June 28th.--On the 26th my wife, J-----, and I left Southport, taking the
train for Preston, and as we had to stop an hour or two before starting
for Carlisle, I walked up into the town. The street through which most
of my walk lay was brick-built, lively, bustling, and not particularly
noteworthy; but, turning a little way down another street, the town had a
more ancient aspect. The day was intensely hot, the sun lying bright and
broad as ever I remember it in an American city; so that I was glad to
get back again to the shade and shelter of the station. The heat and
dust, moreover, made our journey to Carlisle very uncomfortable. It was
through very pretty, and sometimes picturesque scenery, being on the
confines of the hill-country, which we could see on our left, dim and
blue; and likewise we had a refreshing breath from the sea in passing
along the verge of Morecambe Bay. We reached Carlisle at about five
o'clock, and, after taking tea at the Bush Hotel, set forth to look at
the town.
The notable objects were a castle and a cathedral; and we first found our
way to the castle, which stands on elevated ground, on the side of the
city towards Scotland. A broad, well-constructed path winds round the
castle at the base of the wall, on the verge of a steep descent to the
plain beneath, through which winds the river Eden. Along this path we
walked quite round the castle, a circuit of perhaps half a mile,--
pleasant, being shaded by the castle's height and by the foliage of
trees. The walls have been so much rebuilt and restored that it is only
here and there that we see an old buttress, or a few time-worn stones
intermixed with the new facing with which the aged substance is overlaid.
The material is red freestone, which seems to be very abundant in this
part of the country. We found no entrance to the castle till the path
had led us from the free and airy country into a very mean part of the
town, where the wretched old houses thrust themselves between us and the
castle wall, and then, passing through a narrow street, we walked up what
appeared like a by-lane, and the portal of the castle was before us.
There was a sentry-box just within the gate, and a sentinel was on guard,
for Carlisle Castle is a national fortress, and has usually been a depot
for arms and ammunition. The sergeant, or corporal of the guard, sat
reading within the gateway, and, on my request for admittance, he civilly
appointed one of the soldiers to conduct us to the castle. As I
recollect, the chief gateway of the castle, with the guard-room in the
thickness of the wall, is situated some twenty yards behind the first
entrance where we met the sentinel.
It was an intelligent young soldier who showed as round the castle, and
very civil, as I always find soldiers to be. He had not anything
particularly interesting to show, nor very much to say about it; and what
he did say, so far as it referred to the history of the castle, was
probably apocryphal.
The castle has an inner and outer ward on the descent of the hill; and
included within the circuit of the exterior wall. Having been always
occupied by soldiers, it has not been permitted to assume the picturesque
aspect of a ruin, but the buildings of the interior have either been
constantly repaired, as they required it, or have been taken down when
past repair. We saw a small part of the tower where Mary, Queen of
Scots, was confined on her first coming to England; these remains consist
only of a portion of a winding stone staircase, at which we glanced
through a window. The keep is very large and massive, and, no doubt, old
in its inner substance. We ascended to the castle walls, and looked out
over the river towards the Scottish hills, which are visible in the
distance,--the Scottish border being not more than eight or nine miles
off. Carlisle Castle has stood many sieges, and witnessed many battles
under its walls. There are now, on its ramparts, only some half a dozen
old-fashioned guns, which our soldier told us had gone quite out of use
in these days. They were long iron twelve-pounders, with one or two
carronades. The soldier was of an artillery regiment, and wore the
Crimean medal. He said the garrison now here consists only of about
twenty men, all of whom had served in the Crimea, like himself. They
seem to lead a very dull and monotonous life, as indeed it must be,
without object or much hope, or any great employment of the present, like
prisoners, as indeed they are. Our guide showed us on the rampart a
place where the soldiers had been accustomed to drop themselves down at
night, hanging by their hands from the top of the wall, and alighting on
their feet close beside the path on the outside. The height seemed at
least that of an ordinary house, but the soldier said that nine times out
of ten the fall might be ventured without harm; and he spoke from
experience, having himself got out of the castle in this manner. The
place is now boarded up, so as to make egress difficult or impossible.
The castle, after all, was not particularly worth seeing. The soldier's
most romantic story was of a daughter of Lord Scroope, a former governor
of the castle, when Mary of Scotland was confined here. She attempted to
assist the Queen in escaping, but was shot dead in the gateway by the
warder; and the soldier pointed out the very spot where the poor young
lady fell and died;--all which would be very interesting were there a
word of truth in the story. But we liked our guide for his intelligence,
simplicity, and for the pleasure which he seemed to take, as an episode
of his dull daily life, in talking to strangers. He observed that the
castle walls were solid, and, indeed, there was breadth enough to drive a
coach and four along the top; but the artillery of the Crimea would have
shelled them into ruins in a very few hours. When we got back to the
guard-house, he took us inside, and showed the dismal and comfortless
rooms where soldiers are confined for drunkenness, and other offences
against military laws, telling us that he himself had been confined
there, and almost perished with cold. I should not much wonder if he
were to get into durance again, through misuse of the fee which I put
into his hand at parting.
The cathedral is at no great distance from the castle; and though the
streets are mean and sordid in the vicinity, the close has the antique
repose and shadowy peace, at once domestic and religious, which seem
peculiar and universal in cathedral closes. The foundation of this
cathedral church is very ancient, it having been the church portion of an
old abbey, the refectory and other remains of which are still seen around
the close. But the whole exterior of the building, except here and
there a buttress, and one old patch of gray stones, seems to have been
renewed within a very few years with red freestone; and, really, I think
it is all the more beautiful for being new,--the ornamental parts being
so sharply cut, and the stone, moreover, showing various shadings, which
will disappear when it gets weatherworn. There is a very large and fine
east window, of recent construction, wrought with delicate stone tracery.
The door of the south transept stood open, though barred by an iron
grate. We looked in, and saw a few monuments on the wall, but found
nobody to give us admittance. The portal of this entrance is very lovely
with wreaths of stone foliage and flowers round the arch, recently
carved; yet not so recently but that the swallows have given their
sanction to it, as if it were a thousand years old, and have built their
nests in the deeply carved recesses. While we were looking, a little
bird flew into the small opening between two of these petrified flowers,
behind which was his nest, quite out of sight. After some attempts to
find the verger, we went back to the hotel. . . .
In the morning my wife and J----- went back to see the interior of the
cathedral, while I strayed at large about the town, again passing round
the castle site, and thence round the city, where I found some
inconsiderable portions of the wall which once girt it about. It was
market-day in Carlisle, and the principal streets were much thronged with
human life and business on that account; and in as busy a street as any
stands a marble statue, in robes of antique state, fitter for a niche in
Westminster Abbey than for the thronged street of a town. It is a statue
of the Earl of Lonsdale, Lord Lieutenant of Cumberland, who died about
twenty years ago.
[Here follows the record of the visits to the "Haunts of Burns," already
published in Our Old Home.--ED.]