us that the first Lord Clifford was the great builder of the castle.
His grandson added largely to it; and a mighty place it must have
been. Cliffords of Brougham and a dozen other strongholds dared with
impunity what smaller men would have been ruined to attempt the tenth
part of; and the messengers of Kings, sent with formidable sealed
documents, have been set down to dine at Brougham Castle upon the wax
and parchment of the commands they brought, and have made a hearty, but
involuntary, meal upon those unappetising materials under the grim eyes
of my lord, without wine to wash them down or condiment to flavour them
withal.
[Illustration: YANWATH HALL.]
And now the scene is merely the subject for an artist; and a beautiful
subject, too. The old ruins stand in an ideal situation, in an
undulating grassy meadow, sloping towards the sparkling Eamont, framed
in with trees, and with distant mountains closing in the scene.
[Sidenote: _COUNTESS PILLAR_]
Such is the present condition of the old Countess Ann’s pride; but
something of her passion for commemoration remains, not so far away,
in the monument known in all this countryside as the Countess Pillar;
built by her in 1656. It is adorned with her arms and those of allied
families, and bears this inscription:
This Pillar was erected Anno 1656 by ye Rt. Hono^{ble} Anne Countess
Dowager of Pembrook, daughter and sole heire of ye Rt. Hono^{ble}
George, Earl of Cumberland, for a memorial of her last parting
in this place with her good and pious mother, ye Rt. Hono^{ble}
Margaret, Countes Dowager of Cumberland, ye 2^d of April, 1616,
in memory whereof she also left an annuity of four pounds, to be
distributed to ye poor within this parrish of Brougham euery 2^d day
of April for euer vpon ye stone table here hard by.
LAUS DEO.
The Eamont, the Eden, and the Lowther were well guarded, as the
fortified houses by the fords still prove. Yanwath Hall, an ancient
home of the Threlkelds, is a fine example of a peel-tower added to
and elaborated into a residence. It is one of the earliest and most
interesting, having been built midway in the fourteenth century. The
original tower, strong in its walls, six feet thick and embattled,
stands fifty-five feet high and looks down into a courtyard, the
barmkin, or inner bailey, where the ancient oaken, iron-banded, and
studded doors and windows guarded by thick stanchions show how
concerned the old owners were for their personal security in insecure
times.
[Illustration: ASKHAM HALL.]
[Sidenote: _ASKHAM HALL_]
Cliburn, Sockbridge, and Barton Kirke were all fortified houses,
disposed by these rivers like the castles upon a chess-board. Finest
of these old fortified mansions is the romantically situated and
picturesquely designed Askham Hall, now the rectory of Lowther, but
situated in Askham village. It stands high above the wooded Lowther,
foaming down among its rocks under Lowther Park, and was originally
the castellated seat of the Sandford family. The front is dour and
forbidding enough, and the interior, although oak panelled and
converted into a residence after the ideas that were modern two
hundred and fifty years ago, does not commend itself as a cheerful
residence. But the additions made at the side by Thomas Sandford
in 1574 are exquisitely sketchable. They comprise a gatehouse and
outbuildings enclosing a courtyard. The drip-moulding over the archway
is in a peculiar style, resembling a cable; its ends finished off in
the likeness of ammonites. Over the arch are the Sandford arms, with
those of Crackanthorpe and Lancaster of Howgill, and this inscription,
done in letters run oddly together:
Thomas · Sandford · Esqvyr,
Forthys · payd · meatahyr[1]
The · year · of · ovr · Savyore
XV · hvndreth · seventyfovr.
The Sandfords ended at last, after three hundred years, in 1680.
XXII
Returning to the road from these quests, the Lowther is crossed at
Lowther Bridge. Beside the river and immediately skirting the road, is
the earthwork known as “King Arthur’s Round Table,” an ancient raised
platform whose purpose can only be guessed at. Not King Arthur, but
the Norse settlers, are held to have been the originators of it, as
the stage whereon their rude displays of arms were held: in particular
a duel known as “holmegang,” a species of gladiatorial combat in
which the opponents were armed with knives, bound together, and then
compelled to fight to the death. Such are the fearful memories of this
now peaceful scene. On the opposite side of the road, within a belt of
trees, is an arena ascribed to the no less tragical rites of the Druids.
