On his return to Rome Cicero resumed his practice in the courts with greater devotion than ever.  He was now past fifty years of age, in the prime of his strength and in the height of his forensic fame.  But, notwithstanding his success and honors, his life was saddened by the growing dissensions between Caesar and Pompey, the decline of public spirit, and the approaching fall of the institutions in which he gloried.  It was clear that one or the other of these fortunate generals would soon become the master of the Roman world, and that liberty was about to perish.  His eloquence now became sad; he sings the death-song of departing glories; he wails his Jeremiads over the demoralization which was sweeping away not merely liberty, but religion, and extinguishing faith in the world.  To console himself he retired to one of his beautiful villas and wrote that immortal essay, “De Oratore,” which has come down to us entire.  His literary genius now blazed equally with his public speeches in the Forum and in the Senate.  Literature was his solace and amusement, not a source of profit, or probably of contemporary fame.  He wrote treatises on the same principles that he talked with friends, or that Fra Angelico painted pictures.  He renewed his attempts in poetry, but failed.  His poetry is in the transcendent rhythm of his prose compositions, like that of Madame de Stael, and Macaulay, and Rousseau.

But he was dragged from his literary and forensic life to accept the office of a governor of a province.  It was forced upon him,—­an honor to him without a charm.  Had he been venal and unscrupulous, he would have seized it with avidity.  He was too conscientious to enrich himself by public corruption, as other Senators did, and unless he could accumulate a fortune the command of a distant province was an honorable exile.  He was fifty-six years of age when he became Proconsul of Cilicia, an Eastern province; and all historians have united in praising his proconsulate for its justice, its integrity, and its ability.  He committed no extortions, and returned home, when his term of office expired, as poor as when he went.  One of the highest praises which can be given to a public man who has chances of enriching himself is, that he remains poor.  When a member of Congress, known not to be worth ten thousand dollars, returns to his home worth one hundred thousand dollars, the public have an instinct that he has, somehow or other, been untrue to himself and his country.  When a great man returns home from Washington poorer than when he went, his influence is apt to survive his power; and this perpetuated influence is the highest glory of a public man,—­the glory of Jefferson, of Hamilton, of Washington, like the voice of Gladstone during his retirement.  Now Cicero had pre-eminently this influence as long as he lived; and it was ever exerted for the good of his country.  Had his country been free, he would have died in honor.  But his country was enslaved, and his voice was drowned, and he had to pay the penalty of speaking the truth about those unscrupulous men who usurped authority.