CHAPTER IX.


The able men of the democracy had fallen in the proscription. Sertorius,
the only eminent surviving soldier belonging to them, was away, making
himself independent in Spain. The rest were all killed. But the Senate,
too, had lost in Sylla the single statesman that they possessed. They were
a body of mediocrities, left with absolute power in their hands, secure as
they supposed from further interference, and able to return to those
pleasant occupations which for a time had been so rudely interrupted.
Sertorius was an awkward problem with which Pompey might perhaps be
entrusted to deal. No one knew as yet what stuff might be in Pompey. He
was for the present sunning himself in his military splendors; too young
to come forward as a politician, and destitute, so far as appeared, of
political ambition. If Pompey promised to be docile, he might be turned to
use at a proper time; but the aristocracy had seen too much of successful
military commanders, and were in no hurry to give opportunities of
distinction to a youth who had so saucily defied them. Sertorius was far
off, and could be dealt with at leisure.

In his defence of Roscius, Cicero had given an admonition to the noble
lords that unless they mended their ways they could not look for any long
continuance.[1] They regarded Cicero perhaps, if they heard what he
said of them, as an inexperienced young man, who would understand better
by and by of what materials the world was made. There had been excitement
and anxiety enough. Conservatism was in power again. Fine gentlemen could
once more lounge in their clubs, amuse themselves with their fish-ponds
and horses and mistresses, devise new and ever new means of getting money
and spending it, and leave the Roman Empire for the present to govern
itself.