At starting it seemed easy to reach Carlisle for the night, but progress was slow and we met an unexpected delay at Warrington, twenty miles north of Chester. A policeman courteously notified us that the main street of the city would be closed three hours for a Sunday School parade. We had arrived five minutes too late to get across the bridge and out of the way. We expressed our disgust at the situation and the officer made the conciliatory suggestion that we might be able to go on anyway. He doubted if the city had any authority to close the main street, one of the King's highways, on account of such a procession. We hardly considered our rights so seriously infringed as to demand such a remedy, and we turned into the stable-yard of a nearby hotel to wait until the streets were clear. In the meantime we joined the crowd that watched the parade. The main procession, of five or six thousand children, was made up of Sunday Schools of the Protestant churches—the Church of England and the "Non-Conformists." The Catholics, whose relations in England with Protestants are strained to a much greater extent than in the United States, did not join, but formed a smaller procession in one of the side streets. The parade was brilliant with flags and with huge banners bearing portraits of the King and Queen, though some bore the names and emblems of the different schools. One small fellow proudly flourished the Stars and Stripes, which was the only foreign flag among the thousands in the procession. In this connection I might remark that one sees the American flag over here far oftener than he would traveling in America. We found nothing but the kindest and most cordial feeling toward Americans everywhere; and the very fact that we were Americans secured us special privileges in not a few cases.
After the procession had crossed the bridge, a policeman informed us that we could proceed. We gained considerable time by making a detour through side streets—not an altogether easy performance—and after much inquiry regained the main road leading out of the city. Warrington is a city of more than one hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants, a manufacturing place with nothing to detain the tourist. On the main street near the river is a fine bronze statue of Oliver Cromwell, one of four that I saw erected to the memory of the Protector in England. Our route from Warrington led through Wigan and Preston, manufacturing cities of nearly one hundred thousand each, and the suburbs of the three are almost continuous. Tram cars were numerous and children played everywhere with utter unconcern for the vehicles which crowded the streets.
When we came to Lancaster we were glad to stop, although our day's journey had covered only sixty miles. We knew very little of Lancaster and resorted to the guide-books for something of its antecedents, only to learn the discouraging fact that here, as everywhere, the Romans had been ahead of us. The town has a history reaching back to the Roman occupation, but its landmarks have been largely obliterated in the manufacturing center which it has become. Charles Dickens was a guest at Lancaster, and in recording his impressions he declared it "a pleasant place, dropped in the midst of a charming landscape; a place with a fine, ancient fragment of a castle; a place of lovely walks and possessing many staid old houses, richly fitted with Honduras mahogany," and followed with other reflections not so complimentary concerning the industrial slavery which prevailed in the city a generation or two ago. The "fine, ancient fragment of a castle" has been built into the modern structure which now serves as the seat of the county court. The square tower of the Norman keep is included in the building. This in general style and architecture conforms to the old castle, which, excepting the fragment mentioned by Dickens, has long since vanished. Near at hand is St. Mary's Church, rivaling in size and dignity many of the cathedrals, and its massive, buttressed walls and tall, graceful spire do justice to its magnificent site. From the eminence occupied by the church the Irish Sea is plainly visible, and in the distance the almost tropical Isle of Man rises abruptly out of the blue waters. The monotony of our previous day's travel was forgotten in lively anticipation as we proceeded at what seemed a snail's pace over the fine road leading from Penrith to Carlisle. We had been warned at Penrith, not against the bold highwaymen, the border moss-troopers or the ranting Highlandmen of song and story, but against a plain, Twentieth Century police trap which was being worked very successfully along this road. Such was our approach in these degenerate days to "Merrie Carlile," which figured so largely in the endless border warfare between the Scotch and English. But why the town should have been famed as "Merrie Carlile" would be hard to say, unless more than a thousand years of turmoil, bloodshed and almost ceaseless warfare through which it passed earned it the cheerful appellation. The trouble between the English and the Welsh ended early, but it has been only a century and a half ago since the closing scene of the long and bitter conflict between the north and south was enacted at Carlisle. Its grim old castle was the scene of the imprisonment and execution of the last devoted followers of Prince Charlie, and according to Scott's Waverly the dashing but sadly deluded young chieftain, Fergus McIvor, was one of those who suffered a shameful death. In this connection one remembers that Scott's marriage to Miss Carpentier took place in Carlisle, an event that would naturally accentuate our interest in the fine old border city. As we had previously visited Carlisle, our stay was a short one, but its remarkable history, its connection with the stories of Walter Scott, its atmosphere of romance and legend and the numerous points of interest within easy reach—all combine to make it a center where one might spend several days. The Romans had been here also, and they, too, had struggled with the wild tribes on the north, and from that time down to the execution of the last adherents of the Stuarts in 1759 the town was hardly at any time in a state of quietude. As described by an observant writer, "every man became a soldier and every house that was not a mere peasant's hut was a fortress." A local poet of the Seventeenth Century summed it up in a terse if not elegant couplet as his unqualified opinion
"That whoso then in the border did dwell
Lived little happier than those in hell."
