What they have seen in books, I have seen written on battlefields, with steel and blood. They sneer at my mean origin. Where,--and may the gods bear witness,--where, but in the spirit of man, is nobility lodged? Tell these despicable railers that their haughty lineage cannot make them noble, nor will my humble birth make me base. I profess no indifference to noble descent; but when a descendant is dwarfed in the comparison, it should be a shame, and not a matter to boast of! I can show the standards, the armor, and the spoils which I have in person wrested from the vanquished. I can show the scars of many wounds received in combating the enemies of Rome. These are my statues! These are my honors, to boast of; not inherited by accident, but earned by toil, by abstinence, by valor, amid clouds of dust and seas of blood. Their titles date from similar acts of their ancestors; but these detractors did not even dare to appear on the field as spectators. These are my credentials! These, O Romans, are my titles of nobility! Tell me, are they not as deserving of your confidence and reward as those of which any patrician of them all can boast? Biographical and Historical: Sallust, the author of this selection, was a famous Roman historian of the first century B. C. Caius Marius was the son of a small farmer and worked his way up from this humble origin to the highest position, that of consul, in spite of the determined opposition of the senate, and the aristocracy. By the vote of the Roman people, he was given command of the army in the campaign against Jugurtha, a prince who had usurped the Numidian throne. * * * * * RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS MARY RUSSELL MITFORD Friends! I come not here to talk. You know too well The story of our thralldom. We are slaves! The bright sun rises to his course, and lights A race of slaves! he sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave!--not such as, swept along By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads To crimson glory and undying fame, But base, ignoble slaves--slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants; feudal despots; lords, Rich in some dozen paltry villages, Strong in some hundred spearmen; only great In that strange spell--a name. Each hour dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cry out against them. But this very day, An honest man, my neighbor--there he stands-- Was struck--struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini, because, forsooth, He tossed not high his ready cap in air, Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men, And suffer such dishonor?--Men, and wash not The stain away in blood?