Sea. Great roads crossed the island from east to west and from north to south. Great cities, full of all the luxuries of the South, grew up. Temples were built to the Roman gods; and country-houses of rich Roman gentlemen, of which you may still see the remains here and there. These gentlemen at first talked about exile, shivered and cursed the ‘beastly British climate’, heated their houses with hot air, and longed to get home to Italy. But many stayed; their duty or their business obliged them to stay: and into them too the spirit of the dear motherland entered, and became a passion. Their children, perhaps, never saw Rome; but Rome and Britain had an equal share of their love and devotion, and they, perhaps, thought something like this:—
The Roman Centurion Speaks:
By ship to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I’ve marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.
Here where my dearest dead are laid—my wife—my wife and son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how shall I remove?
