And now we are in Carlisle town—to-day a thriving, well-built, but, after all, not very remarkable place. Here as elsewhere, romance has fled, and prosaic comfort takes its place. “Merrie Carlisle” the ballads call it. Do you wonder why? It was in the very centre of border warfare; some eight miles north lay the Debatable Land—for centuries a bone of contention between Scots and English. In frequent incursions the Northman wasted the country far and near, and the warder, as he looked from the Scots Gate—so they termed the northern port of the citadel—could see robber bands moving here and there, and note the country round dotted with fire and smoke; but against the strong walls of Carlisle Castle they dashed themselves in vain. Here was a secure haven of refuge—here at least was peace and comfort, whatever red ruin wasted either border; nay, the town throve on the very disorder; and the bullocks and horses were cheap and good, what need to inquire too curiously whence they came? Far better to get and part with them quickly and quietly and profitably. Even if the seller was a Scot, come there in time of truce, so much more reason to make a profit out of him. And then the merchants had everything to sell, from strong waters to trinkets; so it was strange if the gentleman took much cash away with him. A “merrie” town, in truth! In flowing lines Lydia Sigourney has admirably touched off the place and its history:—
“How fair amid the depth of summer green
Spread forth thy walls, Carlisle! Thy castled heights
Abrupt and lofty; thy cathedral dome
Majestic and alone; thy beauteous bridge
Spanning the Eden.
“Old Time hath hung upon thy misty walls
Legends of festal and of warlike deeds,—
King Arthur’s wassail-cup; the battle-axe