leave the human conscience out of the question) survives, men will be burdened with the sense of imperfection and think enviously of the nobility of Epaminondas or Julius Cæsar or St Francis of Assisi.  For we have to count even Julius Cæsar among the virtuous, though the scandalmongers would not have it so.  His vices may have made him bald and brought about his assassination.  But he had the heroic virtues—­courage and generosity and freedom from vindictiveness.  When we read how he wept at the death of his great enemy, and how “from the man who brought him Pompey’s head he turned away with loathing, as from an assassin,” we bow before the nobility of his character and realise that he was something more than a stern man and an adulterer.  Pompey, too, had this gift of virtue—­this capacity for turning away from foul means of besting his enemies.  When he had captured Perpenna in Spain, the latter offered him a magnificent story of a plot, the knowledge of which would have put the lives of many leading Romans in his power.  “Perpenna, who had come into possession of the papers of Sertorius, offered,” says Plutarch, “to produce letters from the chief men of Rome, who had desired to subvert the existing order and change the form of government, and had therefore invited Sertorius into Italy.  Pompey, therefore, fearing that this might stir up greater wars than those now ended, put Perpenna to death and burned the letters without even reading them.”  It was hard on Perpenna, but in burning the letters at least Pompey gave us an example of virtue.  It is Plutarch’s feeling for the beauty of such noble actions that has made his biographies a primer of virtue for all time.  None of his heroes are primarily “good” men.  There is scarcely one of them who could have been canonised by any Church.  They have enough of the weaknesses of flesh and blood to satisfy even the most exacting novelist of these days.  On the other hand, they nearly all had that capacity for grandeur of conduct which distinguishes the noble man from the base.  Plutarch never pretends that mean and filthy motives and generous motives do not jostle one another strangely in the same breast, but his portraits of great men give us the feeling that we are in presence of men redeemed by their virtues rather than utterly destroyed by their vices.  Suetonius, on the other hand, is the historian of the forty-seven thousand.  His book may be recommended as scandalmongering—­hardly as an aid to virtue.  Here we have the servants’ evidence of Roman history, the plots and the secret vices.  Suetonius, fortunately, has the grace not to write as though in narrating his story of vice he were performing a virtuous act.  If we are to have stories of fashionable sinners, let us at least have them naked and not dressed up in the language of outraged virtue.  Scandal is sufficiently entertaining by itself.  There is no need to lace it with self-righteousness.

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