“On Kielder-side the wind blaws wide; There sounds nae hunting horn
That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat Round banks where Tyne is
born.” —_A.C. Swinburne_.
Between Peel Fell and Mid Fell, almost the farthest western heights
of the Cheviot Hills, a little mountain stream takes its rise, and
flows to the south and east. This little burn is the North Tyne,
the beginnings of that stream which, deep, dark, and swift at its
mouth, bears the mighty battleships there built to carry the
war-flags of the nations round the world. In the wild and lovely
district where the North Tyne takes its rise, is Kielder Castle, a
shooting box belonging to the Duke of Northumberland.
This neighbourhood is the scene of two romantic ballads; that of
the “Cowt (colt) of Kielder” and the Ettrick Shepherd’s ballad of
“Sir David Graeme.” The deadly enemy of the young “Cowt,” so called
from his great strength, is Lord Soulis of Hermitage Castle, on the
Scottish side of the border. The Cowt, with his followers, was
enticed into the Castle, where Lord Soulis purposed his death; but
the gigantic youth burst through the circle of his foes and
escaped. The evil Brownie of the moorland, however, gave to Lord
Soulis the secret which safeguarded the young Cowt. His coat of
mail was sword-proof by a spell of enchantment, and he wore in his
helmet rowan and holly leaves; but these would all be of no avail
against the power of running water. The Cowt was pursued until, in
crossing a burn, he stumbled and lost his helmet, and ere he
recovered, his enemies were upon him, and they held him under water
until he was drowned.
Not far from the mouth of the Bell Burn, which here runs into the
Tyne, a circle of stones outside an ancient burial ground is known
as the Cowt’s Grave.
“This is the bonny brae, the green, Yet sacred to the brave, Where
still, of ancient size, is seen Gigantic Kieldar’s grave.
Where weeps the birch with branches green Without the holy ground,
Between two old grey stones is seen The warrior’s ridgey mound.
And the hunters bold of Kieldar’s train, Within yon castle’s wall, In
a deadly sleep must aye remain Till the ruined towers down fall.”
In the ballad of “Sir David Graeme,” by James Hogg, the lady of the
story watched out of her window in vain for the coming of her
“noble Graeme,” who had vowed that the hate of her father and
brothers would not keep him from coming to carry off his fair lady
on St. Lambert’s night.
“The sun had drunk frae Kieldar Fell His beverage o’ the morning dew;
The deer had crouched her in the dell, The heather oped its bells o’
blue.
The lady to her window hied, And it opened o’er the banks o’ Tyne;
An’ “O! alack,” she said, and sighed, “Sure ilka breast is blythe but
mine?”
Her forebodings prove only too true, for her lover’s faithful hound
seeks her out, and with mournful looks induces her to follow him
over Deadwater Fell, and guides her to a lonely spot where the body
of the gallant Graeme, slain by her brothers, is lying.
In the neighbourhood of these desolate Fells are to be found many
traces of ancient British Camps.
The little mountain streams which here help to swell the stream of
the North Tyne are, on the south side, the Lewis and Whickhope
Burns, and on the north, the Plashetts and Hawkhope Burns. On both
sides of the Tyne, near the Whickhope and the Hawkhope Burns are
many remains of an ancient pre-historic forest, the largest being
near the Whickhope Burn where the abnormally thick stems of trees
may be seen.
The little village of Falstone is set amongst trees, in the midst
of pleasant meadows, a welcome relief from the bare fells and
moorlands around it; yet this wild scenery has a distinct
fascination of its own, and adds not a little to the charm of the
varied landscape within the bounds of our northern county. At
Falstone a fragment of an ancient cross was discovered, with an
inscription carved upon it—in Roman letters on one side and in the
Runes of the Anglo-Saxons on the other. The inscription states that
a certain Eamer set up the cross in memory of his uncle Hroethbert,
and asks for prayers for his soul. The existence of a similarly
inscribed cross is not known, so that the Society of Antiquaries,
in whose keeping this cross rests, has in it probably a unique
treasure.
