"Stretched on the dying mother's lap lies dead Her new-born babe; dire ending of bright hope!"
We have now followed the Eden's course to Carlisle; there it is joined by two tributaries, the Caldew and the Petteril, each of some importance. The /Caldew/ rises on the eastern slope of Skiddaw. Both it and its affluent, the Caldbeck, flow through the romantic scenery of the Fells, and dash at quite a headlong pace down steep declines, whereof Howk Fall is the most renowned. At Holt Close Bridge the Caldew deserts the light of day altogether, but after four miles of subterranean windings it "comes up smiling" (as one might say) at Spout's Dub. The /Petteril/ comes from two headstreams in Greystoke Park and by Penruddock, and has a course of some twenty miles through pleasant woodland and meadow scenery. Near the Westmorland border, on a steep eminence by its first headwater, stands Greystoke Castle. The old castle was, during the Civil Wars in 1648, taken by Lambert for the Parliament, and burned to the ground. The remains of the battery he threw up are still called "Cromwell's Holes." This place has long been in the possession of the Howards. The castle was widely famed for its collection of curiosities, more or less authentic. Thus, there were "a large white hat," said to have covered no less a head than Thomas Becket's; and a picture of silk embroidery representing the Crucifixion, worked by the royal hands of Mary Queen of Scots. A fire in 1868 played sad havoc among these oddities; but you may still admire the great park with its deer and its ponds, and the charming prospects of the Lake mountains which you have from the castle windows.
[Illustration: /VIEW FROM BRACKENBANK, LOOKING TOWARDS COTEHILL/ (_p. 306_).
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:--