He explained that his father was an Italian, but had died
when he himself was still an infant.
"You have been in Italy?" asked Waymark, with interest.
A strange look came over Julian's features, a look at once bright
and melancholy; his fine eyes gleamed as was their wont eight years
ago, in the back-parlour in Boston Street, when he was telling tales
from Plutarch.
"Not," he said, in a low voice charged with feeling, "since I was
three years old.--You will think it strange, but I don't so much
long for the modern Italy, for the beautiful scenery and climate,
not even for the Italy of Raphael, or of Dante. I think most of
classical Italy. I am no scholar, but I love the Latin writers, and
can forget myself for hours, working through Livy or Tacitus. I want
to see the ruins of Rome; I want to see the Tiber, the Clitumnus,
the Aufidus, the Alban Hills, Lake Trasimenus,--a thousand places!
It is strange how those old times have taken hold upon me. The mere
names in Roman history make my blood warm.--And there is so little
chance that I shall ever be able to go there; so little chance."
Waymark had watched the glowing face with some surprise.
"Why, this is famous!" he exclaimed.
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