to drunken convivialities, might well have faltered; but he at once rose, and with a steady voice began a strain—­probably the magnificent wail of Andromache over the fall of Troy, which has been preserved to us from a lost play of Ennius—­in which he indicated his own disgraceful ejection from his hereditary rights.  His courage and his misfortunes woke in the guests a feeling of pity which night and wine made them less careful to disguise.  From that moment the fate of Britannicus was sealed.  Locusta, the celebrated poisoner of ancient Rome, was summoned to the councils of Nero to get rid of Britannicus, as she had already been summoned to those of his mother when she wished to disembarrass herself of Britannicus’s father.  The main difficulty was to avoid discovery, since nothing was eaten or drunk at the imperial table till it had been tasted by the praegustator.  To avoid this difficulty a very hot draught was given to Britannicus, and when he wished for something cooler a swift and subtle poison was dropped into the cold water with which it was tempered.  The boy drank, and instantly sank from his seat, gasping and speechless.  The guests started up in consternation, and fixed their eyes on Nero.  He with the utmost coolness assured them that it was merely a fit of epilepsy, to which his brother was accustomed, and from which he would soon recover.  The terror and agitation of Agrippina showed to every one that she at least was guiltless of this dark deed; but the unhappy Octavia, young as she was, and doubly terrible on every ground as the blow must have been to her, sat silent and motionless, having already learnt by her misfortunes the awful necessity for suppressing under an impassive exterior her affections and sorrows, her hopes and fears.  In the dead of night, amid storms and murky rain, which were thought to indicate the wrath of heaven, the last of the Claudii was hastily and meanly hurried into a dishonourable grave.

We may believe that in this crime Seneca had no share whatever, but we can hardly believe that he was ignorant of it after it had been committed, or that he had no share in the intensely hypocritical edict in which Nero bewailed the fact of his adoptive brother’s death, excused his hurried funeral, and threw himself on the additional indulgence and protection of the Senate.  Nero showed the consciousness of guilt by the immense largesses which he distributed to the most powerful of his friends, “Nor were there wanting men,” says Tacitus, in a most significant manner, “who accused certain people, notorious for their high professions, of having at that period divided among them villas and houses as though they had been so much spoil.”  There can hardly be a doubt that the great historian intends by this remark to point at Seneca, to whom he tries to be fair, but whom he could never quite forgive for his share in the disgraces of Nero’s reign.  That avarice was one of Seneca’s temptations is too probable; that expediency was a guiding principle