The source of the Wansbeck, the only "beck" the county possesses, is amongst the "Wild Hills o' Wannys" (Wanny's beck) a group of picturesque sandstone crags which surround Sweethope Lough, a sheet of water which covers 180 acres. The scenery of this upper course of the Wansbeck is very striking, from the Lough to Kirkwhelpington, flowing between bleak moorland and rich pasture, and on to Littleharle Tower, which stands secluded in deep woods.

Another mansion near at hand, and most picturesquely situated, is Wallington Hall, lying a short distance away on the north bank of the Wansbeck. It is one of the most notable country houses in Northumberland, and especially so on account of its unique picture-gallery, roofed with dull glass, and containing several series of pictures connected with Northumbrian history. One of these is a series of frescoes by William Bell Scott, whose name was for so many years associated with all that was best in art in Newcastle, and whose picture of the "Building of the Castle" may be seen at the head of the staircase in the Lit. and Phil. building. His pictures at Wallington are:—1. The Building of the Roman Wall. 2. The visit of King Egfrid and Bishop Trumwine to St. Cuthbert on Fame. 3. A Descent of the Danes. 4. Death of the Venerable Bede. 5. The Charlton Spur. 6. Bernard Gilpin taking down a challenge glove in Rothbury Church. 7. Grace Darling and her father on the way to the wreck. 8. The Nineteenth Century—showing the High Level Bridge, the Quayside, an Armstrong gun, etc., etc. Another series consists of medallions and portraits of famous men connected with Northumbrian events, from Hadrian and Severus down to George Stephenson and others of modern times; while yet another depicts all the incidents of "Chevy Chase."

Some miles further eastward, the Wansbeck receives the Hart Burn—which, by the way, is larger than the parent stream at this point—and, a little later, the Font. The lovely little village of Mitford, once important enough to overshadow the Morpeth of that day, lies at the junction of Font and Wansbeck. The Mitfords of Mitford can boast, if ever family could, of being Northumbrian of the Northumbrians, as they were seated here before the days of the Conqueror, who made such a general upsetting amongst the Saxon landowners.

The beauty of the two miles walk along the banks of the Wansbeck from here to Morpeth is not easy to surpass in all the county, though several parts of the Coquet valley may justly compete with it. William Howitt has left on record his admiration for this lovely region, and said Morpeth was "more like a town in a dream" than a reality. Especially is this so when looking at the town from the neighbourhood of the river. Before actually reaching Morpeth the Wansbeck waters the fair fields that once held Newminster Abbey in its pride; now, nothing remains but an arch or so and a few stones, to remind us of the noble abbey which Ralph de Merley built so long ago. When only half built it was demolished by the Scots under King David; but willing hands set to work again, and the abbey and monastery were completed.

In the town of Morpeth, though newer buildings are stretching out towards the outskirts, many of the ancient buildings and streets remain, and the general aspect of this part of it is much the same as when the Jacobites of Northumberland gathered together here, and the clergyman, Mr. Buxton, proclaimed James III. in its Market Place. Of Morpeth Castle, built by a De Merley soon after the Conquest, only the gateway tower remains, but the outlines of the original boundary walls can be clearly traced. A company of five hundred Scots, whom Leslie had left as a garrison in 1644, held out here for three weeks against two thousand Royalists under Montrose. After the cannonading received during that siege, the walls were not repaired again, and the castle fell into decay. The inhabitants of Morpeth have a daily reminder of times yet more remote, for the Curfew Bell still rings out over the little town every evening at eight o'clock.

Another walk of three miles along the still beautiful banks of the Wansbeck brings us to Bothal, another little village of great beauty, embowered and almost hidden amongst luxuriant woods. Its curious name is derived from the Anglo-Saxon bottell, a place of abode (as in Walbottle). The name conjures up memories of the knights of old, their loves and their fortunes, fair or disastrous; for the best-known version of "The Hermit of Warkworth" tells us that it was a Bertram of Bothal who was the luckless hero of that tale, though another version avers that he belonged to the house of Percy.

Wansbeck's fellow stream, the Coquet, has its birth amongst some of the wildest scenery of the Cheviot Hills, where the heights of Deel's Hill and Woodbist Law look down on the now silent Watling Street and the deserted Ad Fines Camp. In its windings along the bases of the hills it is joined by the Usway Burn, said to be named after King Oswy, between which and the little river Alwine lies the famous Lordship of Kidland, once desolate on account of the thieving and raiding of its neighbours of Bedesdale and Scotland.

Hodgson, in his "Northumberland," says of this region, "All the said Kydlande is full of lytle hilles or mountaynes, and between the saide hilles be dyvers valyes in which discende litle Ryvvelles or brokes of water, spryngynge out of the said hilles and all fallynge into a lytle Rever or broke callede Kidlande water, w'ch fallethe into the rever of cockette nere to the towne of alwynntonn, w'tin a myll of the castell of harbottell." The reasons for the desolation of Kidland are graphically set forth:—"In somer seasons when good peace ys betwene England and Scotland, th'inhabitantes of dyv'se townes thereaboutes repayres up with theyr cattall in som'ynge (summering) as ys aforesaid, and so have used to do of longe tyme. And for the pasture of theyr cattall, so long as they would tarye there they payed for a knoweledge two pens for a household, or a grote at the most, though they had nev' so many cattalles. And yet the poore men thoughte their fermes dere enoughe. There was but fewe yeres that they escaped w'thout a greatter losse of their goodes and cattalles, by spoyle or thefte of the Scottes or Ryddesdale men, then would have paide for the pasture of theyr cattail in a much better grounde. And ov' (over, besides) that, the saide valyes or hopes of Kidlande lyeth so distant and devyded by mounteynes one from an other, that such as Inhabyte in one of these hoopes, valeys, or graynes, can not heare the Fraye outcrye, or exclamac'on of such as dwell in an other hoope or valley upon the other side of the said mountayne, nor come or assemble to theyr assystance in tyme of necessytie. Wherefore we can not fynde anye of the neyghbours thereabouts wyllinge cotynnally to Inhabyte or plenyshe w'thin the saide grounde of Kydland, and especially in wynter tyme."

These reasons were given by the people of "Cockdale" in the neighbouring valley, to account for the desolation of Kidland, which lay open on the northward to attacks from the Scots, and had no defence on the south from the rievers of Redesdale. The inhabitants of Coquetdale seem to have been a right valiant and hardy fraternity, honest and fearless, well able to give good blows in defence of their possessions, for it is left on record that "the people of the said Cock-dayle be best p'pared for defence and most defensyble people of themselfes, and of the truest and best sorte of anye that do Inhabyte, endlonge, the frounter or border of the said mydle m'ches of England." The traces of these days of raid and foray are to be found in abundance all over Coquetdale, as indeed all over Northumberland, in pele-tower and barmkyn, fortified dwelling and bastle house.

Harbottle Castle would have a good deal to tell, could it only speak, of siege and assault from the day when, "with the aid of the whole county of Northumberland and the bishopric of Durham," it was built by Henry II., until, after the Union of the Crowns, it shared the fate of many of the Border strongholds, and fell into gradual decay, or was used as a quarry from which to draw building material for new and modern mansions. At Rothbury, a pele-tower has formed the dwelling of the Vicars of that town from the time that any mention of Whitton Tower is to be found, it being first noticed as "Turris de Whitton, iuxta Rothebery." Rothbury itself occupies quite the finest situation of any of the Northumbrian towns. Others, besides it, lie on the banks of a pretty river; others, too, possess fair meadows and rich pastures; but none other has the combination of these attractive features with the finer surroundings of hill, crag, and moorland as picturesquely beautiful as those of Rothbury. In the old church here Bernard Gilpin, "the Apostle of the North," often preached; and even the fierce rival factions of the Borderland were so influenced by the gentle, yet fearless preacher, that they consented to forego their usual pleasure of "drawing" whenever they met one of a rival family, at least so long as Gilpin dwelt among them, and especially to refrain from showing their hostility in church.

There are in Coquetdale, as elsewhere, memorials of the ancient British days in the many camps to be found on the summits of the hills near the town, on Tosson Hill and the Simonside Hills; and not camps only, but barrows, cist-vaens, and flint weapons in considerable numbers. The magnificent view to be obtained, on a clear day, from Tosson Hill or the Simonsides is one to be remembered; to the west and north stretch the vales of Coquet and Alwin, with the rolling heights of the Cheviots bounding them; northward are the woods surrounding Biddlestone Hall, the "Osbaldistone Hall" of Scot's Rob Roy, awakening memories of Di Vernon; far to the eastward a faint blue haze denotes the distant coastline; while southward, over the dales of Rede and Tyne, the smoke of industrial Tyneside lies on the horizon, with the spires and towers of Newcastle showing faintly against the heights of the Durham side of the Tyne.

One of the chief sights of Rothbury is the beautiful mansion of Cragside and the wonderful valley of Debdon and Crag Hill, as transformed by the first Lord Armstrong into a paradise of beauty, where art and nature are so blended as to make a romantically artistic whole. Another lovely spot on the banks of Coquet is at Brinkburn, where the famous Priory stands almost hidden at the foot of thickly wooded slopes. A very much larger portion of this fine Priory is still standing than is the case with many other religious houses of the same age, for it dates from the reign of Henry I. The story is told of Brinkburn as well as of Blanchland, that a party of marauding Scots on one of their forays passed by the Priory without discovering it in its leafy bower; and so overjoyed were the monks at their escape that they incautiously rang the bells by way of showing their delight. The Scots, who had passed out of sight but not out of hearing, immediately returned on their tracks, and, guided by the joyful peal, reached the Priory, sacked the buildings, and then set them on fire. It may well be that the tragedy occurred at both places, on different occasions.

Farther eastward down the Coquet are two places pre-eminently noted as centres for the sport for which the river is famed above all other Northumbrian streams, though some of them are worthy rivals. These two places are Weldon Bridge and Felton; the old Angler's Inn at the first-named is a favourite rendezvous of the fraternity of rod and creel. Fishermen have long known the fascination of these two places, and I quote from the "Fisherman's Garland" two stanzas written by two enthusiastic anglers in praise of them. The writers are Robert Roxby and Thomas Doubleday.

