most barbarous manner many men who had escaped from the battle, and whom Cæsar would perhaps have saved, as he did some others.

And, after having performed these exploits, what was the reason why you did not follow Cæsar into Africa—especially when so large a portion of the war was still remaining? And accordingly, what place did you obtain about Cæsar's person after his return from Africa? What was your rank? He whose questor you had been when general, whose master of the horse when he was dictator, to whom you had been the chief cause of war, the chief instigator of cruelty, the sharer of his plunder, his son, as you yourself said, by inheritance, proceeded against you for the money which you owed for the house and gardens, and for the other property which you had bought at that sale. At first you answered fiercely enough; and that I may not appear prejudiced against you in every particular, you used a tolerably just and reasonable argument. "What, does Caius Caesar demand money of me? Why should he do so, any more than I should claim it of him? Was he victorious without my assistance? No; and he never could have been. It was I who supplied him with a pretext for civil war; it was I who proposed mischievous laws; it was I who took up arms against the consuls and generals of the Roman people, against the senate and people of Rome, against the gods of the country, against its altars and hearths, against the country itself. Has he conquered for himself alone? Why should not those men whose common work the achievement is, have the booty also in common?" You were only claiming your right, but what had that to do with it? He was the more powerful of the two.

Oh, how splendid was that eloquence of yours, when you harangued the people stark naked! What could be more foul than this? more shameful than this? more deserving of every sort of punishment? Are you waiting for me to prick you more? This that I am saying must tear you and bring blood enough if you have any feeling at all. I am afraid that I may be detracting from the glory of some most eminent men. Still my indignation shall find a voice. What can be more scandalous than for that man to live who placed a diadem on a man's head when every one confesses that that man was deservedly slain who rejected it? And, moreover, he caused it to be recorded in the annals, under the head of Lupercalia, "That Marcus Antonius, the consul, by command of the people, had offered the kingdom to Caius Cæsar, perpetual dictator; and that Cæsar had refused to accept it." I now am not much surprised at your seeking to disturb the general tranquility; at your hating not only the city but the light of day; and at your living with a pack of abandoned robbers, disregarding the day, and yet regarding nothing beyond the day. For where can you be safe in peace? What place can there be for you where laws and courts of justice have sway, both of which you, as far as in you lay, destroyed by the substitution of kingly power? Was it for this that Lucius Tarquinius was driven out; that Spurius Cassius, and Spurius Mælius, and Marcus Manlius were slain; that many years afterward a king might be established at Rome by Marcus Antonius, tho the bare idea was impiety? However, let us return to the auspices.

Oh, what a splendid progress of yours was that in the months of April and May, when you attempted even to lead a colony to Capua! How you made your escape from thence, or rather how you barely made your escape, we all know. And now you are still threatening that city. I wish you would try, and we should not then be forced to say "barely." However, what a splendid progress of yours that was! Why need I mention your preparations for banquets, why your frantic hard drinking? Those things are only an injury to yourself; these are injuries to us. We thought that a great blow was inflicted on the republic when the Campanian district was released from the payment of taxes, in order to be given to the soldiery; but you have divided it among your partners in drunkenness and gambling. I tell you, O conscript fathers, that a lot of buffoons and actresses have been settled in the district of Campania. Why should I now complain of what has been done in the district of Leontini? Although formerly these lands of Campania and Leontini were considered part of the patrimony of the Roman people, and were productive of great revenue, and very fertile. You gave your physician three thousand acres; what would you have done if he had cured you? and two thousand to your master of oratory; what would you have done if he had been able to make you eloquent?

In public transactions nothing is more authoritative than law; in private affairs the most valid of all deeds is a will. Of the laws, some he abolished without giving the least notice; others he gave notice of bills to abolish. Wills he annulled; tho they have been at all times held sacred even in the case of the very meanest of the citizens. As for the statues and pictures which Cæsar bequeathed to the people, together with his gardens, those he carried away, some to the house which belonged to Pompeius, and some to Scipio's villa.

And are you then diligent in doing honor to Cæsar's memory? Do you love him even now that he is dead? What greater honor had he obtained than that of having a holy cushion, an image, a temple, and a priest? As then Jupiter, and Mars, and Quirinus have priests, so Marcus Antonius is the priest of the god Julius. Why then do you delay? why are you not inaugurated? Choose a day; select some one to inaugurate you; we are colleagues; no one will refuse, O you detestable man, whether you are the priest of a tyrant, or of a dead man! I ask you, then, whether you are ignorant what day this is? Are you ignorant that yesterday was the fourth day of the Roman games in the Circus? and that you yourself submitted a motion to the people, that a fifth day should be added besides, in honor of Cæsar? Why are we not all clad in the pretexta? Why are we permitting the honor which by your law was appointed for Cæsar to be deserted? Had you no objection to so holy a day being polluted by the addition of supplications, while you did not choose it to be so by the addition of ceremonies connected with a sacred cushion? Either take away religion in every case, or preserve it in every case.

Recollect then, O Marcus Antonius, that day on which you abolished the dictatorship. Set before you the joy of the senate and people of Rome; compare it with this infamous market held by you and by your friends, and then you will understand how great is the difference between praise and profit. But in truth, just as some people, through some disease which has blunted the senses, have no conception of the niceness of food, so men who are lustful, avaricious, and criminal, have no taste for true glory. But if praise can not allure you to act rightly, still can not even fear turn you away from the most shameful actions? You are not afraid of the courts of justice. If it is because you are innocent, I praise you; if because you trust in your power of overbearing them by violence, are you ignorant of what that man has to fear, who on such an account as that does not fear the courts of justice?

But if you are not afraid of brave men and illustrious citizens, because they are prevented from attacking you by your armed retinue, still, believe me, your own fellows will not long endure you. And what a life is it, day and night to be fearing danger from one's own people! Unless, indeed, you have men who are bound to you by greater kindnesses than some of those men by whom he was slain were bound to Cæsar; or unless there are points in which you can be compared with him.

In that man were combined genius, method, memory, literature, prudence, deliberation, and industry. He had performed exploits in war which, though calamitous for the republic, were nevertheless mighty deeds. Having for many years aimed at being a king, he had with great labor, and much personal danger, accomplished what he intended. He had conciliated the ignorant multitude by presents, by monuments, by largesses of food, and by banquets; he had bound his own party to him by rewards, his adversaries by the appearances of clemency. Why need I say much on such a subject? He had already brought a free city, partly by fear, partly by patience, into a habit of slavery.

With him I can, indeed, compare you as to your desire to reign; but in all other respects you are in no degree to be compared to him. But from the many evils which by him have been burnt into the republic, there is still this good: that the Roman people has now learnt how much to believe every one, to whom to trust itself, and against whom to guard. Do you never think on these things? And do you not understand that it is enough for brave men to have learnt how noble a thing it is as to the act, how grateful it is as to the benefit done, how glorious as to the fame acquired, to slay a tyrant? When men could not bear him, do you think they will bear you? Believe me, the time will come when men will race with one another to do this deed, and when no one will wait for the tardy arrival of an opportunity.

Consider, I beg you, Marcus Antonius, do some time or other consider the republic: think of the family of which you are born, not of the men with whom you are living. Be reconciled to the republic. However, do you decide on your conduct. As to mine, I myself will declare what that shall be. I defended the republic as a young man; I will not abandon it now that I am old. I scorned the sword of Catiline; I will not quail before yours. No; I will rather cheerfully expose my own person, if the liberty of the city can be restored by my death.

It becomes all men, conscript fathers, who deliberate on dubious matters, to be influenced neither by hatred, affection, anger, nor pity. The mind, when such feelings obstruct its view, can not easily see what is right; nor has any human being consulted, at the same moment, his passions and his interest. When the mind is freely exerted, its reasoning is sound: but passion, if it gain possession of it, becomes its tyrant, and reason is powerless. I could easily mention, conscript fathers, numerous examples of kings and nations, who, swayed by resentment or compassion, have adopted injudicious courses of conduct; but I had rather speak of those instances in which our ancestors, in opposition to the impulse of passion, acted with wisdom and sound policy. In the Macedonian War, which we carried on against king Perses, the great and powerful state of Rhodes, which had risen by the aid of the Roman people, was faithless and hostile to us: yet, when the war was ended, and the conduct of the Rhodians was taken into consideration, our forefathers left them unmolested, lest any should say that war was made upon them for the sake of seizing their wealth, rather than of punishing their faithlessness.

Throughout the Punic Wars, too, tho the Carthaginians, both during peace and in suspensions of arms, were guilty of many acts of injustice, yet our ancestors never took occasion to retaliate, but considered rather what was worthy of themselves, than what might justly be inflicted on their enemies.

Similar caution, conscript fathers, is to be observed by yourselves, that the guilt of Lentulus, and the other conspirators, may not have greater weight with you than your own dignity, and that you may not regard your indignation more than your character. If, indeed, a punishment adequate to their crimes be discovered, I consent to extraordinary measures; but if the enormity of their crime exceeds whatever can be devised, I think that we should inflict only such penalties as the laws have provided. Most of those, who have given their opinions before me, have deplored, in studied and impressive language, the sad fate that threatens the republic; they have recounted the barbarities of war, and the afflictions that would fall on the vanquished; they have told us that maidens would be dishonored, and youths abused; that children would be torn from the embraces of their parents; that matrons would be subjected to the pleasure of the conquerors; that temples and dwelling-houses would be plundered; that massacres and fires would follow; and that every place would be filled with arms, corpses, blood, and lamentation.

But to what end, in the name of the eternal gods! Was such eloquence directed? Was it intended to render you indignant at the conspiracy? A speech, no doubt, will inflame him whom so frightful and monstrous a reality has not provoked! Far from it: for to no man does evil, directed against himself, appear a light matter; many, on the contrary, have felt it more seriously than was right. But to different persons, conscript fathers, different degrees of license are allowed. If those who pass a life sunk in obscurity, commit any error, through excessive anger, few become aware of it, for their fame is as limited as their fortune; but of those who live invested with extensive power, and in an exalted station, the whole world knows the proceedings.

