All the men of consular rank are accused at one swoop; so that the name of the most honourable office in the state appears now to carry with it more unpopularity than dignity. “They stood by Catiline,” says he, “and praised him.” At that time there was no conspiracy known of or discovered. They were defending a friend. They were giving their suppliant the countenance of their presence. They did not think the moment of his most imminent danger a fit time to reproach him with the infamy of his life. Moreover, even your own father, O Torquatus, when consul, was the advocate of Catiline when he was prosecuted on a charge of extortion: he knew he was a bad man, but he was a suppliant; perhaps he was an audacious man, but he had once been his friend. And, as he stood by him after information of that first conspiracy had been laid before him, he showed that he had heard something about him, but that he had not believed it. “But he did not countenance him by his presence at the other trial, when the rest did.” If he himself had afterwards learnt something, of which he had been ignorant when consul, still we must pardon those men who had heard nothing since that time. But if the first accusation had weight, it ought not to have had more weight when it was old than when it was fresh. But if your parent, even when he was not without suspicion of danger to himself, was still induced by pity to do honour to the defence of a most worthless man by his curule chair, by his own private dignity, and by that of his office as consul, then what reason is there for reproaching the men of consular rank who gave Catiline the countenance of their presence?

“But the same men did not countenance those who were tried for their accession to this conspiracy before Sulla.” Certainly not; they resolved that no aid, no assistance, no support ought to be given by them to men implicated in such wickedness. And that I may speak for a moment of their constancy and attachment to the republic, whose silent virtue and loyalty bears witness in behalf of every one of them, and needs no ornaments of language from any one,—can any one say that any time there were men of consular rank more virtuous, more fearless, or more firm, than those who lived in these critical and perilous times, in which the republic was nearly overwhelmed? Who of them did not, with the greatest openness, and bravery, and earnestness, give his whole thoughts to the common safety? Nor need I confine what I say to the men of consular rank. For this credit is due to all those accomplished men who have been praetors, and indeed to the whole senate in common; so that it is plain that never, in the memory of man, was there more virtue in that order, greater attachment to the republic, or more consummate wisdom, But because the men of consular rank were especially mentioned, I thought I ought to say thus much in their behalf; and that that would be enough, as the recollection of all men would join me in bearing witness, that there was not one man of that rank who did not labour with all his virtue, and energy, and influence, to preserve the republic.

But what comes next? Do I, who never praised Catiline, who never as consul countenanced Catiline when he was on his trial, who have given evidence respecting the conspiracy against others,—do I seem to you so far removed from sanity, so forgetful of my own consistency, so forgetful of all the exploits which I have performed, as, though as consul I waged war against the conspirators, now to wish to preserve their leader, and to bring my mind now to defend the cause and the life of that same man whose weapon I lately blunted, and whose flames I have but just extinguished? If, O judges, the republic itself, which has been preserved by my labours and dangers, did not by its dignity recall me to wisdom and consistency, still it is an instinct implanted by nature, to hate for ever the man whom you have once feared, with whom you have contended for life and fortune, and from whose plots you have escaped. But when my chief honours and the great glory of all my exploits are at stake; when, as often as any one is convicted of any participation in this wickedness, the recollection of the safety of the city having been secured by me is renewed, shall I be so mad as to allow those things which I did in behalf of the common safety to appear now to have been done by me more by chance and by good fortune than by virtue and wisdom?

“What, then, do you mean? Do you,” some one will say, perhaps, “claim that a man shall be judged innocent, just because you have defended him?” But I, O judges, not only claim nothing for myself to which any one can object, but I even give up and abandon pretensions which are granted and allowed me by every one. I am not living in such a republic—I have not exposed my life to all sorts of dangers for the sake of my country at such a time,—they whom I have defeated are not so utterly extinct,—nor are those whom I have preserved so grateful, that I should think it safe to attempt to assume more than all my enemies and enviers may endure.

It would appear an offensive thing for him who investigated the conspiracy, who laid it open, who crushed it, whom the senate thanked in unprecedented language, to whom the senate decreed a supplication, which they had never decreed to any one before for civil services, to say in a court of justice, “I would not have defended him if he had been a conspirator.” I do not say that, because it might be offensive; I say this, which in these trials relating to the conspiracy I may claim a right to say, speaking not with authority but with modesty, “I who investigated and chastised that conspiracy would certainly not defend Sulla, if I thought that he had been a conspirator.” I, O judges, say this, which I said at the beginning, that when I was making a thorough inquiry into those great dangers which were threatening everybody, when I was hearing many thing; not believing everything, but guarding against everything, not one word was said to me by any one who gave information, nor did any one hint any suspicion, nor was there the slightest mention in any one's letters, of Publius Sulla.

Wherefore I call you, O gods of my country and of my household, to witness,—you who preside over this city and this empire,—you who have preserved this empire, and these our liberties, and the Roman people,—you who by your divine assistance protected these houses and temples when I was consul,—that I with a free and honest heart am defending the cause of Publius Sulla; that no crime has been concealed by me knowingly, that no wickedness undertaken against the general safety has been kept back or defended by me. I, when consul, found out nothing about this man, I suspected nothing, I heard of nothing.