"But we'll awa' to Coquetside, For Coquet bangs them a'; Whose winding streams sae sweetly glide By Brinkburn's bonny Ha'!"

Written in 1821

"The Coquet for ever, the Coquet for aye! The Woodhall and Weldon and Felton so gay, And Brinkburn and Linden, wi' a' their sweet pride, For they add to the beauty of dear Coquetside."

Written in 1826

Felton, a charmingly placed little village, on the banks of the river where they are overhung by graceful woods, and diversified by cliff and grassy slope, stands just where the great North Road crosses the Coquet. By reason of this position it has been the scene of one or two events of historical interest, notably those connected with the "Fifteen" and the "Forty-five." On the former occasion, the gallant young Earl of Derwentwater, with his followers, was joined here by a band of seventy gentlemen from the Borders, and they rode on to Morpeth to proclaim James III. And thirty years later, the soldiers of George II. passed over the bridge from the southward, led by the Duke of Cumberland, and pressed on towards the Scottish moor where they dealt the final blow to the Stuart cause at Culloden. The interesting old church at Felton, dating from the thirteenth century, is well worth a visit. After leaving Felton behind, the Coquet enters on the most marked windings of all its winding course, until, when it enters the sea at Warkworth Harbour, just opposite Coquet Island, it has contrived to lengthen out its journey to a distance of forty miles.

The bright clear stream of the Aln also begins its short journey across Northumberland from the heights of Cheviot, but in the narrower northern portion of the county. Alnham, with its pele-tower Vicarage, ancient church, and memories of a castle, stands just at the foot of the hills, near the source of the river. Some three or four miles eastward along its banks, a walk through leafy woods brings us to Whittingham—the final syllable of which, by the way, one pronounces as "jam," as one does that of nearly all the other place-names ending in "ing-ham" in Northumberland, contrary though it be to etymological considerations—excepting, curiously enough, Chillingham, situated in the very midst of all the others. The "ing" and "ham" are in themselves a historical guide to the days in which the various villages received their names, these two syllables being a certain indication of a Saxon settlement, the "home of the sons, or descendants of" whatever person the first syllable indicates. Thus, Edlingham, only a few miles away, is the "home or settlement of the sons of Eadwulf"; Ellingham, the "home of the sons of Ella," and so on. How the "Whitt" syllable was spelled we do not know; most probably Hwitta or Hwitha—for all our wh's were hw originally—hwaet, hwa, hwaether and so forth.

This ancient village is in these days a charming and peaceful place, lying in the midst of rich meadow lands, and surrounded by magnificent trees. It had its romances, too, in the course of years; so long ago as the days of the early Danish invasions a certain widow in Whittingham, in the reign of King Alfred, had no less a person than a Danish prince among her slaves; he was ransomed, however, and made king of the Danes in the North, in consequence of a vision in which St. Cuthbert had directed the Abbot of Carlisle to see this done. Young Prince Guthred's gratitude showed itself in a substantial grant of land to St. Cuthbert at Durham. Whittingham Church is supposed to have been founded by the Saxon king Ceolwulf, whose acquaintance we have already made at Holy Island, and he bestowed the lands of Whittingham on the church at Lindisfarne. It still shows some of the original Saxon work at the base of the tower, and much more was to be seen before the so-called "restoration" of the church in 1840. The pele-tower on the south side of the river, after its days of storm and stress are over, still serves as a shelter in time of need, for it is now used as an almshouse for the poor of the village, a former Lady Ravensworth having originated the quaint idea and seen it carried out.

Whittingham Fair, now Whittingham Sports, a well-known rendezvous of the whole countryside, has lost some of its former splendour, but is still looked forward to with great enjoyment in the surrounding district. The old coaching road from Newcastle to Edinburgh passed through the village, crossing the Aln by the stone bridge, from whence it went on through Glanton and Wooler to Cornhill.

In the vale of Whittingham, the little Aln flows placidly along, its waters murmuring a soothing refrain, a peaceful interlude between its busy bustling beginning and its ending. Before reaching Alnwick it flows past the ancient walls of Hulne Abbey, the monastery of Carmelite friars so romantically founded by the Northumbrian knight and monk after his visit to the monastery on Mount Carmel. A considerable portion of the ancient building is still standing, and few sites chosen by the old monks, who had an unerring eye for beauty as well as safety and convenience in their choice of abode, can surpass this one, surrounded by fair meadows, and standing on the green hill-side, with the rippling Aln flowing through the levels below. In Hulne Park is also the Brislee Tower, erected by the first Duke of Northumberland in 1781, on the top of Brislee Hill.



Alnwick itself, with its quaint, uneven, narrow streets, and grey stone houses, looks the part of a Border town even in these days; and the grim old Hotspur tower, bestriding the main street like an ancient warrior still on guard, helps to give the illusion an air of reality. The tower, however, was not built by Hotspur, but by his son. The names of the streets, too, are redolent of the days when the only safety for the inhabitants of a town worth plundering lay in the strength of its walls and gateways. Bondgate, Bailiffgate, and Narrowgate, still speak of the days of siege and sortie, of fierce attack and stout defence.

The magnificent castle which dominates the town stands majestically at the top of a green slope above the Aln, its vast array of walls and towers far along the ridge, fronting the North as though still looking, albeit with a seemingly languid interest, for the coming of the Scots who were such inveterate foes of its successive lords. The principal entrance, however, the Barbican, faces southwards to the town, and here the massive gateway, with portcullis complete, and crowned by quaint life-size figures of warriors in various attitudes of defence, conveys the impression that the huge giant is still alert and on guard. The history of Alnwick is the history of the castle and its lords, from the days of Gilbert Tyson, variously known as Tison, Tisson, and De Tesson, one of the Conqueror's standardbearers, upon whom this northern estate was bestowed, until the present time. After being held by the family of De Vesci (of which the modern rendering is Vasey—a name found all over south-east Northumberland) for over two hundred years, it passed into the hands of the house of Percy. The Percies, who hailed from the village of Perce in Normandy, had large estates in Yorkshire, bestowed by the Conqueror on the first of the name to arrive in England in his train. The family, however, was represented by an heiress only in the reign of Henry II., whose second wife, a daughter of the Duke of Brabant, thought this heiress, with her wide possessions, a suitable match for her own young half-brother Joceline of Louvain. The marriage took place; and thereafter followed the long line of Henry Percies (Henry being a favourite name of the Counts of Louvain) who played such a large part in the history of both England and Scotland; for, as nearly every Percy was a Warden of the Marches, Scottish doings concerned them more or less intimately—indeed, often more so than English affairs.

It was the third Henry Percy who purchased Alnwick in 1309 from Antony Bec, Bishop of Durham and guardian of the last De Vesci, and from that time the fortunes of the Percies, though they still held their Yorkshire estates, were linked permanently with the little town on the Aln, and the fortress which alike commanded and defended it. The fourth Henry Percy began to build the castle as we see it now; but to call him "the fourth" is a little confusing, as he was the second Henry Percy, Lord of Alnwick. On the whole, it will be clearer to begin the enumerations of the various Henry Percies from the time they became Lords of Alnwick. It was, then, Henry Percy the second, Lord of Alnwick, who began the re-building of the castle; he also was jointly responsible for the safety of the realm during the absence of Edward III. in the French wars, and in this official capacity, no less than in that of a Border baron whose delight it was to exchange lusty blows with an ever-ready foe, he helped to win the battle of Neville's Cross. His son, Henry, married a sister of John of Gaunt, and their son, the next Henry Percy, was that friend who stood John Wycliffe in such good stead, when he was cited to appear before the Bishop of London. Henry Percy, who had been made Earl Marshal of England, and the Duke of Lancaster took their places one on each side of Wycliffe, and accompanied him to St. Paul's, clearing a way for him through the crowd. It does not belong to this story to tell how their private quarrels with the Bishop prevented Wycliffe's interrogation, and how he left the Cathedral without having uttered a word; we are concerned at the moment with his North-country friend, who, the same year, was created Earl of Northumberland, which title he was given after the coronation of Richard II. Nor was this all, for he was that Northumberland whose doings in the next reign fill so large a part of Shakespeare's Henry IV., and he was the father of the most famous Percy of all, the gallant Henry Percy the fifth, better known as "Harry Hotspur." Hotspur never became Earl of Northumberland, being slain at Shrewsbury in the lifetime of his father, whose estates were forfeited under attainder on account of the rebellion of himself and his son against King Henry IV.

King Henry V. restored Hotspur's son, the second Earl, to his family honours, and the Percies were staunch Lancastrians during the Wars of the Roses which followed, the third Earl and three of his brothers losing their lives in the cause. The fifth Earl was a gorgeous person whose magnificence equalled, almost, that of royalty. Henry Percy, the sixth Earl of Northumberland, loved Ann Boleyn, and was her accepted suitor before King Henry VIII. unfortunately discovered the lady's charm, and interfered in a highhanded "bluff King Hal" fashion, and young Percy lost his prospective bride. He had no son, although married later to the daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, and his nephew, Thomas Percy, became the seventh Earl.

Thereafter, a succession of plots and counterplots—the Rising of the North, the plots to liberate Mary Queen of Scots, and the Gunpowder Plot—each claimed a Percy among their adherents. On this account the eighth and ninth Earls spent many years in the Tower, but the tenth Earl, Algernon, fought for King Charles in the Civil War, the male line of the Percy-Louvain house ending with Josceline, the eleventh Earl. The heiress to the vast Percy estates married the Duke of Somerset; and her grand-daughter married a Yorkshire knight, Sir Hugh Smithson, who in 1766 was created the first Duke of Northumberland and Earl Percy, and it is their descendants who now represent the famous old house.

