Part 15

"Our ain Lord Nithsdale Will soon be 'mang us here.

Then the speaker says:--

"Brush me my coat, carlin', Brush me my shoon; I'll awa and meet Lord Nithsdale, When he comes to our town."

"Alack-a-day," says the carlin'. "He has escaped to France, with scarce a penny."

"Then," says the first speaker, "we'll sell our corn and everything we have and send the money to our lord, and we'll make the pipers blow and lads and maidens dance, and we'll all be glad and joyful and play 'The Stuarts back again,' and make the Whigs go mad."

* * * * *

Lord Derwentwater's fate was not so happy as that of Lord Nithsdale, though Lady Derwentwater made a desperate effort to save him.

It was she indeed who had urged him to throw in his lot with the Stuarts, saying that it was not good that he should hide his head when other gentlemen were mustering for the cause.

The peasantry still think that Lady Derwentwater sits on her ruined tower lamenting the evil counsel she gave her husband, and they hasten by in fear when they see her lamp-light flickering.

Derwentwater is described in the old ballads, as "a bonny lord," with hair of gold, and kind love dwelling in his hawk-like eyes.

He passionately loved his beautiful home in Tynedale, the foundations of which may still be seen. The wooded glen below the castle, with the little burn running through it, spanned by a grey bridge is romantically beautiful.

His "Farewell" to all this beauty is pathetic.

"Farewell to pleasant Ditson Hall, My father's ancient seat; A stranger now must call thee his, Which gars[#] my heart to greet.[#] Farewell each kindly well-known face, My heart has held so dear: My tenants now must leave their lands, Or hold their lives in fear.

[#] makes. [#] weep.

No more along the banks of Tyne, I'll rove in autumn grey; No more I'll hear, at early dawn, The lav'rocks[#] wake the day: Then fare thee well, brave Witherington, And Forster ever true. Dear Shaftsbury and Errington, Receive my last adieu.

[#] larks.

And fare thee well, George Collingwood, Since fate has put us down, If thou and I have lost our lives, Our King has lost his crown. Farewell, farewell, my lady dear, Ill, ill thou counsell'dst me: I never more may see thy babe That smiles upon thy knee.

And fare thee well, my bonny grey steed, That carried me aye so free; I wish I had been asleep in my bed, The last time I mounted thee. The warning bell now bids me cease; My troubles nearly o'er; Yon sun that rises from the sea, Shall rise on me no more.

Albeit that here in London town It is my fate to die, O carry me to Northumberland, In my father's grave to lie: There chant my solemn requiem In Hexham's holy towers, And let six maids of fair Tynedale Scatter my grave with flowers.

And when the head that wears the crown, Shall be laid low like mine, Some honest hearts may then lament For Radcliff's fallen line. Farewell to pleasant Ditson Hall, My father's ancient seat; A stranger now must call thee his, Which gars my heart to greet."

Before his death, Earl Derwentwater signed a paper acknowledging "King James the Third" as his sovereign, and saying that he hoped his death would contribute to the service of his King.

He is said to have looked closely at the block, and to have asked the executioner to chip off a rough place that might hurt his neck. Then, pulling off his coat and waistcoat, he tried if the block would fit his head, and told the executioner that when he had repeated "Lord Jesus receive my soul" for the third time, he was to do his office, which the executioner accordingly did at one blow.

History tells that Derwentwater was brave and open-hearted and generous, and that his fate drew tears from the spectators, and was a great misfortune to his country. He was kind to the people on his estates, to the poor, the widow and the orphan.

His request to be buried with his ancestors was refused, and he was interred at St Giles, Holborn, but his corpse was afterwards removed and carried secretly to Northumberland, where it was deposited in Dilston Chapel. The aurora borealis, which appeared remarkably vivid on the night of his execution, was long called in that part of the country "Lord Derwentwater's Lights."

Immediately after Derwentwater's execution, Lord Kenmure also suffered death. After his execution, a letter was found in his pocket addressed to the Pretender, by the title of King James, saying that he died in his faithful service, and asking him to provide for his wife and children.

The following ballad describes his rising in the Stuart cause--

"O Kenmure's on and awa', Willie, O Kenmure's on and awa'; And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw. Success to Kenmure's band, Willie! Success to Kenmure's band! There's no a heart that fears a Whig, That rides by Kenmure's hand.