Thus in the highest position there is the least liberty of action; and it becomes us to indulge neither I partiality nor aversion, but least of all animosity; for what in others is called resentment, is in the powerful termed violence and cruelty. I am indeed of opinion, conscript fathers, that the utmost degree of torture is inadequate to punish their crime; but the generality of mankind dwell on that which happens last, and, in the case of malefactors, forget their guilt, and talk only of their punishment, should that punishment have been inordinately severe. I feel assured, too, that Decimus Silanus, a man of spirit and resolution, made the suggestions which he offered, from zeal for the State, and that he had no view, in so important a matter, to favor or to enmity; such I know to be his character, and such his discretion.

Yet his proposal appears to me, I will not say cruel (for what can be cruel that is directed against such characters?), but foreign to our policy. For assuredly, Silanus, either your fears, or their treason, must have induced you, a consul-elect, to propose this new kind of punishment. Of fear it is unnecessary to speak, when, by the prompt activity of that distinguished man our consul, such numerous forces are under arms; and as to the punishment we may say, what is indeed the truth, that in trouble and distress, death is a relief from suffering, and not a torment; that it puts an end to all human woes; and that, beyond it, there is no place either for sorrow or joy.

But why, in the name of the immortal gods, did you not add to your proposal, Silanus, that, before they were put to death, they should be punished with the scourge? Was it because the Porcian Law forbids it? But other laws forbid condemned citizens to be deprived of life, and allow them to go into exile. Or was it because scourging is a severer penalty than death? Yet what can be too severe, or too harsh, toward men convicted of such an offense? But if scourging be a milder punishment than death, how is it consistent to observe the law as to the smaller point, when you disregard it as to the greater? But who, it may be asked, will blame any severity that shall be decreed against these parricides of their country?

I answer that time, the course of events, and fortune, whose caprice governs nations, may blame it. Whatever shall fall on the traitors, will fall on them justly; but it is for you, conscript fathers, to consider well what you resolve to inflict on others. All precedents productive of evil effects have had their origin from what was good; but when a government passes into the hands of the ignorant or unprincipled, any new example of severity, inflicted on deserving and suitable objects, is extended to those that are improper and undeserving of it.

The Lacedæmonians, when they had conquered the Athenians, appointed thirty men to govern their state. These thirty began their administration by putting to death, even without a trial, all who were notoriously wicked, or publicly detestable—acts at which the people rejoiced, and extolled their justice. But afterward, when their lawless power gradually increased, they proceeded, at their pleasure, to kill the good and bad indiscriminately, and to strike terror into all; and thus the State, overpowered and enslaved, paid a heavy penalty for its imprudent exultation.

Within our own memory, too, when the victorious Sulla ordered Damasippus, and others of similar character, who had risen by distressing their country, to be put to death, who did not commend the proceeding? All exclaimed that wicked and factious men, who had troubled the State with their seditious practices, had justly forfeited their lives. Yet this proceeding was the commencement of great bloodshed. For whenever any one coveted the mansion or villa, or even the plate or apparel of another, he exerted his influence to have him numbered among the proscribed. Thus they, to whom the death of Damasippus had been a subject of joy, were soon after dragged to death themselves; nor was there any cessation of slaughter, until Sulla had glutted all his partisans with riches. Such excesses, indeed, I do not fear from Marcus Tullius, or in these times. But in a large state there arise many men of various dispositions. At some other period, and under another consul, who, like the present, may have an army at his command, some false accusation may be credited as true; and when, with our example for a precedent, the consul shall have drawn the sword on the authority of the senate, who shall stay its progress, or moderate its fury? Our ancestors, conscript fathers, were never deficient in conduct or courage; nor did pride prevent them from imitating the customs of other nations, if they appeared deserving of regard. Their armor, and weapons of war, they borrowed from the Samnites; their ensigns of authority, for the most part, from the Etrurians; and, in short, whatever appeared eligible to them, whether among allies or among enemies, they adopted at home with the greatest readiness, being more inclined to emulate merit than to be jealous of it. But at the same time, adopting a practise from Greece, they punished their citizens with the scourge, and inflicted capital punishment on such as were condemned. When the republic, however, became powerful, and faction grew strong from the vast number of citizens, men began to involve the innocent in condemnation, and other like abuses were practised; and it was then that the Porcian and other laws were provided, by which condemned citizens were allowed to go into exile. This lenity of our ancestors, conscript fathers, I regard as a very strong reason why we should not adopt any new measures of severity. For assuredly there was greater merit and wisdom in those, who raised so mighty an empire from humble means, than in us, who can scarcely preserve what they so honorably acquired. Am I of opinion, then, you will ask, that the conspirators should be set free, and that the army of Catiline should thus be increased? Far from it: my recommendation is, that their property be confiscated, and that they themselves be kept in custody in such of the municipal towns as are best able to bear the expense; that no one hereafter bring their case to the senate, or speak on it to the people, and that the senate now give their opinion that he who shall act contrary to this will act against the republic and the general safety.

Of what disposition towards me the praetors were, you were able to form an opinion when Lucius Caecilius, in his private character, laboured to support me from his own resources, and in his public capacity proposed a law respecting my safety, in concert with all his colleagues, and refused the plunderers of my property permission to support their actions by legal proceedings. But Marcus Calidius, the moment he was elected, showed by his vote how dear my safety was to him. Caius Septimius, Quintus Valerius, Publius Crassus, Sextus Quintilius, and Caius Cornutus, all devoted all their energies to the promotion of my interests and those of the republic.

And while I gladly make mention of these things, I am not unwilling to pass over the wicked actions done by some people with a view to injure me. It is not suited to my fortunes at present to remember injuries, which, even if I were able to revenge them, I still would rather forget. All my life is to be devoted to a different object: to that of showing my gratitude to those who have deserved well of me; to preserving those friendships which have been tried in the fire; to waging war against my open enemies; to pardoning my timid friends; to avoiding the showing those who deserted me any indignation at having been forced to leave the city; to console those who promoted my return by a proper display of my dignity. And if I had no other duty before me for all the rest of my life, except to appear sufficiently grateful to the very originators and prime movers and authors of my safety, still I should think the period that remains to me of life too brief; I will not say for requiting, but even for enumerating the kindnesses which have been shown to me. For, when shall I, or when will all my relations, be able to show proper gratitude to this man and to his children? What memory, what force of genius, what amount of deference and respect will be a fit return for such numerous and immense services? He was the first man who held out to me the promise and faith of a consul when I was overwhelmed and miserable; he it was who recalled me from death to life, from despair to hope, from destruction to safety. His affection for me, his zeal for the republic, was so great, that he kept thinking how he might not only relieve my calamity, but how he might even make it honourable. For what could be more honourable, what could happen to me more creditable, than that which you decreed on his motion, that all people from all Italy, who desired the safety of the republic, should come forward for the sole purpose of supporting and defending me, a ruined and almost broken-hearted man? So that the senate summoned the citizens and the whole of Italy to come from all their lands and from every town to the defense of one man, with the very same force of expression which had never been used but three times before since the foundation of Rome, and at those times it was the consul who used it in behalf of the entire republic, addressing himself to those only who could hear his voice.

 What could I leave to my posterity more glorious than the fact, that the senate had declared its judgment that any citizen who did not defend me, did not desire the safety of the republic? Therefore your authority, and the preeminent dignity of the consul, had this great effect, that every one thought that he was committing a shameful crime if he did not come to that summons. And this same consul, when that incredible multitude, when Italy itself I might almost say, had come to Rome, summoned you repeatedly to the Capitol; and at that time you had an opportunity of seeing what great power excellence of natural disposition and true nobleness have. For Quintus Metellus, himself an enemy of mine, and a brother of an enemy of mine, as soon as he was assured of your inclinations, laid aside his own private dislike to me and allowed Publius Servilius, a most illustrious man, and also a most virtuous one, and a most intimate friend of my own, to recall him, by what I may call the divine influence of his authority and eloquence, to the exploits and virtues of his race and of their common family, so as to take to his counsels his brother, in the shades below, the companion of my fortunes, and all the Metelli, those most admirable citizens, summoning them as it were from Acheron; and among them the great conqueror of Numidia, whose departure from his country formerly seemed grievous to all the citizens, but scarcely even vexatious to himself. He, therefore, turns out now, not only a defender of my safety, having been previously to this one kindness of his always my enemy, but even the seconder of my restoration to my dignity. And on that day when you met in the senate to the number of four hundred and seventeen, and when all these magistrates were present one alone dissented; he who thought that the conspirators could by his law be awakened from the shades below. And on that day when in most weighty and copious language you delivered your decision, that the republic had been preserved by my counsels, he as consul again took care that the same things should be said by the chief men of the state in the assembly the next day; and he then spoke on my behalf with the greatest eloquence, and brought the assembly into such a state, all Italy standing by and listening, that no one would listen to the hateful and detested voice of any of my hired or profligate enemies.

To these acts of his, being not only aids to my safety, but even ornaments of my dignity, you yourselves added the rest that was wanting. You decreed that no one should by any means whatever hinder that matter from proceeding; that if any one did try to interpose any obstacle, you would be very angry and indignant; that he would be acting in a manner contrary to the interests of the republic, and the safety of good men, and the unanimous wish of the citizens; and that such a man was instantly to be reported to you. And you passed a vote that if they persisted in interposing obstacles, I was to return in spite of them. Why need I tell how thanks were given to all those who had come up from the municipal towns; or that they were entreated to be present with equal eagerness on that day when the whole affair was consummated? Lastly, why need I tell what you did on that day which Publius Lentulus has made as a birthday to me, and to my brother, and to our children, to be recollected not only by us, who are now alive, but by all our race for ever? On which day, in the comitia centuriata, which our ancestors rightly called and considered the real comitia, he summoned us back to our country, so that the same centuries which had made me consul should declare their approval of my consulship. On that day what citizen was there who thought it right, whatever his age or state of health might be, to deny himself the opportunity of giving his vote for my safety? When did you ever see such a multitude assembled in the Campus, such a splendid show of all Italy and of all orders of men? when did you ever see movers, and tellers, and keepers of the votes all of such high rank? Therefore, through the active, and admirable, and godlike kindness of Publius Lentulus, we were not allowed to return to our country, as some most eminent citizens have been, but we were brought back in triumph, borne by white horses in a gilded car.

