April 3.—­Set off at eight o’clock, and fought forward to Carlisle—­a sad place in my domestic remembrances, since here I married my poor Charlotte.  She is gone, and I am following faster, perhaps, than I wot of.  It is something to have lived and loved; and our poor children are so hopeful and affectionate, that it chastens the sadness attending the thoughts of our separation.  We slept at Carlisle.  I have not forgiven them for destroying their quiet old walls, and building two lumpy things like mad-houses.  The old gates had such a respectable appearance once,

    “When Scotsmen’s heads did guard the wall.”

Come, I’ll write down the whole stanza, which is all that was known to exist of David Hume’s poetry, as it was written on a pane of glass in the inn:—­

    “Here chicks in eggs for breakfast sprawl,
    Here godless boys God’s glories squall,
    Here Scotsmen’s heads do guard the wall,
    But Corby’s walks atone for all.”

The poetical works of David Hume, Esq., might, as bookmakers know now, be driven out to a handsome quarto.  Line 1st admits of a descant upon eggs roasted, boiled or poached; 2d, a history of Carlisle Cathedral with some reasons why the choir there has been proverbially execrable; 3d, the whole history of 1745 with minute memoirs of such as mounted guard on the Scotch gate.  I remember the spikes the heads stood upon; lastly, a description of Corby Castle with a plan, and the genealogy of the Howards.  Gad, the booksellers would give me L500 for it.  I have a mind to print it for the Bannatynians.

April 4.—­In our stage to Penrith I introduced Anne to the ancient Petreia, called Old Penrith, and also to the grave of Sir Ewain Caesarias,[158] that knight with the puzzling name, which has got more indistinct.  We breakfasted at Buchanan’s Inn, Penrith, one of the best on the road, and a fine stanch fellow owned it.  He refused passage to some of the delegates who traversed the country during the Radical row, and when the worthies threatened him with popular vengeance, answered gallantly that he had not lived so long by the Crown to desert it at a pinch.  The Crown is the sign of his inn.  Slept at Garstang, an indifferent house.  As a petty grievance, my ink-holder broke loose in the case, and spilt some of the ink on Anne’s pelisse.  Misfortunes seldom come single. “’Tis not alone the inky cloak, good daughter,” but I forgot at Garstang my two breastpins; one with Walter and Jane’s hair, another a harp of pure Irish gold, the gift of the ladies of Llangollen.[159]

April 5.—­Breakfasted at Chorley, and slept at Leek.  We were in the neighbourhood of some fine rock-scenery, but the day was unfavourable; besides, I did not come from Scotland to see rocks, I trow.

April 6.—­Easter Sunday.  We breakfasted at Ashbourne and went from thence to Derby; and set off from thence to Drycot Hall (five miles) to visit Hugh Scott.  But honest Hugh was, like ourselves, on the ramble; so we had nothing to do but to drive back to Derby, and from thence to Tamworth, where we slept.