The Tarset Burn, upon which stands the village of Thorneyburn, runs
into the Tyne not far from Falstone, and reminds us of the old
Border-riding days, when the rallying-cry of the men of the
district in many a feud with neighbouring clans was—“Tarset and
Tarret Burn, Hard and heather-bred, yet-yet-yet.” Near the spot
where the Tarset Burn joins the Tyne is a grassy hill on which once
stood Tarset Castle, a stronghold of that Red Comyn whom Bruce slew
in the little chapel at Dumfries, and of whose death Bruce’s friend
Kirkpatrick said he would “mak’ siccar”!
The village of Charlton, on the north bank of the Tyne, and the
mansion of Hesleyside on the other, carry the mind back to the old
reiving plundering days, for it was at Hesleyside that the incident
of the ancient spur of the Charlton’s took place, doubtless many a
time and oft, when the good lady of Hesleyside served up the spur
at dinner as a gentle hint that the larder was empty, and it
behoved her lord to mount and away to replenish the same,
preferably with stock from the Scottish side of the border, or if
not, a neighbour’s cattle would serve equally well.
The Charltons, Robsons (possibly the lineal descendants of
“Hroethbert” of the ancient cross) and Armstrongs, held almost
undisputed sway over this region, and the district teems with
reminders of their prowess and traditions of their exploits. The
men of Tynedale (the North Tyne) and Redesdale were known as the
fiercest and most lawless in all that wild district. Redesdale is a
district of monotonous, almost dreary, moorlands, and wild, bare
fells, where sheep graze on what scanty provender the bleak hills
afford, finding better fare, however, in the valleys near the river
banks, where the pasture is fresh and green.
Bellingham is to-day the most considerable village of the
neighbourhood; it stands conveniently at the foot of the hills
where the little Belling Burn, or Hareshaw Burn, joins the main
stream. In Hareshaw woods is the beautiful Hareshaw Linn, where the
stream falls down through a break in the sandstone cliffs, and
forms a picturesque waterfall, fringed with ferns and trees and
cool mosses. It well repays one for the walk of a mile or so
through tangled underwoods by the side of the burn. Bellingham
gives its mime to the family of de Bellingham, whose chief seat,
however, is now in Ireland and no longer in the little
north-country town.
The massive church here, with its roof of stone, bears eloquent
testimony to the need for fireproof buildings in a village so near
to Scotland in the days of Border warfare. Outside the churchyard
wall is the well of St. Cuthbert, or “Cuddy’s Well,” which was
greatly venerated in early days, and many stories are told of the
miraculous power of its waters. Inside the churchyard a grave is
pointed out as the burial place of the robber whose tragic end was
told by James Hogg in his gruesome story of “The Long Pack.”
The village itself is plain and bare, as might be expected from a
settlement which would probably find that unattractiveness in
either wealth or appearance was a tolerable safeguard.
Below Bellingham the North Tyne is joined by its longest and most
noted tributary, the Rede Water, which also rises in the Cheviots.
Rising in the hills north of Carter Fell, it flows south-east,
through a wild region, passing, while still high up amongst the
hills, the little village of Byrness, and the new reservoir at
Catcleugh, where a supply of pure water is stored for the use of
the dwellers in distant Newcastle. On its way to the Tyne, it
passes many an old pele-tower, and the Roman stations of Bremenium
(Rochester) and Habitancum, near Woodburn. The ancient Roman road
of Watling Street crosses the Rede at Woodburn, leading from
Habitancum to Bremenium.
Many mountain streams, clear and sparkling, or peaty and brown,
join the Rede Water on its way, amongst others the little Otter
Burn, by whose banks took place that stirring episode in the
constant quarrels between the Douglases and Percies known as “Chevy
Chase,” from which the fierce battle-cries ring down the five
centuries that have passed since that time, with sounds that echo
still.