Can I ever appear grateful enough to Cnaeus Pompeius, who said, not only among you who all were of the same opinion, but also before the whole Roman people, that the safety of the republic had been preserved by me, and was inseparably connected with mine? who recommended my cause to the wise, and taught the ignorant, and at the same time checked the wicked by his authority, and encouraged the good; who not only exhorted the Roman people to espouse my cause, but even entreated them to do so, as if he were speaking for a brother or a parent; who, at a time when he was forced to keep within his house from fear of contests and bloodshed, begged even of the preceding tribunes to propose and carry a law respecting my safety; who in a colony lately erected, where he himself was discharging the duties of a magistrate in it, where there was no bribed interrupter, declared that the privilegium passed against me was violent and cruel, confirming that declaration by the authority of most honourable men, and by public letters, and, being the chief man there, gave his opinion that it was becoming to implore the protection of all Italy for my safety; who, when he himself had always been a most firm friend to me, laboured also to make all his own friends also to me.

And by what services can I requite the kindness of Titus Annius to me? all whose actions, the whole of whose conduct and thoughts, the whole of whose tribuneship, in short, was nothing else except a consistent, continual, gallant, unwearied advocacy of my safety.

Why need I speak of Publius Sextius? who showed his good-will and faithful attachment to me, not only by his grief of mind, but even by the wounds which he received on his person.

But to you, O conscript fathers, and to each individual of you, I have both declared, and I will continue to declare my gratitude. I declared it at the beginning to your whole body, as well as I could; to declare it with sufficient eloquence is what I am totally unable to do. And although I have received special favours from many persons, about which it is impossible for me to keep silence, still it is impossible at the present time, and with the apprehensions which I feel, to endeavour to enumerate the kindnesses which I have received from individuals. For it is difficult to avoid passing over some, and yet it would be impious to forget any one. I, O conscript fathers, ought to reverence every one of you as I do the immortal gods. But as, even in the case of the immortal gods themselves, we are wont not always to pay worship and to offer prayers to the same deities, but sometimes we pray to one and sometimes to another; so in the case of the men who have behaved to me with such godlike service, my whole life shall be devoted to celebrating their kindness towards me, and showing my reverent sense of it. But on this day I have thought that it became me to return thanks especially to the different magistrates by name, and also to one private individual, who for the sake of my safety, had visited all the municipal towns and colonies, had as a suppliant addressed his entreaties to the Roman people, and had declared that opinion which you followed when you restored me to my dignities. You always distinguished me when I was prosperous; when I was in distress you defended me to the extent of your power, by the change of your garments, and your general mourning.  There have been times within our own recollection when senators did not dare to change their robes even in their own personal dangers; but in my danger the whole senate changed its garments as far as it was allowed to do without interruption from the edicts of those men who wished to deprive me in my peril not only of all protection from them, but of even the benefit of your prayers in my behalf.

And when I was in such circumstances as these, when I saw that I as a private individual had to contend with the same array which as consul I had defeated, using not arms but your authority, I deliberated much with myself.

The consul had said that he would make the Roman knights pay for the scenes on the Capitoline Hill. Some were summoned by name, others were prosecuted, some were banished. All access to the temples was prevented, not merely by their being garrisoned or occupied with a strong force, but by their being demolished. The other consul, not content with only abandoning me and the republic, unless he could also betray us to the enemies of the republic, had bound those enemies to him by promising them the rewards which they coveted. There was another man at the gates with a command given to him for many years, and with a large army. I do not say that he was an enemy of mine, but I do know that he did nothing when he was stated to be my enemy. As there were thought to be two parties in the republic, the one was supposed, out of its enmity to me, to demand that I should be given up to it; the other, to defend me, but timidly out of fear of bloodshed. But those who seemed to require me to be given up to them increased the fear of a contest by their conduct as they never diminished the suspicions and anxieties of men by denying what they were suspected of. Wherefore, when I saw the senate deprived of leaders, and myself attacked by some of the magistrates, betrayed by some, and abandoned by others; when I saw that slaves were being enlisted by name under some pretence of forming guilds; that all the troops of Catiline were recalled to their original hopes of massacre and conflagration under almost the same leaders as before; that the Roman knights were under the same fear of proscription as before; that the municipal towns were in dread of being pillaged, and every one in fear of his life; I might—I might, I say, O conscript fathers, still have been able to defend myself by force of arms, and many wise and brave men advised me to do so; nor was I wanting in the same courage which I had shown before, and which was not unknown to you. But I saw that if I defeated my present enemy, I had still too many others behind who must also be defeated; that if I were beaten myself; many virtuous men would fall for my sake, and with me, and even after me; and that the avengers of the blood of the tribunes were present, but that all satisfaction for my death must be exacted by the slow progress of the law, and reserved for posterity.

I did not choose, after I had as consul maintained the general safety of the state without having recourse to arms, to take arms as a private individual in my own cause; I preferred that virtuous men should grieve for my fortune rather than despair of their own; and if I were slain by myself; that I thought would be a shameful end for me; but if I were slain with many others, that I thought would be fatal to the republic. If I had supposed that eternal misery was before me, I would rather have endured death than everlasting agony. But I felt sure that I should not be absent from this city any longer than the constitution itself was, and, while that was banished, I thought it no longer desirable for myself that I should remain in it; and in accordance with my expectation, as soon as ever the constitution was restored, it brought me back in triumph as its companion. The laws were all banished as well as I, the courts of justice were banished as well as I; the prerogatives of the magistrates, the authority of the senate, the liberty of the citizens, even the fruitfulness of the land, all piety and all religion, whether it was with respect to men or gods, were all banished from the state when I was banished. And if they had been lost to you for ever, I should mourn over your fortunes rather than regret the loss of my home amongst you; but if they were ever restored, I was quite sure that I should be enabled to return with them.

And of these feelings of mine, he who was the protector of my life is also my most indisputable witness, namely Cnaeus Plancius, who, disregarding all the distinctions and emoluments which might have been derived from a province, devoted his whole quaestorship to supporting and preserving me. If he had been my quaestor when I was commander-in-chief; he would have stood in the relation of a son to me; now he surely shall be looked upon by me as a parent, since he has been my quaestor, not while in authority, but in grief.

Wherefore, O conscript fathers, since I have been restored to the republic at the same time with the constitution of the republic, in whatever I do for the defence of it, I will not only not in the slightest degree abridge my former liberty, but I will even increase it.

In truth, if I defended the republic at a time when it was under some obligations to me, what ought I to do now when I owe everything to it? For what is there that can crush or even weaken my spirit, when you see that calamity itself is in my case not a witness of any error; but of most extraordinary services rendered to the republic? For these disasters were brought on me by my defence of the state; they were undergone by me of my own free will, in order that the republic which had been defended by me should not be brought into the very extremity of peril. It was not in my case, as in that of Publius Popillius, a most noble man, my young sons, or a multitude of my relations that entreated the Roman people in my behalf; it was not in my case, as in the case of Quintus Metellus, a most admirable and most illustrious man, a youthful son of proved virtue who strove for me; it was not Lucius and Caius Metellus, men of consular rank, nor their sons; nor Quintus Metellus Nepos, who was at that very moment a candidate for the consulship, nor the Luculli or Servilii, or Scipios, sons of the Metelli, who with tears and in mourning garments addressed their supplications to the Roman people; but one single brother, who behaved to me with the dutiful affection of a son, who fortified me like a parent with his counsels, and loved me like a brother (as indeed he was), by his mourning robe and his tears and daily prayers kept alive the regret of me which existed, and the recollection of my name and services; and while he had made up his mind, that unless by your votes he could recover me here, he would encounter the same fortune himself, and choose the same abode both in life and death, still he never was alarmed either at the greatness of the business, or at his own solitary and unassisted condition, nor at the violence and warlike measures of my adversaries.

There was another upholder and assiduous defender of my fortunes, Caius Piso, my son-in-law, a man of the greatest virtue and piety, who disregarded the threats of my enemies, the hostility of my connection, and his own near relation, the consul; who, as quaestor, passed over Pontus and Bithynia for the sake of ensuring my safety. The senate never decreed anything respecting Publius Popillius; no mention was ever made in this assembly of Quintus Metellus. They were restored by motions made by the tribunes, after their enemies had been slain, and, above all, they were not restored by the interposition of any authority on the part of the senate, though one of them had done what he did in obedience to the senate, the other had fled from violence and bloodshed. For Caius Marius, the only man of consular dignity in the memory of man who was ever driven from the city in times of civil discord before me, was not only not restored by the senate, but by his return almost destroyed the senate. There was no unanimity of magistrates in their cases,—no summoning of the Roman people to come to the defence of the republic,—no commotion throughout Italy,—no decrees of municipalities and colonies in their favour.

Wherefore, since your authority has summoned me,—since the Roman people his recalled me,—since the republic has begged me to return,—since almost all Italy has brought me back in triumph on its shoulders, I will take care, O conscript fathers, now that those things have been restored to me, the restoration of which did not depend on myself, not to appear wanting in those qualities with which I can provide myself; I will take care, now that I have recovered those things which I had lost, never to lose my virtue and loyal attachment to you.

