One night, Nero, dressed in woman’s clothes, was in one of the palaces of Rome, surrounded by his boon companions, male and female, indulging in the most loathsome orgies, when a great uproar was heard in the streets. A messenger was sent to ascertain the cause. He returned with the appalling tidings, that Galba, at the head of an avenging army, was marching rapidly upon Rome; that insurrection had broken out in the streets; and that a countless mob, breathing threatenings and slaughter, were surging toward the palace. The wretched tyrant, as cowardly as he was infamous, was struck with dismay. He sprang from the table so suddenly as to overturn it, dashing the most costly vases in fragments upon the floor. Beating his forehead like a madman, he cried out, “I am ruined, I am ruined!” and called for a cup of poison. Suicide was the common resort of the cowardly, in those days, in their hours of wretchedness. Nero took the poisoned cup, but dared not drink it. He called for a dagger, and examined its polished point, but had not sufficient nerve to press it to his heart. He then rushed from the palace in his woman’s robes, with his long hair fluttering in the wind. Thus disguised, he almost flew through the dark and narrow streets, intending to plunge into the Tiber. As he reached the bank, and gazed upon its gloomy waves, again his courage failed. Several of his companions had accompanied him. One of them suggested that he should flee to a country-seat about three miles from Rome, and there conceal himself. Insane with terror, bareheaded, in his shameful garb, he covered his face with a handkerchief, leaped upon a horse, and succeeded, through a thousand perils, in gaining his retreat. Just before he reached the villa, some alarm so frightened him, that he leaped from his horse, and plunged into a thicket by the roadside. Through briers and thorns, with torn clothes and lacerated flesh, he reached the insecure asylum he sought. In the mean time, the Roman senate had hurriedly assembled. Emboldened by the insurrection, and by the approach of Galba, they passed a decree, declaring Nero to be the enemy of his country, and dooming him to death _more majorum_; i.e., according to ancient custom. Some one of Nero’s companions brought him the tidings in his hiding-place. Pallid and trembling, he inquired, “And what is death _more majorum_?” The appalling reply was, “It is to be stripped naked, to have the head fastened in the pillory, and thus to be scourged to death.” The monster who had amused himself in witnessing the tortures of others recoiled with horror from this dreadful infliction. Seizing a dagger, he again endeavored to nerve himself to plunge it into his heart. A prick from its sharp point was all that he could summon resolution to inflict. He threw the dagger aside, and groaned in terror. Again he strove to talk himself into courage. “Ought Nero,” said he, “to be afraid? Shall the emperor be a coward? No! Let me die courageously.”