understanding between the parties, Octavian, whom we may now begin to call Augustus, accepted the hand of Antony's daughter Claudia. The little maiden, who could not have been above ten years of age, bore the name of another implacable foe of Cicero's; for that furious tragedy-queen, her mother Fulvia, had been the wife of Clodius Pulcher before she married Antony..

Yet there is no need to ascribe, as some have done, to feminine influence the fact that the objections of the youthful Cæsar were quickly overruled, and the name of Marcus Tullius Cicero put first upon the fatal roll of the proscribed. The name of Quintus was also there, and the two old brothers, all their differences forgotten, were together at the Tusculan villa when the list of the condemned appeared. It seemed worth while making the attempt to escape by sea and join Brutus in Macedonia, and to this end the pair set forth down the Alban hills, carried side by side in two litters, and conversing earnestly all the way. It appeared, however, before they reached the Campagna, that they had not nearly money enough between them for the journey, and Quintus took the risk of returning to Rome for ampler supplies. They did not linger over their parting, nor need we. The hired assassins of the triumvirs were already at work in the city when Quintus arrived; he fell at once into their hands, and he and his son died bravely together, fighting side by side.

Meanwhile, our Cicero pushed on to Astura, seeing once more, as in a dream, the spot where he had first clasped death to his heart, when he paced its deep shades beside the clinging ghost of Tullia. There he embarked, and coasted along as far as the Circæan cape, where, the weather being very threatening, he landed and slept. In the morning he had half abandoned the voyage. He even walked a little way along the road toward Rome, as though impatient to VOL. LXIV. - NO. 381.

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meet his murderers and anticipate the end. But his attendants, resolved, if possible, on saving their beloved master, persuaded him to reëmbark; and struggling still against contrary winds, they rounded the point of Gaeta. Formiæ now lay before them, exquisite Formiæ, embraced by its guardian capes, one of the sweetest of Cicero's Italian homes. But the December skies were dark above the villa to-day, the Volscian peaks on the horizon dim, and even the Tyrrhene waves discolored. Here, however, being faint with seasickness and spent with fatigue, the reluctant fugitive would absolutely land, and, flinging himself upon a couch under his own roof once more, he sank into a heavy slumber. From this he was presently roused by his slaves, who, reporting in agonized panic that soldiers were in sight, hurried him almost by force into a litter, and plunged into the thickest of the shrubbery between the villa and the sea. Half-way down the slope they encountered the troop, when Cicero, hearing the clang of arms, looked out, and ordered his men in a loud, clear voice to set down the litter, and offer no resistance. Laying his left hand on his chin, with an unconscious gesture very common to him while speaking, he fixed his eye steadily for a moment on the captain of the band, one Herennius, whom he recognized and called by name. "Come, then, old soldier, if you know your duty, and strike quickly." He stretched forth his emaciated neck, the bystanders involuntarily covered their eyes, and the blow fell.

The severed head was set up above the rostra, according to the barbarous fashion not so long gone by, and Fulvia, "with half the wolf's milk curdled in her veins," drew out the tongue and pierced it with her bodkin, assailing the dead man with such invective as a Roman virago might compass. But the fickle people of the streets, who had sat so many times entranced under the

music of that lifeless tongue, lifted up their voices when they saw the ghastly relic, and wept without restraint.

It is a notable fact that no biographer of Cicero, I might almost say no student of his epoch, has ever yet succeeded in remaining indifferent to the man. Over and above the homage due to his transcendent gifts, his name has always retained the power of stirring emotion, of provoking partisanship, of moving to enthusiasm or anger, as though that brilliant, lovable, fallible human creature were still alive, and eloquent, and moving “in his habit as he lived" among men. What contradictory judgments have been passed on his course as a statesman, on the disinterestedness or the mere blind obstinacy of his adhesion to the republic! In how many ways almost ludicrously diverse has his character been conceived and illustrated, from the devout point of view of the quattro-cento humanist to the grotesque point of view of the nineteenth-century imperialist! This he owes in part, I think, to his own grand carelessness of consistency; to that very loyalty to the impulses of a rich and versatile nature which the Delphian god had the insight to enjoin upon him at the outset of his

political career. His art itself was natural, even when it appeared most consummate; for "art's highest works," as Goethe says, "are also the highest of nature, being produced by man in accordance with true and natural laws." I shall not therefore advance any theory or attempt any analysis of my own, but leave the unguarded correspondent of Atticus to speak for himself to others, as he has very intelligibly spoken to me. I will quote, however, since it seems to me in its own way conclusive, the briefest summary of his case on record; the late and perhaps remorseful admission of the man who might have saved him, but whose court we are glad, upon the whole, that he did not live to adorn. Plutarch tells us that a grandson of the Emperor Augustus was one day discovered by the latter poring over a volume of Cicero's works. The boy instinctively thrust the book under his mantle, but was ordered to produce it; and the emperor, taking it from him, opened it and began himself to read. He became absorbed; he turned leaf after leaf; and when at last he gravely handed the volume back to the relieved culprit, it was with the single remark, "That was a good man, and one who loved his country." Harriet Waters Preston.