If, O conscript fathers, I return you thanks in a very inadequate manner for your kindness to me, and to my brother, and to my children, (which shall never be forgotten by us,) I beg and entreat you not to attribute it so much to any coldness of my disposition, as to the magnitude of the service which you have done me. For what fertility of genius, what copiousness of eloquence can be so great, what language can be found of such divine and extraordinary power, as to enable any one, I will not say to do due honour to the universal kindness of you all towards us, but even to count up and enumerate all the separate acts of kindness which we have received from you? You have restored to me my brother; whom I have wished for above all things; you have restored me to my most affectionate brother; you have restored us parents to our children, and our children to us; you have restored to us our dignity, our rank, our fortunes, the republic, which we reverence above all things, and our country, than which nothing can be dearer to us; you have restored us, in short, to ourselves.

And if we ought to consider our parents most dear to us, because by them our life, our property, our freedom, and our rights as citizens have been given to us; if we love the immortal gods, by whose kindness we have preserved all those things, and have also had other benefits added to them; if we are most deeply attached to the Roman people owing to the honours paid to us by whom we have been placed in this most noble council, and in the very highest rank and dignity and in this citadel of the whole earth, if we are devoted to this order of the senate by which we have been frequently distinguished by most honourable decrees in our favour, surely it is a boundless and infinite obligation which we are under to you, who, by your singular zeal and unanimity on my behalf, have combined at one time the benefits done us by our parents, the bounty of the immortal gods, the honours conferred on us by the Roman people, and your own frequent decisions in my case; in such a manner that, owing, as we do, much to you, and great gratitude to the Roman people, and innumerable thanks to our parents, and everything to the immortal gods, the honours and enjoyments which we had separately before by their instrumentality, we have now recovered all together by your kindness.

Therefore, O conscript fathers, we seem by your agency to have obtained a species of immortality, a thing too great to be even wished for by men. For what time will there ever be in which the memory and fame of your kindnesses to me will perish? The memory of your kindness, who, at the very time that you were besieged by violence and arms and terror and threats, not long after my departure all agreed in recalling me, at the motion of Lucius Ninnius, a most fearless and virtuous man, the most faithful and (if it had come to a battle) the least timid defender of my safety that that fatal year could produce. After the honour of making a formal decree to that effect was refused to you by the means of that tribune of the people, who as he was unable of himself to injure the republic, destroyed it as far as he could by the wickedness of another, you never kept silence concerning me, you never ceased to demand my safety from those consuls who had sold it. Therefore, at last it was owing to your authority and your zeal that that very year which I had preferred to have fatal to myself rather than to my country, elected these men as tribunes, who proposed a law concerning my safety, and constantly brought it under your notice. For the consuls being modest men, and having a regard for the laws, were hindered by a law, not by the one which had been passed concerning me, but by one respecting themselves, when my enemy had carried a clause, that when those men had come to life again who nearly destroyed the state, then I might return to the city. By which action he confessed two things—both that he longed for them to be living, and also that the republic would be in great peril, if either the enemies and murderers of the republic came to life again, or if I did not return.

Therefore, in that very year when I had departed, and when the chief man of the state was forced to defend his own life, not by the protection of the laws, but by that of his own walls,—when the republic was without consuls, and bereft, like an orphan, not only of its regular parents, but even of its annual guardians,—when you were forbidden to deliver your opinions,—when the chief clause of my proscription was repeatedly read,—still you never hesitated to consider my safety as united with the general welfare.

But when, by the singular and admirable virtue of Publius Lentulus the consul, you began on the first of January to see light arising in the republic out of the clouds and darkness of the preceding year,—when the great reputation of Quintus Metellus, that most noble and excellent man, and the virtue and loyalty of the praetors, and of nearly all the tribunes of the people, had likewise come to the aid of the republic,—when Cnaeus Pompeius, the greatest man for virtue, and glory, and achievements that any nation or any age has ever produced, the most illustrious man that memory can suggest thought that he could again come with safety into the senate,—then your unanimity with respect to my safety was so great that my body only was absent, my dignity had already returned to this country. And that month you were able to form an opinion as to what was the difference between me and my enemies. I abandoned my own safety, in order to save the republic from being (for my sake) stained with the blood of the citizens; they thought fit to hinder my return, not by the votes of the Roman people, but by a river of blood. Therefore, after those events, you gave no answers to the citizens, or the allies, or to kings; the judges gave no decisions; the people came to no vote on any matter; this body issued no declarations by its authority; you saw the forum silent the senate-house mute, the city dumb and dispirited. And then, too, when he had gone away, who, being authorized by you, had resisted murder and conflagration, you saw men rushing all over the city with sword and firebrand; you saw the houses of the magistrates attacked, the temples of the gods burnt, the faces of a most admirable man and illustrious consul burnt, the holy person of a most fearless and virtuous officer, a tribune of the people, not only laid hands on and insulted, but wounded with the sword and killed. And by that murder some magistrates were so alarmed, that partly out of fear of death, partly out of despair for the republic, they in some degree forsook my cause; but others remained behind, whom neither terror, nor violence, nor hope, nor fear, nor promises, nor threats, nor arms, nor firebrands, could influence so as to make them cease to stand by your authority, and the dignity of the Roman people, and my safety.

The chief of those men was Publius Lentulus, the parent and god of my life, and fortune, and memory, and name. He thought that the best proof that he could give of his virtue, the best indication that he could afford of his disposition, the greatest ornament with which he could embellish his consulship would be the restoration of me to myself, to my friends, to you, and to the republic. And as soon as ever he was appointed consul elect he never hesitated to express an opinion concerning my safety worthy both of himself and of the republic. When the veto was interposed by the tribune of the people,—when that admirable clause was read: “That no one should make any motion before you that no one should propose any decree to you that no one should raise any discussion, or make any speech or take any vote or frame any law;” he thought all that as I have said before, a proscription and not a law, by which a citizen who had deserved well of the republic was by name and without any trial, taken from the senate and the republic at the same time. But as soon as he entered on his office, I will not say what did he do before, but what else did he do at all, except labour by my preservation to establish your authority and dignity on a firm basis for the future? O ye immortal gods! what great kindness do you appear to have shown me, in making Publius Lentulus consul this year. How much greater still would your bounty have  been, had he been so the preceding year; for I should not have been in want of such medicine as a consul could give, unless I had fallen by a wound inflicted by a consul. I had been often told by one of the wisest of men and one of the most virtuous of citizens, Quintus Catulus, that it was not often that there was one wicked consul, but that there had never been two at the same time since the foundation of Rome, except in that terrible time of Cinna. Wherefore, he used to say that my interest would always be firmly secured, as long as there was even one virtuous consul in the republic. And he would have spoken the truth, if that state of things with respect to consuls could have remained lasting and perpetual, that, as there never had been two bad ones in the republic, so there never should be. But if Quintus Metellus had been at that time consul, who was then my enemy, do you doubt what would have been his feelings with regard to my preservation, when you see that he was a mover and seconder of the measure proposed for my restoration? But at that time there were two consuls, whose minds, narrow, contemptible, mean, groveling, dark, and dirty, were unable to look properly at, or to uphold, or to support the mere name of the consulship, much less the splendour of that honour, and the importance of that authority. They were not consuls, but dealers in provinces, and sellers of your dignity. One of whom demanded back from me, in the hearing of many, Catiline, his lover; the other ‘’reclaimed Cethegus, his cousin;—the two most wicked men in the memory of man, who (I will not call them consuls, but robbers) not only deserted, in a cause in which, above all others, the welfare of the republic and the dignity of the consulship was concerned, but betrayed me, and opposed me, and wished to see me stripped of all aid, not only from themselves, but also from you and from the other orders of the state. One of them, however, deceived neither me nor any one else.

For whoever could have any hope of any good existing in that man, the earliest period of whose life was made openly subservient to everyone's lusts; who had not the heart to repel the obscene impurity of men from the holiest portion of his person? who, after he had ruined his own estate with no less activity than he afterwards displayed in his endeavours to ruin the republic, supported his indigence and his luxury by every sort of pandering and infamy; who, if he had not taken refuge at the altar of the tribuneship, would not have been able to escape from the authority of the praetor, nor the multitude of his creditors, nor the seizure of his goods. And if he had not while in discharge of that office, passed that law about the piratical war, he, in truth, would have yielded to his own poverty and wickedness, and had recourse to piracy himself; and who would have done so with less injury to the republic than he did by remaining within our walls as an impious enemy and robber. It was he who was inspecting victims, and sitting in the discharge of that duty, when a tribune of the people procured a law to be passed that no regard should be had to the auspices,—that no one should on that account be allowed to interrupt the assembly or the comitia, or to put his veto on the passing of a law; and that the Aelian and Fufian laws should have no validity, which our ancestors had enacted, intending them to be the firmest protection of the republic against the insanity of the tribunes. And he also afterwards, when a countless multitude of virtuous men had come to him from the Capitol as suppliants, and in morning garments, and when all the most noble young men of Rome, and all the Roman knights, had thrown themselves at the feet of that most profligate pander, with what an expression of countenance did that curled and perfumed debauchee reject, not only the tears of the citizens, but even the prayers of his country! Nor was he content with that but he even went up to the assembly, and there said what even if his man Catiline had come to life again he would not have dared to say,—that he would make the Roman knights pay for the nones of December of my consulship, and for the Capitoline Hill; and he not only said this, but he even summoned those before him that suited him. And this imperious consul actually banished from the city Lucius Lamia, a Roman knight, a man of the highest character, and a very eager advocate of my safety, because of his intimacy with me, and very much attached to the state, as it was likely that a man of his fortune would be. And when you had passed a resolution to change your garments, and had changed them, and though, indeed, all virtuous men had already done the same thing, he, reeking with perfumes, clad in his toga praetexta, which all the praetors and aediles had at that time laid aside, derided your mourning garb, and the grief of a most grateful city, and did what no tyrant ever did,—he issued an edict that you should lament your disasters in secret and not presume openly to bewail the miseries of your country.

