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.
 The pilgrim who sups not merely on gross food and drink, but
feeds the finer tissues of his being on historic scenes and antique
panelled rooms, will find much delight in the “Gloucester Arms.” He
may sleep where that gory Richard slept—and, it may be hoped,
with a better conscience, and may look upon a banqueting-hall, now
unfortunately subdivided, wherein our ancestors feasted on swans
and other curious dishes long obsolete, washed down with nasty
drinks unknown to the present age.
Equally interesting is the old “Two Lions” inn near by. It looks out
up the street in a shy manner, being hidden upon a narrow entry, in
a fashion that to a southron seems a strangely retiring pose for an
ancient mansion of the landed classes; a complexion from which, in
fact, the house has, since ancient times, declined. Time was—in the
reign of the more or less good Queen Bess, to be precise—when
what is now the “Two Lions” was the “town house” of Gerard
Lowther, a notable member of the always rich and powerful Lowther
family; and little though the exterior may attract, there is a very
wealth of interest within. The fireplace of the hall has three heraldic
shields, and the banqueting-room, now the smoking-room, has an
enriched plaster ceiling, dated 1585 and displaying ten shields of the
arms of Lowthers and allied families. In an upstairs room is another
ceiling heraldically adorned with the arms of Lowther and Dudley,
dated 1586, and with the initials of Gerard Lowther himself and Lucy,
his wife. More to the purpose of the smaller tradesmen of Penrith,
who are the chief frequenters of the “Two Lions,” is the fine bowling-
green—bowling rhyming with “howling,” in the speech of the older
folk—at the back of the house.
There is not much left of the ancient church of
PENRITH CHURCH
Penrith, beside its Gothic tower, for the body of the
building dates only from 1722, and is in a classic style that seems
rank heresy in a place so historic as this. Not even the monolithic
Ionic columns of red marble that decorate the interior, nor the
ornate gilded chandeliers presented by the Duke of Portland, in
recognition of the loyalty of Penrith in 1745, can compensate the
stranger for the loss; although, to be sure, the townsfolk are
inordinately proud of them. But there are many ancient monuments
in the church, and some interesting fragments of stained glass that
have escaped destruction. Among them is represented golden-haired
Cicely Neville, youngest of all the two-and-twenty children of Henry
Neville, Earl of Westmoreland. This is that “Proud Cis of Raby” who
was wife of Richard, Duke of York, and mother of Edward the Fourth
and Richard the Third. Here, too, is seen a plaguey ill-favoured
stained-glass “likeness” of Richard the Second, with hair of an
unpleasant canary-yellow and a couple of chin-sprouts of the same
colour.

THE GIANT’S GRAVE.

Still upon three sides of the church-tower you
THE “GIANT’S GRAVE”
see sculptured the “bear and ragged staff”
device of the great Earl of Warwick, the King-maker, who in his time
was lord of Penrith, and rebuilt the upper stage of the tower; but
undoubtedly the chief interest—and mystery—of the spot is the so-
called “Giant’s Grave,” in the churchyard. No one knows who rests
here, but for choice it is the grave of a chief among those
Scandinavian settlers who established themselves in these northern
counties in the tenth century. Legend, of course, steps in to explain
that of which archæology is ignorant. The invincible hardihood of
legends is such as to command the astonished respect of the
calmest mind; and here we are bidden by old folk-lore to look upon
the grave of one Sir Hugh Cæsarius, a man of colossal proportions,
but as big-hearted, metaphorically, as he was high, who cleared the
surrounding Inglewood Forest of the wild boars that were a terror to
the people, at some period not specified. The tall grey sandstone
pillars that stand over his grave, at a distance apart of fifteen feet,
are supposed to mark his height, and are covered with Runic
devices, greatly defaced and pitifully weather-worn. Rude hunch-
backed stones between them are popularly supposed to represent
the backs of boars.
These hoary relics had a narrow escape of being totally destroyed
by those who pulled down the old church; and the work of breaking
them into pieces had already begun when the indignant people of
the town stopped it. The clamps marking where the broken pillars
were mended are clearly to be seen. A stone, really the head of an
ancient cross, near by, is said to mark the place where the giant’s
thumb is buried.
Penrith has suffered much in its time from wars and tumults, but it
was afflicted in a dreadful manner by a great plague which almost
depopulated the neighbourhood between September 1597 and
January 1599, as an inscription in the church relates. In Penrith itself
2,260 people died, and in Kendal 2,500.
The chief streets of the town have been much modernised, but
some old landmarks reward the diligent. The “Prince Charles
Restaurant,” a baker’s shop, occupies the mansion where the Young
Pretender lodged, and some old Penrith merchants’ houses remain:
notably one in Angel Lane, on whose front the old local passion for
remembrance, that usually finds expression in dates, initials, and
improving maxims, develops into family history and epitaph, as thus:
 This acquird by Robt Miers
Merct, who was interd the
19th of May 1722 His Wys
Margt and Ann Sepbr ye 19
rebuilt in ye yr 1763 Sepbr ye
30 by W. M.

