IN THE FOOTPRINTS OF SAINT ALBAN 25 



of our national history, our national Christianity, and our 

 national liberties, an unbroken sequence through many genera- 

 tions proving our ancient heritage. 



Steeped in a love for his native place, small wonder, perhaps, 

 that one, such as myself, should be so enraptured with even 

 casual reflection upon these magic happenings of the past. 



Seated upon the old stile over which I vaulted in sheer delight 

 as a boy, I look across the sunstruck fields this May morning, 

 and completely lose myself in visions of the past. Immediately 

 before me is the site of a Roman city of great magnificence and 

 splendour ; on the slopes of Holmhurst hill yonder I discern the 

 more modern (and yet ancient) city named after the Saint, with 

 the square Norman tower of the Cathedral a silent witness of 

 the prowess of our ancestors from across the Channel. My 

 sister, who is with me, mentions in a whisper the magic names 

 of "Caesar, Cassivelaunus, Boadicea, Alban ! " Here, we are in 

 the midst of surroundings which few, if any, places in England 

 can eclipse, and, as an old Albanian, I am naturally proud of 

 this ancient connection with the earliest recorded history of our 

 land. In Roman times Verulam was one of the two Municipia, 

 or free cities, of Britain, York being the only other place thus 

 dignified. Verulam was granted the first Charter of Britain in 

 A.D. 42, York followed some thirty-six years later. London was 

 in those far-off days a place of little importance. My sister has 

 left me seated, looking, longing, and loving. She has commenced 

 exploring for any remnants of Roman occupation. First she 

 discovers a small fragment of the beautiful glazed Samian ware, 

 later, a rusty nail ! Every object is worthy of examination, for, 

 in the footprints of Saint Alban, one never knows what treasure 

 may be disclosed. I am still soliloquising on the old stile when 

 a great shout rents the air. The sudden incursion rudely dis- 

 turbs my peace of mind. It seemed, for the moment, as if 

 Boadicea herself had come from her resting-place to proclaim 

 in person the law of right over might on the very spot where she, 

 heroic Queen, had given her life so many years ago. 



But the cause of the mighty shout is now manifest, for, stand- 

 ing by my side, my sister displays a magnificent Roman fibula 

 which she had just unearthed, a notable addition to the honoured 

 cabinet of remains gathered together with loving hands by one 

 who shares with myself the glories of a past age in the environs 

 of my native place. 



I look across the undulating fields, and I hear anew a soul- 



