ough the ancient forest, we would fain stop and linger, as
the scenery about here is deeply romantic, as much so as that of
Derbyshire. At Armathwaite the beauty of the district culminates; and we
gaze with rapture at its ancient quaint square castle, its picturesque
viaduct of nine arches eighty feet high, its road bridge of freestone,
its cataract, and its elm--said to be the finest in Cumberland. At
Carlisle there is a fine railway hotel, which you enter by a side door
from the platform, and where the traveller may attain such refreshment as
he requires. Indeed, it is open to the public on the same reasonable
terms as the London Tavern when it was the head-quarters of aldermanic
turtle. The town is delightfully clean, and has many interesting
associations; and as I stood upon the ramparts of the castle there on my
return, smoking a cigar, there came to me memories of William Rufus, who
built the wall, and planted in the town the industrious Flemings; of King
David of Scotland; of Wallace, the Scottish hero, who quartered his
troops there; of Cromwell, "our chief of men," as Milton calls him; and
of the Pretenders, father and son. It is with interest I look at the
church of St. Mary, remembering, as I do, that it was there Sir Walter
Scott was married. I am told the interior of the cathedral is very
beautiful, and crowded with memorials of a truly interesting character.
Externally the place looks in good condition, as it was repaired as
lately as 1853-6. Altogether the town appears comfortable, as it ought
to do, considering it has extensive founderies and breweries,
manufactories of woollen, linen, cotton, and other fabrics; communication
with six lines of railway; a canal, two rivers, and two local newspapers.
Nor is Carlisle ungrateful. I find in its market-place a statue to Lord
Lonsdale, who has much property in these parts. One can tarry there
long. Afar off you see the hills of the Lake Country--the country of
Southey and Wordsworth--and, if you but keep your seat, in an hour or two
you may be, according to your taste, "touring it" in the land of Burns,
or in the district immortalised by the genius of Sir Walter Scott.

As I went one way, and returned another, I enjoyed this privilege and
pleasure. At Dumfries I could not but recollect that there the poet
Burns wrote his

"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled;"

that there he died prematurely worn-out in 1796; that there, as he lay
dying, the whole t