This is mysterious, beyond hope of solution.

On the building now an infants’ school is the inscription “WIL.
ROBINSON, CIVISLONDANNO 1670,” oddly spaced, and over the
entrance to an alley the initials “R. E. L. 1697,” with sculptured
shears above; probably a relic of the Langhorn family, cloth-
merchants, whose earliest memento in this sort is the inscription “T.
E. L. 1584.”

OLD DOORWAY, PENRITH.

 XXIV
The Boer War of 1899-1902 has left a wayside
TO CARLISLE
memorial at the approach to Penrith, and another, in
the shape of a beautiful bronze statue, personifying Victory
conferring honour upon the fallen, stands by Middlegate, as you
leave for the north. “Scotland Road,” confronting you, indicates the
not far distant Border, and then, at the “White Ox” inn, the ways
divide: on the right the Old Carlisle Road, on the left the new. Very
steep and rough goes the old road for one mile. Prince Charlie
marched it, and has my heartfelt sympathy. After passing the
“Inglewood” inn, which seems forlornly to wonder what has become
of the traffic, it rejoins the existing highway—which runs along the
traces of an ancient Roman road—at Stony Beck. To the left hand,
near Plumpton station, are some traces of the Roman station of
Voreda, known as Castlesteads, or Old Penrith. It has yielded many
relics. Of the ancient Inglewood Forest, and the alarming wild boars
that frequented it, there are no signs, and the road—as excellent a
road as one would wish to find—goes with little incident away into
Carlisle itself, the Petterill Brook on the left hand. The “Pack Horse”
inn stands at the cross-road to Lazonby, where Salkeld toll-gate once
stood, and then, two miles from High Hesket, on the left hand, rises
the hill known suggestively as Thiefside: the thieves in question, no
doubt, the old horse-thieves, cattle-raiders, and moss-trooping
vagabonds of the Border. High Hesket is a tiny wayside village of the
rough stone houses, generally whitewashed, that henceforward are
the feature of the road, through Cumberland and into Dumfriesshire.
The church of High Hesket, quite a humble little building, with
bellcote in lieu of tower, stands, shamefaced in a coating of compo,
by the way, near another dilapidated old “White Ox” inn, once busy
with the traffic of a bygone day. The motor-cars disregard it, or
merely halt for that last indignity to an inn, a pail of water wherewith
to cool their engines. Dropping downhill to Low Hesket, the road
comes quickly to Carleton and then, by the frowzy street of
Botchergate, into the midst of Carlisle.