[Illustration: KING ARTHUR’S DRINKING CUP.]
King Arthur is further celebrated in a huge circular red sandstone
tank standing in the yard of the “Crown” inn, adjoining. It is known
locally as “King Arthur’s Drinking Cup,” and has a capacity of about
eighty gallons, sufficient to quench the thirst, not merely of King
Arthur, but of a megatherium. But quite apart from any wildly absurd
legends, the thing is astonishing in these days of zinc cisterns. Who
so painfully scooped this tank out of a solid block of stone, and when,
and how long the work occupied him, are alike unknown.
[Sidenote: _EAMONT BRIDGE_]
On the embankment enclosing the prehistoric camp there has been placed
in the last few years a monument, in the shape of an Iona cross, to the
patriotism of four natives of Eamont Bridge. But let the inscription on
the cross itself tell the tale: “At that crisis in the history of the
Empire, when volunteers were invited for active service in the South
African War, this village of Eamont Bridge sent four: John Hindson,
William Todd, and Arthur Warwick, of the 24th Coy. (Westmoreland and
Cumberland) Imperial Yeomanry, and William Hindson, of the Volunteer
Coy. of the Border Regt. Of these John Hindson and William Todd were
killed in action at Faber’s Put, 30th May, 1900. This monument was
erected by public subscription on this historic spot granted by Lord
Brougham and Vaux, 1901. _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori._”
The old bridge, built in 1425, spanning the Eamont River, has given its
name to the village that has in the course of years sprung up here.
It is a small, scattered place, but some of the houses are old, and
several bear inscriptions. “Omne solum forti patria est,” says one,
with initials “H. P.” and date “1671” appended. “H. P.” was evidently a
student of Ovidius Naso.
The road over Eamont Bridge is very steep and narrow and the ascent
beyond it steeper still; so that the stranger, observing the fury with
which the drivers of the excursion wagonettes and motor chars-a-banc
take the ascents and descents on their wild way to and from Penrith
and Ullswater, confidently expects an accident “while he waits.”
But whether it be skill, or luck, the accidents do not happen, and
expectant strangers, to have their expectations realised, would have to
wait on the spot until the moss grew on them.
According to the writers of guide-books, there may be found, carved
on the parapet of the bridge, the hospitable phrase, “Welcome into
Cumberland.” You, in fact, in crossing it leave Westmoreland for
Cumberland, and, having read so much of this kindly sentiment, you
seek diligently for the inscription. Alas! in vain. There is not, nor
was there ever, anything of the kind. Instead, what meets your eye is
an inn whose sign, “The Welcome into Cumberland,” is adorned with a
representation of pipes and punch-bowl, and with a weird picture of
a Personage—he must be a Personage, for he wears frock-coat and silk
hat—effusively greeting a Highlander arrayed in full Highland fig. Each
looks astonished at the other, and the pilgrim of the roads, gazing
fascinated, is astonished at both. This, then, is the “Welcome,” and
one by no means so disinterested as you were led to expect. Another
vanished illusion!
[Illustration: EAMONT BRIDGE.]
Even the inn bears its moral tag, for over the door you read
“Struimus in Diem, sed Nox venit,” with the date “MDCCXVII,” and the
names of Nathan and Elizabeth Gower. One “R. L. Wharton” appears to
have endorsed the sentiment (having duly inquired what the Latin meant)
and subscribed his name and the date 1781, in approval.
XXIII
[Sidenote: _PENRITH_]
Penrith derives its name, originally Pen-rhydd; “the red hill,” from
Beacon Hill, 937 feet high, under whose shelter this place of narrow
and huddled streets lies. The Beacon Hill was in the old days a
protection to the surrounding country, for from its crest flared those
warning flames that advised many a mile of threatened Westmoreland of
the approach of the invading Scots.
