The town of Hexham, standing on hilly ground overlooking the Tyne,
immediately below the point at which the North and South Tyne
unite, and spreading from thence down to the levels all round, is
one of the most ancient in the kingdom. To write of Hexham with any
measure of fulness would require much more space than can be given
to it within the limits of a small book; only a mere summary can be
offered here. Britons, Romans, and Saxons, in turn, have dwelt on
and around the hill which, in Saxon days, was to be crowned with
Wilfrid’s beautiful Abbey, which, we read, surpassed all others in
England at that time for beauty and excellence of design and
workmanship; nor was there another to equal it anywhere on this
side of the Alps.
The name of Hexham is generally understood to be derived from the
names of two little streams, the Hextol and the Halgut, now the
Cowgarth and the Cockshaw Burns, which here flow into the Tyne; or,
as Mr. Bates suggests, it may have been the “ham” of “some
forgotten Hagustald,” which the name perpetuates. In any case its
name was Hagustaldesham when King Ecgfrith (or Egfrid) of
Northumbria gave it to his queen, Etheldreda, who wished to take
the veil. Queen Etheldreda, however, preferred to go to East
Anglia, which was her home; she retired to a convent at Ely, and
bestowed the land at Hagustaldesham on Wilfrid, a monk of
Lindisfarne, clever, ambitious and hardworking, who had become
Bishop of York, which meant Bishop of all Northumbria.
Wilfrid had been to Rome, and seen the churches of that city and of
the lands through which he travelled; and, on his appointment to
power, he set himself to make the churches of his diocese worthy to
compare with those of older civilizations. He did much to the
cathedral of York, and built that of Ripon; but the Abbey of Hexham
was his masterpiece. He built a monastery and church, dedicating
the latter to St. Andrew, for it was in the church of St. Andrew at
Rome that, kneeling, he felt himself fired with enthusiasm for his
work, in the same church from which Augustine had set out on his
journey to Britain some fifty years before. The year 674 is
generally accepted as the date on which this noble Abbey was
founded.
Wilfrid lived in great splendour at York, and ruled his immense
diocese with a firm hand; in fact, he was the first of that line of
great ecclesiastics who have moved with such proud, and oft-times
turbulent, progress through the pages of English history. King
Ecgfrith’s second wife, Ermenburga, was jealous of the great power
and magnificence of the Northumbrian prelate, and through her
influence, Archbishop Theodore was induced to divide the huge
diocese of Northumbria into four portions—York, Hexham, Ripon and
Withern in Galloway. Wilfrid, naturally indignant, found all his
protests disregarded, and immediately set out for Rome, to obtain a
decree of restitution from the Pope. It was given to him, but
little cared the Northumbrians for that. Wilfrid was imprisoned for
nine months, and then banished from Northumbria.
He went southwards and dwelt in Sussex, where his genius for hard
work found scope in a mission to the Saxons of the south lands, and
where he built and founded more churches and monasteries. Readers
of “Rewards and Fairies” will have made acquaintance with Wilfrid
in his Sussex wanderings and hardships. On his recall to the North
by King Aldfrith, he returned to Hexham. On the death of Aldfrith,
the new King, Edwulf, banished Wilfrid once more, ordering him to
leave the kingdom within six days; but the friends of Aldfrith’s
young son, whom Edwulf had dispossessed, obtained the ascendancy,
and Wilfrid was re-instated in his Abbeys of Hexham and Ripon.
While on his way back from Rome, on his last visit, Wilfrid had a
severe illness, but was granted a vision in which he was told that
he had four years more to live, and that he must build a church to
the honour of the Blessed Virgin. The little church of St. Mary,
which stood close to the walls of the great Abbey of Hexham, was
erected in fulfilment of this command.
In the Abbey church itself, all that was known for centuries of the
original work of Wilfrid was the famous crypt, which is almost
unique, that of Ripon, also the work of Wilfrid, being the only one
like it; but recent excavations have brought much more of the
ancient cathedral to light, and laid bare, not only its original
plan, but some of the walls, and part of the very pavement trodden
by the feet of Wilfrid and his fellows so many centuries ago. The
tomb of Wilfrid, however, is not at Hexham, but at his other
foundation of Ripon.