His lady's cheek was red, Willie, His lady's cheek was red, When she saw his steely jupes[#] put on, Which smell'd o' deadly feud. Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie, Here's Kenmure's health in wine; There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

[#] armour.

There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, Willie, There's a rose in Kenmure's cap, He'll steep it red in ruddie heart's blade, Afore the battle drap. Here's him that's far awa', Willie, Here's him that's far awa', And here's the flower that I lo'e best, The rose that's like the snaw.

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, O Kenmure's lads are men, Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their foes shall ken. They'll live, or die wi' fame, Willie, They'll live, or die wi' fame, And soon wi' sound o' victorie May Kenmure's lord come hame."

*Chapter XLVIII*

*The Nine Nicks o' Thirlwall*

If you stand upon Rose Hill, which rises from the banks of the river Irthing just where Northumberland meets Cumberland, you have lying around you one of the finest wild prospects in the United Kingdom. Hills to the north, stretching away into Scotland; hills to the east, broken into picturesque valleys, especially the great gap through which rushes the young Tyne; hills to the south, dominated by the powerful head of Cross Fell, a great sprawling mountain, not a peaked one, the highest stretch of which is nearly three thousand feet above sea level.

But while drinking in the glories of the distances, the eye will note with curiosity a strange-looking but picturesque hill only a couple of miles to the South-east, with a long rocky ridge at its top deeply cut into or "nicked" in nine different places, this giving it a very wild appearance. It is one of these hills which tempts the keen observer to go on and explore it. If we cut direct to it, over the fields, it is rough going, but the view is good all the way. And there are four special objects of interest, all close together; the rushing Tipalt river, Thirlwall Castle, the Roman wall, and the Nine Nicks.

Thirlwall Castle rises tall, square, and stern, with a dark fir-wood behind it at the foot of the hill, where a bend in the river makes a natural moat. Approaching it from Rose Hill, it looks as if the building were still nearly complete, but the south side has almost entirely fallen away and all the floors and the roof are out. Edward I. slept in this Castle when it was newly built, in 1306; but now it is grass-grown and moss-grown, and its three bare walls rise gaunt and grim to the sky. It is entirely built out of stones with Roman chisel marks, taken from the great Roman wall, which unfortunately was once regarded as a handy stone-quarry for anyone to take from.

The name "Thirlwall" means "Drill-wall," and marks the spot as that at which the wild Northern tribes first "drilled" or broke through the wall. The name was, of course, given to the place long before this castle was built.

To mount from Thirlwall Castle to the top of the Nine Nicks is an easy enough task for any vigorous person. It is just a fine healthy scramble. When at the top, it becomes evident that some sort of fortification once existed there. In point of fact this was the important Roman station called "Magna" which stood at about the middle of the Roman Wall. The wall ran from sea to sea, that is to say, from the mouth of the Tyne to the Solway. Thus it was nearly eighty miles long, and a very elaborate structure indeed.

It consisted of three distinct portions:--

1. The main stone wall, with a ditch to the north of it.

2. An earth-work to the south of this, consisting of either two or three ramparts about seventy feet apart, with a ditch between.

8. Stations, Castles and Watch-towers. Sometimes these were to the north of the wall, sometimes in the middle, sometimes south, according to the nature of the country.

The height of the main wall was from sixteen to twenty feet, including battlements. It was six to nine feet thick. Fancy a powerful military wall of about eighteen feet high stretching nearly eighty miles right across England! It hardly seems possible that the Romans could undertake such a work. The square strong stones were carefully selected and often brought from quarries at a distance. These stones flanked the outsides of the wall, and in between was strong concrete which was poured in while in liquid.

The second wall was of earth and stones, and, of course, lower than the first. Then there was a castle every mile, some of which can still be clearly traced, and a "station," about every four miles, of which several interesting ruins remain. There was a road eighteen feet wide between the two walls.