At various points in the town are memorials of the constant wars between Percies and Scots in which so many Percies spent the greater part of their lives. At the side of the broad shady road called Rotten Row, leading from the West Lodge to Bailiffgate, a tablet of stone marks the spot where William the Lion of Scotland was captured as we have already seen, in 1174, by Odinel de Umfraville and his friends; and there are many others of similar interest.

Within the park, approached by the gate at the foot of Canongate, is the fine gateway which is all that is left of Alnwick Abbey. No more peaceful spot could have been found than this, on the level greensward, surrounded by fine trees which shelter it on all sides save one, and near the brink of the little Aln, whose banks are thickly covered with wild flowers, while the steep slope on the opposite side of the river is overhung with shady woods. The extent of the parks may be judged from the fact that the enclosing wall is about five miles long. At the foot of Bailiffgate, on the edge of a steep ridge above the descent to Canongate and the banks of the river, the ancient parish church, dedicated to St. Mary and St. Michael stands in a commanding position. The present building dates from the fourteenth century, and occupies the site of an earlier one, whose few remaining stones have been built into the present structure. Two other reminders of long-past days are to be found in Alnwick; one is the large stone in the Market Place to which the bull ring used to be fixed in the days when bull-baiting and bear-baiting took place; and the other, a relic of days still further back in the distant years, is the sounding of the Curfew Bell, which is still rung here every evening at eight o'clock. Altogether there is the quaintest and most unexpected mingling of the ancient and modern in the little feudal town.

Between Alnwick and the sea, the Aln winds its way past Alnmouth Station, formerly known as Bilton Junction, and past Lesbury, a pretty little tree-shaded village, to the sandy flats by Alnmouth where it ends its journey in the North Sea.

The Till, by whose side we shall next wander, flows in the opposite direction, for that historic stream is a tributary of "Tweed's fair river, broad and deep," and curves from the Cheviots round to the North-west, where it enters the larger stream at Tillmouth. It begins life as the Breamish, tumbling down the slopes of Cushat Law within sight of all the giants of the Cheviot range. The Linhope Burn, a fellow traveller down these steep hillsides, forms in its course the Linhope Spout, one of the largest waterfalls to be found amongst the Cheviots, before it joins the Breamish, which then flows through a country of green slopes and grassy levels to Ingram. This village possesses an old church with massive square tower and windows which suggest the fortress rather than the church. The heights which stretch eastward from the Cheviots and bound the valley of the Till add not a little to the beauty and variety of the scenery in this district.

The little stream, which turns northward near Glanton railway station, moves on in loops and windings past Beanley, which Earl Gospatric held in former days by virtue of the curious office of being a kind of official mediator between the monarchs of England and Scotland when they came to blows; and past Bewick, with its little Norman church buried from sight amongst leafy trees. The effigy of a lady in the chancel of this church is said to be that of Matilda, wife of Henry I. This is the more likely in that the lands of Bewick formed part of her dowry, and were given by her to the monks of Tynemouth Priory. At Bewick Bridge the little stream ceases to be the Breamish, and becomes the Till; as an old rhyme has it—

"The foot of Breamish, and head of Till, Meet together at Bewick Mill"

Some miles to the northward, the Till reaches the little village of Chatton, having, on the way, passed a little to the westward of Chillingham Castle and Park, where is the famous herd of wild cattle. Roscastle, a craggy height covered with heather, stands at the edge of the chase, and looks over a wild and romantic scene of moorland and pastureland, deep glens and heathery hills. The Vicarage at Chatton is another of those north-country vicarages in which an old pele-tower forms part of the modern residence. On the top of Chatton Law is an ancient British encampment, with inscribed circles similar to those on Bewick Hill.

From Chatton, the loops and windings of the Till grow more insistent, and the little stream adds miles to its length by reason of its frequent doubling on its tracks; this, however, but gives an added charm to the landscape, as the silvery gleams of the winding river come unexpectedly into view again and again. It flows on through Glendale, with which attractive region we have already made acquaintance; and on its banks are the two prettiest villages in Northumberland—Ford and Etal.

Ford Castle, as seen at the present day, is chiefly modern, but the northwest tower is part of the old fortress of Odenel de Forde, which experienced so many vicissitudes in its time. One of the most famous owners of Ford Castle was Sir William Heron, who married Odenel's daughter, and who held the responsible and troublesome office of High Sheriff of Northumberland for eleven years, besides being Captain of Bamburgh and Warden of the northern forests. The castle was burnt down by James IV. of Scotland just before the battle of Flodden, which was not by any means the only time in its career that it was demolished, entirely or in part, and restored again.

In the village of Ford, the walls of the schoolroom are decorated by a series of pictures of the children of Scripture story, for whose portrayal it is said the Marchioness of Waterford, the artist, took the village children as models. The late Vicar of Ford, the Rev. Hastings Neville, has laid all who are interested in the rural life of Northumberland, and the quaint and traditional manners and customs of the North-country which are so fast disappearing, under the greatest obligation to him for his interesting and entirely delightful little book, "A Corner in the North." Historical records, and matters of business, ownerships, etc., connected with any special area can always be turned up for reference when required; but the manner of speech, the customs of daily life, the quaint survivals of former usages and half-forgotten lore, being entirely dependent on individual memory and oral tradition, only too often disappear before any adequate record can be made. Hence it is a matter for congratulation that such a book should have been written.

Etal, Ford's pretty neighbour, also boasts a castle, built only two years after that of Ford and by the same masons. A considerable portion of the ruins remains, but, unlike Ford Castle, it was never restored after James the Fourth's drastic handling of it, but was left to decay. Opposite Ford and Etal, on the left bank of the Till, is Pallinsburn House, referred to in another chapter, and the village of Crookham; and beyond the woods of Pallinsburn, Flodden ridge, with its memories of the disastrous field on which James was slain.

The mansion house of Tillmouth Park, owned by Sir Francis Blake, is built of stones from the ruins of Twizell Castle, on the northern bank of the Till; the castle was begun by a former Sir Francis Blake but never finished. Between the two buildings the Berwick Road crosses the Till by Twizell Bridge, over which Surrey marched his men southward on the morning of Flodden. Not far from this bridge, to the westward, is St. Helen's Well, alluded to by Scott in his account of the battle, in "Marmion"—

"Many a chief of birth and rank, St. Helen, at thy fountain drank."

Sibyl's well, from which Lady Clare brought water to moisten the lips of the dying Marmion, is beside the little church at Branxton. Tillmouth, however, has older memories still; for it was to the little chapel there that St. Cuthbert's body floated in its stone coffin from Melrose, dating the course of its seven years' wandering, ere it found a final rest at Durham.

"From sea to sea, from shore to shore, Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they bore They rested them in fair Melrose, But though alive he loved it well Not there his relics might repose, For, wondrous tale to tell, In his stone coffin forth he glides, A ponderous bark for river tides, Yet light as gossamer it glides Downward to Tillmouth cell.

* * * * *

Chester-le-Street and Ripon saw His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw Hailed it with joy and fear; Till, after many wanderings past, He chose his lordly seat at last Where his cathedral, huge and vast, Looks down upon the Wear."

Sir W. Scott—MARMION.

The "stone coffin" was boat-shaped, "ten feet long, three feet and a half in diameter, and only four inches thick, so that, with very little assistance, it might certainly have swum; it still lies, or at least did so a few years ago, in two pieces, beside the ruined chapel at Tilmouth."—Sir W. Scott's Notes to "Marmion."

Three or four miles from Tillmouth, south-westward up the valley of the Tweed, and just beyond Cornhill, lies the village of Wark, near which the remains of the famous Border castle are still standing. The castle was built on a stony ridge of detritus called the Kaim, which stretches from Wark village towards Carham. In the reign of Henry I. all those who owned land in the North were seemingly animated simultaneously by a lively desire to secure their Borders; Bishop Flambard began to build Norham Castle, Eustace Fitz-John, husband of Beatrice de Vesci, built the greater part of Alnwick Castle, and Walter Espic raised the mighty fortress, the great "Wark" or work (A.S. were or weare) on the steep ridge above Tweed, in "his honour (seignieury) of Carham."

From that time the castle of Wark went through a greater succession of sieges, assaults, burnings, surrenders, demolitions, and restorations than any other place in England, except, perhaps, Norham Castle or Berwick-upon-Tweed. In an age and situation where hard blows given and returned, desperate adventures and equal chances of life or death were the common-places of everyday existence, Wark was probably the place where these excitements were to be had oftener than anywhere else.

The romantic episode which gave rise to the establishment of the Order of the Garter is generally allowed to have taken place at Wark Castle. The young king of Scotland, David Bruce, had "ridden a raid" into England, and ravaged and plundered on his way as far as Auckland, after having burnt the town of Alnwick, amongst others, but having been repulsed before the castle. King Edward III. was at Stamford when he heard of the invasion; but hurrying northward he reached Newcastle in four days. The Scots, retreating before him, passed Wark Castle, which was held by the Countess of Salisbury and her nephew, in the absence of her husband. The young man was loth to let so much English booty be carried off under his very eyes, so he fell upon the rearguard, and succeeded in bringing a number of packhorses to the castle. On this the whole Scottish array turned back, and a siege of the castle began; but the Countess spiritedly held out, and Edward meanwhile drew nearer. Some of the Scotsmen were captured, and from them the Countess's nephew heard that Edward had reached Alnwick. He stole out of the castle before dawning in heavy rain, to let the King know where his help was urgently needed; and by noon of the same day Edward was at Wark, only to find his quarry flown, the Scots having retreated a few hours earlier. The King was joyfully received and thanked by the grateful Countess; and he in his turn was much struck by the beauty and grace of the high-spirited lady, and showed his admiration plainly. In the evening, according to tradition, a ball was held, at which the incident occurred, so often related, of the accidental losing of her garter by the fair chatelaine, and the restoration of it by the King, with the remark, as a rebuke to the smiling bystanders,—"Honi soit qui mal y pense." This he afterwards adopted as the motto of the Order he established in honour of the beautiful Countess.