The ancient Abbey suffered much at the hands of the Danes, and in
later years from the ravages of the Scots, having been burnt
several times, notably in 1296, when 40,000 Scots ravaged the North
of England, plundering, burning, and laying waste wherever they
went, exactly as the Danes had done four hundred years before. Some
of the stones of the old Abbey yet bear traces of the fires by
which the ancient building was so often nearly destroyed, and in
these frequent conflagrations all records, charters, etc., of the
Abbey, from which might have been compiled a complete history, not
only of the Abbey but of much of the provincial and national
history of the times, were lost.
The Abbey was restored and rebuilt again and again, but for varying
reasons was without a nave for some hundreds of years. Within the
last ten years, however, a complete restoration has been carried
out, under the loving, and, what is more to the point, the capable
superintendence of Canon Savage and his colleagues, in the spirit
and manner, as nearly as possible, of the beautiful portions
already standing; and several disfiguring so-called “restorations”
of nineteenth century work, which could only detract from the
beauty and dignity of the noble building, have been removed
entirely. This work was completed in 1908, and all who have the
honour of our famous county at heart must rejoice that its noblest
church is at last more worthy of its own high rank and glorious
past.
Among the many deeply interesting objects to be seen in the Abbey
is the stone Sanctuary seat—the Frid Stool, or seat of peace—at
which fugitives, fleeing from their enemies, might find refuge. It
is believed that this was the “Cathedra” of St. Wilfrid himself.
The arms and back of the chair are ornamented with a twisted
knot-work pattern. The right of Sanctuary extended for a mile round
the Abbey, the boundaries being marked by crosses, one at each
point of the compass at that distance.
[Illustration: Hexham Abbey from North West Hexham Abbey from North
West]
Other treasures of the Abbey are the beautiful Old Rood Screen,
dating from the end of the fifteenth or beginning of the sixteenth
century; some wonderful old paintings, especially the portraits of
the early Bishops of Hexham, Alcmund, Wilfrid, Acca, Eata,
Frithbert, Cuthbert, and John, which date from the fifteenth
century; the mediaeval carved and painted pulpit, and the tomb of
good King Alfwald of Northumbria. Many of the stones used by
Wilfrid’s builders were of Roman workmanship, and seem to have come
from the Roman city of Corstopitum, at Corbridge. An inscription on
one of these old stones in the crypt takes us back some centuries
before even Wilfrid’s time, for it commemorates the Emperor Severus
and his two sons, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Caracalla) and Publius
Septimius Geta, and has the name of the latter erased, as was done
on all similar inscriptions throughout the Empire, by order of the
inhuman Caracalla, after his murder of his brother.
A very interesting feature of the building is the stone stairway in
the South transept, by which the monks ascended to their
dormitories above.
Quite near to the Abbey, at the other side of the Market Place, the
ancient Moot Hall claims attention. The modern visitor to the old
town walks beneath the gloomy archway, with its time-worn stones,
which forms the basement over which the Moot Hall stands. Another
building, grim and dark, near at hand, is the Old Manor House, in
which the business connected with the ancient Manor of Hexham was
transacted.
An old foundation in the town was the Queen Elizabeth Grammar
School, which, after having fallen into desuetude for many years,
has been revived in a form appropriate to modern needs, and housed
in a worthy building, formally opened by Sir Francis Blake on
November 2nd, 1910. The site on which the new Grammar School of
Queen Elizabeth stands is one of the finest in the county,
commanding, as it does, an uninterrupted view of the river valley
for some distance, and of the rising ground beyond.
At the beginning of last century, Hexham was famed for its
glove-making: but that industry has forsaken the town for many
years. Now, Hexham is surrounded by acres of market-gardens, from
which the produce of Tynedale is carried far and wide.