The pretty village of Redesmouth (or Reedsmouth) stands where the
Rede Water enters the North Tyne, and a few miles further on the
rapid little Houxty Burn pours its peaty waters into the main
stream.
On the right bank of the Tyne stands Wark, conveniently placed at
one of the most important fords of the Tyne in former days. Like
other towns and villages so placed on different streams throughout
the country, the advantages of its situation have evidently been
appreciated by the successive inhabitants of the land, for there
are traces of its occupation by Celt, Roman, and Saxon; and, later,
the town was the most considerable in Upper Tynedale. During the
time that this part of England was ceded to the Scottish Kings,
David and Alexander, it was at Wark that the Scottish law courts
for Tynedale held their sittings. The mound called the Mote Hill,
near the river, marks the spot where, in all probability, the
ancient Celtic inhabitants met together to administer the rude
justice of prehistoric times, and to make the laws of their little
settlement, which grew to much greater proportions in later years.
In fact, it is supposed that the Kirkfield marks the site of a
church which stood in the midst of the once extensive town.
A little way up the Wark Burn, above the bridge, there may be seen
some upright stems of Sigillaria in the exposed face of the cliffs.
On the opposite side of the river from Wark is Chipchase Castle,
one of the finest mansions in Northumberland, standing in the midst
of the beautifully wooded and picturesque scenery which, from this
point onwards is characteristic of the North Tyne. Of the former
village of Chipchase scarcely a trace remains, though its name, if
nothing else, shows that here has been a village or small town,
important enough to have its well-known, market; for “Chip,” like
the various “Chippings” throughout England is derived from the
Anglo-Saxon _ciepan_—to buy and sell, to traffic. In the reign of
Henry II., Chipchase was the property of the Umfravilles of
Prudhoe; but later it passed into the hands of the well-known
Northumbrian family of Heron.
Not far from Chipchase Castle are the famous Gunnerton Crags,
formed by an out-crop of the Great Whin Sill. These lofty cliffs
have been the site of a considerable settlement of the ancient
British tribes who dwelt in the district in such numbers, as is
evident from the scores of camps, which may be traced all over this
part of Northumberland. The naturally strong position on the
Gunnerton Crags, would be certain to commend itself to a people,
the first requisite of whose dwelling places was strength and
consequent safety.
At Barrasford the making of the railway cutting led to the opening
up of a large barrow, or burial place, of the ancient Britons; and
a single “menhir,” supposed to be the solitary survivor of a large
group of these huge stones, stood near the village school some
years ago.
Passing Chollerton and Humshaugh, embowered amongst spreading
trees, we arrive at Chollerford, the prettiest village of North
Tyne, lying near the river where it was crossed by the Roman Wall.
From the bridge which spans the Tyne at Chollerford one of the
finest views of the river, both up and down the stream, is to be
seen; and to watch the swift brown stream, after a flood or a
freshet, foaming through the arches is an exhilarating sight. The
bridge itself is a modern one, for we know that all the bridges on
the Tyne, except that of Corbridge, were swept away by the great
flood of 1771.
In 1394, that prince of bridge-builders, Bishop Walter de Skirlaw
of Durham, granted thirteen days’ indulgence to all who should
assist in rebuilding the bridge at Chollerford; so that already
there was one here which had evidently fallen into disrepair. Yet,
in the ballad of “Jock o’ the Side,” the rescuers, with Jock in
their midst, reach Chollerford, and, after some anxious questioning
of an old man as to whether the “water will ride,” are compelled to
swim the Tyne in flood, which their pursuers, coming up, will not
attempt to do. Now Bishop Skirlaw’s bridges did not usually
disappear; those of Yarm, Shincliffe, and Auckland have stood until
to-day, with occasional repairs. Are we then reluctantly to
question the truth of “Jock o’ the Side”? Surely, if the choice
remain of the accuracy of the ballad or the fact of the bridge, it
is the duty of all leal North-country people to swear by the
ballad. Perhaps the good Bishop did not personally oversee the
rebuilding of Chollerford Bridge: more probably the Wear and Tees
do not come down with the angry impetuosity of the Tyne in flood!
