Scipio.—­I wish to hear from yourself the history of that parting, and what could make it so hard and painful to you.

Titus.—­While I served in Palestine under the auspices of my father, Vespasian, I became acquainted with Berenice, sister to King Agrippa, and who was herself a queen in one of those Eastern countries.  She was the most beautiful woman in Asia, but she had graces more irresistible still than her beauty.  She had all the insinuation and wit of Cleopatra, without her coquetry.  I loved her, and was beloved; she loved my person, not my greatness.  Her tenderness, her fidelity so inflamed my passion for her that I gave her a promise of marriage.

Scipio.—­What do I hear?  A Roman senator promise to marry a queen!

Titus.—­I expected, Scipio, that your ears would be offended with the sound of such a match.  But consider that Rome was very different in my time from Rome in yours.  The ferocious pride of our ancient republican senators had bent itself to the obsequious complaisance of a court.  Berenice made no doubt, and I flattered myself that it would not be inflexible in this point alone.  But we thought it necessary to defer the completion of our wishes till the death of my father.  On that event the Roman Empire and (what I knew she valued more) my hand became due to her, according to my engagements.

Scipio.—­The Roman Empire due to a Syrian queen!  Oh, Rome, how art thou fallen!  Accursed be the memory of Octavius Caesar, who by oppressing its liberty so lowered the majesty of the republic, that a brave and virtuous Roman, in whom was vested all the power of that mighty state, could entertain such a thought!  But did you find the senate and people so servile, so lost to all sense of their honour and dignity, as to affront the great genius of imperial Rome and the eyes of her tutelary gods, the eyes of Jupiter Capitolinus, with the sight of a queen—­an Asiatic queen—­on the throne of the Caesars?

Titus.—­I did not.  They judged of it as you, Scipio, judge; they detested, they disdained it.  In vain did I urge to some particular friends, who represented to me the sense of the Senate and people, that a Messalina, a Poppaea, were a much greater dishonour to the throne of the Caesars than a virtuous foreign princess.  Their prejudices were unconquerable; I saw it would be impossible for me to remove them.  But I might have used my authority to silence their murmurs.  A liberal donative to the soldiers, by whom I was fondly beloved, would have secured their fidelity, and consequently would have forced the Senate and people to yield to my inclination.  Berenice knew this, and with tears implored me not to sacrifice her happiness and my own to an unjust prepossession.  Shall I own it to you, Publius?  My heart not only pitied her, but acknowledged the truth and solidity of her reasons.  Yet so much did I abhor the idea of tyranny, so much respect did I pay to the sentiments of my subjects, that I determined to separate myself from her for ever, rather than force either the laws or the prejudices of Rome to submit to my will.