Those who have the energy to toil on for a full dozen miles of rough walking, along the wall, eastward from Thirlwall, will be rewarded by some of the most romantic scenes in Britain. They will see the wall at its best. They will pass Whinshields, the highest point in the wall, 1230 feet above sea level. The wild Northumbrian lakes will lie at their feet; if the day is fine, the Solway will be seen glistening, thirty miles to the west; and on the east the eye follows the Tyne almost to the sea. The Pennine Ridge bars the view twenty miles to the south, while on the North the High Cheviot is clear and strong, thirty miles away.

Passing Whinshields, it is not far to Borcovicus (often called Housteads) where lie the remains of a large Roman Station, wonderful remains, showing the whole outline with startling clearness. This station covered five acres, and here was quartered a cohort of the Tungrian infantry, consisting of a thousand brave soldiers, servants of Imperial Rome.

But, after all, nothing is so impressive as the remains of the wall itself. Stand at the top either of Whinshields or of the Nine Nicks, and try to imagine what it looked like in Roman days. Eastward along the Tyne valley and westward along the Irthing valley ran this wonderful work, this powerful girdle of stone. The very spot was chosen with great judgment, for these valleys gave the Romans a district protected by the bleak hills, where they could live and where they could keep cattle and grow grain. But the hilly nature of the ground must have added to the difficulty of the builders. The wall had to run up steep hill sides and cling to the edge of cliffs, and precipices; it had to be carried by bridges over roaring torrents, and when it reached low-lying ground it had to avoid the treacherous swamps and morasses. And yet, despite every obstacle, the great wall ran on its direct way, as strong and persistent as the great people who built it.

It withstood the shock of war, it was not flung down by soldiers marching against it. But to the people who wanted to build castles or houses or farms, or even to mend roads, the wall offered a mass of material ready to hand, and it suffered not from man's energy so much as from his laziness. Century after century it was robbed of its stones; to-day a series of long grass-grown mounds, a few feet high, running across the meadows, are nearly all that remain of one of the most wonderful pieces of building that was ever erected in Great Britain. Even today, in its decay, it is one of the most romantic features of a highly romantic district.

*Chapter XLIX*

*In Wild Northumberland To-day*

These tales of the Borders would hardly be complete without a few concluding words about the great romantic charm which still invests the Borderline. Let us, for example, make a brief survey of some of the haunting spots in wild Northumberland. We will pass over such towns as Warkworth, Alnwick, Alnmouth; beautiful as they are, they have moved with the times and are too modern to be more than mentioned here. But in a place like Holy Island we feel the call of the old days, and the charm that was theirs. This Island was the scene of the first efforts of Christianity to curb the wild and warlike Northumbrians; St Aidan, and St Cuthbert, both men of remarkable genius and great influence, taught there lessons of peace and justice without which every warlike state would descend into mere savagery. The island is about two miles square, and at low tide it is easy to walk across the sands to or from the mainland of Northumberland. The distance is two and a half miles, and it is necessary to take off shoes and stockings, for the water on the sands will often be six inches deep. A row of posts marks the way, and some of them have ladders, reaching up to a barrel on the top, so that any caught by the tide can find a safe harbour wherein they will suffer nothing more serious than a long wait! The island is inhabited by fishing folk, living simple healthy lives. There are fine rocks and splendid sands; beautiful flowers and lovely shells. The seabirds are wonderful. The ruins of the old Cathedral and castle are very interesting, it is a delightful old-world place, out of the rush and hurry of modern life.

Retracing our steps to the mainland, and proceeding westward for a dozen or so miles as the crow flies, we reach the River Till, and the field of Flodden. Here we are near to the big wild wall of the Cheviot hills, and to keep on the English side of the border we need to turn due south. It is then about thirty miles of rough walking through these grandly rugged hills before we come to the field of Otterburn.

But we realise in that walk how it was that the district produced and still produces a hardy race of hunters and sheep-farmers, and why it is that the towns and farms nestle in the valleys, so that the Borderers, when they meant to say, "Rouse the neighbourhood," used the phrase, "Raise the _water_" (meaning, of course, the houses along the waterside). Further south, still going among splendid shaggy hills, we reach the North Tyne River, and soon afterwards some highly interesting Roman remains, including the arches of a fine bridge over the river at the Roman Station of Cilurnum, near Chollerford. This is on the Roman Wall, which has already been described under the heading of Thirlwall. A few miles to the west would bring us to the picturesque but little-known Northumberland Lakes, where the wild swans nest. If we continue south and south-west we can follow the beautiful valleys of the Allan or the South Tyne. This is a district of hills, roads, and castles; the domain of the fated Lord Derwentwater was near here. For beauty the whole of this neighbourhood would be hard to beat; yet it is too little known.