But although Penrith is sheltered by its great godfather hill, it was
never at any time effectually protected against the invader. Carlisle,
eighteen miles away to the north, was its great bulwark, and if that
fortified city fell, or were cleverly avoided, then the case of Penrith
was sorry indeed, as in the notable instance of 1345, when the Scots,
numbering 26,000 men, came pouring across the Border, and burnt the
town and many neighbouring villages; taking prisoners with them, on
their return, as many hale and hearty men as they could find, to be
sold as slaves to the highest bidders. Such was life on the Borders in
the fourteenth century, and, reading these things, we are inclined to
agree with Taylor the “Water-poet’s” conclusion:
Whoso then did in the Borders dwell
Lived little happier than those in Hell.
The next year, the remaining inhabitants of Penrith, graciously
permitted by the King to protect themselves, built a communal castle,
and each townsman, so far as was possible to him, rebuilt his own
dwelling-house in a strong and defensible way. Hence the grim,
thick-walled houses that even now line many of the narrow streets.
That the Castle was at least once rebuilt seems certain. One of these
rebuildings was that by Richard, Duke of Gloucester, who, before he
became that inimical character of history, Richard the Third, was
Governor of these marches, and resided here in every circumstance of
magnificence. Now the place is a ruin, a condition it owes to the
Penrith people themselves, who early in the time of Queen Elizabeth
considered they had a more pressing need for a prison than for a
fortress, and accordingly with thirty loads of stone, erected a very
secure, if not very comfortable, gaol. At the same period, Robert
Bartram, a merchant of the town, built himself a house from the same
materials; and there it stands to this day in the churchyard, inscribed
“R. B., 1563.”
There is thus nothing pictorial in the bare, roofless red walls of
the Castle. It has little, or no story, and stands in the unromantic
neighbourhood of the railway station, in a lofty situation on a hilltop
above the town.
[Sidenote: _THE “GLOUCESTER ARMS”_]
The Duke of Gloucester, although he rebuilt the Castle, is chiefly
associated with a much more sheltered situation, in the town itself.
There were intervals between the acts of even Richard the Third’s
melodrama, when, turning from battle, and from compassing the death of
his relatives, he sought repose and refreshment, and he found them here
in what must have been the exceedingly comfortable quarters of what
was once Dockwray Hall, an ancient building that stands in the square
called Great Dockwray, and is now, in memory of him, the “Gloucester
Arms” inn.
The old house does not wear so prepossessing an exterior as, under
these historic circumstances, it should. That is largely due to its
stucco facing, painted the colour of decaying liver. The only exterior
sign of the house being anything out of the ordinary is the carved
and emblazoned shield over the door, displaying the arms of Richard
himself, supported by two white boars with gilded manes. Another
doorway has a shield with three greyhounds, “in pale, courant,” as
a herald would say, and the inscription “I. W., 1580:” the initials
standing for “John Whelpdale,” who made extensive alterations to the
building.
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.
[Sidenote: _PENRITH CHURCH_]
There is not much left of the ancient church of 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.
[Illustration: THE GIANT’S GRAVE.]
[Sidenote: _THE “GIANT’S GRAVE”_]
Still upon three sides of the church-tower you 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 acquir^d by Rob^t Miers
Merc^t, who was inter^d the
19^{th} of May 1722 His Wy^s
Marg^t and Ann Sep^{br} ye 19
rebuilt in y^e y^r 1763 Sep^{br} 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.”
[Illustration: OLD DOORWAY, PENRITH.]
XXIV
[Sidenote: _TO CARLISLE_]
The Boer War of 1899-1902 has left a wayside 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.
[Illustration: THIEFSIDE]
[Sidenote: _CARLISLE_]
Carlisle was the first and stoutest bulwark gainst the 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.
[Sidenote: _RAIDERS_]