THIEFSIDE
Carlisle was the first and stoutest bulwark gainst the
CARLISLE
northern foe, and maintained that character for close
upon sixteen hundred years, from the remote time of the Roman
dominion until the union of the kingdoms under James the First. The
place, standing as it does upon a rocky bluff, overlooking the levels
of the Solway and the Eden, was, it would almost seem, intended by
Nature for this office, and here accordingly the Roman wall of
Hadrian was traced, running from sea to sea, from Wallsend near
Newcastle, to Carlisle, and ending on the Solway Firth at Bowness.
Here they found an early Celtic settlement, “Caer Lywelydd”; but it
was not the site of Carlisle, but rather Stanwix, its northern suburb,
on the opposite bank of the Eden, that formed the Roman military
station of Luguvallum, i.e. the “station on the wall.” What is now
Carlisle was the civil settlement. When the Romans withdrew, to
defend their decaying Empire nearer home, Luguvallum, peopled
with half-breed Romano-British, who could not retire with them,
made for years a hopeless fight with the savages out of Scotland on
the one hand, and with the Saxons on the other. The Saxons, as
almost everywhere else, prevailed in the end, and the town became
in their tongue, “Caer Luel”; whence the transition to “Carlisle” is
one of the easiest.
Carlisle, the great mediæval fortress-town, owes its origin to
Rufus. The mighty Conqueror, who subdued most other portions of
this land, rested short of Westmoreland and Cumberland, which had
then for one hundred and twenty years been accounted Scottish soil;
but it was under his generally despised son that these broad lands
were won back for England; and the Scottish King Malcolm, invading
England on the east coast, in revenge, was slain in 1093, at Alnwick.
Peace, however, was not to reign upon these contested lands for yet
many a century; but what could be done was accomplished, and
Carlisle Castle arose, a grim Norman keep, upon the highest apex of
the town. It was in after years enlarged and strengthened, and the
strong walls of the city connected with it; and to-day, although the
factory-buildings and the smoky chimneys in a distant view of
Carlisle show, readily enough, that the city is now a place of
commerce, the Norman castle-keep still darkly crowns the scene,
sharing its pre-eminence only with the Cathedral.
But in spite of its castle and the stout town walls, Carlisle has
been, many more times than can readily be counted, the scene of
warfare, and was often sacked and burnt. It was thus ever a place of
arms. In all the country round about, men went armed to the
plough, and the great lords held their lands from the King under the
strictest obligations to military service, and were captained by the
Lord Warden, whose duties included the firing of beacons and the
mustering of all men between the ages of sixteen and sixty. Small
tenants held their fields and farms under the name of “nag-
tenements” and “foot-tenements,” and were bound, according to
their degree, to fight mounted or on foot.
 When the enemy crossed the Border, there was a stir in the city of
Carlisle, like that which accompanies the overturning of an ant-heap.
The muckle town-bell was rung, the citizens assembled under arms,
and the women manned the walls (if the expression may be
allowed) with kettles, boiling-water, and apronfuls of stones.
There was no worse time in this long history than the reign of
Henry the Eighth. War with Scotland had brought to that country the
crushing defeat of Flodden, where, in the words of the Scottish
lament, “The flowers of the forest were a’ weed awa”; but the result
was anarchy in the Borders, where thousands of lawless men lived,
whom no man could restrain. The Warden’s office was then no light
task, and a Scot on the English side, or an Englishman on the
Scottish, went in momentary danger of his life. Every man was
required to explain his presence, and in the streets of Carlisle none
might speak, without leave, to a Scot, and none of that nationality
was permitted to live in the city.
Carlisle Castle remained at this period, and for long
RAIDERS
after, a strong place, but nothing is more astonishing than
the ease with which raiders often surprised even the stoutest
castles. Let us take, for instance, the affair of the “bold Buccleuch”
and Kinmont Willie, in the times of Queen Elizabeth. The borders
had long been free from war on the larger scale, but the moss-
trooping, reiving forays survived in much of their early severity, in
spite of the amicable appointment of English and Scottish Lords
Wardens, who were supposed to restrain the lawless folk on either
side of the debateable lands between the marches. The Wardens’
Courts were strictly conducted in the districts of the Solway, and
those assembled at them were guaranteed from violence on either
side. But in 1596, when the Court assembled at Kershopeburn to
settle grievances in connection with the great raids of the
Armstrongs, who had come across from Scotland to the number of
three thousand and lifted all the stock for miles around, the feelings
of the English were raw. A notable man among these cattle-thieves
was this same “Kinmont Willie,” and the English sorely longed to
take vengeance upon him. At the Court, he was protected by the
rules of that assemblage, but in riding away he was reckless enough
to go off alone, and what might have been expected happened. He
was captured and consigned to a dungeon in Carlisle Castle.
All the Scottish side of the Border was immediately in an uproar at
this violation of agreements, and Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch,
Keeper of Liddesdale, was moved to apply for the raider’s release.
Buccleuch was a law-abiding person, and would probably have been
glad enough to see Kinmont Willie properly hanged on his own side,
but this breach of the understanding between the Wardens was an