And when in the Circus Flaminius (I will not say the consul had been conducted into the assembly by a tribune of the people, but) the archpirate had been brought in by another robber, he came first a man of what exceeding dignity, full of wine, sleep, and debauchery! with hair dripping with ointments, with carefully arranged locks, with heavy eyes, moist cheeks, a husky and drunken voice; and he, a grave authority, said that he was greatly displeased at citizens having been executed without having been formally condemned. Where is it that this great authority has lain hid so long out of our sight? Why has the extraordinary virtue of this ringletted dunce been wasted so long in scenes of debauchery and gluttony? For that other man, Caesoninus Calventius, from his youth up has been habituated to the forum, though, except his assumed and crafty melancholy, there was no single thing to recommend him,—no knowledge of the law, no skill in speaking, no knowledge of military affairs or of men, no liberality. And if, while passing him, you noticed how ungentlemanlike, and rough, and sulky he looked, though you might think him a barbarian and a boor, still you would not suppose him to be lascivious and profligate. You would think it made no difference whether you were standing in the forum with this man, or with a barbarian from Aethiopia; there he was, in that sense, without flavour, a mute, slow, uncivilized piece of goods. You would be apt to suppose him a Cappadocian just escaped out of a lot of slaves for sale. Then, again, how lustful was he at home,—how impure, how intemperate. He was not like a front-door, open for the reception of legitimate pleasures, but when he began to devote himself to literature, and, become rather a postern for all sorts of secret gratification. And glutton that he was, to learn philosophy with the Greeks, then he became an Epicurean, not because he was really much devoted to that sect such as it is, but because he was caught by that one expression about pleasure. And he has masters, none of those foolish fellows who go on for whole days discussing duty and virtue,—who exhort men to labour, to industry, to encounter dangers for the sake of their country, but men who argue that no hour ought to be unoccupied by pleasure; that in every part of the body there ought always to be some joy and delight to be perceived. He uses his masters as a sort of superintendents of his lusts; they seek out and scent out all sorts of pleasures; they are the seasoners and furnishers of his banquets they appraise and value the different pleasures, they give a formal decision and judgment as to how much indulgence ought to be allowed to each separate pleasure. He, becoming accomplished in all these arts, despised this most prudent city to such a degree that he thought that all his lusts and all his atrocities could be concealed, if he only thrust his ill-omened face into the forum.

He deceived me, though I will not so much say me (for I know, from my connection with the Pisos how much the Transalpine blood on his mother's side had removed him from the qualities of that family) but he deceived you and the Roman people, not by his wisdom or his eloquence, as is often the case with many men, but by his wrinkled brow and solemn look. Lucius Piso, did you dare at that time with that eye (I will not say with that mind), with that forehead (I will not say with what character), and with that arrogance (for I cannot say, after such achievements), to unite with Aulus Gabinius in forming plans for my ruin? Did not the odour of that man's perfumes, or his breath reeking with wine, or his forehead marked with the traces of the curling-iron, lead you to think that as you were like him in reality, you were no longer able to use the impenetrability of your countenance to conceal such enormous atrocities? Did you dare to continue with that man to abandon the consular dignity,—the existing condition of the republic,—the authority of the senate,—the fortunes of a citizen who had above all others deserved well of the republic, to the provinces? While you were consul, according to your edicts and commands, it was not allowed to the Roman senate or people to come to the assistance of the republic, I will not say by their votes and their authority, but even by their grief and their mourning garb.

Did you think that you were consul at Capua, a city where there was once the abode of arrogance, or at Rome, where all the consuls that ever existed before you were obedient to the senate? Did you dare, when you were brought forward in the Flaminian Circus, with your colleague, to say that you had always been merciful? by which expression you declared that the senate and all virtuous men were cruel at the time that I warded off ruin from the republic. You were a merciful man when you handed me over,—me, your own relation,—me, whom at your comitia you had appointed as chief guardian of the prerogative tribe, whose opinions on the calends of January you had asked then, bound and helpless to the enemies of the republic! You repelled my son-in-law, your own kinsman; you repelled your own near relation, my daughter, with most haughty and inhuman language, from your knees; and you, also, O man of singular mercy and clemency, when I, together with the republic, had fallen, not by a blow aimed by a tribune, but by a wound inflicted by a consul, behaved with such wickedness and such intemperance, that you did not allow one single hour to elapse between the time of my disaster and your plunder; you did not allow even time for the lamentations and groans of the city to die away. It was not yet openly known that the republic had fallen, when you thought fit to arrange its interment. At one and the same moment my house was plundered and set on fire, my property from my house on the Palatine Hill was taken to the house of the consul who was my neighbour, the goods from my Tusculan villa were also taken to the house of my neighbour there, the other consul; when, while the same mob of artisans were giving their votes, the same gladiator proposing and passing laws, the forum being unoccupied, not only by virtuous men, but even by free citizens, and being entirely empty, the Roman people being utterly ignorant what was going on, the senate being beaten down and crushed, there being two wicked and impious consuls, the treasury, the prisoners, the legions, allies and military commands, were given away as they pleased.

But the ruin wrought by these consuls you, O consuls, have prevented from spreading further by your virtue, being assisted as you have been by the admirable loyalty and diligence of the tribunes of the people and the praetors. What shall I say of that most illustrious man, Titus Annius? or, who can ever speak of such a citizen in an adequate or worthy manner? For when he saw that a wicked citizen, or, it would be more correct to say, a domestic enemy, required (if it were only possible to employ the laws) to be crushed by judicial proceedings, or that if violence hindered and put an end to the courts of justice, in that case audacity must be put down by virtue, madness by courage, rashness by wisdom, hand by hand, violence by violence, he first of all prosecuted him for violence; when he saw that the very man whom he was prosecuting had destroyed the courts of justice, he took care that he should not be able to carry everything by violence. He taught us that neither private houses, nor temples, nor the forum, nor the senate-house could be defended from the bands of domestic robbers without the greatest gallantry, and large resources and numerous forces. He was the first man after my departure who relieved the virtuous from fear, and deprived the audacious of hope; who delivered this august body from alarm, and the city from slavery. And Publius Sextius following the same line of conduct with equal virtue, courage, and loyalty, thought that there were no enmities, no efforts of violence, no attacks, no dangers even to his life, which it became him to shun, in defence of my safety, of your authority, and of the constitution of the state. He, by his diligence, so recommended the cause of the senate, thrown into disorder as it was by the harangues of wicked men, to the multitude, that your name soon became the most popular of all names, your authority the object of the greatest affection to all men. He defended me by every means that a tribune of the people could employ; and supported me by every sort of kind attention, just as if he had been my own brother; by his clients, and freedmen, and household, and resources, and letters, I was so much supported, that he seemed to be not only my assistant under, but my partner in calamity. Now you have seen the kindness and zeal of the others; how devoted to me was Caius Cestilius, how attached to you, how uniformly faithful to our cause. What did Marcus Cispius do? I know how much I owe to him and to his father and brother; and they, though they had some personal grudge against me on their own private account, still disregarded their private dislike out of recollection of my services to the state. Also, Titus Fadius, who was my quaestor, and Marcus Curtius, to whose father I was quaestor, cherished the memory of our connection with all zeal, and affection, and courage. Caius Messius made many speeches in my behalf, for the sake both of our friendship and of the republic. And he at the beginning proposed a special law respecting my safety. If Quintus Fabricius could only have effected, in spite of violence and arms, what he endeavoured to do in my behalf, we should have recovered our position in the month of January. His own inclination prompted him to labour for my safety, violence checked him, your authority recalled him.

If, O conscript fathers, I return you thanks in a very inadequate manner for your kindness to me, and to my brother, and to my children, (which shall never be forgotten by us,) I beg and entreat you not to attribute it so much to any coldness of my disposition, as to the magnitude of the service which you have done me. For what fertility of genius, what copiousness of eloquence can be so great, what language can be found of such divine and extraordinary power, as to enable any one, I will not say to do due honour to the universal kindness of you all towards us, but even to count up and enumerate all the separate acts of kindness which we have received from you? You have restored to me my brother; whom I have wished for above all things; you have restored me to my most affectionate brother; you have restored us parents to our children, and our children to us; you have restored to us our dignity, our rank, our fortunes, the republic, which we reverence above all things, and our country, than which nothing can be dearer to us; you have restored us, in short, to ourselves.

And if we ought to consider our parents most dear to us, because by them our life, our property, our freedom, and our rights as citizens have been given to us; if we love the immortal gods, by whose kindness we have preserved all those things, and have also had other benefits added to them; if we are most deeply attached to the Roman people owing to the honours paid to us by whom we have been placed in this most noble council, and in the very highest rank and dignity and in this citadel of the whole earth, if we are devoted to this order of the senate by which we have been frequently distinguished by most honourable decrees in our favour, surely it is a boundless and infinite obligation which we are under to you, who, by your singular zeal and unanimity on my behalf, have combined at one time the benefits done us by our parents, the bounty of the immortal gods, the honours conferred on us by the Roman people, and your own frequent decisions in my case; in such a manner that, owing, as we do, much to you, and great gratitude to the Roman people, and innumerable thanks to our parents, and everything to the immortal gods, the honours and enjoyments which we had separately before by their instrumentality, we have now recovered all together by your kindness.

Therefore, O conscript fathers, we seem by your agency to have obtained a species of immortality, a thing too great to be even wished for by men. For what time will there ever be in which the memory and fame of your kindnesses to me will perish? The memory of your kindness, who, at the very time that you were besieged by violence and arms and terror and threats, not long after my departure all agreed in recalling me, at the motion of Lucius Ninnius, a most fearless and virtuous man, the most faithful and (if it had come to a battle) the least timid defender of my safety that that fatal year could produce. After the honour of making a formal decree to that effect was refused to you by the means of that tribune of the people, who as he was unable of himself to injure the republic, destroyed it as far as he could by the wickedness of another, you never kept silence concerning me, you never ceased to demand my safety from those consuls who had sold it. Therefore, at last it was owing to your authority and your zeal that that very year which I had preferred to have fatal to myself rather than to my country, elected these men as tribunes, who proposed a law concerning my safety, and constantly brought it under your notice. For the consuls being modest men, and having a regard for the laws, were hindered by a law, not by the one which had been passed concerning me, but by one respecting themselves, when my enemy had carried a clause, that when those men had come to life again who nearly destroyed the state, then I might return to the city. By which action he confessed two things—both that he longed for them to be living, and also that the republic would be in great peril, if either the enemies and murderers of the republic came to life again, or if I did not return.