The remains of the great Roman camp of Cilurnum (The Chesters) may
be seen here within Mrs. Clayton’s park. This was the largest
military station in Northumberland, Corstopitum, which is very much
larger, being more of a civil settlement. At some little distance
below the present bridge some of the piers of the old Roman bridge
are still to be seen when the river is low.
Eastward from Chollerford is the little church of St. Oswald,
standing where the battle of Heavenfield took place. When Penda of
Mercia, and the British Prince Cadwallon, were warring against
Northumbria, the greatest Northumbrian King, Edwin, was defeated
and slain by them; and on their return to the attack, Ethelfrith’s
eldest son, called back from exile to take the vacant throne, and
rule in his father’s seat of Bamburgh, also fell before their
fierce onslaught. His brother Oswald now took command of the
Bernicians and prepared to lead them against the foe. Oswald posted
his men in a strong position on the north side of the great Wall;
and, setting up a huge cross of wood, called upon all his followers
to bow before the God of whom he had learnt during his exile in
Iona, and to pray to Him for victory. His army obeyed, and, in the
battle which followed, Oswald’s forces were completely victorious.
The Mercians, and their allies, the western Britons, were routed,
and driven out of Bernicia, and Cadwallon was pursued as far as the
Denise Burn, and there slain. The Denise Burn is supposed to have
been the Rowley Burn, which flows into the Devil’s Water, on whose
banks stands Dilsten Castle. Some time later, on the spot where
Oswald’s Cross had stood, a church was erected and dedicated to the
royal Saint. It was served from Hexham Abbey.
After passing Wall, which, however, is not quite so near the Roman
Wall as Chollerford is, we come to the pretty village of Warden,
nestling beneath the woods of Warden Hill; and here, just above
Hexham, the North Tyne unites with its sister river in the rich
meadow lands which lie near the old town.
The South Tyne has journeyed from Cross Fell, where it takes its
rise, northward through a corner of Cumberland, past Garrygill and
Alston, until it enters Northumberland where the Ayle Burn on the
one hand, and the Gilderdale Burn on the other, flow into it. Here
is Whitley Castle, where was a small Roman station called Alio, and
Kirkhaugh Church, charmingly placed on the bank of the river, which
continues its course northward past Slaggyford, Knaresdale, Eals,
and Lambley, till it flows past the fine Castle of Featherstone,
and the ruins of Bellister, where it turns eastward to Haltwhistle.
The little streams which enter the South Tyne up to this point flow
through wild and romantic glens, two of them owning the Celtic
names of _Glen Cune_ and _Glen Dhu_.
The family of Featherstonehaugh is one of the oldest in the North;
and it was concerning the death of one of this family—Sir Albany
Featherstonehaugh, who was High Sheriff of Northumberland in the
days of Henry VIII.—that Mr. Surtees, the antiquary, wrote the
well-known ballad, which, when Surtees gave it him, deceived even
Sir Walter Scott into thinking it genuinely ancient. The first
verse of the ballad shows with what a verve and swing the lines go.
“Hoot awa’, lads, hoot awa’ Ha’ ye heard how the Ridleys, an’
Thirlwalls, an’ a’ Ha’ set upon Albany Featherstonehaugh; And taken
his life at the Deadmanshaw? There was Willimoteswick, And
Hard-riding Dick, An’ Hughie o’ Hawdon, an’ Will o’ the Wa’ I canno’
tell a’, I canno’ tell a’ And mony a mair that the de’il may knaw.”
The ruins of Bellister Castle stand against a sombre background of
woods, only a little way from Haltwhistle. The Castle once belonged
to the Blenkinsopp family, who also owned Blenkinsopp Castle, about
two miles away. The name was formerly spelt Blencan’s-hope—the hope
being valley or hollow—and the Castle, like many other places, has
its legendary “White Lady.”