The spacious stretch of level meadow-land below Hexham, rising
gradually up to the swelling ridges beyond, is said to have been
the scene which John Martin had in mind when he painted the “Plains
of Heaven”; though the level reaches above Newburn, unencumbered
with buildings in John Martin’s time, and then a scene of quiet
pastoral beauty, also claim that honour.
Flowing now between well ordered gardens, green meadows, and ferny
banks, brawling musically over shingly shallows, or crooning gently
between fringing woods, the Tyne rolls onward to Corbridge,
receiving on its way the Devil’s Water, a sparkling stream which
flows through scenes of enchanting beauty, whether between rugged
cliffs and heather clad hills as in its upper course, through the
graceful overhanging trees and cool green recesses of Dipton woods
or between rich meadows and green pasture-land where it loses
itself in the bosom of the Tyne.
There is no more delightful experience than to wander through the
woods of Deepdene (Dipton) on a summer’s day, when it requires no
stretch of the imagination to believe oneself in an enchanted
forest, or, on hearing a crackle of twigs, or faint sounds of the
outside world filtering through the green solitudes, to turn round
expecting to see a maiden on a “milk-white steed,” or one of the
Knights of the Round Table come riding by, in bravery of glistening
armour and gay surtout, and to find oneself murmuring, “Now, Sir
Gawain rode apace, and came unto a right fair wood, and findeth the
stream of a spring that ran with a great rushing, and nigh
thereunto was a way that was much haunted. He abandoneth his
high-way, and goeth all along the stream from the spring that
lasteth a long league plenary, until that he espieth a right fair
house and right fair chapel enclosed within a hedge of wood.”
On the green meadows of Hexham Levels and near Dilston Castle—two
spots of more than ordinary historical interest—the Lancastrian
cause received, in 1464, a blow from which it never rallied, though
the courageous Queen fought gallantly till the final disasters at
Barnet and Tewkesbury. The general of her forces, the Duke of
Somerset, was beheaded in Hexham market-place, and, together with
several others of rank and station, buried at Hexham. The
well-known incident of Queen Margaret’s escape into Dipton, or
Deepdene woods, where she and young Prince Edward met with robbers,
and afterwards escaped by the aid of another member of that
fraternity, took place a year before this, after the first battle
of Hexham in 1463. The year had been one of constant warfare
between York and Lancaster in the north, the Castles of Alnwick and
Bamburgh having fallen into the hands of Queen Margaret’s friends
once more, after having been raptured by Edward of York the year
before; the Scots with Margaret and King Henry VI., had besieged
Norham, but were put to flight by the Earl of Warwick and hid
brother, Lord Montague; the royal fugitives sought safety at
Bamburgh, whence the Queen, with Prince Edward, sailed for
Flanders, leaving King Henry in the Castle where he was in no
immediate danger; Warwick, with his forces, retired southward
again, and the gentle King remained in his rocky stronghold, and
enjoyed there nine months of unwonted peace. Shortly after this,
the Duke of Somerset deserted the cause of York for that of
Lancaster, and became the leader of the Queen’s forces. In April,
1464, he and Sir Ralph Percy opposed, at Hedgeley Moor, the troops
of Lord Montague journeying northward to escort the Scottish
delegates who were coming to York to make terms with Edward of
York. Sir Ralph Percy was slain, exclaiming as he fell “I have
saved the bird in my bosom”—that enigmatic sentence which has given
rise to so much conjecture, but which is generally held to mean
that he had saved his honour, by dying at last, after so many
changes of front, in the service of that King and Queen to whom he
originally owed allegiance. “Percy’s Cross,” marking the site of
his death, may be seen by the side of the railway near Hedgeley
Station, on the Alnwick and Wooler line.
The rest of the force dispersed, and made their way to Hexham; and
Lord Montague marching upon them from Newcastle, a sharp engagement
took place on the Levels, near the Linnels Bridge, with the result,
as we have seen, of the defeat and death of Somerset, and the
overthrow of Queen Margaret’s hopes in the north, where she had had
a strong following.
