The Story of Rome has been written, as you know, in your beautiful, quiet old garden. And as the story grew, the short cold days of winter passed and the long warm days of summer were here. In the garden a miracle had been wrought. It had become alive.  After slow, persistent struggle with storm and frost, the delicate bare branches were no longer bare, but clothed in living green. The hard black earth too had stirred, and shoots and blades appeared, until at length the garden was ablaze with gold, purple, crimson.

Sometimes I dreamed that, in its own different way, the Story of Rome too was a miracle, wrought out of the tears and throes of a brave and ambitious people. For the story tells of the birth of a city and of its growth through storm and struggle, until it became a great world empire.

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