Haltwhistle is a little straggling town lying on both sides of the
main road above the South Tyne, where it is joined by the
Haltwhistle Burn. By going up the valley of this pretty little
stream we shall arrive near the Roman station of AEsica, on the
Wall. The town of Haltwhistle is peaceful enough now, but it had a
stirring existence in the days when Ridleys, Armstrongs, and
Charltons, to say nothing of the men of Liddesdale and Teviotdale,
had so strong a partiality for a neighbour’s live-stock and so
ready a hand with arrow and spear. In the old ballad of “The Fray
of Hautwessel,” we are told that
“The limmer thieves o’ Liddesdale Wadna leave a kye in the haill
countrie, But an[3] we gi’e them the cauld steel, Our gear they’ll
reive it a’ awaye, Sae pert they stealis, I you saye. O’ late they
came to Hautwessel, And thowt they there wad drive a fray. But Alec
Ridley shot too well.”
[3] But an = unless.
The most notable feature of present-day Haltwhistle is the finely
placed parish church, of which the chancel is the oldest part,
having been built in the twelfth century, so that it was already an
old church when Edward I. rested here for a night in 1306, on his
way to Scotland for the last time. When William the Lion of
Scotland returned from his captivity, after being taken prisoner at
Alnwick in 1174, he founded the monastery of Arbroath in
thanksgiving for his freedom, and bestowed on the monks the church
of Haltwhistle.
All that remains of the old Castle, or “Haut-wysill Tower,” is the
building standing near the Castle Hill, which latter has been
fortified by earthworks. The Red Lion Hotel is a modernised
pele-tower. The general aspect of the place is singularly bare and
bleak; but from several points in the town, notably from the
churchyard terrace, fine views of the river valley may be obtained.
Henshaw (Hethinga’s-haugh) is a little village which King David of
Scotland, when he was Lord of Tynedale, gave to Richard Cumin and
his wife, who afterwards bestowed it on the Cathedral of Durham. It
lies by the side of the main road to Bardon Mill, which is the most
convenient station for travellers to alight at who wish to visit
the Roman Wall and the Roman city of Borcovicus, and the
Northumberland lakes. Some little distance up the hill from Bardon
Mill station is a very pretty little village whose name speaks
eloquently of other invaders than the Romans—the village of
Thorngrafton (the “ton” or settlement on Thor’s “graf” or dyke).
Near at hand there are quarries from which the Romans obtained much
building material for the Wall; and in one of these old quarries
some workmen discovered a bronze vessel full of Roman coins, a few
of gold, but most of silver. This was known as the “Thorngrafton
Find,” and the interesting story of it is told by Dr. Bruce.
On the opposite side of the South Tyne from Henshaw, Willimoteswick
Castle stands on the level plains which are as characteristic of
the south bank of the river as are the steep slopes of the north
bank. One of the towers of this old Castle yet remains, and forms
part of the more modern farm-house which stands there.
Willimoteswick was long in the possession of the Ridleys, and it is
generally accepted as having been the birthplace of Bishop Ridley,
though Unthank Hall, nearer to Haltwhistle, and also a home of that
family, disputes the honour. The Bishop, who suffered death at the
stake in the troublous times of Queen Mary, in touching letters
bids farewell to his Cousin at Willimoteswick and his sister and
her children at Unthank.
On the same side of the Tyne is Beltingham Church, with some
wonderful old trees in the churchyard, and Ridley Hall, which takes
its name from that family, although not now occupied by them. Here
the Allen flows into the South Tyne, and nowhere in the whole of
the county is there a more beautiful and romantic scene. By the
side of the stream the Ridley woods stretch for a mile or two, and
the delightful mingling of graceful ferns, overhanging trees, tall,
rugged cliffs, flowering plants, and sparkling waters forms a
succession of lovely scenes throughout their length, which, with
the play of lights and shadows on the dimpled surface of the
stream, and frequent glimpses of grassy glades and cool green
alleys, make a walk through these enchanting woods an unforgettable
delight.
