I was on terms
of more neighborly intimacy with the poor Punic emperor than with
any one else in York, doubtless because, when he fell sick, he
visited the temple of Bellona near Bootham Bar, and paid his
devotions unmolested, let us hope, by any prevision of the
misbehavior of his son Caracalla (whose baths I had long ago
visited at Rome) in killing his other son Geta. Everywhere I
could be an early Christian, in company with Constantine, in whom
the instinct of political Christianity must have begun to stir as
soon as he was chosen emperor. But I dare say I heard the muted
tramp of the Sixth Legion about the Yorkish streets above all
other martial sounds because I stayed as long as Doncaster Week
would let me in the railway hotel, which so many of their bones
made room for when the foundations of it were laid, with those of
the adherent station. Their bones seem to have been left there,
after the disturbance, but their sepulchres were respectfully
transferred to the museum of the Philosophical Society, in the
grounds where the ruins of St.
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