The historical interest centred on Dilston Castle brings us to much
later times, and enshrines a story which possesses a pathetic
interest beyond that of any other place in Northumberland.
Originally the home of the family of D’Eivill, later Dyvelstone
(which explains the name “Devil’s Water”) Dilston Castle came into
the possession of the Radcliffes by marriage, and in the days of
the Commonwealth the Radcliffe of the day forfeited his estates on
account of his loyalty to the house of Stuart. Charles II. restored
them, and the close attachment between the houses of Stuart and
Radcliffe continued until the fortunes of both were quenched in
disaster and gloom. The figure of the young and gallant James
Radcliffe, last Earl of Derwentwater, holds the imagination no less
than the heart as it moves across the page of history for a brief
space to its tragic end. Though born in London, in June 1689, young
Radcliffe passed his childhood and youth in France in the closest
companionship with James Stuart, son of the exiled James II. At the
age of twenty-one he returned to his home in Northumbria, and took
up his residence there, his charming manners, kind heart, and
openhanded hospitality speedily endearing him to all classes. His
servants and tenants, in particular, were passionately devoted to
him. In the words of the old ballad of “Derwentwater”—
“O, Derwentwater’s a bonnie lord, And golden is his hair, And
glintin’ is his hawkin’ e’e Wi’ kind love dwelling there.”
On his marriage in 1712, the young bride and bridegroom remained
for two years at the home of the bride’s father, and preparations
were made for restoring the glories of Dilston on an extensive
scale. On Derwentwater’s return to his beautiful Northumbrian seat
in 1714, the death of Queen Anne had excited the hopes of all the
friends of the house of Stuart, and plots and secret meetings were
being planned throughout Scotland and the north of England, the
objective being the restoration of the exiled Stuarts to the
throne. Derwentwater took little part in these attempts to organise
rebellion for some time, but at length was drawn into the dangerous
game, as he was too valuable an asset to be passed over by the
Jacobite party.
At last rumours of the projected rising reached London, and a
warrant was issued for the arrest of Derwentwater, even before it
was known whether he had actually joined the plotters, his
well-known friendship with the exiled Prince making it almost
certain that he would be an important figure in any movement on
their behalf. For the next few weeks the young Earl found himself
obliged to remain in hiding, finding safety in the cottages of his
tenants, and in the houses of friends and neighbours. Finally,
though his good sense warned him that he was embarking on an almost
hopeless enterprise, he decided to throw in his lot with the
Jacobites.
Tradition has it that his decision was brought about by the taunts
of his Countess, who, like the rest of the Jacobite ladies, was
more enthusiastic than the men. Throwing down her fan, she
scornfully offered that to her husband as a weapon, and demanded
his sword in exchange. The immediate result was seen on that
October morning when Derwentwater and his little band of followers
rode over the bridge at Corbridge with drawn swords, on their way
to Beaufront, which was their first rendezvous; and from there
proceeded to Greenrigg, near the great Wall, which had been
appointed as a general meeting-place.
There they were joined by Mr. Forster, of Bamburgh, with his
contingent, and a few from the surrounding district. Rothbury next
saw the little army, which was joined on Felton Bridge by seventy
Scots; and thereafter Warkworth, Alnwick, and Morpeth heard James
Stuart proclaimed King under the title of James III.
Newcastle was to have been their next objective, but, hearing that
the city had closed its gates, and intended to hold out for King
George, the Jacobite force, after some indecision, returned
northward to Rothbury, where they were joined by a large company of
Scottish Jacobites under Lord Kenmure. Northward again they marched
to Kelso, where more than a thousand Scots joined forces with them.
The little army numbered now almost 2,000, and a council was held
to determine what their next step should be. On its being resolved
to enter England, some hundreds of the Highlanders returned home,
leaving an army of about 1,500 to march southwards to Lancashire.
On their way they put to flight at Penrith a motley force which was
raised to oppose them; and, elated with a first success, moved
forward to Preston, grievously disappointed on the way at the
failure of the people of Lancashire to rise with them, for they had
been given to understand that thousands in that county were only
awaiting an opportunity to declare for “King James.”