If we still go south, the scenery grows wilder and wilder as we approach the huge mountain of Cross Fell. We may cross into south-east Cumberland and visit the quaint old town of Alston, one of the highest towns in England. Here were once the royal silver mines, when English coins were made from Alston silver. Lead is chiefly mined there now, and the mines are worth a visit. Near Cross Fell also is a rough road called the "Maiden Way," and an old legend says it was made by women, who carried the stones in their aprons! The western slope of the Fell is famous for a specially violent wind called the "Helm wind," which rages there at certain seasons. It is just as if it were rushing fiercely down the hill, with a roaring noise and strength enough to overturn a horse and cart, and to beat the grass and grain till it is black! But though it does a deal of damage it is very exhilarating, making people feel merry in spite of themselves. And on Cross Fell slopes can be seen the beautiful River Tees, which can be followed to its grand waterfalls of the the Cauldron and the High Force. In the first the water dashes on to huge rocks, and is thrown back on itself, roaring, foaming, and fighting; in the second, it tumbles sheer down a dark and noble cliff. And everywhere on the heights there are splendid views.

In making any such excursions as the ones here outlined, into the out-of-the-way parts of Northumberland and the Borders, we find an added pleasure in the character of the people. The Borderers are still a grand race; big men, vigorous, honest, courteous, hospitable, free from all that is mean and small. In some districts you can hear "thou" and "thee" still used, and meet old men who have never seen a railway. One dear old farmer, a real picture of a simple honest man, hearing I had come from London, asked me if the London men had got their hay-crop in yet! One typical Northumbrian, of great natural intelligence, bearing a name famous on the Borders, is station-master at a local station that stands in a wood, and between trains, studies bird and wild-flower till he has made himself a most interesting naturalist. A stranger who has lost his way will find these courteous folk ready to walk a mile or two with him, out of their own way, just to set him right; and he who is tired and hungry will be invited to step in and eat, and perhaps find himself introduced to all the family and treated like an honoured guest; then, not a penny of payment taken, they will set him on his way with a bunch of the best flowers from the garden! For hearts on the Border are very human and warm. So that in due time he who knows the Borderers will delight to hear the unmistakeable Northumbrian or the pronounced Border accent. And he will say to himself: Splendid is the Border scenery, and stirring are the Border ballads, but best of all are the Border men.

* * * * * * * *

TOLD THROUGH THE AGES

Legends of Greece and Rome Favourite Greek Myths Stories of Robin Hood and his Merry Outlaws Stories of King Arthur and his Knights Stories from Herodotus Stories from Wagner Britain Long Ago Stories from Scottish History Stories from Greek Tragedy Stories from Dickens Stories from the Earthly Paradise Stories from the AEneid The Book of Rustem Stories from Chaucer Stories from the Old Testament Stories from the Odyssey Stories from the Iliad Told by the Northmen Stories from Don Quixote The Story of Roland Stories from Thucydides The Story of Hereward Stories from the Faerie Queene Cuchulain: The Hound of Ulster Stories from Xenophon Old Greek Nature Stories Stories from Shakespeare Stories from Dante Famous Voyages of the Great Discoverers The Story of Napoleon Stories of Pendennis and the Charterhouse Sir Guy of Warwick Heroes of the Middle Ages The Story of the Crusades The Story of Nelson Stories from George Eliot Froissart's Chronicles Shakespeare's Stories of the English Kings Heroes of Modern Europe The Story of King Robert the Bruce Stories of the Scottish Border The Story of the French Revolution The Story of Lord Kitchener Stories of the Saints The Story of St Elizabeth of Hungary In Feudal Times The High Deeds of Finn Early English Travel and Discovery Legends of Ancient Egypt The Story of the Renaissance Boyhood Stories of Famous Men Stories from French History Stories from English History Famous English Books and their Stories Women of the Classics In the Days of the Guilds Science through the Ages

_Other volumes in active preparation_