Therefore, in that very year when I had departed, and when the chief man of the state was forced to defend his own life, not by the protection of the laws, but by that of his own walls,—when the republic was without consuls, and bereft, like an orphan, not only of its regular parents, but even of its annual guardians,—when you were forbidden to deliver your opinions,—when the chief clause of my proscription was repeatedly read,—still you never hesitated to consider my safety as united with the general welfare.

But when, by the singular and admirable virtue of Publius Lentulus the consul, you began on the first of January to see light arising in the republic out of the clouds and darkness of the preceding year,—when the great reputation of Quintus Metellus, that most noble and excellent man, and the virtue and loyalty of the praetors, and of nearly all the tribunes of the people, had likewise come to the aid of the republic,—when Cnaeus Pompeius, the greatest man for virtue, and glory, and achievements that any nation or any age has ever produced, the most illustrious man that memory can suggest thought that he could again come with safety into the senate,—then your unanimity with respect to my safety was so great that my body only was absent, my dignity had already returned to this country. And that month you were able to form an opinion as to what was the difference between me and my enemies. I abandoned my own safety, in order to save the republic from being (for my sake) stained with the blood of the citizens; they thought fit to hinder my return, not by the votes of the Roman people, but by a river of blood. Therefore, after those events, you gave no answers to the citizens, or the allies, or to kings; the judges gave no decisions; the people came to no vote on any matter; this body issued no declarations by its authority; you saw the forum silent the senate-house mute, the city dumb and dispirited. And then, too, when he had gone away, who, being authorized by you, had resisted murder and conflagration, you saw men rushing all over the city with sword and firebrand; you saw the houses of the magistrates attacked, the temples of the gods burnt, the faces of a most admirable man and illustrious consul burnt, the holy person of a most fearless and virtuous officer, a tribune of the people, not only laid hands on and insulted, but wounded with the sword and killed. And by that murder some magistrates were so alarmed, that partly out of fear of death, partly out of despair for the republic, they in some degree forsook my cause; but others remained behind, whom neither terror, nor violence, nor hope, nor fear, nor promises, nor threats, nor arms, nor firebrands, could influence so as to make them cease to stand by your authority, and the dignity of the Roman people, and my safety.

The chief of those men was Publius Lentulus, the parent and god of my life, and fortune, and memory, and name. He thought that the best proof that he could give of his virtue, the best indication that he could afford of his disposition, the greatest ornament with which he could embellish his consulship would be the restoration of me to myself, to my friends, to you, and to the republic. And as soon as ever he was appointed consul elect he never hesitated to express an opinion concerning my safety worthy both of himself and of the republic. When the veto was interposed by the tribune of the people,—when that admirable clause was read: “That no one should make any motion before you that no one should propose any decree to you that no one should raise any discussion, or make any speech or take any vote or frame any law;” he thought all that as I have said before, a proscription and not a law, by which a citizen who had deserved well of the republic was by name and without any trial, taken from the senate and the republic at the same time. But as soon as he entered on his office, I will not say what did he do before, but what else did he do at all, except labour by my preservation to establish your authority and dignity on a firm basis for the future? O ye immortal gods! what great kindness do you appear to have shown me, in making Publius Lentulus consul this year. How much greater still would your bounty have  been, had he been so the preceding year; for I should not have been in want of such medicine as a consul could give, unless I had fallen by a wound inflicted by a consul. I had been often told by one of the wisest of men and one of the most virtuous of citizens, Quintus Catulus, that it was not often that there was one wicked consul, but that there had never been two at the same time since the foundation of Rome, except in that terrible time of Cinna. Wherefore, he used to say that my interest would always be firmly secured, as long as there was even one virtuous consul in the republic. And he would have spoken the truth, if that state of things with respect to consuls could have remained lasting and perpetual, that, as there never had been two bad ones in the republic, so there never should be. But if Quintus Metellus had been at that time consul, who was then my enemy, do you doubt what would have been his feelings with regard to my preservation, when you see that he was a mover and seconder of the measure proposed for my restoration? But at that time there were two consuls, whose minds, narrow, contemptible, mean, groveling, dark, and dirty, were unable to look properly at, or to uphold, or to support the mere name of the consulship, much less the splendour of that honour, and the importance of that authority. They were not consuls, but dealers in provinces, and sellers of your dignity. One of whom demanded back from me, in the hearing of many, Catiline, his lover; the other ‘’reclaimed Cethegus, his cousin;—the two most wicked men in the memory of man, who (I will not call them consuls, but robbers) not only deserted, in a cause in which, above all others, the welfare of the republic and the dignity of the consulship was concerned, but betrayed me, and opposed me, and wished to see me stripped of all aid, not only from themselves, but also from you and from the other orders of the state. One of them, however, deceived neither me nor any one else.

For whoever could have any hope of any good existing in that man, the earliest period of whose life was made openly subservient to everyone's lusts; who had not the heart to repel the obscene impurity of men from the holiest portion of his person? who, after he had ruined his own estate with no less activity than he afterwards displayed in his endeavours to ruin the republic, supported his indigence and his luxury by every sort of pandering and infamy; who, if he had not taken refuge at the altar of the tribuneship, would not have been able to escape from the authority of the praetor, nor the multitude of his creditors, nor the seizure of his goods. And if he had not while in discharge of that office, passed that law about the piratical war, he, in truth, would have yielded to his own poverty and wickedness, and had recourse to piracy himself; and who would have done so with less injury to the republic than he did by remaining within our walls as an impious enemy and robber. It was he who was inspecting victims, and sitting in the discharge of that duty, when a tribune of the people procured a law to be passed that no regard should be had to the auspices,—that no one should on that account be allowed to interrupt the assembly or the comitia, or to put his veto on the passing of a law; and that the Aelian and Fufian laws should have no validity, which our ancestors had enacted, intending them to be the firmest protection of the republic against the insanity of the tribunes. And he also afterwards, when a countless multitude of virtuous men had come to him from the Capitol as suppliants, and in morning garments, and when all the most noble young men of Rome, and all the Roman knights, had thrown themselves at the feet of that most profligate pander, with what an expression of countenance did that curled and perfumed debauchee reject, not only the tears of the citizens, but even the prayers of his country! Nor was he content with that but he even went up to the assembly, and there said what even if his man Catiline had come to life again he would not have dared to say,—that he would make the Roman knights pay for the nones of December of my consulship, and for the Capitoline Hill; and he not only said this, but he even summoned those before him that suited him. And this imperious consul actually banished from the city Lucius Lamia, a Roman knight, a man of the highest character, and a very eager advocate of my safety, because of his intimacy with me, and very much attached to the state, as it was likely that a man of his fortune would be. And when you had passed a resolution to change your garments, and had changed them, and though, indeed, all virtuous men had already done the same thing, he, reeking with perfumes, clad in his toga praetexta, which all the praetors and aediles had at that time laid aside, derided your mourning garb, and the grief of a most grateful city, and did what no tyrant ever did,—he issued an edict that you should lament your disasters in secret and not presume openly to bewail the miseries of your country.

And when in the Circus Flaminius (I will not say the consul had been conducted into the assembly by a tribune of the people, but) the archpirate had been brought in by another robber, he came first a man of what exceeding dignity, full of wine, sleep, and debauchery! with hair dripping with ointments, with carefully arranged locks, with heavy eyes, moist cheeks, a husky and drunken voice; and he, a grave authority, said that he was greatly displeased at citizens having been executed without having been formally condemned. Where is it that this great authority has lain hid so long out of our sight? Why has the extraordinary virtue of this ringletted dunce been wasted so long in scenes of debauchery and gluttony? For that other man, Caesoninus Calventius, from his youth up has been habituated to the forum, though, except his assumed and crafty melancholy, there was no single thing to recommend him,—no knowledge of the law, no skill in speaking, no knowledge of military affairs or of men, no liberality. And if, while passing him, you noticed how ungentlemanlike, and rough, and sulky he looked, though you might think him a barbarian and a boor, still you would not suppose him to be lascivious and profligate. You would think it made no difference whether you were standing in the forum with this man, or with a barbarian from Aethiopia; there he was, in that sense, without flavour, a mute, slow, uncivilized piece of goods. You would be apt to suppose him a Cappadocian just escaped out of a lot of slaves for sale. Then, again, how lustful was he at home,—how impure, how intemperate. He was not like a front-door, open for the reception of legitimate pleasures, but when he began to devote himself to literature, and, become rather a postern for all sorts of secret gratification. And glutton that he was, to learn philosophy with the Greeks, then he became an Epicurean, not because he was really much devoted to that sect such as it is, but because he was caught by that one expression about pleasure. And he has masters, none of those foolish fellows who go on for whole days discussing duty and virtue,—who exhort men to labour, to industry, to encounter dangers for the sake of their country, but men who argue that no hour ought to be unoccupied by pleasure; that in every part of the body there ought always to be some joy and delight to be perceived. He uses his masters as a sort of superintendents of his lusts; they seek out and scent out all sorts of pleasures; they are the seasoners and furnishers of his banquets they appraise and value the different pleasures, they give a formal decision and judgment as to how much indulgence ought to be allowed to each separate pleasure. He, becoming accomplished in all these arts, despised this most prudent city to such a degree that he thought that all his lusts and all his atrocities could be concealed, if he only thrust his ill-omened face into the forum.

