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make the old days live again, to clothe with flesh and blood the 
dry bones of archzology, and to people these old stations with 
living men and women. Suppose then we call up in fancy some 
such scene as the camp must have often witnessed during its three 
centuries of existence. Imagine the inhabitants of the station 
gathered together on this spot for some review or sports, in 
celebration of a visit from the governor of the Province, or even 
from Czsar Augustus. Here stand the stalwart forms of the 
auxiliaries, Dalmatians, Spaniards, Mauritanians, who compose the 
garrison—veterans who have settled down and made a home in 
the country ; here are a few of the better classes of the district, 
chieftains of subject tribes, or provincials connected with the 
officers of the legion; and there are groups of the native Britons, 
rough-looking people, but not clothed merely in blue paint, as we 
used to be so falsely taught. Most of the latter are standing or 
seated on the slope to the north-east, where the rising ground 
enables those behind to see easily over the heads of the spectators 
in front. Amid the blare of trumpets the standard-bearer of the 
legion advances and plants the eagle on the mound; and there, 
taking his place beneath, stands the tribune or prefect in command 
of the Station, or occasionally the governor of the Province, or 
even the Divine Emperor himself! Around him are a group of 
officers ; near at hand a few patrician ladies, some of whom have 
seen the glories of the City, and look with a sneer on their 
fair lips at these provincial assemblies, though not even in the 
Coliseum have they witnessed greater valour than that with which 
the poor captive here defends his life. The sports proceed. 
Wrestling, racing, boxing were popular in Cumberland then as 
they are now, and perhaps were not much more rough. Even a 
Roman athlete or wrestler might have dreaded the grip of a 
Cumberland champion, and have shrunk from a scuffle at Rugby 
football! Perhaps the large crowds are attracted by a gladiatorial 
contest. Some poor Pict from the wilds of Galloway across the 
Frith has thrown himself in desperate raid against the walls of a 
Roman fortress, or the wall-like phalanx of a Roman legion. He 
is given a chance of life now with his rude native weapons in his 
