In the year 204, exactly two centuries before the date generally accepted as that of the birth of Christ, the Roman State had passed through an experience much like that of our great Ally across the Channel in the autumn of 1914. Hannibal, the lifelong enemy of Rome, had surmounted obstacles thought to be insurmountable, had swept into Italy like a whirlwind, and in a few pitched battles had destroyed six consular armies. After one of these victories, his Moorish cavalry had raided right up to the walls of Rome, then only defended by old men and boys, and the Eternal City seemed to be at his mercy. Yet at the last moment he turned aside, as did von Kluck in our day, and pushed into the rich province which was afterwards Naples, whence it took all the nibbling strategy of Fabius to dislodge him. When Capua at last fell, he still kept his grip on the Calabrian coast, where he waited for reinforcements which never reached him, to again attack Rome. So long as he was on Italian soil, there could be no rest nor peace of mind for those Romans who, like the elder Cato, had seen the fierce African spearmen galloping through the Campagna, firing the thatched huts and driving off the cattle which formed all the wealth of the peasant farmers, then the backbone of the Republic. During all this time, too, the Roman populace behaved beautifully. Even after Cannæ they had not despaired of the Republic; they had suspended their long quarrel with the patricians; and, after a few very unsuccessful experiments with mobappointed generals, had left the conduct of the war in the more capable hands of the Senate. But when a shower of stones—probably lapilli from some volcano on the coast—fell upon the city, they were seized with one of the superstitious panics to which they were prone. They cried out that the gods were angry with them, and, as the unknown is sometimes more terrible than the known, there was more fear of their weakening before this menace than before Hannibal.