men began to look to military rule, and to think a good cause none the worse for being backed by “strong battalions”.  Things were fast tending to the point where Pompey and Caesar, trusty allies as yet in profession and appearance, deadly rivals at heart, hoped to step in with their veteran legions.  Even Cicero, the man of peace and constitutional statesman, felt comfort in the thought that this final argument could be resorted to by his own party.  But Clodius’s mob-government, at any rate, was to be put an end to somewhat suddenly.  Milo, now one of the candidates for the consulship, a man of determined and unscrupulous character, had turned his own weapons against him, and maintained an opposition patrol of hired gladiators and wild-beast fighters.  The Senate quite approved, if they did not openly sanction, this irregular championship of their order.  The two parties walked the streets of Rome like the Capulets and Montagues at Verona; and it was said that Milo had been heard to swear that he would rid the city of Clodius if he ever got the chance.  It came at last, in a casual meeting on the Appian road, near Bovillae.  A scuffle began between their retainers, and Clodius was killed—­his friends said, murdered.  The excitement at Rome was intense:  the dead body was carried and laid publicly on the Rostra.  Riots ensued; Milo was obliged to fly, and renounce his hopes of power; and the Senate, intimidated, named Pompey—­not indeed “Dictator”, for the name had become almost as hateful as that of King—­but sole consul, for the safety of the state.

Cicero had resumed his practice as an advocate, and was now called upon to defend Milo.  But Pompey, either from some private grudge, or in order to win favour with the populace, determined that Milo should be convicted.  The jury were overawed by his presence in person at the trial, and by the occupation by armed soldiers of all the avenues of the court under colour of keeping order.  It was really as great an outrage upon the free administration of justice as the presence of a regiment of soldiers at the entrance to Westminster Hall would be at a modern trial for high treason or sedition.  Cicero affected to see in Pompey’s legionaries nothing more than the maintainers of the peace of the city.  But he knew better; and the fine passage in the opening of his speech for the defence, as it has come down to us, is at once a magnificent piece of irony, and a vindication of the rights of counsel.

“Although I am conscious, gentlemen, that it is a disgrace to me to show fear when I stand here to plead in behalf of one of the bravest of men;—­and especially does such weakness ill become me, that when Milo himself is far more anxious about the safety of the state than about his own, I should be unable to bring to his defence the like magnanimous spirit;—­yet this strange scene and strangely constituted court does terrify my eyes, for, turn them where I will, I look in vain for the ancient customs of the Forum,