mals which were supposed to symbolize all that was most hideous
and depraved--the dog, a common object of contempt; the cock, proverbial
for its want of all filial affection; the poisonous viper; and the ape,
which was the base imitation of man. In this strange company he was
thrown into the nearest river or sea.

Cicero begins by explaining why he had undertaken a case which his
elders and betters had declined. It was not because he was bolder, but
because he was more insignificant than they, and could speak with
impunity when they could not choose but be silent. He then gives the
facts in detail, the murder of Roscius, the seizure of his property, the
fruitless deputation to Sulla, the flight of the son to Rome, and the
audacious resolve of his enemies to indict him for parricide. They had
murdered his father, they had robbed him of his patrimony, and now they
accused him--of what crime? Surely of nothing else than the crime of
having escaped their attack. The thing reminded him of the story of
Fimbria and Scaevola. Fimbria, an absolute madman, as was allowed by all
who were not mad themselves, got some ruffian to stab Scaevola at the
funeral of Marius. He was stabbed but not killed. When Fimbria found
that he was likely to live, he indicted him. For what do you indict a
man so blameless? asked some one. For what? for not allowing himself to
be stabbed to the heart. This is exactly why the confederates have
indicted Roscius. His crime has been of escaping from their hands.
"Roscius killed his father," you say. "A young man, I suppose, led away
by worthless companions." Not so; he is more than forty years of age.
"Extravagance and debt drove him to it." No; you say yourself that he
never goes to an entertainment, and he certainly owes nothing. "Well,"
you say, "his father disliked him." Why did he dislike him? "That," you
reply, "I cannot say; but he certainly kept one son with him, and left
this Roscius to look after his farms." Surely this is a strange
punishment, to give him the charge of so fine an estate. "But," you
repeat, "he kept his other with him." "Now listen to me," cries Cicero,
turning with savage sarcasm to the prosecutor, "Providence never allowed
you to know who your father was. Still you have read books. Do you
remember in Caecilius' play how the father had two sons, and kept one
with him and left the other in the country? and do you remember that the
one who lived with him was not really his son, the