THE train stopped at a way station with apparent unwillingness, and there was barely time for one elderly passenger to be hurried on board before a sudden jerk threw her almost off her unsteady old feet and we moved on. At my first glance I saw only a perturbed old country woman, laden with a large basket and a heavy bundle tied up in an old-fashioned bundle-handkerchief; then I discovered that she was a friend of

mine, Mrs. Peet, who lived on a small farm, several miles from the village. She used to be renowned for good butter and fresh eggs and the earliest cowslip greens; in fact, she always made the most of her farm's slender resources; but it

was

some time since I had seen her drive by from market in her ancient thorough-braced wagon.

The brakeman followed her into the crowded car, also carrying a number of

packages. I leaned forward and asked Mrs. Peet to sit by me; it was a great pleasure to see her again. The brakeman seemed relieved, and smiled as he tried to put part of his burden into the rack overhead; but even the flowered carpetbag was much too large, and he explained that he would take care of everything at the end of the car. Mrs. Peet was not large herself, but with the big basket, and the bundle-handkerchief, and some possessions of my own we had very little

-'t was the

"Can't be you ain't heared about me, dear?" said she. "Well, the world's bigger than I used to think was. I've broke up, thing to do, and I'm a-movin' to Shrewsbury." "To Shrewsbury? Have you sold the farm?" I exclaimed, with sorrow and surprise. Mrs. Peet was too old and too characteristic to be suddenly transplanted from her native soil.

"'T wa'n't mine, the place wa'n't." Her pleasant face hardened slightly. "He was coaxed an' over-persuaded into signin' off before he was taken away. Is'iah, son of his sister that married old Josh Peet, come it over him about his bein' past work and how he'd do for him like an own son, an' we owed him a little somethin'. I'd paid off everythin' but that, an' was fool enough. to leave it till the last, on account o' Is'iah's bein' a relation and not needin' his pay much as some others did. It's hurt me to have the place fall into other hands. Some wanted me to go right to law; but 't would n't be no use. Is'iah's smarter 'n I be about them matters. You see he's got my name on the paper,

too; he said 't was somethin' 'bout bein' responsible for the taxes. We was scant o' money, an' I was wore out with watchin' an' bein' broke o' my rest. After my tryin' hard for risin' forty-five year to provide for bein' past work, here I be, dear, here I be! dear, here I be! I used to drive things smart, you remember. But we was fools enough in '72 to put about everythin' that we had safe in the bank into that spool factory that come to nothin'. But I tell ye I could ha' kept myself long 's I lived, if I could ha' held the place. I'd parted with most o' the woodland, if Is'iah 'd coveted it. He was welcome to that, 'cept what might keep me in oven - wood. I've always desired to travel an' see somethin' o' the world, but I've got the chance now when I don't value it no great."

"Shrewsbury is a busy, pleasant place," I ventured to say by way of comfort, though my heart was filled with rage at the trickery of Isaiah Peet, who had always looked like a fox and behaved like one.

"Shrewsbury's b'en held up consid❜able for me to smile at," said the poor old soul, "but I tell ye, dear, it's hard to go an' live forty-two miles from where you've always had your home and friends. It may divert me, but it won't be home. You might as well set out one o' my old apple-trees on the beach, so 't could see the waves come in,

there would n't be no please to it." "Where are you going to live in Shrewsbury?" I asked presently.

"I don't expect to stop long, dear creatur'. I'm 'most seventy-six year old," and Mrs. Peet turned to look at me with pathetic amusement in her honest wrinkled face. "I said right out to Is'iah, before a roomful o' the neighbors, that I expected it of him to git me home an' bury me when my time come, and do it respectable; but I wanted to airn my livin', if 't was so I could, till then. He'd made sly talk, you see, about my electin' to leave the farm and go

'long o' some o' my own folks; but " and she whispered this carefully — "he did n't give me no chance to stay there without hurtin' my pride and dependin' on him. I ain't said that to many folks, but all must have suspected. A good sight on 'em's had money of Is'iah, though, and they don't like to do nothin' but take his part an' be pretty soft spoken, fear it'll git to his ears. Well, well, dear, we 'll let it be bygones, and not think of it no more; " but I saw the great tears roll slowly down her cheeks, and she pulled her bonnet forward impatiently, and looked the other way.

"There looks to be plenty o' good farmin' land in this part o' the country," she said, a minute later. "Where be we now? See them handsome farm buildin's; he must be a well-off man." But I had to tell my companion that we were still within the borders of the old town where we had both been born. Mrs. Peet gave a pleased little laugh, like a girl. “I'm expectin' Shrewsbury to pop up any minute. I'm feared to be kerried right by. I wa'n't never aboard of the cars before, but I've so often thought about 'em I don't know but it seems natural. Ain't it jest like flyin' through the air? I can't catch holt to see nothin'. Land! and here's my old cat goin' too, and never mistrustin'. I ain't told you that I'd fetched her."

I expect we 're both on us goin' to miss our old haunts. I'd love to know what kind o' mousin' there's goin' to be for me!"