The Allen Burn, which gives its name to the beautiful district of
Allendale, is, like the Tyne, formed by the junction of two
streams, the East and West Allen, which rise near each other in
hills on the border of Northumberland and Durham, down the opposite
slopes of which run the little streams which feed the Wear. After
flowing apart for some miles, the East and West Allen unite not far
from Staward railway station. Both rivers flow, for the first part
of their course, through a wild and hilly region, rich, however, in
minerals. On the East Allen are the towns of Allenheads, formerly a
busy centre of the lead-mining industry, and Allendale Town, which
lies about 1,400 feet above the sea-level.
As the lead-mining industry has decreased, Allendale has turned its
attention to other methods of living, and now caters for the army
of visitors who, each summer, climb its hills and wander through
its woods and lanes, and by its riverside, as did the Allendale
maid whose memory is perpetuated in the simple lines of the little
poem, “Lucy Gray of Allendale.”
“Say, have you seen the blushing rose, The blooming pink, or lily
pale? Fairer than any flower that blows Was Lucy Gray of Allendale.
Pensive at eve, down by the burn, Where oft the maid they used to
hail, The shepherds now are heard to mourn For Lucy Gray of
Allendale.”
Not far from the village of Catton, the name of “Rebel Hils”
reminds us that it was a vicar of Allendale, Mr. Patten, who joined
young Derwentwater in the rising of “The Fifteen,” and was
appointed chaplain of the little army. He met some half-dozen men
of the neighbourhood at this hill, when they set off together to
join the rest of the forces at Wooler.
On the West Allen is the lonely little hamlet of Ninebanks, with
Ninebanks Tower, concerning which little is known with certainty;
and on this stream also are two of the most strikingly beautiful
places in Northumberland—the delightfully picturesque village of
Whitfield, and the well-known Staward-le-Peel.
The ruins of the “Pele” tower stand on a high grassy platform,
safeguarded on three sides by tall cliffs and tumbled boulders; the
remains of a ditch may also be traced. From this point a splendid
view of the river valley, with its steep precipices, overhanging
pinewoods intermingled with trees of less sombre hue, and the
bright course of the river, may be obtained. At a point a little
higher up the valley, where the waters of the stream are held back
by some huge rocks, they form a deep pool, and then flow onwards
through a narrow gorge called Cyper’s Linn. Following the stream
now until it has merged its waters in those of the South Tyne, we
turn eastward with the main stream and come to Haydon Bridge.
This considerable village, gradually growing to the proportions of
a small town, lies on both sides of the river, which is here
crossed by the substantial bridge from which the village takes its
name; for the original village of Haydon stood at some distance up
the hill on the north side of the stream. On the hillside may still
be seen the ruins of the old church, in which services are
occasionally held in the summer time. The chancel, apparently
dating from the twelfth century, and a later little chapel to the
south of it, are all that are left of the building. Some very
quaint inscriptions are to be seen in the churchyard, and there are
many sculptured grave-covers within the church. Many of the stones
used in the building have evidently been brought from the great
Wall, or probably from the Roman station of Borcovicus, some six or
seven miles to the north; and what a rush of bewildering fancies
crowds upon one’s mind on first discovering that the font was
originally a Roman altar!
The old church must have looked down on many a wild and curious
scene in the days when Scot and Englishman sought only
opportunities to do each other an injury, and the river-valleys
were the natural passes through which the tide of invasion, raid,
and reprisal flowed.
In the beginning of the reign of Edward III., about 24,000 Scots,
under Douglas and Murray, crossed the Tyne near Haydon Bridge, and
rode on to plunder the richer lands that lay to the south and west.