The Garter is the most exclusive of Orders, and consists of the reigning Sovereign and twenty-five Companions, of whom the Prince of Wales is always one; and it takes precedence of all other titles, ranking next to royalty. It is a matter of great pride to all Northumbrians that perhaps the only instance of its having been bestowed on any except a peer of the realm or a foreign Sovereign, has occurred recently in the bestowal of the coveted decoration on Sir Edward Grey, a member of the ancient and important Northumbrian house of that name.

Every King of England from Henry I. to Henry IV., seems to have been at Wark at some time during his reign, with the exception of Richard Coeur-de-Lion and Richard II. After the Union of the Crowns, Wark, like most other fortresses in the north that were not in use as the dwellings of their owners, was allowed to fall into decay. From Wark to Carham is a walk of only two miles along the road which follows the course of the river, and ultimately leads to Kelso. Carham has the remains of an ancient monastery; and here the Danes, after having plundered Lindisfarne, fought a battle in which the Saxons, led by several Bishops, were defeated with great slaughter. From Carham, having reached the last point of interest on the Tweed within the Northumbrian border, we must retrace our steps to Tillmouth, and follow the Tweed through pasture land and level haughs, until we come in sight of the steep cliffs and overhanging woods by Norham Castle.

Naturally here, the words of the opening canto of "Marmion" are recalled to our memory—

"Day set on Norham's castled steep, On Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot's mountains lone The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loophole grates, where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone."

The "castled steep" is still crowned by a massive fragment of the old fortress that has braved, in its time, so many days of storm and stress. A good deal of the curtain wall, too, is standing, and the natural defences of the castle are admirable, for a deep ravine on the east and the river with its steep banks on the south made it practically unassailable at these points. It was built in 1121, as we have seen, by Bishop Flambard of Durham, as a defence for the northern portions of his diocese. The necessity for its presence there was soon made apparent, for it was attacked by the Scots again and again; and by the time thirty years had passed. Bishop Pudsey found it necessary to strengthen it greatly. When Edward I. was called to arbitrate between the claimants to the Scottish throne, he came to Norham and met the rival nobles, who, with their followers, were quartered at Ladykirk, on the opposite side of the Tweed. It was known as Upsettlington then, however; the name of Ladykirk was bestowed upon it long afterwards, when James IV. built the little chapel there, in gratitude for an escape from drowning in the Tweed. Edward held his interview with the Scottish nobles in Norham church, and announced that he had come there in the character of lord paramount, and as such was prepared to make choice of one among them. Edward did not by any means make up his mind quickly, and the various places in which the successive acts in the affair took place are widely scattered, for he met the nobles at Norham, some time afterwards delivered his decision at Berwick, and finally received the homage of John Balliol at Newcastle.

Norham, like Wark, has also its romantic episode—or rather, an episode more conspicuously so in a series of them to which the name might with justice be applied. It occurred during the time that Sir Thomas Gray was holding the castle against a determined blockade of it by the Scots in 1318. A certain fair lady of Lincolnshire sent one of her maidens to a knight whom she loved, Sir William Marmion (whose name probably suggested to Sir Walter Scott the name for the hero of his tale of Norham and Flodden). Sir William was at a banquet when the maiden came before him bearing a helmet with a golden crest, together with a letter from his lady bidding him go "into the daungerust place in England, and there to let the heaulme be seene and knowen as famose." Evidently it was well known where "the daungerust place in England" was to be found, for the story laconically says "So he went to Norham." He had not been there more than a day or two when a band of nearly two hundred Scots, bold and expert horsemen, led by Philip de Mowbray, made an attack on the castle, rousing Sir Thomas and his garrison from their dinner. They quickly mounted, and were about to sally forth when Sir Thomas caught sight of Marmion, in rich armour, and on his head the helmet with the golden crest; and halting his men, he cried out, "Sir knight, ye be come hither as a knight-errant to fame your helm; and since deeds of chivalry should rather be done on horseback than on foot, mount up on your horse, and spur him like a valiant knight into the midst of your enemies here at hand, and I forsake God if I rescue not thy body dead or alive, or I myself will die for it." At this Marmion mounted and spurred towards the Scots, by whom he was instantly set upon, wounded, and dragged from the saddle. But before they had time to give him the final blow they were scattered by the rapid charge of Sir Thomas and his men, who quickly rescued Marmion and set him on his horse again; and using their lances against the horses of the Scots, caused many of them to throw their riders, while the rest galloped away. The women of the castle caught fifty of the riderless horses, on which more of the garrison mounted and joined in the pursuit of the flying Scots, whom they chased nearly to Berwick.

The tables were sometimes turned, however; and on one of these occasions the valiant Sir Thomas Gray and his son were enticed out of the castle into an ambush laid for them by their foes, and both captured.

In 1513, just before the battle of Flodden, its walls were at length laid low by James IV., but not until the famous cannon "Mons Meg"—still, I believe, to be seen at Edinburgh Castle—had been brought against it. One of the cannon-balls fired from "Mons Meg" was found, and is still kept with others at the Castle. It is said that the Scots were told of the weakest spot in the fortifications by a treacherous inmate of the castle, who doubtless expected a rich reward for his information. Indeed, the ballad of "Flodden" says he came for it; but the valiant and chivalrous king would give him no reward but that which he said every traitor deserved—a rope.

Afterwards the castle was restored once more, but its more stirring days were over; and, to-day, it stands a shattered but dignified ruin, overlooking the tranquil river and peaceful woodlands which once echoed so continuously to the clash of arms and the shouts of besiegers and besieged.

The village of Norham was in Saxon days known as Ubbanford—the Upper Ford of two that were available in those days on the Tweed. There was a church here, too, in Saxon times, for Bishop Ecfrid built one about the year 830, and in it was buried the Saxon king Ceolwulf who became a monk: the present church has a good deal remaining of the one built on the same site by Bishop Flambard, about the same time as the castle. Earl Gospatric, whom William the Conqueror made Earl of Northumberland in return for a considerable sum of money—doubtless thinking that to give a Northumbrian the Earldom would reconcile the North to his rule—is buried in the church porch. Gospatric joined in the resistance of the North to William, but returned to his allegiance later. The Market Cross of Norham stands on the original base.

From Norham to Tweedmouth the river sweeps forward between picturesque ever-widening banks, and often hidden by a leafy screen, past the village of Horncliffe, beneath the Union Suspension Bridge, one of the first erected of its kind, until at length its bright waters lave the historic walls of Berwick-upon-Tweed, and in the quiet harbour there meet the inrushing tide from the North Sea.



CHAPTER IX.

DRUM AND TRUMPET.

"The history of Northumberland is essentially a drum and trumpet history, from the time when the buccina of the Batavian cohort first rang out over the moors of Procolitia down to the proclamation of James III. at Warkworth Cross"—Cadwallader J Bates.

This sentence of the historian of Northumberland sums up the story of our northern county no less admirably than tersely, and it would be difficult to find one which should more clearly bring before us the whole atmosphere of north-country history and north-country doings for many centuries.

Within the limits of this chapter it is impossible to go into the details of every "foughten field" within the county; the most that can be done is to indicate the many and treat in detail only the few. A goodly number have already been alluded to in connection with the place where each occurred.

After the Roman campaigns, from those of Agricola to those of Theodosius the elder and Maximus, and the legion sent by Stilicho, the earliest battle story is that of the one in Glendale fought by King Arthur. Then the forming of the kingdom of Bernicia with the advent of Ida at Bamburgh was the beginning of a long-protracted struggle between the various little states, each fighting for its life, and surrounded by others equally determined to take every advantage that offered against it. The sons of Ida fought against the celebrated Urien, a Keltic chief, who almost succeeded in dispossessing them of their kingdom of Bernicia. Hussa, one of Ida's sons, ultimately vanquished Urien's son Owen, "chief of the glittering West"; and after Hussa's death Ethelric of Bernicia, as we have seen, overcame the neighbouring chieftain of Deira, thus forming the kingdom of Northumbria. His successor, Ethelfrith, in the year 603 gained a great victory over a large force of northern Britons under a leader named Aedan at a place called Daegsanstan, which is thought to be Dissington, near Newcastle. His further victories were gained outside the limits of our present survey.

After the long and glorious reign of Edwin, his successor, Ethelfrith's sons came back to Bamburgh; the eldest, Eanfrid, was slain within a year, and his brother Oswald carried on the struggle against Penda of Mercia. We have seen how he fought against Penda and Cadwallon on the Heavenfield near Chollerford, and gained a victory which obtained for him many years of peace. Penda was finally slain by Oswald's successor Oswy in a great battle which is supposed to have taken place on the banks of the Tweed.

Many years afterwards, Sitric, grandson of that Prince Guthred who was once a slave at Whittingham, married a sister of King Athelstan, grandson of Alfred the Great. When Sitric died, Athelstan came northward to claim Northumbria for himself. He captured Bamburgh—the first time that stronghold of the Bernician kings had ever been taken—and arranged for two earls to govern Northumbria for him. They attempted unsuccessfully to oppose a force of Scots under Anlaf the Red, who was joined by two earls of Bretland (Cumbria); and the whole force encamped near a place called Weondune, supposed to be Wandon near Chatton. Athelstan advanced against them and challenged them to a pitched battle on this ground. They agreed, and with much deliberation the course was staked out with hazel wands between a wood and a river (Chillingham woods and the Till). The Scots greatly outnumbered Athelstan's men, who set up their tents at the narrowest part of the plain, giving their king time to reach a little "burg" (Old Bewick) in the neighbourhood. A running fight followed, which was carried on the next day, and with the help of two brothers, Egil and Thorold, who were Norsemen, it ended in a complete victory for Athelstan. While in the north, King Athelstan gave the well-known rhyming charter to a certain Paulan of Roddam;

"I kyng Adelstan giffs hier to Paulan Oddam and Roddam als gud and als fair als evyr thai myne war, and thar to wytness Mald my Wiffe."

