of life and death within their respective jurisdictions.  They had under them one or more officers who bore the title of Quaestor, who collected the taxes and had the general management of the revenues of the province.  The provinces at this time were Sicily, Sardinia with Corsica, Spain and Gaul (each in two divisions); Greece, divided into Macedonia and Achaia (the Morea); Asia, Syria, Cilicia, Bithynia, Cyprus, and Africa in four divisions.  Others were added afterwards, under the Empire.]

No wonder the young official’s head (he was not much over thirty) was somewhat turned.  “I thought”, he said, in one of his speeches afterwards—­introducing with a quiet humour, and with all a practised orator’s skill, one of those personal anecdotes which relieve a long speech—­“I thought in my heart, at the time, that the people at Rome must be talking of nothing but my quaestorship”.  And he goes on to tell his audience how he was undeceived.

“The people of Sicily had devised for me unprecedented honours.  So I left the island in a state of great elation, thinking that the Roman people would at once offer me everything without my seeking.  But when I was leaving my province, and on my road home, I happened to land at Puteoli just at the time when a good many of our most fashionable people are accustomed to resort to that neighbourhood.  I very nearly collapsed, gentlemen, when a man asked me what day I had left Rome, and whether there was any news stirring?  When I made answer that I was returning from my province—­’Oh! yes, to be sure’, said he; ‘Africa, I believe?’ ‘No’, said I to him, considerably annoyed and disgusted; ‘from Sicily’.  Then somebody else, with the air of a man who knew all about it, said to him—­’What! don’t you know that he was Quaestor at Syracuse?’ [It was at Lilybaeum—­quite a different district.] No need to make a long story of it; I swallowed my indignation, and made as though I, like the rest, had come there for the waters.  But I am not sure, gentlemen, whether that scene did not do me more good than if everybody then and there had publicly congratulated me.  For after I had thus found out that the people of Rome have somewhat deaf ears, but very keen and sharp eyes, I left off cogitating what people would hear about me; I took care that thenceforth they should see me before them every day:  I lived in their sight, I stuck close to the Forum; the porter at my gate refused no man admittance—­my very sleep was never allowed to be a plea against an audience".[1]

[Footnote 1:  Defence of Plancius, c. 26, 27.]

Did we not say that Cicero was modern, not ancient?  Have we not here the original of that Cambridge senior wrangler, who, happening to enter a London theatre at the same moment with the king, bowed all round with a gratified embarrassment, thinking that the audience rose and cheered at him?