outrage not to be endured.
Lord Scrope, the English Warden, informed him
SIEGE OF CARLISLE
the affair was so important that it must be
referred to the Queen; and she in turn ignored it altogether.
Buccleuch therefore determined, at whatever cost, to rescue the
prisoner, who would otherwise soon have been hanged, and he put
himself at the head of two hundred and ten desperate spirits who at
night crossed the Esk and silently drew near to Carlisle, two hours
before peep o’ day. They had brought with them, on horseback,
scaling ladders for the castle walls, and pickaxes, and made a breach
by the postern-gate. What were those sentinels doing, who were not
alarmed? Sleeping, doubtless. At any rate, the garrison knew
nothing until Buccleuch’s men had forced an entrance. The dungeon
where the prisoner was immured was known, and he was brought
forth, chains and all, and hurried away. The whole party were
speedily off again, and into their own country, before pursuit was
properly organised.
The last raid took place actually in 1601, when the kingdoms were
united by the accession of James the First, and while he was at
Berwick, journeying to London. Several hundreds of Scots then came
plundering past Carlisle, and many were captured and duly hanged.
James, anxious to unite the kingdoms in reality, ordered that the
name of “the Border,” standing for centuries of warfare, should give
place to “the midlands,” but the new style does not seem ever to
have come into general use; and the coming of the Stuarts meant in
after years much more trouble for Carlisle and its surroundings; for it
was in 1644-5 that the city endured the longest and most severe
siege in its history. It was held for the King, and beleaguered for
eight months by the Scottish General, Leslie. The citizens paid dearly
for their loyalty, and were reduced to eating horses, dogs, and rats.
Hungry folks chased errant cats hazardously across roof-tops, in
view of the besiegers, who took long shots at them; and even hemp-
seed became so dear that only the wealthy could afford it. Money
current in the city was coined from silver plate; but there was so
little food to purchase that, as a diarist of the time wrote, “the
citizens were so shrunk from starvation, they could not choose but
laugh at one another, to see their clothes hang upon them as upon
men on gibbets.”
It was upon the surrender ending this memorable siege that
Carlisle Cathedral suffered so greatly. The visitor who first sets eyes
upon the venerable pile finds himself bewildered by its unusual
proportions, and has some difficulty in distinguishing which end is
east and which west. He has been used, everywhere else, to see the
nave of a cathedral much longer than its choir, and to see the
building stretching away westward from the central tower five and
six times the length of the eastern, or choir, limb. Here, however,
when he has definitely settled his bearings, he perceives the choir to
be more than thrice the length of the nave.
This present odd aspect of the Cathedral, looking as though it had
been twisted bodily round, is entirely owing to the fury with which
the soldiery fell upon it, after the siege. Where there were once
eight bays to the Early Norman nave, there are now but two: the
rest all went as so much rough stone wherewith to repair the walls
of the city and to erect guard-houses: a curious reversal of its early
use, for it was from the ancient Roman wall that these stones came
in Norman times.
 EAST END, CARLISLE CATHEDRAL.
But Carlisle was not done with
THE STEEL THAT MAKES AFRAID
trouble, even in the sacrilege of 1645. It
escaped in 1715, for the rebels avoided coming to clashes with a
fortified city; but it came to know intimately of the much more
nearly successful rebellion of 1745. But what use are battlemented
walls of stone, if they be manned with faint hearts? After all the
brave doings of “merry Carlisle,” it is sad to think how low the
martial spirit had sunk by 1745, when the militia, assembled in the
city, declined to fight the rebels under Prince Charlie. A bold front
would have compelled the invaders to leave Carlisle alone; but the
broadswords of the Highlanders had so much of what military
historians term “moral effect” that the militiamen positively refused
to run the risk of being cleaved by that terrible cold steel. Poor
Colonel Durand, in command—if we may still call that a command
which will not obey orders—might rave, and implore, and even
weep, but it was useless, and the city was surrendered. Prince
Charlie was in camp at Brampton, eight miles away, and it must have
been a proud moment for him—if a sorry humiliation for some—
when mayor and corporation went out to him and on their knees
offered the keys of the gates. The next day the Prince entered in
triumph, on a milk-white horse, one hundred pipers piping before
him. It must have been a fearful moment—for those who did not
love the bagpipes.
George the Second, at St. James’s, began to reconsider his
position at hearing of this signal failure of his sworn protectors, and
many excellent, though time-serving, people in high places began to
explain away the disagreeable things they had said of the Stuarts.
But in a few weeks, as we know, the Highlanders were retreating;
and, trimming their sails anew, politicians and witlings were
repeating again their protestations of loyalty to the House of
Hanover, and refurbishing that old quotation from Revelation,
chapter xvii. verse 11, first current in 1715, by which they affected
to believe that James the Second of England and Seventh of
Scotland, and his son, the Pretender (de jure James the Third and
Eighth) were the subjects of prophecy: “And the beast that was, and
is not, even he is the eighth, and is of the seven, and goeth into
perdition.”
An ingenious find, it must be allowed, and sufficient, providing no