Shortly after this, at the Battle of Brunanburh, Athelstan vanquished Anlaf Sitricsson and Constantine, king of the Scots. The site of this battle would seem to have been in Northumbria, as it was into the Humber that Anlaf and Constantine sailed with their large fleet; but the precise spot has never been determined.

In the reign of Knut the Dane, the Scots obtained the whole of Lothian from the Saxon earl of Northumberland, and the vast possessions of St. Cuthbert beyond the Tweed seemed about to be lost to the church of Durham. Accordingly, the clergy called upon all the people of St. Cuthbert from the Tees to the Tweed—all those, that is, who dwelt on lands granted by various donors to the church of St. Cuthbert—to rise and march northward to fight for their lands. This great company set out, in the autumn of 1018, and reached Carham on the Tweed, where they were met by Malcolm king of the Scots. A comet had been seen in the sky for some weeks and the fears inspired by this dread visitant seem to have had more effect upon the Northumbrians than upon the Scots. From whatever cause it arose, when the two forces joined in battle a panic spread among the followers of St. Cuthbert. They were utterly routed, and most of the leading Northumbrians as well as eighteen priests were slain—thus curiously repeating the experience of the earlier battle of Carham.

For the next three hundred years Northumberland was swept by successive waves of raid and reprisal, in the course of which occurred the two well-known events, the attack of William the Lion of Scotland on Alnwick Castle, and the more famous affair still, the struggle between Percy and Douglas known as the battle of Otterburn, which was fought in "Chevy Chase" (Cheviot Forest). More important poetically than politically, it stands out more vividly in the records of the time than many other conflicts of larger import. The personal element in the fight, the deeds of gallantry recorded, the sounding roll of the chief knights' names, and the high renown of the two leaders, throw a glamour around this particular contest which is kept alive by the ballads that chant the praises of Percy or Douglas according as the singer was Scot or Saxon. Sir Philip Sidney, that "verray parfit gentil knight" and discriminating litterateur, said "I never heard the old song of Percie and Douglas that I found not my hart mooved more than with a trumpet: and yet it is sung but by some blynd Crowder,[11] with no rougher voyce than rude stile! which beeing so evill apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivill age, what wolde it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of Pindare!" [Footnote 11: Crowder = fiddler.]

In the endless warfare of the Borders the second of two short-lived periods of truce had just expired, and an organised raid on a large scale was arranged by the Scots. The main body was to ravage Cumberland; and a smaller, but picked force led by Earls Douglas, Moray, and March came southward by way of Northumberland. But Northumbrian towers and towns knew nothing of their passing; they marched rapidly and by stealth into Durham, having crossed the Tyne between Corbridge and Bywell, and began to harry and lay waste the greener pastures and richer villages of the southern county, the smoke of whose burning homesteads was the first intimation to the unlucky English of the fact that a Scottish host was in their midst.

The Earl of Northumberland remained at Alnwick in the hope that he might be able to attack the Scots on their homeward journey; but he despatched his sons Henry Hotspur and Ralph in all haste to defend Newcastle. The Scots in due time appeared before the walls.

And he marched up to Newcastel And rode it round about; "O wha's the lord o' this castel? Or wha's the lady o't?"

But up spake proud Lord Percy then, And O but he spake hie! "I am the lord o' this castel, My wife's the lady gay."

Douglas challenged Percy to meet him in single combat, and Percy promptly accepted. In the duel Percy was unhorsed, and Douglas captured his pennon and his gauntlet gloves, embroidered with the Percy lion in pearls. This trophy Douglas vowed he would carry off to Scotland with him, and set it in the topmost tower of his castle of Dalkeith, that it might be seen from afar. "By heaven! that you never shall," replied Percy; "you shall not carry it out of Northumberland." "Come and take it, then," was Douglas' answer; and Hotspur would have attempted its recovery there and then, but he was restrained by his knights. Douglas, however, said he would give Percy a chance to recover it, and agreed to await him at Otterburn.

"Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, Where you shall welcome be; And if ye come not at three dayis end, A fause lord I'll call thee"

Next day the Scots left Newcastle and marched northward. They took Sir Aymer de Athol's castle of Ponte-land, and the good knight Sir Aymer himself, and went on their way, harrying and burning as they went. At Otterburn they halted, and rested all night, making huts for themselves of boughs and branches. The spot they had chosen was a strong one, on the site of a former British camp; and not only was it surrounded by trees, but was near marshy ground as well. Next day they attempted to take Otterburn tower, but without success.

Meanwhile word was brought to Hotspur that the Scots would spend the night at Otterburn; and he, without waiting for Walter de Skirlaw, Bishop of Durham, who was expected that evening with a strong force, at once set off with 600 spearmen, and a force on foot which is variously given as anything from 800 to 8,000. They covered the thirty-odd miles by the time evening fell: and as the Scots were at supper in their little huts, they were startled by a tumult amongst their grooms and camp-followers, and cries of "a Percy! a Percy!" and the Englishmen were among them. The Scottish leaders had placed their camp-followers and servants at the outermost; part of their encampment, facing the Newcastle road; and Hotspur's force, ignorant of this, mistook it for the main camp. While they were thus engaged, the Scottish knights were enabled to make a detour around the scene of the first attack, and take the English in the rear. With loud shouts of "Douglas! Douglas!" they fell upon them, and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle began. The moon rose clear and bright, and the quiet evening air was filled with the din of battle, the ring of steel on steel, the crash of axe on armour, the groans of the wounded, and the battle-cries of the combatants on each side. Sir Ralph Percy, pressing too rashly forward, was captured by a newly-made Scottish knight, Sir John Maxwell. The battle was turning in favour of Hotspur, when Douglas sent his silken banner to the front and with renewed shouts of "Douglas!" the Scots pressed forward and overbore their foes. According to Froissart, there was not a man there, knight, squire, or groom, who played the coward. "This bataylle was one of the sorest and best foughten without cowards or faynte hearts; for there was neither knight nor I squire but that did his devoyre and foughte hande to hande." Great deeds were done, and the fame of none amongst them is greater than that of the gallant Widdrington;

"For Witherington my heart is woe, That ever he slaine sholde be! For when his legs were hewn in two He knelt and fought on his knee"

Douglas rushed into the thickest of the fray, and Hotspur tried to find him, but in the dim light that was difficult, especially as Douglas had, in his haste, come to the fight without helmet or breastplate. Presently he was borne to the ground by three English spears; and as he lay guarded by his faithful chaplain, Sir John and Sir Walter Sinclair, with Sir James Lindsay, came upon him. "How fare you, cousin?" asked Sir John. "But poorly, I thank God," answered Douglas; "for few of my ancestors died in bed or chamber. I count myself dead, for my heart beats slow. Think now to avenge me. Raise my banner and shout 'Douglas!' and let neither my friends nor my foes know of my state, lest the one rejoice and the other be discomforted." His dying commands were obeyed; and while his battle-cry was raised anew, his dead body was laid by a "bracken bush," and the fact of his death concealed from friend and foe alike. The furious onslaught of the Scots now carried all before them; and Hotspur fell a captive to the sword of Sir Hugh Montgomery, a nephew of Douglas, after a fierce hand-to-hand encounter. The two chief English leaders being captured, the day, or rather the night, was with the Scots, in fulfilment of an old prophesy that "a dead Douglas should win a field."

"This deed was done at Otterbourne At the breaking of the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, And the Percy led captive away."

When the fray was over, the two sides treated their captives with knightly courtesy, many being allowed to go to their homes until they recovered from their wounds, on giving their word of honour to send the amount of their ransom, or themselves return to their captors.

The Bishop of Durham, immediately after having had some refreshment at Newcastle, had set out to join the Percies; but as he and his men neared Otterburn, they met so many fugitives who gave them anything but reassuring accounts of the fortunes of their friends, that half of his force melted away, and the Bishop had perforce to return to Newcastle; it was scarcely to be expected, indeed, that everyone should have that thirst for hard blows which distinguished the knights and their immediate followers. The Bishop, however, made one capture—Sir James Lindsay, who had ridden so far in pursuit of Sir Matthew Redman that he found himself amongst the force advancing under the leadership of the warlike prelate.

When the Scots retired from their camp, they took the body of Douglas from the "bracken bush" where it lay, and carried it away for burial in Melrose Abbey; and Hotspur, as the price of his ransom, built a castle for Sir Hugh Montgomery.

After this there was peace on the Borders for the next ten years or so, when the game began again as merrily as ever. When Sir Thomas Gray was absent from his castle of Wark-on-Tweed, attending Parliament, the Scots came down upon it and carried off his children and servants. Sir Robert Umfraville met and checked another company that were harrying Coquetdale. In the year 1400, Henry Bolingbroke himself led an army to Edinburgh; but a guerilla band of Scots, avoiding his line of march, stole behind him and ravaged Bamburghshire.

Two years after this, a party of Scots under the next Douglas rode into Northumberland, coming nearly as far south as Newcastle. Hotspur set off from Bamburgh, of which castle he was Constable at the time, to intercept them. He awaited them on the banks of the Glen, near Wooler; and the archers of his force went out for forage meanwhile. When the Scots arrived, they found themselves in the presence of an enemy whom they had imagined to be behind them, and they immediately occupied Homildon Hill. The archers, returning, saw the Scottish force on the hill, and began the attack forthwith, letting fly their arrows upon the foe with deadly precision. Flight after flight fell upon the Scots, who were completely bewildered, and seemed incapable of action. A Scottish knight, Sir John Swinton, implored the leaders to charge, passionately exclaiming, "What madness has seized you, my brave countrymen, that you stand here like deer to be shot down? Follow me, those who will! We will either gain the victory, or die like men of courage."

On hearing these brave words, Adam de Gordon, Swinton's deadly foe, felt his hatred turn to admiration, and kneeling before Swinton, begged that he might receive the honour of knighthood from so valiant a hand. The two gallant knights then charged the enemy, followed by a number of the Scots; but the showers of arrows forced them to retreat towards the river, and thither also moved the whole Scottish force, followed still by that grim and deadly hail from the English bows. Hotspur would now have charged, but the Earl of March, his former antagonist, now his friend, restrained his impetuous leader, and persuaded him to let the archers continue their effective work.