At Preston they barricaded the principal streets, and repulsed
General Willis; but the arrival of General Carpenter from Newcastle
changed the face of affairs. Young Derwentwater had fought
valiantly and worked arduously at the barricades, but Forster—whose
appointment as General had been made in the hope of attracting
other Protestant gentry to the Jacobite cause—offered to submit to
General Carpenter under certain conditions. Carpenter’s reply was a
demand for unconditional surrender, and the hopeless little
tragi-comedy was played out. The last scene took place on Tower
Hill three months later, when the gallant young Earl, then only
twenty-six years old, laid down the life which, after all, had been
spent in the service of others, with no selfish purpose in view,
and which was offered him, together with wealth and freedom, if he
would forsake his faith and throw aside his allegiance to the house
of Stuart. Refusing to purchase life at such a price, he was
condemned, and executed on Tower Hill on February 24th, 1716.
His brother Charles, who had been by his side throughout the
rising, had the good fortune to escape from Newgate Prison, and
passed most of his life abroad. Thirty years later, on his return
to take up arms on behalf of James’ son Charles—“bonnie Prince
Charlie”—when he also drew the sword in an attempt to regain the
throne of his fathers, Radcliffe was captured and beheaded. (For
account of a monument to the memory of these two brothers see in
previous chapter paragraph relating to Haydon Bridge.)
The story of General Forster’s escape from Newgate is told by Sir
Walter Besant, as all readers of his novel, “Dorothy Forster” know,
though the author has taken those minor liberties with unimportant
facts which are by common consent allowable in fiction.
James Radcliffe’s friends were allowed to have his body, though
they were forbidden to carry it home for burial; for such were the
love and esteem borne for the young Earl in the hearts of all his
North-country friends and dependents, that the authorities feared a
disturbance of the peace should his body be brought amongst them
while their rage and grief were still at their height.
Notwithstanding the prohibition, however, the body was brought
secretly to Dilston, and buried in the vault of the chapel, which,
with the ruined tower, are all that remain of the home of the
Radcliffes. Standing amidst luxuriant foliage, and overlooking a
romantic dell, the ruins of tower and chapel remain as they fell
into decay on the death of their luckless owners. The confiscated
estates were bestowed on Greenwich Hospital, whose agents
administer them still, with the exception of certain portions
purchased from time to time by various landowners. No other family
took the place of the Radcliffes in the deserted halls; but
tradition holds that the unfortunate Earl and his sorrowful lady
still revisit their ancient home. The Earl’s body is now at
Thorndon, in Essex. Below is Surtees’ beautiful ballad, “Lord
Derwentwater’s Farewell.”
LORD DERWENTWATER’S FAREWELL
“Farewell to pleasant Dilston 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 lord Or hold their lives in fear.
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.
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 the babe That smiles upon thy knee.
And fare thee well, my bonny gray 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 trouble’s 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 Radcliffe’s fallen line.
Farewell to pleasant Dilston Hall, My father’s ancient seat; A
stranger now must call thee his, Which gars my heart to greet.”
Near to Corbridge the waters of the Tyne lave the ancient piers of
the old Roman bridge which led to Corstopitum, the most
considerable of the Roman stations in this region. The recent
careful excavations have laid bare the evidence of what must have
been a most imposing city, and many treasures of pottery, coins and
ancient jewellery and ornaments, together with large quantities of
the bones of animals, some of them identical with the wild cattle
of Chillingham, have been brought to light. The famous silver dish
known as the Corbridge Lanx, which was found at the riverside by a
little girl in 1734, had evidently been washed down from
Corstopitum. It is now preserved at Alnwick Castle. The antiquity
of Corbridge is thus superior to that of Hexham, as far as may be
known; but on the other hand, while Hexham in Saxon times grew to
power, Corbridge declined. Yet, in its time, it was more than the
home of a famous Abbey; it was a royal city, albeit the date of its
elevation to royal rank coincided with the decline of the kingdom
of which it was the final capital. When the fierce and ruthless
internal quarrels, which rent Northumbria after Edbert’s glorious
reign, had weakened it so that it fell a prey to the gradual
encroachments of its northern neighbours, the once royal city of
Bamburgh was left in the hands of a noble Saxon family, and the
court was removed to Corbridge, which remained the abode of the
kings of Northumbria until Northumbria possessed royal rank no
longer. The tale of the two hundred years during which Corbridge
was the capital city is a tale of red slaughter and ruin, murder
and bitter feud, not against outside foes, but between one family
and another, noble against king, king against relatives of other
noble houses, amongst which might possibly be found the thegn to
succeed him, or to murder him in order to bring about his own more
speedy elevation to a precarious throne.