one else could refer to Revelation and find another quotation, a little
destructive of the first. But such an one was actually to hand in the
preceding verse, which very curiously says, “And there are seven
kings: five are fallen, and one is, and the other is not yet come; and
when he cometh, he must continue a short space.” There were those
excellent Whigs who, reading this, were not entirely happy until
events demonstrated that the rebellion was absolutely hopeless.
The Duke of Cumberland with ease retook the city, and captured
with it Prince Charlie’s devoted rear-guard: the brave Colonel
Townely and his 120 men of the Manchester Regiment, together
with over two hundred Highlanders, and some few Frenchmen. They
were lodged in the Cathedral, and thence taken in a long melancholy
procession to London, there, according to their degree, to be
beheaded as gentlemen, or hanged like common malefactors. They
rode, tied hand and foot, or walked, roped together, the whole bitter
way.
 The Duke was not greatly impressed with
THE CASTLE DUNGEONS
the military value of the castle. He called it “an
old hen-coop,” but it held securely enough the other miserable
prisoners who were sent into Carlisle after Culloden. Four hundred of
them awaited their doom in the grim dungeons, throughout the hot
weather of 1746, and in October the executions began. Ninety-six
fell to the hangman, and others were transported beyond seas. In
batches of half-a-dozen or a dozen at a time, they were called forth
from their captivity and drawn on hurdles to that Hanoverian
Golgotha, Gallows Hill, south of the city, where they were hanged
and afterwards quartered, in the bloody-minded old way; their heads
afterwards set upon poles over the Scotch Gate.
You may see relics of that savage time, even now, in the cell
fashioned in the thick eastern wall of the keep: the prison occupied
by Macdonald of Keppoch. He whiled away the tedium of
imprisonment by decorating the walls with designs, executed with a
nail, and there they still remain. At this day Carlisle Castle is a
somewhat shabby military depôt. The outer bailey is a parade-
ground skirted with barracks, and the inner ward and keep are War
Office storehouses. But it is in the unexpected modern surroundings
of the public library that the most tragical memento of that time
brings the hazards of rebellion with greatest vividness before you.
This is a plaster cast of a monument erected to Dr. Archibald
Campbell in the Savoy Chapel, London. The Chapel was largely
destroyed by fire in 1864, and with it the marble monument. The
unfortunate doctor was a non-combatant who acted as surgeon to
the rebels at Culloden, and escaped abroad from that disastrous
field. He returned, after seven years, to his Scottish home, thinking
he might then safely do so; but was informed against and executed.
 XXV
The greatest figure in the coaching world up
CARLISLE COACHING
north was Teather, who was principal contractor
for mails and stage-coaches in all that lengthy territory of 166 miles
between Lancaster and Glasgow. The careers of the Teathers reflect
the fortunes of the road. John Teather, the father, was originally
landlord of the “Royal Oak,” Keswick, which does not stand on the
main route to the north; but he left the comparative obscurity of that
Lakeland town for the bustling activities of Carlisle, and from that
strategic coaching position worked the coaches sixty-five miles south
to Lancaster, and 101 miles north, to Glasgow.
Eight mails entered and left Carlisle daily, and seven stage-
coaches; and eighty horses were kept for the proper working of
them. Teather and his son managed this important business: the
younger succeeding to it in 1837 and, in the general wreck brought
about by railway extension, living to end where his father had
begun, as landlord of the “Royal Oak” at Keswick.
With the coming of the nineteenth century, some steps were taken
to make Carlisle a port. It was thought that a ship-canal from a place
called Fisher’s Cross on the Solway, to Carlisle, a distance of twelve
miles, would make the ancient city a place of commercial
importance; and accordingly the canal was cut, 1819-23, at a cost of
£90,000, and Fisher’s Cross was dignified by the new name of “Port
Carlisle.” The enterprise never paid its way, any steps that might in
after years have been taken to improve the position being rendered
impossible by the coming of railways; while the irony of fate long
ago overtook the canal, in its conversion into a railway.
It was in December 1846 that the first railway ran into Carlisle
from the south. This was the Lancaster and Carlisle Railway, long
since absorbed into the London and North-Western. In September
1847 the Caledonian Railway, from Carlisle to Moffat, carried on the
new methods another stage, and in the following February it was
further extended to Glasgow and Edinburgh. It was necessarily the
death-blow of the coaches along the main route. My old friend, Mr.
W. H. Duignan, of Walsall, who remembers that time, travelled from
Carlisle to Glasgow by the last mail-coach. He went to the “Bush”
hotel and booked a seat for the occasion.
The bookkeeper remarked, when he gave his name, “I think I
have often booked you before, sir, have I not?”
“Yes,” the traveller replied.
“Then, sir,” rejoined the clerk, refusing the money, “Mr.——”—
mentioning the name of the hotel-keeper—“will feel it a pleasure if
you will accept a seat, and order anything you please, at his
expense.”
My friend declared that was the most gentlemanly-dying mail he
ever knew.
The “Bush” has since been rebuilt, but at Corby Castle, some two
miles away, in what was once the “Haunted Room,” there hangs in a
frame an interesting pane of glass from one of its windows, inscribed
by no less notable a traveller than Hume, the historian, with the
satirical verse, reflecting upon the “Bush,” the Cathedral, and Carlisle
in general:

Here chicks in eggs for breakfast sprawl;

Here godless boys God’s glories squall;
Here heads of Scotchmen guard the wall,
But Corby’s walks atone for all.

Sir Walter Scott saw this in 1825, and humorously remarked in a

letter to his friend Morritt upon “Hume’s poetical works.”
The reason that made Carlisle in early days the
A RAILWAY CENTRE
key of military dispositions, and in later times so
important a coaching centre, acted even more powerfully in making
it the busy centre of many railway systems that it is to-day. Carlisle
has ever stood squarely in the way of those who would pass on the
west between England and Scotland. To-day, the rival railways all
run into one joint station: and there the London and North-Western,
the Midland, and their respective allies, the Caledonian, the North
British, and the Glasgow and South-Western, after many a
Parliamentary battle in the past, compose their differences.
The chief coaching-business was ruined thus early, but the branch
coaches yet remained, and the last coach—that to Edinburgh by
Hawick—did not leave Carlisle on its final journey until August 31st,
1862. Coaching history, however, is as little illustrated in Carlisle by
visible remains as the ancient story of the place, for while the “Bush”
has been rebuilt, the rival inn, the “Crown and Mitre,” in Castle
Street, has declined to the state of a coffee-tavern, and the “Blue
Bell,” in Scotch Street, has obviously seen its best days.
If you seek frowning gateways, embattled walls, and the like,
sufficient to clothe the stirring story of Carlisle, you will be freezing
in the cold shade of disappointment, for the streets of Carlisle are
wide, many of the houses are modern, and railways are very much
to the fore. The Cathedral is obscurely placed, and almost the only
picturesque nook is the alley called St. Alban’s Row. Even the old
upping-blocks that used to stand so plentifully by the kerbstones for
the convenience of horsemen, and were a feature of Carlisle, have
disappeared. Only the odd names of the streets and alleys
occasionally remain: among them Rickergate, Whippery, and
Durham Ox Lane.
 ST. ALBAN’S ROW.
Carlisle of to-day has a commercial reputation.
“MERRY” CARLISLE
It makes hats and whips, and textile fabrics, to say
nothing of dye-works, where the citizens of Carlisle are prepared (at
a price) to dye for their country. The manufacture of gingham, too,
the secret of it stolen long ago from Guingamp, its native place, in
Brittany, occupies a good deal of attention, and the production of
biscuits and cardboard-boxes makes up the tale of the city’s
activities. But Carlisle, for all these developments, looks a poor
place, and by no means a merry. All the fun ceased when raiding
and murdering went out of date, and the only merry-making
nowadays to be seen and heard is not indigenous. It is to be found
at the great Carlisle Joint Station, at unseasonable hours, and is
provided, free, gratis, all for nothing, by travelling theatrical
companies bound for Scotland. For two generations past, the low
comedians of the companies have whiled away the weary waiting
sometimes to be done on Carlisle platforms, and astonished the tired
porters by dancing Scotch reels and sword-dances, accompanied by
fiendish yelps, or have expressed a desire to have a “willie waucht,”
to “dee for Annie Laurie,” to be “fou the noo,” or anything else
supposedly Scottish. It is one of the most cherished conventions of
the theatrical profession on tour.
 This great joint railway station—the Citadel Station, as it is called
—is neighboured by two enormous mediæval-looking drum towers
of red sandstone, restorations of two of the same character built in
the sixteenth century. They look none the less gloomy because they
serve merely the purpose of Assize Courts, instead of fortifications.
You must needs pass between them on entering Carlisle from the
London road, and they are among the first things to dispel any idea
the stranger may have brought with him that Carlisle is really
“merry.”
There is that about the modern appearance of Carlisle which
irresistibly reminds one of a ragged urchin clothed in some full-
grown man’s trousers. Many things are too large for its
circumstances. Two prominent things among the many that suggest
this comparison are the unnecessary electric tramways and the
noble Eden Bridge, carrying the road across the river to Stanwix.
The bridge, built a hundred years ago, is monumental, and even the
lamp-standards, designed for it at the same time, are fine. But the
over-head trolley-wires are an offence to the spirit of the thing, and
the city of Carlisle cares so little for it that ugly electric light
standards are placed at intervals, and the fine old iron lamps that
might so easily and handsomely have been adapted, now serve no
useful purpose.
 XXVI
Crossing to Stanwix, we are at last on the Border, for here
THE WALL
ran the Roman wall, on its way from Wallsend, near
Newcastle-on-Tyne, to Bowness, dividing the civilisation of that time
from the unknown savagery further north. Built about a.d. 121, at
the instance of the Emperor Hadrian, it kept the painted, skin-clad
“Picts” in their own wild country for over three hundred years, and
employed a considerable garrison to patrol it and exercise a
continual vigilance along those bitter, wind-swept miles. Many a
gallant centurion, condemned to mounting guard in these ancient
marches, has doubtless in the long ago leant over the ramparts of
the Wall, and gazing into the shaggy forest and brushwood beyond,
called down curses upon the “forward policy” in Rome, that pushed
the limits of Empire into the frozen north, before the southernmost
provinces were fully settled. Here was no society, and no glory in
fighting with savages to be compared with that to be gained in
campaigns against the armies of Carthage or of Greece.
Here, at this wall-fortress of Convagata, there was, at any rate,
the neighbourhood of Luguvallum, apparently well-settled, but the
solitary life of these wardens of old Rome in the lonely mile-castles
of the wall must have been so exceedingly dull that the dangers of
an occasional Pict raid would be welcomed.
Even in times so comparatively modern as the beginning of the
seventeenth century the Border was little known. Camden spoke of
the northern reaches of this road, before he visited Cumberland in
1607, as a part of the country “lying beyond the mountains toward
the Western Ocean,” and was greatly exercised with the hazards of
even nearing these remote fastnesses. He approached the
Lancashire people with “a kind of dread”; but, trusting to the
protection of God, determined at last to “run the hazard of the
attempt.” He did indeed come to the Border, but found, in exploring
the Roman Wall dividing England and Scotland, that the Wall was
not only a division between two countries, but marked the confines
of civilisation. He accordingly returned, shivering with apprehension,
leaving his projected work incomplete.