The event proved his wisdom; the Scots were utterly routed by the archers alone. The unfortunate Archibald Douglas added another to his long list of reverses; he was taken prisoner, sorely wounded, as was also Sir Hugh Montgomery, and over four-score others of importance. It was in connection with these prisoners, whom Hotspur refused to deliver up to Bolingbroke, that the quarrel took place which eventually led Northumberland and his son Hotspur openly to throw off their allegiance to Henry Bolingbroke and join in the rebellion of Owen Glendower. Not only did Hotspur refuse to give up Douglas and the others to King Henry, but he wished Henry to ransom his brother-in-law Mortimer.

K. Henry. But sirrah, henceforth Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer. Send me your prisoners with the speediest means, Or you shall hear in such a kind from me As will displease you.—My lord Northumberland, We licence your departure with your son.— Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it.

(Exeunt K. Henry, Blunt, and train)

Hotspur. And if the devil come and roar for them I will not send them:—I will after, straight, And tell him so.

* * * * *

Worcester. These same noble Scots That are your prisoners—

Hotspur. I'll keep them all; By heaven, he shall not have a Scot of them; No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not; I'll keep them, by this hand.

Worcester. You start away, And lend no ear unto my purposes. Those prisoners you shall keep.—

Hotspur. Nay, I will, that's flat:— He said he would not ransom Mortimer; Forbade my tongue to speak of Mortimer; But I will find him when he lies asleep, And in his ear I'll holla "Mortimer!" Nay, I'll have a starling shall be taught to speak Nothing but "Mortimer," and give it him To keep his anger still in motion.

The First Part of KING HENRY IV., Act I., Scene 3.

The fight at Homildon Hill took place on a Monday in August, 1402, and the memory of it is kept alive by the name of the "Monday Clough" near Wooler, where the archers commenced the fight.

More than a hundred years after this, the last, and in many respects the greatest, battle ever fought on Northumbrian soil took place at Flodden. King James IV. of Scotland had several grievances against England, which had rankled in his mind for some time; he had not yet received the full amount of the dowry which had been promised with his wife, Margaret Tudor, sister of Henry VIII., although they had been married for many years; a Scottish noble, Sir Robert Ker, had been killed in Northumberland, and the slayer could not be found to be brought to justice—he was outlawed, but that seemed to King James very insufficient; a Border raid on a large scale, led by Lord Hume, had met with disastrous defeat on Milfield Plain at the hands of Sir William Bulmer; and Andrew Barton, a notable sea-captain, whom James was looking forward to seeing as one of the best leaders of his new navy, had been killed in a sea-fight by Thomas Howard, Lord Admiral of England. Added to all this, France had appealed to him to invade England in order to force Henry VIII. to abandon his French war; the English monarch was just then conducting the siege of Terouenne, and the Queen of France sent a romantic appeal to James (together with a large sum of money) begging him to march "three feet on to English ground" for her sake.

No time could have been more favourable in James' eyes for the enterprise; and in a very short space of time he had an army of 100,000 men collected, and marched from Edinburgh to the Tweed, which he crossed near Coldstream. He laid siege to Norham, and captured it after a week's investment; and thereafter Wark, Ford, Etal, Duddo and Chillingham fell before him. He took up his quarters at Ford Castle, and on marching later to meet Surrey, left it almost in ruins.

Surrey meantime had gathered a large force from the northern counties, much to James' surprise, for he had taken it for granted that nearly every English fighting man would be with Henry in Flanders. There were bowmen and billmen from Cheshire and Lancashire under the Stanley banner; and James Stanley, Bishop of Ely, brought the banner of St. Etheldreda, the Northumbrian queen who founded the monastery of Ely. Admiral Sir Thomas Howard brought a band of sailors to join his father at Alnwick. Dacre came with a strong contingent from the western Marches, men from Alston Moor, Gilsland, and Eskdale, and also some from Tynemouth and Bamburgh; and Sir Brian Tunstall with Sir William Bulmer led the men of the Bishopric under the banner of St. Cuthbert.

From Alnwick Surrey sent a letter pledging himself to meet James by September 9th, and challenging him to battle, a challenge which was promptly accepted by the Scottish king. Marching from Alnwick towards the Scottish army, Surrey encamped on September 6th on Wooler Haughs. James had formed his camp on Flodden Hill, and all Surrey's devices could not induce him abandon this strong position. Many of his own nobles advised him not to risk a battle, but to withdraw while there was yet time; and some were ready to leave the camp and return home, which thousands of the more undisciplined in his army had done already, being more anxious to carry off their plunder safely than to stay and fight. But James was eager for the contest, and felt himself bound in honour to give battle to Surrey; he answered haughtily those who counselled retreat, and scornfully told Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, that he might go home if he were afraid. The old man sorrowfully left the field, but his two sons remained with their rash but gallant king, and were both slain.

On the day before the battle took place, Surrey, that "auld crooked carle," as James called him, marched his men northward across the Till and encamped for the night near Barmoor Wood. To the Scots this looked as though they had gone off towards Berwick, to repeat James' own manoeuvre, and invade the country in the absence of its king; and they must have thought that there would be little chance of the battle for which James had punctiliously waited taking place on the morrow. But Surrey's purpose proved to be quite otherwise. On the following morning he sent the vanguard of his army, with the artillery, to make a detour of several miles round by Twizell bridge, where they re-crossed to the south bank of the Till; and coming south-eastward towards Flodden, they were joined by the rest of the army, which had plunged through the stream, swollen by continuous rains, at two points near Crookham. The two divisions met at Branxton, after having waded through a marsh which extended from Branxton nearly to the Till, and which the Scots had thought impassable.

Seeing that the English were about to occupy Branxton Hill, which would entirely cut him off from communication with Scotland, James was forced to abandon his advantageous position; he gave orders for the camp-refuse to be fired, and under cover of the dense clouds of smoke marched down to forestall Surrey and occupy Branxton ridge. The two armies suddenly found themselves within a few spears' length of each other, and the battle was begun by the artillery on both sides.

Sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed, and vast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone Announced their march; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum. Told England, from his mountain throne King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear or see their foes Until at weapon-point they close.

Many of the raw levies on the English side fled at the first sound of the Scottish cannon; but the master of the ordnance, Lord Sinclair, was killed, and his guns silenced. Then the battle joined, and the first result was that the English right wing under Sir Edmund Howard was scattered and broken before the impetuous charge of the Gordons and Highlanders under the Earl of Huntley and Lord Home. Sir Edmund narrowly escaped with his life; but Lord Dacre bringing up his reserve of horsemen at that moment checked the further advance of the Scots. The two central divisions of the armies engaged each other fiercely, the Earl of Surrey, with his son Sir Thomas Howard commanding the English centre, and King James, with the Earls of Crawford and Montrose that of the Scots. Sir Thomas, after having been so hard pressed as to send the Agnus Dei he wore to his father as a signal for help, afterwards with Sir Marmaduke Constable defeated the Earl of Crawford, whose division was opposed to him. Dacre and Sir Thomas now charged Lord Home and drove him some little way back, but could not dislodge his men entirely from their position. The Earl of Bothwell, who commanded the Scottish reserves, now came up to the help of the king, and the day seemed about to be decided in favour of the Scots, when Lord Stanley, on the English left, exactly reversed the fortunes of the right wing, and scattered and routed the Highlanders led by the Earls of Lennox and Argyle. Then with his Lancashire lads he attacked the rear of the Scottish position, as did also Dacre and Sir Thomas Howard.

"They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly, And stainless Tunstall's banner white And Edmund Howard's lion bright All bear them bravely in the fight, Although against them come Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Highlandman, And many a rugged Border clan With Huntly and with Home. Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle."

Nothing now remained for the Scottish centre, hemmed in on all sides, but to make a stubborn last stand; and gallantly did they do it. The flower of Scotland's chivalry surrounded their brave monarch, and in the falling dusk fought desperately to guard their king.

"No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in that serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well. The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood The instant that he fell."

As night fell, the fierce struggle continued until the darkness made it impossible to see friend or foe, but the fate of Scotland's bravest was sealed. The king lay dead, covered with wounds, and around him a heap of slain; those who were able made their way in haste from the field, while the English host encamped where it stood. The more lawless in each army plundered both sides impartially, and when the king's body was found next day, it too was stripped like many others around it.

"Then did their loss his foemen know, Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field as snow Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash While many a broken band, Disordered, through its currents dash To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail."

The tragic effects of that terrible day were long felt in Scotland. Every family of note in the land lost one or more of its members on the fatal field, besides the thousands of humbler beings who fell at the same time. Scotland did not recover from the crushing blow for more than a hundred years; and for many a day the people could not believe that their gallant king was really slain, but continued to hope that he had escaped in the darkness, and would one day return.

There has recently been erected on Flodden Field a simple cross of stone as a memorial of that tragic day. It was unveiled on September 27th, 1910, by Sir George Douglas, Bart. The inscription on the stone is "To the Brave of both Nations."



THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I've heard the liltin' at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' liltin' before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts,[12] in the mornin', nae blythe lads are scornin', Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae jabbin', but sighin' and sabbin', Ilk ane lifts her leglin [13] and hies her away.

In harst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart,[14] and runkled, and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching [15]— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks, with the lasses at "bogle" to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie— The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English for ance by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair liltin' at our ewe-milkin'; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

[Footnote 12: Bughts = sheep-pens.] [Footnote 13: Leglin = milk-pail.] [Footnote 14 Lyart = grizzled.] [Footnote 15: Fleeching = coaxing.]



CHAPTER X.

TALES AND LEGENDS.