So much was this the case, that Charles the Great, at whose court
the learned Northumbrian, Alcuin, was secretary, said that the
Northumbrians were worse than the invading heathen Danes, who, by
this time, had begun their ravages in the land. Amongst the rulers
of Northumbria in those days, the name of Alfwald the Just, who was
called “the Friend of God,” shines out with enduring light across
the stormy darkness of that terrible period; yet even his just and
merciful rule and noble life could not save him from the hand of
the assassin. He was buried with much mourning and great pomp in
the Abbey at Hexham; and during the recent excavations the fact of
a Saxon interment was verified as having taken place beneath the
beautiful tomb which tradition has always held to be that of King
Alfwald the Just. This fact also helped to demonstrate the extent
of the original Abbey.
There was a monastery at Corbridge in the year 771, which is
supposed to have been founded by St. Wilfrid. Of the four churches
which were erected in later times, only one survives—the parish
church of St. Andrew, which occupies the site of the early
monastery. In this ancient church may be seen part of the original
Saxon work, and many stones of Roman workmanship are built up in
the structure.
Like most other old churches in the north, it suffered severely at
the hands of the Scots, and, as at Hexham Abbey, traces of fire may
be seen on some of the stones.
King David of Scotland, on his invasion of England in 1138, which
was to end at the “Battle of the Standard,” at Northallerton,
encamped at Corbridge for a time, and terrible cruelties were
committed in the district by his followers. In the next century,
King John turned the little town upside down in his efforts to find
treasure which he was convinced must be concealed somewhere in the
houses; but his search was fruitless. In the days of the three
Edwards, during the long wars with Scotland, Corbridge suffered
terribly, being fired again and again; on one occasion, in 1296,
the destruction included the burning of the school with some two
hundred hapless boys within its walls.[4]
[4] _See_ Bates, p. 149.
Those heroes of our childhood’s days, William Wallace and Robert
Bruce, were far from guiltless in these cruelties, though in
justice to them personally, the wild and lawless character of the
men who formed their undisciplined hosts must be remembered; and we
know that Wallace tried to save the holy vessels in Hexham Abbey,
but, as soon as his back was turned, they were swept away in the
very presence of the officiating priest.
During these terrible years most of Northumberland was a desolate
waste; and divine service had almost ceased to be performed between
Newcastle and Carlisle, even Hexham being deserted for a time.
After the battle of Bannockburn, matters were worse, if possible,
and all the north lay in fear of the Scots, but from time to time
spasmodic efforts at retaliation were made by the boldest of the
Northumbrian landowners. In the reign of Edward III., however, many
of these great landowners thwarted the King’s designs by making a
traitorous peace with their turbulent neighbours.
David II. of Scotland encamped at Corbridge for a time during his
second attempt to invade England but this expedition ended in his
defeat and capture at Neville’s Cross. Thereafter the north had
rest for some years, and Corbridge seems to have been left in
peace. The Wars of the Roses passed it by; and the Civil Wars in
Stuart days also, except for an unimportant skirmish; and the only
part Corbridge saw of the Jacobite rising of “The Fifteen” was the
little cavalcade from Dilston which clattered over the old bridge
on its way to Beaufront. That bridge is the same which we cross
to-day; the date of its erection, 1674, may be seen on one of its
stones, and it was the only one on the Tyne which withstood the
great flood of 1771, when even the old Tyne Bridge at Newcastle was
swept away.
