I cannot tell you, because geography is not.
The equinoxes have to make a considerable precession
before that science will see the light.

Before me lies a region of grassy downs,
here undulating with wave-like slopes, there
swelling up into pudding-shaped hills. There
are verdant pastures with little wood; only
patches of shrubby thickets, which shelter
herds of animals known afterwards by their
skeletons only. In pursuit of them are stealing
men of like form and passions with ourselves,
though with less intelligence and
feebler means. But they must feed and
clothe their wives and their little ones; so
with spears and arrows headed with flint,
they patiently pursue their prey. With
flint knives they flay and joint it; with flint
implements they convert its sinews into thread,
its bones into tools, and its skin into vestments;
they eat its flesh roasted over fires made of
brushwood, chopped by flinten hatchets, for
metallurgy is yet an undiscovered art—silex
is the limit of their mineralogical acquirements.
Iron lies under their feet, and they know it
not; iron is in their hands—in the stone they
snatch to hurl at a victim—and they are ignorant
of the power within their grasp.

These primeval men retire to rest in burrows,
like those of the rabbit; in rocky dens, like the
home of the badger; in huts built on piles over
the swampy lake, which the beaver taught them
to fabricate. They are contented, nay happy,
in their way; no money panics prevent their
sleeping; no banks about to break give them
the nightmare; no conquerors mulct them in
millions of florins; European equilibrium disturbs
them not; and they manage to keep up
a decent appearance, even without their
brougham and twelve hundred a year.

Such is the picture actually visible. Its date
is, approximately —  Well, dates are dangerous,
and I had better not commit myself to that.
The sun is shining on a pastoral scene so vast,
that, being tethered where I am, I cannot even
guess its limits. But soon the sky is darkened,
the winds roar, the lightnings flash, the waters
rush. They mount and mount, and sweep and
eddy, covering all my prairies fathoms deep,
until there is a Deluge — not Noah's, but the
one previous to his. The ocean, tilted from its
bed, sweeps from south to north, carrying with
it streams of rock, and strewing mountain-tops
in fragments over distant plains.

At last there is a subsidence of the waters.
Dry land emerges; but a mighty change has
come over the scene. My view has dissolved,
literally. The English Channel has forced its
way through the downs and opened up its tidal
exits and entrances. On the opposite shore are
the sites of Dover and Deal. At my foot lies a
convenient spot for embarkation, which will one
day be called Portus Itius.

A mist of long duration veils the earth. How
long it endures, I will not attempt to tell.
When it clears, they are come—that adventurous
race, after conquering the by no means despicable
Gaul; for he is not, as I see him, a complete
barbarian, like the German. His conqueror,
who knows him well, never calls him by
that name in the commentaries he is writing.
The Gaul has large towns, a regular system of
taxation, a religious creed, a powerful aristocracy,
and a national education directed by
the priests. Imperfect culture, if it do not
quite enlighten the mind, at least prepares it for
enlightenment. From the commencement of
the war, the Gaul has imitated Roman tactics
and constructed and worked military machinery
with a success to which his invaders render
justice. Roman civilisation will leave its stamp
in France, long after other things have changed.

The Roman leader is a man whom some
would fain make a demi-god, but who might
really pass just as well for an imp of darkness
in the flesh. He will have by-and-by admirers
and imitators, who will prove themselves at
least clever men, if they succeed in sinking to
the level of his vices. It is great Cæsar himself,
made of rather dirty clay. He comes, to
achieve a bold enterprise.

He knows the people of the opposite island,
Britain, only by their prowess in the Gallic
wars; so he resolves to make their acquaintance—
such acquaintance as the wolf makes
with the flock. His ships are lying in readiness.
It is the night — an imperial chronicler
will tell you — of a 24th-25th of August. He
starts with two legions of Roman soldiers, and
succeeds in landing them at Deal. The beach is
crowded with armed men, who try to repulse
the hostile strangers. There is an obstinate
struggle, but in vain. The Britons, astonished
at the foe's audacity, tender their submission,
and sue for peace. "Audaces fortuna juvat" is
written somewhere. After eighteen days' absence
only in England, great Julius returns to the port
whence he came. Graver matters claim his attention.
He wastes no time. "Calvi prompti,"
"bald and ready," is true at least of him.

Roman forms melt into empty air, while
Gallic figures are greatly modified. The landscape
is veiled in cloud for a while. When it
clears away, a gusty night is tossing the waves;
and from the offing, towards the shore, a long-boat
is stealing in, followed by a sailing yacht.
In the long-boat sits a careworn man, shivering
beneath the January blast, and dressed in the
uniform of the royal guards of England. But
Captain Selingues, who is lying here at anchor,
is minded to know what the arrival means. So
he sends the Sieur de Taulx with his gig to ask
what news.

"Who goes there?" the sieur inquires, in a
loud clear voice. "Whom have we on board
these boats?"

"A milord who is obliged to fly from England,"
is the answer given. But the sallow-faced
stranger, showing himself, is recognised
by the French gig's master-at-arms.

"It is the king!" he immediately whispers
to De Taulx. "King James the Second of
England!"

De Taulx, who has been brought up in the
belief of right divine, and who is also aware