CARLISLE.
Stanwix, site of Convagata, obtains its name from the “stone way”
the Saxons found here. Truth to tell, modern Stanwix is a sorry spot
on which to meditate upon the departed colonial fortunes of Imperial
Rome, for the Wall is gone and Stanwix church and churchyard stand
upon the site of the fort. A precious ugly church, too, it is that has
been built here: Early English only by intention; with a dismally
crowded churchyard around it. A pathetic story is told by one of the
epitaphs: “Here lie the mortal bodies of five little sisters, the much-
loved children of A. C. Tait, Dean of Carlisle, and of Catherine, his
wife, who were all cut off within five weeks.” They died during an
epidemic of scarlet-fever, in 1856. A memorial window to them is in
the north transept of the Cathedral. “A. C. Tait” was, of course,
Archibald Campbell Tait, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury.
 But if Stanwix be so ugly and commonplace, the scenery in which
it is placed is extremely beautiful. The greater, then, the crime of
those who have made it what it is. There is a lovely steep grassy
descent, plenteously wooded with noble trees, that falls away from
the ridge of Stanwix down to the Eden, and thus skirts the river for a
mile or more. “Rickerby Holmes” is the name of this beautiful
feature. From this point you gain the finest view of Carlisle.
It is a flat, featureless country that stretches north
THE BORDER
from Stanwix across the nine miles to the Border-line.
Miserable villages that are merely collections of gaunt cottages little
better than hovels, often built of “dubbin,” i.e. clay and straw, occur
at intervals. Nearly all of comparatively modern date, they point
unmistakably to the fact that it is not so very long since to live in the
Debatable Land was hazardous, and not to be thought of by the law-
abiding. Very well indeed for moss-trooping vagabonds and cow-
stealers, but not for the responsible, or those who wished for a quiet
life.
Passing Goslin Syke, where a marshy stream crosses the road, we
come to Kingstown, where the road branches right and left. On this,
the last stage to the Border, this parting of the ways meant much to
eloping couples, bound for Scotland and marriage immediately on
reaching Scottish soil.
The geography of Gretna and the Border is, so far as roads are
concerned, somewhat involved, and requires careful explanation. Up
to 1830, when the wide-spreading sands of the Esk were bridged,
the way for coaches and all road-traffic lay circuitously through
Longtown to the right of where the fork of the roads now occurs;
but in that year the New Road, or the “English Road,” as it was
commonly called, was opened, causing much interference with what
the inhabitants of Springfield had almost come to regard as their
“vested rights.” For, as the accompanying plan will show, Springfield
lay directly on the route into Scotland; and Gretna Green merely to
one side of it. But here again it behoves the historian to be careful
and not rashly to assume that the early marriages were made at
Springfield, and should therefore have been named after it. As a
curious matter of fact, this village did not come into existence until
1791, when it was built by the then landowner, Sir William Maxwell,
who named it from a farm standing there. It was then, and for long
after, the home of people professing to be weavers, but really,
almost without exception, a set of drunken Border blackguards who,
when not helplessly intoxicated, were smugglers and poachers and
wastrels generally, and, living in the marches of the two countries,
respected the laws of neither.
Springfield, immediately after its rise, took away most of the
marrying business of Gretna, being nearer the magical dividing-line.

