At last the reaction set in.
Both the body and the mind of Rome had been exhausted by the impossible task of a single city ruling an entire world.
And then a terrible thing happened. A whole people grew tired of life and lost the zest for living.
They had come to own all the country-houses, all the town-houses, all the yachts and all the stage-coaches they could ever hope to use.
They found themselves possessed of all the slaves in the world.
They had eaten everything, they had seen everything, they had heard everything.
They had tried the taste of every drink, they had been everywhere, they had made love to all the women from Barcelona to Thebes. All the books that had ever been written were in their libraries. The best pictures that had ever been painted hung on their walls. The cleverest musicians of the entire world had entertained them at their meals. And, as children, they had been instructed by the best professors and pedagogues who had taught them everything there was to be taught. As a result, all food and drink had lost its taste, all books had grown dull, all women had become uninteresting, and existence itself had developed into a burden which a good many people were willing to drop at the first respectable opportunity.
There remained only one consolation, the contemplation of the Unknown and the Invisible.
The old Gods, however, had died years before. No intelligent Roman any longer took stock in the silly nursery rhymes about Jupiter and Minerva.
There were the philosophic systems of the Epicureans and the Stoics and the Cynics, all of whom preached charity and self-denial and the virtues of an unselfish and useful life.