Rome was now the mistress of the world: her struggles with foreign nations had been rewarded with universal dominion; so that when the Roman empire was spoken of, no title less comprehensive than “the world” (_orbis_) would satisfy the national vanity. The horrors of civil war had ceased, and were succeeded by an amnesty of its bitter feuds and bloody animosities. Liberty indeed had perished, but the people were no longer fit for the enjoyment of it; and it was exchanged for a mild and paternal rule, under which all the refinements of civilization were encouraged, and its subjects could enjoy undisturbed the blessings of peace and security. Rome, therefore, had rest and breathing-time to look back into the past—to trace the successive steps by which that marvellous edifice, the Roman empire, had been constructed. She could do this, too, with perfect self-complacency, for there was no symptom of decay to check her exultation, or to mar the glories which she was contemplating. Livy, the good, the affectionate, the romantic, was precisely the popular historian for such times as these. His countrymen looked naturally for panegyric rather than for criticism. They were not in a temper to bear one who could remorselessly tear open and expose to view all the faults and blemishes which blotted the pages of their history; who could be a morose and querulous praiser of times gone by, never to return, at the expense of their present greatness and prosperity. He lived in happy times, before Rome had learnt by sad experience what the tyranny of absolutism really was. He tells his story like a bard singing his lay at a joyous and festive meeting, chequered by alternate successes and reverses, prosperity and adversity, but all tending to a happy end at last. These features of his character, and this object of his work, whilst they constitute his peculiar charm as a narrator, obviously render him less valuable as an historian. Although he was not tasteless and spiritless, like Dionysius, he was not so trustworthy. He would not be wilfully inaccurate, or otherwise than truth-telling; but if the legend he was about to tell was captivating and interesting, he would not stop to inquire whether or not it was true. He would take upon trust the traditions which had been handed down from generation to generation without inquiry; and the more flattering and popular they were, the more suitable would he deem them for his purpose. Without being himself necessarily superstitious, he would see that superstitious marvels added to the embellishments of his story, and, therefore, would accept them without pronouncing upon their truth or falsehood.