Northumberland, as might be guessed from its wild history, is rich in tales of daring and stories of gallant deeds; there are true tales, as well as legendary ones, which latter, after all, may be true in substance though not in detail, in spirit and possibility though not in a certain sequence of facts. Now-a-days we look upon dragons as fabulous animals, and stories of the destruction they wrought, their fierceness and their might are dismissed with a smile, and mentally relegated to a place amongst the fairy tales that delighted our childhood's days, when the idea of belief or disbelief simply did not enter the question. Yet what are the dragon stories but faint memories of those gigantic and fearsome beasts which roamed the earth in the "dim, red dawn of man"—their names, as we read the labels on their skeletons in our museums, being now the most fearsome things about them! No one can deny that the ichthyosaurus, plesiosaurus, and all the rest of their tribe did exist; and were they to be encountered in these days would spread the same terror around, and find man almost as helpless before them as did any fierce dragon of the fairy tales. That part of the legends, therefore, has its foundation in fact; though from the nature of the case, we certainly do not possess an authenticated account of any particular contest between primitive man and one of these gigantic creatures. That oldest Northumbrian poem, however, the "Beowulf," chants the praises of its hero's prowess in encounters of the kind; and the north-country still has its legends of the Sockburn Worm, the Lambton Worm, and the "Laidly" Worm of Spindleston Heugh, the two first having their venue in Durham, and the last in Northumberland. The Spindlestone, a high crag not far from Bamburgh, and Bamburgh Castle itself, form the scene of this well-known legend. The fair Princess Margaret, daughter of the King of Bamburgh was turned into a "laidly worm" (loathly or loathsome serpent) by her wicked stepmother, who was jealous of the lovely maid. The whole district was in terror of this dreadful monster, which desolated the country-side in its search for food.

"For seven miles east and seven miles west And seven miles north and south, No blade of grass or corn would grow, So deadly was her mouth.

The milk of seven streakit cows It was her cost to kepe, They brought her dayly, whyche she drank Before she wente to slepe."

This offering proved successful in pacifying the creature, and it remained in the cave at Spindleston, coming out daily to drink its fill from the trough prepared for it. But the fear of it in no wise diminished, and

"Word went east, and word went west, And word is gone over the sea, That a laidly worm in Spindleston Heugh Would ruin the North Countree."

The news in due course comes to the ears of Princess Margaret's only brother, the Childe Wynde, who is away seeking fame and fortune abroad. In fear for his lovely sister, he calls together his "merry men all," and they set to work to build a ship

"With masts of the rowan-tree,"

a sure defence against the spells of witchcraft; and hoisting their silken sails they hasten homeward.

"... ... The wind with speed Blew them along the deep. The sea was calm, the weather clear, When they approached nigher; King Ida's castle well they knew, And the banks of Bamburghshire."

The wicked queen saw the little bark coming near, and knew that her guilt was about to meet its reward. In haste she tried to wreck the vessel, but the rowan-tree masts made her spells of no avail. Then she bade her servants go to the beach and oppose the landing of the Childe and his crew; but the servants were beaten back, and the young knight and his men landed in Budle Bay. The worm came fiercely to the attack, as the Childe Wynde advanced against it; but on meeting him, and feeling the touch of his "berry-brown sword," it besought him to do it no harm.

"'O quit thy sword, unbend thy brow, And give me kisses three; For though I be a laidly worm No harm I'll do to thee.

O quit thy sword, unbend thy brow, And give me kisses three; If I'm not won ere the sun goes down Won shall I never be.'

He quitted his sword, and smoothed his brow, And gave her kisses three; She crept intill the hole a worm, And came out a fayre ladie."

The knight clasped his lovely sister in his arms, and, casting around her his crimson cloak, led her back to her home, where the trembling queen awaited them. Her doom was spoken by the Childe Wynde—

"Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch; An ill death mayst thou dee! As thou hast likened my sister dear, So likened shalt thou be"

and he turned her into the likeness of an ugly toad, in which hateful shape she remained to her dying day, wandering around the castle and the green fields, an object of hatred to all who saw her. The "Spindlestone," a tall crag on which the young knight hung his bridle, when he went further on to seek the worm in the "heugh," is still to be seen, but the huge trough from which the worm was said to drink has been destroyed.

There are two legends somewhat similar to each other which are told of a company held in the spell of a magic sleep, to be awakened by certain devices, in which the blowing of a horn and the drawing of a sword are prominent. One is the story of "Sir Guy the Seeker," and is told of Dunstanborough Castle. Sir Guy sought refuge in the Castle from a storm; and while within the walls a spectre form with flaming hair addressed him,

"Sir knight, Sir knight, if your heart be right, And your nerves be firm and true,"

(fancy "nerves" in a ballad!)—

"Sir knight, Sir knight, a beauty bright In durance waits for you."

The ballad, written by M.G. Lewis, now describes in a painfully commonplace manner the knight's further adventures. He and his guide wandered round and round and high and low in the maze of chambers within the castle, until at last a door of brass, whose bolt was a venomous snake, gave them entrance to a gloomy hall, draped in black, which the "hundred lights" failed to brighten. In the hall a hundred knights of "marble white" lay sleeping by their steeds of "marble black as the raven's back." At the end of the hall, guarded by two huge skeleton forms, the imprisoned lady was seen in tears within a crystal tomb. One skeleton held in his bony fingers a horn, the other a "falchion bright," and the knight was told to choose between them, and the fate of himself and the lady would depend upon his choice. Sir Guy, after long hesitation, blew a shrill blast upon the horn; at the sound the hundred steeds stamped their hoofs, the hundred knights sprang up, and the unlucky knight fell down senseless, with his ghastly guide's words ringing in his ears—

"Shame on the coward who sounded a horn When he might have unsheathed a sword!"

In the morning, the unfortunate Sir Guy awoke to find himself lying amongst the ruins, and forthwith began his ceaseless and unavailing search for the lady he had failed to rescue.

The legend similar to this in many respects is that of King Arthur and his court at Sewingshields, to which allusion has already been made in the chapter on the Roman Wall. I cannot do better than give this in the words of Mr. Hodgson, who tells the story in his History of Northumberland. "Immemorial tradition has asserted that King Arthur, his queen Guenever, his court of lords and ladies, and his hounds were enchanted in some cave of the crags, or in a hall below the castle of Sewingshields, and would continue entranced there until someone should first blow a bugle-horn that lay on a table near the entrance of the hall, and then with the 'sword of the stone' (was this Excalibur?) cut a garter, also placed there beside it. But none had ever heard where the entrance to this enchanted hall was, till the farmer at Sewingshields, about fifty years since, was sitting knitting on the ruins of the castle, and his clew fell, and ran downwards through a rush of briars and nettles, as he supposed, into a subterraneous passage. Full in the faith that the entrance to King Arthur's hall had now been discovered, he cleared the briary portal of its weeds and rubbish, and entering a vaulted passage, followed in his darkling way the thread of his clew. The floor was infested with toads and lizards; and the dark wings of bats, disturbed by his unhallowed intrusion, flitted fearfully around him. At length his sinking courage was strengthened by a dim, distant light, which as he advanced grew gradually brighter, till all at once he entered a vast and vaulted hall, in the centre of which a fire without fuel, from a broad crevice in the floor blazed with a high and lambent flame, that showed all the carved walls and fretted roof, and the monarch and his queen and court reposing around, in a theatre of thrones and costly couches. On the floor beyond the fire lay the faithful and deep-toned pack of thirty couple of hounds; and on a table before it the spell-dissolving horn, sword, and garter. The shepherd reverently, but firmly, grasped the sword, and as he drew it leisurely from its rusty scabbard, the eyes of the monarch and his courtiers began to open, and they rose till they sat upright. He cut the garter; and as the sword was being slowly sheathed the spell assumed its ancient power, and they all gradually sank to rest; but not before the monarch had lifted up his eyes and hands, and exclaimed—

"O woe betide that evil day On which this witless wight was born, Who drew the sword, the garter cut. But never blew the bugle horn!"

Terror brought on loss of memory, and the shepherd was unable to give any correct account of his adventure, or to find again the entrance to the enchanted hall.

Another legend is connected with Tynemouth. Just above the short sands was a cave known as Jingling Geordie's Hole; the "Geordie" is evidently a late interpolation, for earlier mention of the cave gives it as the Jingling Man's Hole. No one knows how it came by its name; tradition says that it was the entrance to a subterranean passage leading from the Priory beneath the Tyne to Jarrow. In this cave it was said that a treasure of a fabulous amount was concealed, and the tale of this hoard fired a boy named Walter to seek it out, when he heard the tale from his mother. On his attaining to knighthood, he resolved to make the finding of the treasure his particular "quest," and arming himself, he adventured forth on the Eve of St. John. Making his way fearlessly down into the cave, undaunted by spectre or dragon, as they attempted to dispute his passage, he arrived at a gloomy gateway, where hung a bugle, fastened by a golden cord. Boldly he placed the bugle to his lips, and blew three loud blasts. To his amazement, at the sound the doors rolled back, displaying a vast and brightly-lit hall, whose roof was supported on pillars of jasper and crystal; the glow from lamps of gold shone softly down on gold and gems, which were heaped upon the floor of this magic chamber, and the treasure became the rich reward of the dauntless youth.

"Gold heaped upon gold, and emeralds green, And diamonds and rubies, and sapphires untold, Rewarded the courage of Walter the Bold."

The fortunate youth became a very great personage, indeed, as by means of his great riches he was "lord of a hundred castles" and wide domains.

