Agricola’s government, wise, firm, and prosperous, comes to an untimely end. The emperor is jealous of him, and recalls him to Rome on a trumped-up charge. What befalls him we do not know, but probably he comes to a violent end. At all events, he fades out of our history, leaving behind him a fame which emperors cannot dim nor unjust tribunals take away. Farewell, Agricola! We salute thee as the greatest governor which Britain ever knew while Rome held sway.
And now the land is happy in having little history to record. A generation comes and goes, and all the time Rome is building up her government, carrying out her great military works, and bowing the neck of the enfeebled Briton to her yoke.
What, you ask, is the appearance of Britain during the long years when the Roman peace has settled down on the land? Let us suppose that we are suddenly planted down in the island during the period Britain is part and parcel of the Roman Empire. Our first impression is that a great change has taken place in the appearance of the country. In many places the dense woods have disappeared; broad fields have been carved out of the forests, and are being carefully tilled by gangs of British slaves. Britain has become one of the great granaries of the Empire. Cattle and sheep by the hundred feed on the hillsides; and in Rome they speak of this land as Britannia Felix, “Britain the Happy.”
With the disappearance of the forests the weather has improved. No longer is the island wrapped in steaming mists; no longer is the sky always clouded. Many of the rivers which formerly lost themselves in reedy marshes are carefully banked in, and now flow on as broad, fair streams. The morasses are crossed by causeways, the fens are drained, the rivers are bridged, the fords are easy, and the Britons loudly complain that their hands and bodies are worn out in the toilsome work.
Look at the road beneath your feet. Broad and straight, it runs over hill and valley, across stream and moor and bog. British labourers, under the eye of Roman road-engineers—never surpassed before or since—have dug down to the rocky crust, and upon this have built three or four layers of squared or broken stones mixed with gravel, lime, and clay. The upper surface is closely paved, especially in the middle, with large flag-stones. This is one of the military highways, all spreading out, as our modern railways do, from London, and enabling the legions to pass with speed through the length and breadth of the province. Watling Street, Fosse Way, Hermen Street, Ikenild Street—the chief military roads of the island—may still be traced, and in parts are used to-day.
While we are examining the road, we hear the tramp of armed men, and a legion swings by. Swarthy Italian, yellow-haired German, and dusky Moor march side by side armed with brazen shield, heavy javelin, and short, thick sword. In the midst is the glittering “eagle,” which the Roman would rather die than yield to a foe.
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.