At this period, as is usual among degraded peoples, the history of the Romans degenerates into mere anecdotes of their rulers.  Happily, however, it is not our duty to enter on the chronique scandaleuse of plots and counterplots, as little tolerable to contemplate as the factions of the court of France in the worst periods of its history.  We can only ask what possible part a philosopher could play at such a court?  We can only say that his position there is not to the credit of his philosophical professions; and that we can contemplate his presence there with as little satisfaction as we look on the figure of the worldly and frivolous bishop in Mr. Frith’s picture of “The Last Sunday of Charles II. at Whitehall.”

And such inconsistencies involve their own retribution, not only in loss of influence and fair fame, but even in direct consequences.  It was so with Seneca.  Circumstances—­possibly a genuine detestation of Messalina’s exceptional infamy—­seem to have thrown him among the partisans of her rivals.  Messalina was only waiting her opportunity to strike a blow.  Julia, possibly as being the younger and the less powerful of the two sisters, was marked out as the first victim, and the opportunity seemed a favourable one for involving Seneca in her ruin.  His enormous wealth, his high reputation, his splendid abilities, made him a formidable opponent to the Empress, and a valuable ally to her rivals.  It was determined to get rid of both by a single scheme.  Julia was accused of an intrigue with Seneca, and was first driven into exile and then put to death.  Seneca was banished to the barren and pestilential shores of the island of Corsica.

Seneca, as one of the most enlightened men of his age, should have aimed at a character which would have been above the possibility of suspicion:  but we must remember that charges such as those which were brought against him were the easiest of all to make, and the most impossible to refute.  When we consider who were Seneca’s accusers, we are not forced to believe his guilt; his character was indeed deplorably weak, and the laxity of the age in such matters was fearfully demoralising; but there are sufficient circumstances in his favour to justify us in returning a verdict of “Not guilty.”  Unless we attach an unfair importance to the bitter calumny of his open enemies, we may consider that the general tenor of his life has sufficient weight to exculpate him from an unsupported accusation.

Of Julia, Suetonius expressly says that the crime of which she was accused was uncertain, and that she was condemned unheard.  Seneca, on the other hand, was tried in the Senate and found guilty.  He tells us that it was not Claudius who flung him down, but rather that, when he was falling headlong, the Emperor supported him with the moderation of his divine hand; “he entreated the Senate on my behalf; he not only gave me life, but even begged it for me.  Let it be his to consider,” adds Seneca, with the most dulcet flattery, “in what light he may wish my cause to be regarded; either his justice will find, or his mercy will make, it a good cause.  He will alike be worthy of my gratitude, whether his ultimate conviction of my innocence be due to his knowledge or to his will.”