Of a very different character is the story of the Hermit of Warkworth. It is unfortunate that this, the most tragic and moving of all Northumbrian tales, should be most widely known by means of the prosy imitation ballad by Dr. Percy, whose ability as a poet did by no means equal his zeal as a collector of ballads. The hero of the sorrowful tale is said to have been a Bertram of Bothal, who loved fair Isabel, daughter of the lord of Widdrington. Bertram was a knight in Percy's train, and at a great feast made by the lord of Alnwick the fair maiden and her father were amongst the guests. As the minstrels chanted the praises of their lord, and sang of the valiant deeds by which his noble house had won renown, the heart of Isabel thrilled at the thought of her true knight rivalling those deeds of fame. Summoning one of her attendant maidens, she sent her to Bertram, bearing a helmet of steel with crest of gold. With the helmet the maiden gave her mistress' message, that she would yield to her knight's pleadings and become his bride, as soon as he had proved himself a valiant and worthy wearer of the golden-crested helm. Reverently Bertram accepted the commands of his lady, and vowed to prove his devotion wherever hard blows were to be given and danger to be found. The lord of Alnwick straightway arranged for an expedition on to Scottish land, in requital of old scores, and assembled together a goodly company to ride against the Scots. Earl Douglas and his men opposed them, and blows were dealt thick and fast on both sides. Bertram was sorely wounded, after showing wondrous prowess in the fight; but being rescued by Percy, was borne to the castle of Wark upon the Tweed, to recover from his wounds in safety. Isabel's aged father had seen the young knight's valour, and promised that the maiden herself should tend his hurts and care for him until he recovered. Day after day passed, however, and still she came not. At last the knight, scarcely able to take the saddle, rode back to Widdrington, tended by his gallant young brother, to satisfy himself of what had become of his lady. They reached Widdrington tower to find it all in darkness; and after repeated knockings the aged nurse came to the gateway and demanded the name of those who so insistently clamoured at the door. Bertram enquired for the lady Isabel; and then, indeed, all was dismay. The nurse, trembling with fear, told the two youths that her mistress had set out immediately on hearing of her lover's plight, reproaching herself for having led him to adventure his life so rashly, and it was now six days since she had gone. Weary and weak, Bertram rested the night at the castle, and then set out on his search for his lost lady. That they might the sooner search the country round, he and his brother, who loved him dearly, took different directions, one going eastward, and the other north. They put on various disguises as they went, Bertram appearing now in the guise of a holy Palmer, now as a wandering minstrel As he was sitting, despondent and well-nigh despairing, beneath a hawthorn tree, an aged monk came by, and on seeing the supposed minstrel's face of sorrow, said to him,

"All minstrels yet that e'er I saw Are full of game and glee, But thou art sad and woe-begone; I marvel whence it be."

Bertram replied that he served an aged lord whose only child had been stolen away, and that he would know no happiness until he had found her. The pilgrim comforted him and bade him hope, telling him that

"Behind yon hills so steep and high, Down in a lonely glen, There stands a castle fair and strong, Far from the abode of men."

Saying that he had heard a lady's voice lamenting in this lonely tower, he passed on, giving Bertram the hope that now at last his quest was ended. He made his way to that strong castle, and with his music prevailed upon the porter to let him stay near at hand in a cavern; for the porter refused to admit him to the castle in the absence of his lord, though at the same time giving him food and directing him to the cave. He piped all day and watched all night, and was rewarded by hearing his lady's voice lamenting within the walls of her prison. On the second night he caught a glimpse of her beauteous form, fair as the moonbeams that shone around the tower. On the third night, worn with watching, he slept, and only awakened as dawn drew nigh. Grasping his weapon, he stole near to the castle walls, when to his amazement, he saw his lady descend from her window by a ladder of rope, held for her by a youth in Highland dress. Stunned at the sight, he could not move to follow them, till they had left behind them the castle where the lady had been held captive, and were about to disappear over the hill. Silently and swiftly then he drew near, and crying furiously, "Vile traitor! yield that lady up!" fell upon the youth who accompanied her, who in his turn fought as furiously as he. In a few moments Bertram's antagonist lay stretched on the ground; and as he gave him the fatal thrust he cried, "Die, traitor, die!" The lady recognised his voice, and rushing forward, shrieked, "Stay! stay! it is thy brother." But the sword of Bertram, already descending with the force of rage and fury in the blow, could not be stayed until too late. The fair maid's breast was pierced by the sword of the knight who loved her, and she sank down by the side of the youth who had delivered her. It was indeed Bertram's brother, who had succeeded in his search; and the dying maiden found time to tell of his devotion, in rescuing her from this castle of the son of a Scottish lord who fain would have made her his bride, before she, too, lay lifeless by the side of her brave rescuer, leaving her lover too despairing and desolate to seek safety in flight, so that the band of searchers from the castle, seeking their prisoner on the hills, and dreading their lord's wrath on his return, bore him back with them to the dungeon. Their lord, however, had meantime been taken captive by Percy (Hotspur), who, as soon as he heard of Bertram's capture, quickly exchanged the Scottish chief for his friend. Bertram's sorrow lasted for the rest of his days; he gave away his lands and possessions to the poor, and retiring to a lovely spot on the banks of the Coquet, where rocky cliffs overhung the river, he carved out in the living stone a little cell, dormitory, and chapel, and dwelt there, passing his days in mourning, meditation, and prayer. In the chapel, with its gracefully arched roof, he fashioned on an altar-tomb the image of a lady, and at her feet the figure of a hermit, in the attitude of grief, one hand supporting his head and the other pressed against his breast, leaning over and gazing at the lady for ever. The poignant sentence "My tears have been my meat day and night," is carved over the entrance to the little chapel. Here, in this beautiful spot, almost under the shadow of the castle walls belonging to his noble friend, the sorrowing knight, now a holy hermit, spent the remainder of his life in the little dwelling he had wrought in the living rock. It remains to-day more beautiful, if possible, than ever, overhung by a canopy of waving greenery, and draped with ferns and mosses, their graceful fronds laved by the rippling Coquet whose gentle murmurings fill the still air with music.

The next tale takes us to the neighbourhood of Belford, and out upon the old post road from London to Edinburgh. In the unsettled times of James the Second's reign, one Sir John Cochrane of Ochiltree was condemned to death for his part in the rising which was led by the Duke of Argyle. Powerful friends, heavily bribed by Sir John's father, the Earl of Dundonald, were working in Sir John's favour, and they had strong hopes of obtaining a pardon. But meanwhile, Sir John lay in the Tolbooth at Edinburgh, and the warrant for his execution was already on its way northward, in the post-bag carried forward by horseman after horseman throughout the length of the way. Could the arrival of the warrant only be delayed by some means, his life might be saved. In this strait, his daughter Grizzel, a girl of eighteen, conceived the desperate idea of preventing the warrant's reaching its destination. Saying nothing to anyone of her intentions, she stole away from home, and rode swiftly to the Border. Following the road for about four miles on the English side, she arrived at the house of her old nurse; and here she changed her clothes, persuading the old dame to lend her a suit belonging to her foster-brother. Making her way southward, she went to the inn at Belford where the riders carrying the mail usually put up for the night. Here, the same night, came the postman, and the seeming youth watched nervously, but determinedly, for an opportunity of finding out whether the fateful paper was in his bag or not. No slightest chance presented itself, however, and an attempt to obtain the mail-bag during the night failed by reason of the fact that the man slept upon it. One thing she did accomplish, which gave her hope that the encounter for which she was nerving herself might end successfully for her; she managed, unseen, to draw the charges from his pistols. Then the courageous girl rode off through the dark night to select a favourable spot in which to await his coming. For two or three lonely hours she waited, the thought that she was fighting for her father's life giving her courage. In the dim light of the early dawn she heard the sound of his horse's hoofs from where she stood in the shadow of a clump of trees; and steeling herself for the part she was to play, and in ignorance of whether he might have found out that the charges had been withdrawn from his pistols and might have re-loaded them, she waited until he was almost abreast of her, and fired at his horse, bringing it down. Before he could extricate himself she was upon him with drawn sword; but promising to spare his life if he would let her have the mail-bag, she seized it and darted away. He attempted to follow to recover his charge, but she reached her horse, and rode off like the wind. When she reached a place of safety and examined the contents of the bag, what was her joy to find that the warrant was there. It was speedily destroyed; and during the time that elapsed before the news of the loss could be sent to London and another one made out, the friends of Sir John succeeded in obtaining his pardon. "Cochrane's bonny Grizzy" lived to a good old age; and "Grizzy's clump" on the north road near the little village of Buckton keeps green the memory of her daring exploit.

"Bonny Grizzy" was a Scottish maid, though her gallant if lawless deed was performed on Northumbrian soil; but there is one Northumbrian maiden whose fame will live as long as the sea-waves beat on the wild north-east coast, and as long as men's hearts thrill to a tale of courage and high resolve. Grace Darling's name still awakens in every bosom a response to all that is compassionate, courageous, and unselfish; and the thoughts of all north-country folk bold that admiration for the gentle girl which has been voiced as no other could voice it, in the magical words of Swinburne—

"Take, O star of all our seas, from not an alien hand, Homage paid of song bowed down before thy glory's face, Thou the living light of all our lovely stormy strand, Thou the brave north-country's very glory of glories, Grace."

The story of her gallantry has been many times re-told, but never grows wearisome. The memory of that stormy voyage of the Forfarshire, which ended in disaster on the Harcar rocks in the Farne group, remains in men's minds as the dark and tragic setting which throws into bright relief the gallant action of the father and daughter who dared almost certain death to rescue their fellow-creatures in peril. It was in September, 1838, that the ill-fated vessel left Hull for Dundee; but a leak in the boilers caused the fires to be nearly extinguished in the storm the vessel encountered. It reached St. Abb's Head by the aid of the sails, but then drifted southward, driven by the storm, and struck in the early morning, in a dense fog, on the Harcar rocks. Nine of the people on board managed to escape in a small boat, which was driven in a miraculous manner through the only safe outlet between the rocks. They were picked up by a passing boat and taken to Shields. Meanwhile a heavy sea had crashed down upon the Forfarshire, and broken it in half, one portion, with the greater number of crew and passengers, being swept away immediately. The remaining portion, the fore part of the vessel, was firmly fixed upon the rock. Here the shivering survivors clung all that stormy day, the waves dashing over them continually. The captain and his wife were washed overboard, clasped in each others' arms; and two little children, a boy of eight and a girl of eleven years of age, died from exposure and the relentless buffeting of the waves, their distracted mother clasping them by the hand long after life was extinct. To a terrible day succeeded a yet more terrible night.