The Seventeenth Station Gabrosentum; now Drumburgh
Headland on the Solway Coast. Photo by Andrew Pescod.
I am now nine miles from Carlisle, and four from Boulness, the termination of the Wall. The Castle stands upon a rising ground, at the extremity of the marsh; and was erected by the Dacres, two hundred years ago, with the materials of the old Castle, and upon the old foundation. Their arms are placed in the front. It is no more than a large, handsome farm-house. My kind friend took me, with a candle, into the lower regions; where I saw “darkness visible,” which brought to mind the horrors of a dungeon.
Though the dim light could not carry the eye to the extremity of the thickness of the Wall, yet I could perceive it was three or four yards thick, and seemed to be formed for eternity.
The site of the Station, now an orchard, garden, &c. is, with the ramparts, perfectly plain. My friend too, directed my eye to the course of Severus’s Wall, which came from the South of the marsh, crossed the turnpike road at the Station, and would proceed on my right, where I perceived Severus’s trench fourteen yards wide, and four feet deep.
At the bottom of the land, three miles farther, where I open to the sea, the wall crosses the road, and continues to run one hundred yards on my left. Here I saw the Wall recently stocked up, and the stones laid on heaps for future use.
At this lane’s end, the noble works of Agricola and Hadrian are supposed to have terminated; which is probable.
One mile prior to the extremity of our journey, and at the distance of one inclosure on our left, appears in majesty, for the last time, Severus’s Wall, being five or six hundred yards long, and three feet high; but, as in the mountains, all confusion. A fence grows upon it, which becomes its security from an arrest either by time, or the wicked hands of man. In two places it is six feet high, eight broad, and three thick; but has no facing-stones.
The cruel farmer gloried, “that his sacrilegious fingers had destroyed such and such a part of the Wall. ”
“I hoped,” in reply, “the next stone he disturbed might break his mattock; and begged not one of them might be touched till my return.”
He made a promise to my wish, perhaps as binding as that of a lover.
I saw Gretna Green, that source of repentance; but, being myself half a century above par, and not having with me an amorous lass of eighteen with as many thousands, I had no occasion for the black-smith.
My landlord and his wife, where I slept at S, had been handsome. She told me, “that hers was a Gretna Green wedding, which cost a few guineas; and that she was descended from a good family.” But it was easy to see, that poverty, a pot of ale, and the sorrow of fifteen years, were the result.
The Rev. John P, however, does not always act the farce for a few guineas. Interest prompts him to carry a stamp of every dimension; and he sometimes procures a note of a hundred from the happy bridegroom, which stands a chance for payment should the lady’s papa come to a reconciliation.
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