MAP OF OLD AND NEW ROADS FROM CARLISLE TO GRETNA

GREEN.
Blackford, on the Longtown road, is of the
THE LONGTOWN ROAD
one unvarying pattern here, and is followed by
the hamlet of West Linton, by the river Lyne, where a cottage or so,
a farm, and the whitewashed “Graham’s Arms,” with its motto,
“N’Oublie,” stand stodged in the mud. Fir-trees and a laurel-bordered
road then lead to the by-way where Arthuret church, standing
solitary, serves for churchless Longtown, half a mile distant.
 In Arthuret churchyard there is shown a broken cross, said to
mark the grave of Archie Armstrong, the famous Court fool of James
the First and Charles the First. James brought him south, from the
Border, where he had early distinguished himself as a sheepstealer
in Eskdale; and his impudence and invincible effrontery brought him
a long period of success at Court. But at last he overreached himself,
in his enmity to Archbishop Laud. On one occasion, saying grace at
Whitehall, he exclaimed, “Great praise to God and little laud to the
Devil,” and all the Court sniggered; but when, in 1637, he met Laud
at a time when the Scots were rising against the Archbishop’s
attempts at dictation in religious matters, and asked, “Wha’s fool the
noo?” the jester’s licence had grown beyond endurance, and he was
dismissed. He lived many years longer, and earned the reputation of
an extremely usurious lender of money, to whom no sharp practices
came amiss. The cross shown as marking his resting-place is really a
portion of an ancient Scandinavian monument.
Another character, very notorious in his day, lies
SIR JAMES GRAHAM
in the churchyard: Sir James Graham of Netherby,
who was Home Secretary in 1844, when the correspondence of
Mazzini and other political refugees was opened at the General Post
Office by his direction, and read. Graham received his orders from
the Earl of Aberdeen, Minister for Foreign Affairs, but it was Graham
himself upon whom the whole of the public obloquy fell, and he
remarked, in the true spirit of prophecy, that all else he had done
would be forgotten, and he would be remembered only by this
wretched incident. It surely is a pitiful thing and a real tragedy of the
public service that an honourable gentleman who in private life
would have scorned to do anything mean should go down in history
as the man who violated the sanctity of private correspondence.
 ARTHURET CHURCH.
There are no architectural graces in Longtown. Each house is like
its fellow and every street resembles every other street. How then
do the strayed revellers, returning home “fou,” find the way to their
especial domiciles? An attempt to subdue the stark angularity of
Longtown, though not to give its streets variety, is seen in the
somewhat recent planting of the roads with trees.
Many people suppose the river Esk at Longtown to be the division
between England and Scotland. The supposition is reasonable
enough, for the actual divisor, the Sark, four miles further on,
approaching Springfield, is a very insignificant stream in appearance.
The political and the social significances of it were, however, of very
serious import indeed.
Solway Moss is passed on the way. Turner has made it the subject
of one of the finest plates in his Liber Studiorum, and has imported
into the view some mountains that are not there, together with
some weather which, fortunately for the present writer, was equally
absent when he passed this way.
 SOLWAY MOSS
[After J. M. W. Turner, R.A.
Solway Moss is marked on the maps with
BATTLE OF SOLWAY MOSS
the conventional crossed swords that
indicate a battle. It was not an epoch-making battle that was fought
here, November 24th, 1542, but it was one of the most complete of
English victories, and the story of it is compact of a peculiar terror.
The Scots had crossed the Border in force, and were proceeding on
their usual lines of fire and pillage, to the assault of Carlisle, when
they were met at Arthuret by an army under Sir Thomas Wharton,
the stout Warden of the West Marches. The English onset
disorganised the invaders, who fled in the gathering darkness. Ten
thousand fugitives lost their way, and found themselves with the
flowing tide upon the fatal Solway Sands. Some flung away their
arms and struggled through, thousands were drowned, and many
surrendered to women. Meanwhile, the main body, pursued by the
English, wandered in the other direction across the Esk and plunged
into the bog of Solway Moss, and were swallowed up, slain, or taken
prisoners. “Never,” says Froude, “in all the wars between England
and Scotland, had there been a defeat more complete, more
sudden, or more disgraceful.” James the Fifth of Scotland died on
December 14th, heartbroken at the disaster. It was a complete
English revenge for the defeat they had suffered at the Sark, hard
by, in 1449, nearly a hundred years before.

THE ROAD PAST SOLWAY MOSS.

Turner therefore does right in so romantically treating the subject,
and I am merely a pictorial reporter, setting down only what I see.
But at any rate, while Turner might dissuade the pilgrim, with his
storm overhead and his fathomless bog beneath, whence apparently
some wretches are just escaping with their lives, you see by the
modern sketch that there is at least a hard high road running by.
Having come now to the Sark, and across it into the long street of
Springfield, and by the same token into Scotland, it is necessary to
tell at length the story of “Gretna Green” marriages. It could scarce
be told in more forbidding surroundings, for Springfield is one long
street of gaunt, unrelieved commonplace, and neither the once
notorious “Queen’s Head” inn on the right, nor the “Maxwell Arms”
on the left, helps to relieve it in the least degree. But the devil’s in it
if love can’t throw a rosy tinge over even such a scene, and
doubtless Springfield looked entrancing to some.
 XXVII
The popularity of Gretna Green elopements dated from the passing
of Lord Chancellor Hardwicke’s Marriage Act of 1754, by which it was
declared that “Any person solemnising matrimony in any other place
than a church or public chapel, without banns, or other license,
shall, on conviction, be adjudged guilty of felony, and be transported
for fourteen years, and all such marriages shall be void.”
This measure was expressly designed to put an
FLEET MARRIAGES
end to the long-continued and growing scandals of
the so-called “Fleet marriages,” which had first attracted attention in
1674. The Fleet marriages, performed by the chaplains of the Fleet
Prison, in London, led to many abuses. Made on the spur of the
moment, between the prisoners there, incarcerated for debt or other
misdemeanours, and the visitors permitted free access under the lax
discipline of that time, the most fearful alliances were perpetrated by
wholesale. Drunken prisoners, dissolute women, and parsons who
richly deserved being unfrocked were the actors in these scenes,
almost exactly matched by the similar clandestine marriages
performed on application, at all hours of day or night, by the
chaplains of the Savoy, and by the clerical owners of proprietary
chapels in Mayfair.
These marriage-merchants earned amazing incomes, the still-
existing records of a Fleet parson’s fees in 1748 showing that in the
month of October alone he received no less than £69 12s. 9d. for his
services. At the Fleet, on March 25th, 1754, the day before Lord
Hardwicke’s Act became law, there was a grand winding-up of the
business, when 217 marriages were celebrated.
The penalty provided by the Act was not, under the existing
circumstances, too severe; for, in view of the evils wrought by those