Let us follow the legion towards yonder city. On we go, traversing the broad, white road, now crossing a stream by a bridge, now wading waist-deep through the ford of a broad river. Here and there amidst the trees we see the white buildings of a villa, the residence of some Roman official. Notice the beautiful garden as you pass, and admire the orchards of apples, plums, pears, and cherries, and the south wall where the clustering grapes are ripening in the sun. Anon we skirt the fringe of a cemetery with its mounds of earth marking the hollow graves, each with its urn of dark clay containing the ashes of the dead. On and on we march, swinging to the right or left as some mounted messenger bearing dispatches for his general spurs by. At last the roofs of the city are seen. Round about it is a great rampart of stone; and here and there we see a sentinel, who leans on his javelin and shades his eyes as he peers across the plain. We enter through one of the four gates, pass the guard, and are at once met with a civilization such as the Briton of old never dreamt of. We pass by rows of private dwellings of stone and coloured tiles, glorious with pavements and columns. Here we see the fluted or leaf-crowned pillars of a temple to Neptune; there a stately shrine to Minerva. Yonder are the public baths, with their marble halls and inlaid pavements—unequalled in design and workmanship outside Rome. Within these heated chambers the chilly Roman official may recall the comforting warmth of his Southern home, and dream of the day when he shall see the beloved City once more. Yonder is the court-house, and in front of it senators in flowing robes, with parchment scrolls in their hands, pace to and fro. Make way for the governor! Before him march his lictors with the axe in its bundle of rods, and behind him follows a guard of honour. Now a gang of slaves is driven by; and here comes a shock-headed British chieftain who has been captured in border warfare, and anon will face the judgment seat. Hard by is the amphitheatre, where the townsfolk throng to see plays performed, or better still to see the trained gladiators who fight to the death “to make a Roman holiday.” Here on the seats, tier above tier, sit the wealthier Britons of the town, aping their masters in dress, speech, and manner. No longer do they delight in the battle and the chase; they love the pleasures of the town. Their golden locks are shorn and their beards are trimmed in the Roman fashion; they vie with each other in the fold of a toga and the fit of a sandal; their days are spent in a weary quest of amusement. They bathe; they drink their wine; they feast; they dice; they go to the shows; and consider themselves fine fellows indeed, because they can lisp the tongue of their masters.