But Carlisle is peaceful and quiet enough at the present time, a place of considerable size and with a thriving commerce. Its castle, a plain and unimpressive structure, still almost intact, has been converted into military barracks, and its cathedral, which, according to an old chronicle, in 1634 "impressed three observant strangers as a great wild country church," has not been greatly altered in appearance since that period. It suffered severely at the hands of the Parliamentary soldiers, who tore down a portion of the nave to use the materials in strengthening the defenses of the town. But the story of Carlisle could not be told in many volumes. If the mere hint of its great interest which I have given here can induce any fellow tourist to tarry a little longer at "Merrie Carlile," it will be enough.
Leaving Carlisle, we crossed "Solway Tide" and found ourselves in the land of bluebells and heather, the "Bonnie Scotland" of Robert Burns. Shortly after crossing the river, a sign-board pointed the way to Gretna Green, that old-time haven of eloping lovers, who used to cross the Solway just as the tide began to rise, and before it subsided there was little for the paternal ancestors to do but forgive and make the best of it. But we missed the village, for it was a mile or two off the road to Dumfries, which we hoped to reach for the night. An unexpected difficulty with the car nearly put this out of the range of possibility, but by grace of the long Scotch twilight, we came into Dumfries about ten o'clock without finding it necessary to light our lamps. Our day's journey had been a tiresome one, and we counted ourselves fortunate on being directed to the Station Hotel, which was as comfortable and well managed as any we found. The average railway hotel in America is anything but an attractive proposition, but in Scotland and in England conditions are almost reversed, the station hotels under the control of the different railway companies being generally the best.
We had been attracted to Dumfries chiefly because of its association with Robert Burns, who spent the last years of his life in the town or in its immediate vicinity. Our first pilgrimage was to the poet's tomb, in St. Michael's churchyard. A splendid memorial marks the place, but a visit to the small dingy house a few yards distant, in which he died, painfully reminded us of his last years of distress and absolute want. Within easy reach of Dumfries lie many points of interest, but as our time permitted us to visit only one of these, we selected Caerlaverock Castle, the Ellangowan of Scott's "Guy Mannering," lying about ten miles to the south. In location and style of construction it is one of the most remarkable of the Scotch ruins. It stands in an almost level country near the coast and must have depended for defense on its enormously thick walls and the great double moat which surrounded it, rather than the strength of its position. The castle is built of dark-brown stone, and the walls, rising directly from the waters of the moat and covered with masses of ivy, are picturesque, though in a sad state of disrepair. Bits of artistic carving and beautiful windows showed that it was a palace as well as a fortress, though it seems strange that the builder should select such a site. In common with most British castles, it was finally destroyed by Cromwell, and the custodian showed us a pile of cannon balls which he had gathered in the vicinity. On one of the stones of the inner wall were the initials, "R.B.," and the date, "1776," which our guide assured us were cut by Robert Burns; and there are certain peculiarities about the monogram which leave little doubt that it was the work of the poet. From the battlements of the castle the old man pointed to a distant hill, where, he told us, the home of the Carlyles had been for many years and where Thomas Carlyle, who was born at Ecclefechan, lies buried. Within a few miles of Dumfries is Ellisland Farm, where Robert Burns was a tenant for several years, and many of his most famous poems were written during that period. And besides, there were old abbeys and castles galore within easy reach; and glad indeed we should have been had we been able to make the Station Hotel our headquarters for a week and devote our time to exploring. But we were already behind schedule and the afternoon found us on the road to Ayr.
A little more than half the distance from Dumfries to Ayr the road runs through the Nith Valley, with river and forest scenery so charming as to remind us of the Wye. The highway is a splendid one, with fine surface and easy grades. It passes through an historic country, and the journey would consume a long time if one should pause at every point that might well repay a visit. A mile on the way is Lincluden Abbey, in whose seclusion Burns wrote many of his poems, the most famous of which, "The Vision of Liberty," begins with a reference to the ruin:
"As I stood by yon roofless tower
Where wall flowers scent the dewy air,
Where the owlet lone in her ivy bower,
Tells to the midnight moon her care—"