Quite close to the church there is an old pele-tower, which is in
an excellent state of preservation, little of it having disappeared
except the various floors. The vicars of Corbridge must have been
often thankful for such a refuge at hand, where they could bid
defiance to marauding bands, whether of Scottish or English
nationality. In the Register of the parish church may be seen a
most interesting entry, showing the Earl of Derwentwater’s
signature as churchwarden.
At a little distance from Corbridge, to the northward, is the
fortified manor-house of Aydon Castle, standing embowered in trees
where the Cor burn runs through a little rocky ravine, down whose
steep sides Sir Robert Clavering threw most of a marauding band of
Scotsmen who had attacked the grange; the place known as “Jock’s
Leap” obtained its name from one of the Scots who escaped the fate
of his comrades by his leap for life across the ravine. The Castle,
or hall, as it is variously called, has not suffered such
destruction as might have been expected, seeing that it dates from
the thirteenth century; but the thickness of its walls, and the
arrow-slits and narrow windows are obvious proof of the necessity
for defence which existed when it was first erected in the days of
Edward I. Many features of great interest, notably the ancient
fireplaces, remain in the interior of the building.
Returning down the Cor burn to the Tyne, our way lies eastward by
the side of the river, which here, after splashing and sparkling
over the shallows below Corbridge, narrows again to a deeper stream
of swifter current, and flows between green meadows and leafy
woods, fern-clad steeps and level haughs, all the way down to
Ryton, where the picturesque aspect of the river ceases, and it
becomes an industrial waterway. On this reach of the river are
several places of considerable interest.
Riding Mill, a pretty village in a well-wooded hollow, enclosed by
steep hills which rise ever higher and higher to the moors by
Minsteracres and Blanchland, stands where Watling Street, or Dere
Street, leading down the long slope of the country from
Whittonstall, on reaching the Tyne turned westward to Corstopitum.
Further down the stream is Stocksfield, where the aged King Edward
I. halted on his last journey into Scotland, on that expedition
which was to have executed a summary vengeance upon the Scots; he
journeyed forward by slow stages, but was taken ill at Newbrough,
where he stayed for some time, before continuing his journey by
Blenkinsopp, Thirlwall, and Lanercost to Carlisle.
On the opposite side of the stream from Stocksfield is the lovely
village of Bywell, a “haunt of ancient peace,” “sleeping soft on
the banks of the murmuring Tyne.” This little peaceful spot was at
one time a very busy centre of life and industry on a small scale;
in the Middle Ages the inhabitants drove a thriving trade in all
the necessities for a people who spent a great part of their lives
upon horseback, especially in the making of the ironwork
required—“bits, stirrups, buckles, and the like, wherein they are
very expert and cunning.” The Nevilles, lords of Raby and earls of
Westmoreland, held Bywell at this time; before that it was in the
hands of the Balliols, of Scottish fame, who, like the Bruces, were
Norman knights high in favour with their kings, Norman and
Plantagenet, though they afterwards became their most determined
foes.
Long before the advent of the Normans, a church was built here by
St. Wilfrid, and in it—St. Andrew’s or the “White” Church—Egbert,
twelfth bishop of Lindisfarne, was consecrated by Archbishop
Eanbald in the year 803. More than a thousand years afterwards, in
1896, an Ordination service was again held at Bywell, in St.
Peter’s church, when five deacons were ordained by Bishop Jacob.
And in times yet more remote than Wilfrid’s age, Roman legionaries
crossed the Tyne at this point over a bridge of their own
construction, of which the piers might be seen until our own day.
Bywell, too, had its “find” of Roman silver; in 1760 a silver cup
was found in the Tyne, bearing the inscription “Desidere vivas”
around the neck of the vessel.
When the Nevilles were lords of the manor of Bywell, they began to
build a castle here, which, however, was left unfinished; the
ancient tower still standing, with its picturesque draping of ivy,
was the gate-house of the intended fortress. On the rebellion of
the northern earls in 1569, