The fragments of columns which are engraved in Plate XI, enable us to imagine the original grandeur of the place.[109] With some of the certainty with which a comparative anatomist decides upon the character and habits of an animal, from an inspection of a fragment of its osseous system, an architect determines the size and style of a building from an examination of some of its parts. Thus, the circular column, of which one of the stones (Plate XI.) that now lies in the valley below the station, has formed a part, was probably not less than twenty feet high; how imposing must the entire temple have been! Plates XII and XIII exhibit several of the carved figures which formerly lay in confusion among the ruins of the station. They are interesting, as exhibiting the state of the arts in Britain at that time, the mode of dress adopted by the Romans, and the [Illustration: Figure of Victory] high degree of attention which they paid to the decoration of their stations. Roman art in Britain has surely been rated too low. The figure introduced on this page was found here. It represents one of old Rome’s most favourite deities,—Victory, careering, with outstretched wings, over the globe. How strong must the passion for conquest have been in the breast of a people, who, though nurtured in a southern climate, braved for more than three centuries, the fogs, and storms, and desolation of this wild region! Wherever the winged goddess led, they followed, and, most pertinaciously too, maintained their ground. But, there is a tide in the affairs of men. A Roman poet, in the fulness of his heart, sang— Urbs oritur (quis tunc hoc ulli credere posset?) Victorem terris impositura pedem. Cuncta regas: et sis magno sub Cæsare semper Sæpe etiam plures nominis hujus habe. Et quoties steteris domito sublimis in orbe, Omnia sint humeris inferiora tuis. How different the strains which, in a distant age, and in another clime, were to flow from the lyre of a brother bard, and how appropriate to the present condition of the deserted BORCOVICUS!— Where is Rome? She lives but in the tale of other times; Her proud pavilions are the hermit’s home, And her long colonnades, her public walks Now faintly echo to the pilgrim’s feet, Who comes to muse in solitude, and trace, Through the rank moss revealed, her honoured dust.