"You must n't worry," I answered, with all the bravery and assurance that I could muster. "Your niece will be thankful to have you with her. Is she one of Mrs. Winn's daughters?"

"Oh, no, they ain't able; it's Sister Wayland's darter Isabella, that married the overseer of the gre't carriage-shop. I ain't seen her since just after she was married; but I turned to her first because I knew she was best able to have me, and then I can see just how the other girls is situated and make me some kind of a plot. I wrote to Isabella, though she is ambitious, and said 't was so I'd got to ask to come an' make her a visit, an' she wrote back she would be glad to have me; but she did n't write right off, and her letter was scented up dreadful strong with some sort o' essence, and I don't feel heartened about no great of a welcome. But there, I've got eyes, an' I can see how 't is when I git where 't is. Sister Winn's gals ain't married, an' they 've always boarded, an' worked in the shop on trimmin's. Isabella's well off; she had some means from her father's sister. I thought it all over by night an' day, an' I recalled that our folks kept Sister Wayland's folks all one winter, when he'd failed

"Yis, dear. Truth was, I calc'lated to have her put out o' the misery o' changin', an' spoke to one o' the Barnes boys, an' he promised me all fair; but he wa'n't there in season, an' I kind o' made excuse to myself to fetch her along. She's an old creatur', like me, an' I can make shift to keep her some way or 'nother; there's probably mice where we 're goin', an' she's a proper mouser that can about keep herself if there's any sort o' chance. 'T will be somethin' o' home to see her goin' an' comin', but

on sendin' over to-night an' gittin' the Winn gals to come and see me and advise. Perhaps some on 'em may know of somebody that'll take me for what help I can give about house, or some clever folks that have been lookin' for a smart cat, any ways; no, I don't know 's I could let her go to strangers.

"There was two or three o' the folks round home that acted real warm-hearted towards me, an' urged me to come an' winter with 'em," continued the exile; "an' this mornin' I wished I'd agreed to, 't was so hard to break away.

But now it's done I feel more 'n ever it's best. I could n't bear to live right in sight o' the old place, and come spring I should n't 'prove of anything Is'iah ondertakes to do with the land. Oh, dear sakes! now it comes hard with me not to have had no child'n. When I was young an' workin' hard and into everything, I felt kind of free an' superior to them that was so blessed, an' their houses cluttered up from mornin' till night, but I tell ye it comes home to me now. I'd be most willin' to own to even Is'iah, mean 's he is; but I tell ye I'd took it out of him 'fore he was a grown man, if there'd be'n any virtue in cow-hidin' of him. Folks don't look like wild creatur's for nothin'. Is'iah's got fox blood in him, an' p'r'aps 'tis his misfortune. His own mother always favored the looks of an old fox, true 's the world; she was a poor tool, a poor tool! I d' know's we ought to blame him same 's we do.

"I've always been a master proud woman, if I was riz the among pastures," Mrs. Peet added, half to herself. There was no use in saying much to her; she was conscious of little beside her own thoughts and the smouldering excitement caused by this great crisis in her simple existence. Yet the atmosphere of her loneliness, uncertainty, and sorrow was so touching that after scolding again at her nephew's treachery, and finding the tears come fast to my eyes as she talked, I looked intently out of the car window, and tried to think what could be done for the poor soul. She was one of the old-time people, and I hated to have her go away; but even if she could keep her home she would soon be too feeble to live there alone, and some definite plan must be made for her comfort. Farms in that neighborhood were not valuable. Perhaps through the agency of the law and quite in secret, Isaiah Peet could be forced to give up his unrighteous claim. Perhaps, too, the Winn girls, who were

really no longer young, might have saved something, and would come home again. But it was easy to make such pictures in one's mind, and I must do what I could through other people, for I was just leaving home for a long time. I wondered sadly about Mrs. Peet's future, and the ambitious Isabella, and the favorite Sister Winn's daughters, to whom, with all their kindliness of heart, the care of so old and perhaps so dependent an aunt might seem impossible. The truth about life in Shrewsbury would soon be known; more than half the short journey was already past.

To my great pleasure, my fellowtraveler now began to forget her own troubles in looking about her. She was an alert, quickly interested old soul, and this was a bit of neutral ground between the farm and Shrewsbury, where she was unattached and irresponsible. She had lived through the last tragic moments of her old life, and felt a certain relief, and Shrewsbury might be as far away as the other side of the Rocky Mountains for all the consciousness she had of its real existence. She was simply a traveler for the time being, and began to comment, with delicious phrases and shrewd understanding of human nature, on two or three persons near us who attracted her attention.

"Where do you suppose they be all goin'?" she asked contemptuously. "There ain't many on 'em but what looks kind o' respectable. I'll warrant they've left work to home they'd ought to be doin'. I knowed, if ever I stopped to think, that cars was hived full o' folks, an' wa'n't run to an' fro for nothin'; but these can't be quite up to the everage, be they? Some on 'em 's real thrif❜less; guess they've be'n shoved out o' the last place, an' goin' to try the next one, ·like me, I suppose you'll want to say! Jest see that flauntin' old creatur' that looks like a stopped clock. There! everybody can't be o' one goodness, even preachers."