CHAPTER XII.

CATO, BRUTUS, AND PORCIA.

“From his earliest years,” so runs the character that has come down to us of Cato, “he was resolute to obstinacy.  Flattery met with a rough repulse, and threats with resistance.  He never laughed, and his smile was of the slightest.  Not easily provoked, his anger, once roused, was implacable.  He learned but slowly, but never forgot a thing once acquired; he was obedient to his teachers, but wanted to know the reason of every thing.”  The stories told of his boyhood bear out this character.  Here is one of them.  His tutor took him to Sulla’s house.  It was in the evil days of the Proscription, and there were signs of the bloody work that was going on.  “Why does no one kill this man?” he asked his teacher.  “Because, my son, they fear him more than they hate him,” was the answer.  “Why then,” was the rejoinder, “have you not given me a sword that I may set my country free?” The tutor, as it may be supposed, carried him off in haste.

Like most young Romans he began life as a soldier, and won golden opinions not only by his courage, which indeed was common enough in a nation that conquered the world, but by his temperance and diligent performance of duty.  His time of service ended, he set out on his travels, accepting an invitation from the tributary king of Galatia, who happened to be an old friend of the family, to visit him.  We get an interesting little picture of a Roman of the upper class on a tour.  “At dawn he would send on a baker and a cook to the place which he intended to visit.  These would enter the town in a most unpretending fashion, and if their master did not happen to have a friend or acquaintance in the place, would betake themselves to an inn, and there prepare for their master’s accommodation without troubling any one.  It was only when there was no inn that they went to the magistrates and asked for entertainment; and they were always content with what was assigned.  Often they met with but scanty welcome and attention, not enforcing their demands with the customary threats, so that Cato on his arrival found nothing prepared.  Nor did their master create a more favorable impression, sitting as he did quietly on his luggage, and seeming to accept the situation.  Sometimes, however, he would send for the town authorities and say, “You had best give up these mean ways, my inhospitable friends; you won’t find that all your visitors are Catos.”  Once at least he found himself, as he thought, magnificently received.  Approaching Antioch, he found the road lined on either side with troops of spectators.  The men stood in one company, the boys in another.  Every body was in holiday dress.  Some—­these were the magistrates and priests—­wore white robes and garlands of flowers.  Cato, supposing that all these preparations were intended for himself, was annoyed that his servants had not prevented them.  But he was soon undeceived.  An old man ran out from the crowd, and without so much as greeting the new comer, cried, “Where did you leave Demetrius?  When will he come?” Demetrius was Pompey’s freedman, and had some of his master’s greatness reflected on him.  Cato could only turn away muttering, “Wretched place!”