We now left Gretna, still single, for Carlisle, nine and a half miles away, the distance to Glasgow in the opposite direction being eighty-five miles.  We recrossed the River Sark, the boundary here between Scotland and England, the famous tollbar through which eloping couples had to hurry before they could reach Gretna Green.  In those days gangs of men were ever on the watch to levy blackmail both on the pursued and their pursuers, and the heaviest purse generally won when the race was a close one.  We saw a new hotel on the English side of the river which had been built by a Mr. Murray specially for the accommodation of the runaways while the “Blacksmith” was sent for to join them together on the other side of the boundary, but it had only just been finished when Lord Brougham’s Act rendered it practically useless, and made it a bad speculation for Mr. Murray.  Passing through the tollgate we overtook a man with half a dozen fine greyhounds, in which, after our conversation with the owner of the racing dog at Canonbie Collieries, we had become quite interested; and we listened to his description of each as if we were the most ardent dog-fanciers on the road.  One of the dogs had taken a first prize at Lytham and another a second at Stranraer.  We passed through a country where there were immense beds of peat, hurrying through Todhilis without even calling at the “Highland Laddie” or the “Jovial Butcher” at Kingstown, and we crossed the River Eden as we entered the Border city of Carlisle, sometimes called “Merrie Carlisle,” or, as the Romans had it, Lugovalum.

An elderly gentleman whom we overtook, and of whom we inquired concerning the objects of interest to be seen, appeared to take more interest in business matters than in those of an antiquarian nature, for he told us that “Carr’s Biscuit Manufactory” with its machinery was a far finer sight than either the cathedral or the castle.  Perhaps he was right, but our thoughts were more in the direction of bygone ages, with the exception of the letters that were waiting for us at the post office, and for which we did not forget to call.  Merrie Carlisle, we were informed, was the chief residence of King Arthur, whose supposed ghostly abode and that of his famous knights, or one of them, we had passed earlier in the week.  We were now told that near Penrith, a town to the south of Carlisle, there was still to be seen a large circle surrounded by a mound of earth called “Arthur’s Round Table,” and that in the churchyard were the giants’ graves.

In the very old ballad on the “Lothely Lady” King Arthur was described as returning after a long journey to his Queen Guenevere, in a very sad mood: 

  And there came to him his cozen, Sir Gawain,
    Y’ was a courteous Knight;
  Why sigh you soe sore, Unkle Arthur, he said,
    Or who hath done thee unright?