Therefore I, the same person who have seemed to be vehement against some men, inexorable towards the rest of the conspirators, (I paid my country what I owed seemed to be vehement against some men, inexorable towards I heard of nothing. Therefore I, the same person who have seemed to be vehement against some men, inexorable towards the rest of the conspirators, (I paid my country what I owed her; what I am now doing is due to my own invariable habits and natural disposition,) am as merciful, O judges, as you yourselves. I am as gentle as the most soft-hearted among you. As far as I was vehement in union with you, I did nothing except what I was compelled to do: I came to the assistance of the republic when in great danger; I raised my sinking country; influenced by pity for the whole body of citizens, we were then as severe as was necessary. The safety of all men would have been lost for ever in one night, if that severity had not been exercised; but as I was led on to the punishment of wicked men by my attachment to the republic, so now I am led to secure the safety of the innocent by my own inclination.

I see, O judges, that in this Publius Sulla there is nothing worthy of hatred, and many circumstances deserving our pity. For he does not now, O judges, flee to you as a suppliant for the sake of warding off calamity from himself, but to prevent his whole family and name from being branded with the stigma of nefarious baseness. For as for himself, even if he be acquitted by your decision, what honours has he, what comfort has he for the rest of his life, in which he can find delight or enjoyment? His house, I suppose, will be adorned; the images of his ancestors will be displayed; he himself will resume his ornaments and his usual dress. All these things, O judges, are lost to him; all the insignia and ornaments of his family, and his name, and his honour, were lost by the calamity of that one decision. But he is anxious not to be called the destroyer, the betrayer, the enemy of his country; he is fearful of leaving such disgrace to a family of such renown; he is anxious that this unhappy child may not be called the son of a conspirator, a criminal and a traitor. He fears for this boy, who is much dearer to him than his own life, anxious, though he cannot leave him the undiminished inheritance of his honours, at all events not to leave him the undying recollection of his infamy.

This little child entreats you, O judges, to allow him occasionally to congratulate his father, if not with his fortunes unimpaired, at least to congratulate him in his affliction. The roads to the courts of justice and to the forum are better known to that unhappy boy, than the roads to his playground or to his school. I am contending now, O judges, not for the life of Publius Sulla, but for his burial. His life was taken from him at the former trial; we are now striving to prevent his body from being cast out. For what has he left which need detain him in this life? or what is there to make any one think such an existence life at all? Lately, Publius Sulla was a man of such consideration in the state, that no one thought himself superior to him either in honour, or in influence, or in good fortune. Now, stripped of all his dignity, he does not seek to recover what has been taken away from him; but he does entreat you, O judge; not to take from him the little which fortune has left him in his disasters,—namely, the permission to bewail his calamities in company with his parent, with his children, with his brother; and with his friends.

It would be becoming for even you yourself, O Torquatus, to be by this time satisfied with the miseries of my client. Although you had taken nothing from Sulla except the consulship, yet you ought to be content with that for it was a contest for honour, and not enmity, which originally induced you to take up this cause. But now that, together with his honour, everything else has been taken from him,—now that he is desolate, crushed by this miserable and grievous fortune, what is there which you can wish for more? Do you wish to deprive him of the enjoyment of the light of day, full as it is to him of tears and grief, in which he now lives amid the greatest grief and torment? He would gladly give it up, if you would release him from the foul imputation of this most odious crime. Do you seek to banish him as an enemy, when, if you were really hard-hearted, you would derive greater enjoyment from seeing his miseries than from hearing of them?

Oh, wretched and unhappy was that day on which Publius Sulla was declared consul by all the centuries! O how false were the hopes! how fleeting the good fortune! how blind the desire! how unreasonable the congratulations! How soon was all that scene changed from joy and pleasure to mourning and tears, when he, who but a short time before had been consul elect, had on a sudden no trace left of his previous dignity. For what evil was there which seemed then to be wanting to him when he was thus stripped of honour, and fame, and fortune? or what room could there be left for any new calamity? The same fortune continues to pursue him which followed him from the first; she finds a new source of grief for him; she will not allow an unfortunate man to perish when he has been afflicted in only one way, and by only one disaster.

But now, O judges, I am hindered by my own grief of mind from saying any more about the misery of my client. That consideration belongs to you, O judges, I rest the whole cause on your mercy and your humanity. You, after a rejection of several judges, of which we had no suspicion, have sat as judges suddenly appointed to hear our cause, having been chosen by our accusers from their hopes of your severity, but having been also given to us by fortune as the protectors of our innocence. As I have been anxious as to what the Roman people thought of me, because I had been severe towards wicked men, and so have undertaken the first defence of an innocent man that was offered to me, so do you also mitigate that severity of the courts of justice which has been exerted now for some months against the most audacious of men, by your lenity and mercy.

The cause itself ought to obtain this from you; and besides, it is due to your virtue and courage to show that you are not the men to whom it is most advisable for an accuser to apply after having rejected other judges. And in leaving the matter to your decision, O judges, I exhort you, with all the earnestness that my affection for you warrants me in using, so to act that we, by our common zeal, (since we are united in the service of the republic,) and you, by your humanity and mercy, may repel from us both the false charge of cruelty.