He deceived me, though I will not so much say me (for I know, from my connection with the Pisos how much the Transalpine blood on his mother's side had removed him from the qualities of that family) but he deceived you and the Roman people, not by his wisdom or his eloquence, as is often the case with many men, but by his wrinkled brow and solemn look. Lucius Piso, did you dare at that time with that eye (I will not say with that mind), with that forehead (I will not say with what character), and with that arrogance (for I cannot say, after such achievements), to unite with Aulus Gabinius in forming plans for my ruin? Did not the odour of that man's perfumes, or his breath reeking with wine, or his forehead marked with the traces of the curling-iron, lead you to think that as you were like him in reality, you were no longer able to use the impenetrability of your countenance to conceal such enormous atrocities? Did you dare to continue with that man to abandon the consular dignity,—the existing condition of the republic,—the authority of the senate,—the fortunes of a citizen who had above all others deserved well of the republic, to the provinces? While you were consul, according to your edicts and commands, it was not allowed to the Roman senate or people to come to the assistance of the republic, I will not say by their votes and their authority, but even by their grief and their mourning garb.

Did you think that you were consul at Capua, a city where there was once the abode of arrogance, or at Rome, where all the consuls that ever existed before you were obedient to the senate? Did you dare, when you were brought forward in the Flaminian Circus, with your colleague, to say that you had always been merciful? by which expression you declared that the senate and all virtuous men were cruel at the time that I warded off ruin from the republic. You were a merciful man when you handed me over,—me, your own relation,—me, whom at your comitia you had appointed as chief guardian of the prerogative tribe, whose opinions on the calends of January you had asked then, bound and helpless to the enemies of the republic! You repelled my son-in-law, your own kinsman; you repelled your own near relation, my daughter, with most haughty and inhuman language, from your knees; and you, also, O man of singular mercy and clemency, when I, together with the republic, had fallen, not by a blow aimed by a tribune, but by a wound inflicted by a consul, behaved with such wickedness and such intemperance, that you did not allow one single hour to elapse between the time of my disaster and your plunder; you did not allow even time for the lamentations and groans of the city to die away. It was not yet openly known that the republic had fallen, when you thought fit to arrange its interment. At one and the same moment my house was plundered and set on fire, my property from my house on the Palatine Hill was taken to the house of the consul who was my neighbour, the goods from my Tusculan villa were also taken to the house of my neighbour there, the other consul; when, while the same mob of artisans were giving their votes, the same gladiator proposing and passing laws, the forum being unoccupied, not only by virtuous men, but even by free citizens, and being entirely empty, the Roman people being utterly ignorant what was going on, the senate being beaten down and crushed, there being two wicked and impious consuls, the treasury, the prisoners, the legions, allies and military commands, were given away as they pleased.

But the ruin wrought by these consuls you, O consuls, have prevented from spreading further by your virtue, being assisted as you have been by the admirable loyalty and diligence of the tribunes of the people and the praetors. What shall I say of that most illustrious man, Titus Annius? or, who can ever speak of such a citizen in an adequate or worthy manner? For when he saw that a wicked citizen, or, it would be more correct to say, a domestic enemy, required (if it were only possible to employ the laws) to be crushed by judicial proceedings, or that if violence hindered and put an end to the courts of justice, in that case audacity must be put down by virtue, madness by courage, rashness by wisdom, hand by hand, violence by violence, he first of all prosecuted him for violence; when he saw that the very man whom he was prosecuting had destroyed the courts of justice, he took care that he should not be able to carry everything by violence. He taught us that neither private houses, nor temples, nor the forum, nor the senate-house could be defended from the bands of domestic robbers without the greatest gallantry, and large resources and numerous forces. He was the first man after my departure who relieved the virtuous from fear, and deprived the audacious of hope; who delivered this august body from alarm, and the city from slavery. And Publius Sextius following the same line of conduct with equal virtue, courage, and loyalty, thought that there were no enmities, no efforts of violence, no attacks, no dangers even to his life, which it became him to shun, in defence of my safety, of your authority, and of the constitution of the state. He, by his diligence, so recommended the cause of the senate, thrown into disorder as it was by the harangues of wicked men, to the multitude, that your name soon became the most popular of all names, your authority the object of the greatest affection to all men. He defended me by every means that a tribune of the people could employ; and supported me by every sort of kind attention, just as if he had been my own brother; by his clients, and freedmen, and household, and resources, and letters, I was so much supported, that he seemed to be not only my assistant under, but my partner in calamity. Now you have seen the kindness and zeal of the others; how devoted to me was Caius Cestilius, how attached to you, how uniformly faithful to our cause. What did Marcus Cispius do? I know how much I owe to him and to his father and brother; and they, though they had some personal grudge against me on their own private account, still disregarded their private dislike out of recollection of my services to the state. Also, Titus Fadius, who was my quaestor, and Marcus Curtius, to whose father I was quaestor, cherished the memory of our connection with all zeal, and affection, and courage. Caius Messius made many speeches in my behalf, for the sake both of our friendship and of the republic. And he at the beginning proposed a special law respecting my safety. If Quintus Fabricius could only have effected, in spite of violence and arms, what he endeavoured to do in my behalf, we should have recovered our position in the month of January. His own inclination prompted him to labour for my safety, violence checked him, your authority recalled him.

Of what disposition towards me the praetors were, you were able to form an opinion when Lucius Caecilius, in his private character, laboured to support me from his own resources, and in his public capacity proposed a law respecting my safety, in concert with all his colleagues, and refused the plunderers of my property permission to support their actions by legal proceedings. But Marcus Calidius, the moment he was elected, showed by his vote how dear my safety was to him. Caius Septimius, Quintus Valerius, Publius Crassus, Sextus Quintilius, and Caius Cornutus, all devoted all their energies to the promotion of my interests and those of the republic.

And while I gladly make mention of these things, I am not unwilling to pass over the wicked actions done by some people with a view to injure me. It is not suited to my fortunes at present to remember injuries, which, even if I were able to revenge them, I still would rather forget. All my life is to be devoted to a different object: to that of showing my gratitude to those who have deserved well of me; to preserving those friendships which have been tried in the fire; to waging war against my open enemies; to pardoning my timid friends; to avoiding the showing those who deserted me any indignation at having been forced to leave the city; to console those who promoted my return by a proper display of my dignity. And if I had no other duty before me for all the rest of my life, except to appear sufficiently grateful to the very originators and prime movers and authors of my safety, still I should think the period that remains to me of life too brief; I will not say for requiting, but even for enumerating the kindnesses which have been shown to me. For, when shall I, or when will all my relations, be able to show proper gratitude to this man and to his children? What memory, what force of genius, what amount of deference and respect will be a fit return for such numerous and immense services? He was the first man who held out to me the promise and faith of a consul when I was overwhelmed and miserable; he it was who recalled me from death to life, from despair to hope, from destruction to safety. His affection for me, his zeal for the republic, was so great, that he kept thinking how he might not only relieve my calamity, but how he might even make it honourable. For what could be more honourable, what could happen to me more creditable, than that which you decreed on his motion, that all people from all Italy, who desired the safety of the republic, should come forward for the sole purpose of supporting and defending me, a ruined and almost broken-hearted man? So that the senate summoned the citizens and the whole of Italy to come from all their lands and from every town to the defense of one man, with the very same force of expression which had never been used but three times before since the foundation of Rome, and at those times it was the consul who used it in behalf of the entire republic, addressing himself to those only who could hear his voice.

 What could I leave to my posterity more glorious than the fact, that the senate had declared its judgment that any citizen who did not defend me, did not desire the safety of the republic? Therefore your authority, and the preeminent dignity of the consul, had this great effect, that every one thought that he was committing a shameful crime if he did not come to that summons. And this same consul, when that incredible multitude, when Italy itself I might almost say, had come to Rome, summoned you repeatedly to the Capitol; and at that time you had an opportunity of seeing what great power excellence of natural disposition and true nobleness have. For Quintus Metellus, himself an enemy of mine, and a brother of an enemy of mine, as soon as he was assured of your inclinations, laid aside his own private dislike to me and allowed Publius Servilius, a most illustrious man, and also a most virtuous one, and a most intimate friend of my own, to recall him, by what I may call the divine influence of his authority and eloquence, to the exploits and virtues of his race and of their common family, so as to take to his counsels his brother, in the shades below, the companion of my fortunes, and all the Metelli, those most admirable citizens, summoning them as it were from Acheron; and among them the great conqueror of Numidia, whose departure from his country formerly seemed grievous to all the citizens, but scarcely even vexatious to himself. He, therefore, turns out now, not only a defender of my safety, having been previously to this one kindness of his always my enemy, but even the seconder of my restoration to my dignity. And on that day when you met in the senate to the number of four hundred and seventeen, and when all these magistrates were present one alone dissented; he who thought that the conspirators could by his law be awakened from the shades below. And on that day when in most weighty and copious language you delivered your decision, that the republic had been preserved by my counsels, he as consul again took care that the same things should be said by the chief men of the state in the assembly the next day; and he then spoke on my behalf with the greatest eloquence, and brought the assembly into such a state, all Italy standing by and listening, that no one would listen to the hateful and detested voice of any of my hired or profligate enemies.