They reached Stanhope and encamped there for a time. The young king
set out northwards with a great army to punish these marauders, and
he was told by his scouts that they had hastily left Stanhope on
his approach. He and his army pushed on quickly until they reached
Bardon Mill; and, crossing the Tyne, marched down to Haydon Bridge,
expecting the Scots to return by the way they went. It was
miserable weather, and the feeding of so many thousands of men was
no little problem. They scoured all the country round for
provisions, getting the most from the Hexham Abbey lands. Meanwhile
it rained and rained, and no Scots appeared. After a week of
waiting, Edward, in great disappointment, went to Haltwhistle,
while his followers reconnoitered in all directions. Finally, he
had the mortification of learning that the Scots were still at
Stanhope, but before anything more could be done, they betook
themselves back to Scotland by a different route, and there was
nothing left for Edward but to give up the expedition in despair.
The bridge at Haydon appears to have been the only one for some
distance up and down the river in the sixteenth century, for we
read of its being barred and chained, on various occasions of
marauding troubles in Tynedale, to prevent the free-booters
re-crossing the river.
In the days of Charles I. Colonel Lilburn marched to Haydon Bridge
in command of some troops of the Roundheads, on his way to join
their comrades at Hexham as a counter-move to the operations of the
Royalist troops in the North. Little more than thirty years after
this, when the days of Cromwell’s power had come and gone, and
Charles II. ruled at Whitehall, the old Grammar School was founded
at Haydon Bridge in 1685 by a clergyman, the Rev. John Shafto.
Various changes have taken place in the school from time to time,
necessitated by the gradual changes and educational needs of the
passing years; and now, like the Grammar School of Queen Elizabeth
at Hexham, it has been entirely re-constituted to meet modern
requirements. John Martin, the famous painter of “The Plains of
Heaven,” received the beginnings of his education at this school.
He was born at East Land Ends farm in 1789. In after years the
authorities of Haydon Bridge Reading Room, wishing no doubt to
afford a perfect example to future generations of the truth of the
proverb concerning a prophet and his own country, refused some of
Martin’s pictures, which the gifted painter himself offered to
them—an act which their successors have doubtless regretted.
At a little distance along the Langley Road, which leads past the
school, a memorial cross is standing. It was erected in 1883 by the
late Mr. C.J. Bates, the historian of Northumberland, to the memory
of the last of the Derwentwater family, whose castle of Langley he
purchased. The inscription on the cross reads:—“To the memory of
James and Charles, Viscounts Langley, Earls of Derwentwater,
beheaded on Tower Hill, London, 24th February, 1716, and 8th
December, 1746, for loyalty to their lawful sovereign.”
A striking testimony, this, to the fact that freedom in England is
a reality, and not merely a name. In what other land would an
inscription such as this have been allowed to remain for more than
twenty-four hours?
A couple of miles or more down the South Tyne is Fourstones, so
called because of four stones, said to have been Roman altars,
having been used to mark its boundaries. A romantic use was made of
one of these stones in the early days of “The Fifteen.” Every
evening, as dusk fell, a little figure, clad in green, stole up to
the ancient altar, which had been slightly hollowed out, and,
taking out a packet, laid another in its place. The mysterious
packets, placed there so secretly, were letters from the Jacobites
of the neighbourhood to each other; and the little figure in green
was a boy who acted as messenger for them. No wonder that the
people of the district gave this altar the name of the “Fairy
Stone.”
Between Haydon Bridge and Fourstones are both freestone and
limestone quarries, which latter have supplied many fossils to
visitors of geological tastes. Halfway between Fourstones and
Hexham, the two streams of North and South Tyne unite, and flow
together down to the old town of Hexham, with its quaintly
irregular buildings clustering in picturesque confusion round its
ancient Abbey, which dominates the landscape from whatever point we
approach.
Warden Village, already mentioned, lies in the angle formed by the
meeting of the two streams, and has an ancient church which,
however, has been largely rebuilt. From High Warden, near at hand,
a delightful view may be obtained for a long distance up the
valleys of North and South Tyne. On the summit of this hill there
are the remains of a considerable British camp, showing that they
had seized upon this point of vantage, and though the ancient
British name has not come down to us, it is evident from the Saxon
name of Warden (_weardian_) that Saxons as well as Britons were
fully alive to the merits of the situation, “guarding” the valley
at such a commanding point.