To these acts of his, being not only aids to my safety, but even ornaments of my dignity, you yourselves added the rest that was wanting. You decreed that no one should by any means whatever hinder that matter from proceeding; that if any one did try to interpose any obstacle, you would be very angry and indignant; that he would be acting in a manner contrary to the interests of the republic, and the safety of good men, and the unanimous wish of the citizens; and that such a man was instantly to be reported to you. And you passed a vote that if they persisted in interposing obstacles, I was to return in spite of them. Why need I tell how thanks were given to all those who had come up from the municipal towns; or that they were entreated to be present with equal eagerness on that day when the whole affair was consummated? Lastly, why need I tell what you did on that day which Publius Lentulus has made as a birthday to me, and to my brother, and to our children, to be recollected not only by us, who are now alive, but by all our race for ever? On which day, in the comitia centuriata, which our ancestors rightly called and considered the real comitia, he summoned us back to our country, so that the same centuries which had made me consul should declare their approval of my consulship. On that day what citizen was there who thought it right, whatever his age or state of health might be, to deny himself the opportunity of giving his vote for my safety? When did you ever see such a multitude assembled in the Campus, such a splendid show of all Italy and of all orders of men? when did you ever see movers, and tellers, and keepers of the votes all of such high rank? Therefore, through the active, and admirable, and godlike kindness of Publius Lentulus, we were not allowed to return to our country, as some most eminent citizens have been, but we were brought back in triumph, borne by white horses in a gilded car.

Can I ever appear grateful enough to Cnaeus Pompeius, who said, not only among you who all were of the same opinion, but also before the whole Roman people, that the safety of the republic had been preserved by me, and was inseparably connected with mine? who recommended my cause to the wise, and taught the ignorant, and at the same time checked the wicked by his authority, and encouraged the good; who not only exhorted the Roman people to espouse my cause, but even entreated them to do so, as if he were speaking for a brother or a parent; who, at a time when he was forced to keep within his house from fear of contests and bloodshed, begged even of the preceding tribunes to propose and carry a law respecting my safety; who in a colony lately erected, where he himself was discharging the duties of a magistrate in it, where there was no bribed interrupter, declared that the privilegium passed against me was violent and cruel, confirming that declaration by the authority of most honourable men, and by public letters, and, being the chief man there, gave his opinion that it was becoming to implore the protection of all Italy for my safety; who, when he himself had always been a most firm friend to me, laboured also to make all his own friends also to me.

And by what services can I requite the kindness of Titus Annius to me? all whose actions, the whole of whose conduct and thoughts, the whole of whose tribuneship, in short, was nothing else except a consistent, continual, gallant, unwearied advocacy of my safety.

Why need I speak of Publius Sextius? who showed his good-will and faithful attachment to me, not only by his grief of mind, but even by the wounds which he received on his person.

But to you, O conscript fathers, and to each individual of you, I have both declared, and I will continue to declare my gratitude. I declared it at the beginning to your whole body, as well as I could; to declare it with sufficient eloquence is what I am totally unable to do. And although I have received special favours from many persons, about which it is impossible for me to keep silence, still it is impossible at the present time, and with the apprehensions which I feel, to endeavour to enumerate the kindnesses which I have received from individuals. For it is difficult to avoid passing over some, and yet it would be impious to forget any one. I, O conscript fathers, ought to reverence every one of you as I do the immortal gods. But as, even in the case of the immortal gods themselves, we are wont not always to pay worship and to offer prayers to the same deities, but sometimes we pray to one and sometimes to another; so in the case of the men who have behaved to me with such godlike service, my whole life shall be devoted to celebrating their kindness towards me, and showing my reverent sense of it. But on this day I have thought that it became me to return thanks especially to the different magistrates by name, and also to one private individual, who for the sake of my safety, had visited all the municipal towns and colonies, had as a suppliant addressed his entreaties to the Roman people, and had declared that opinion which you followed when you restored me to my dignities. You always distinguished me when I was prosperous; when I was in distress you defended me to the extent of your power, by the change of your garments, and your general mourning.  There have been times within our own recollection when senators did not dare to change their robes even in their own personal dangers; but in my danger the whole senate changed its garments as far as it was allowed to do without interruption from the edicts of those men who wished to deprive me in my peril not only of all protection from them, but of even the benefit of your prayers in my behalf.

And when I was in such circumstances as these, when I saw that I as a private individual had to contend with the same array which as consul I had defeated, using not arms but your authority, I deliberated much with myself.

The consul had said that he would make the Roman knights pay for the scenes on the Capitoline Hill. Some were summoned by name, others were prosecuted, some were banished. All access to the temples was prevented, not merely by their being garrisoned or occupied with a strong force, but by their being demolished. The other consul, not content with only abandoning me and the republic, unless he could also betray us to the enemies of the republic, had bound those enemies to him by promising them the rewards which they coveted. There was another man at the gates with a command given to him for many years, and with a large army. I do not say that he was an enemy of mine, but I do know that he did nothing when he was stated to be my enemy. As there were thought to be two parties in the republic, the one was supposed, out of its enmity to me, to demand that I should be given up to it; the other, to defend me, but timidly out of fear of bloodshed. But those who seemed to require me to be given up to them increased the fear of a contest by their conduct as they never diminished the suspicions and anxieties of men by denying what they were suspected of. Wherefore, when I saw the senate deprived of leaders, and myself attacked by some of the magistrates, betrayed by some, and abandoned by others; when I saw that slaves were being enlisted by name under some pretence of forming guilds; that all the troops of Catiline were recalled to their original hopes of massacre and conflagration under almost the same leaders as before; that the Roman knights were under the same fear of proscription as before; that the municipal towns were in dread of being pillaged, and every one in fear of his life; I might—I might, I say, O conscript fathers, still have been able to defend myself by force of arms, and many wise and brave men advised me to do so; nor was I wanting in the same courage which I had shown before, and which was not unknown to you. But I saw that if I defeated my present enemy, I had still too many others behind who must also be defeated; that if I were beaten myself; many virtuous men would fall for my sake, and with me, and even after me; and that the avengers of the blood of the tribunes were present, but that all satisfaction for my death must be exacted by the slow progress of the law, and reserved for posterity.

I did not choose, after I had as consul maintained the general safety of the state without having recourse to arms, to take arms as a private individual in my own cause; I preferred that virtuous men should grieve for my fortune rather than despair of their own; and if I were slain by myself; that I thought would be a shameful end for me; but if I were slain with many others, that I thought would be fatal to the republic. If I had supposed that eternal misery was before me, I would rather have endured death than everlasting agony. But I felt sure that I should not be absent from this city any longer than the constitution itself was, and, while that was banished, I thought it no longer desirable for myself that I should remain in it; and in accordance with my expectation, as soon as ever the constitution was restored, it brought me back in triumph as its companion. The laws were all banished as well as I, the courts of justice were banished as well as I; the prerogatives of the magistrates, the authority of the senate, the liberty of the citizens, even the fruitfulness of the land, all piety and all religion, whether it was with respect to men or gods, were all banished from the state when I was banished. And if they had been lost to you for ever, I should mourn over your fortunes rather than regret the loss of my home amongst you; but if they were ever restored, I was quite sure that I should be enabled to return with them.

And of these feelings of mine, he who was the protector of my life is also my most indisputable witness, namely Cnaeus Plancius, who, disregarding all the distinctions and emoluments which might have been derived from a province, devoted his whole quaestorship to supporting and preserving me. If he had been my quaestor when I was commander-in-chief; he would have stood in the relation of a son to me; now he surely shall be looked upon by me as a parent, since he has been my quaestor, not while in authority, but in grief.

Wherefore, O conscript fathers, since I have been restored to the republic at the same time with the constitution of the republic, in whatever I do for the defence of it, I will not only not in the slightest degree abridge my former liberty, but I will even increase it.

In truth, if I defended the republic at a time when it was under some obligations to me, what ought I to do now when I owe everything to it? For what is there that can crush or even weaken my spirit, when you see that calamity itself is in my case not a witness of any error; but of most extraordinary services rendered to the republic? For these disasters were brought on me by my defence of the state; they were undergone by me of my own free will, in order that the republic which had been defended by me should not be brought into the very extremity of peril. It was not in my case, as in that of Publius Popillius, a most noble man, my young sons, or a multitude of my relations that entreated the Roman people in my behalf; it was not in my case, as in the case of Quintus Metellus, a most admirable and most illustrious man, a youthful son of proved virtue who strove for me; it was not Lucius and Caius Metellus, men of consular rank, nor their sons; nor Quintus Metellus Nepos, who was at that very moment a candidate for the consulship, nor the Luculli or Servilii, or Scipios, sons of the Metelli, who with tears and in mourning garments addressed their supplications to the Roman people; but one single brother, who behaved to me with the dutiful affection of a son, who fortified me like a parent with his counsels, and loved me like a brother (as indeed he was), by his mourning robe and his tears and daily prayers kept alive the regret of me which existed, and the recollection of my name and services; and while he had made up his mind, that unless by your votes he could recover me here, he would encounter the same fortune himself, and choose the same abode both in life and death, still he never was alarmed either at the greatness of the business, or at his own solitary and unassisted condition, nor at the violence and warlike measures of my adversaries.

There was another upholder and assiduous defender of my fortunes, Caius Piso, my son-in-law, a man of the greatest virtue and piety, who disregarded the threats of my enemies, the hostility of my connection, and his own near relation, the consul; who, as quaestor, passed over Pontus and Bithynia for the sake of ensuring my safety. The senate never decreed anything respecting Publius Popillius; no mention was ever made in this assembly of Quintus Metellus. They were restored by motions made by the tribunes, after their enemies had been slain, and, above all, they were not restored by the interposition of any authority on the part of the senate, though one of them had done what he did in obedience to the senate, the other had fled from violence and bloodshed. For Caius Marius, the only man of consular dignity in the memory of man who was ever driven from the city in times of civil discord before me, was not only not restored by the senate, but by his return almost destroyed the senate. There was no unanimity of magistrates in their cases,—no summoning of the Roman people to come to the defence of the republic,—no commotion throughout Italy,—no decrees of municipalities and colonies in their favour.

Wherefore, since your authority has summoned me,—since the Roman people his recalled me,—since the republic has begged me to return,—since almost all Italy has brought me back in triumph on its shoulders, I will take care, O conscript fathers, now that those things have been restored to me, the restoration of which did not depend on myself, not to appear wanting in those qualities with which I can provide myself; I will take care, now that I have recovered those things which I had lost, never to lose my virtue and loyal attachment to you.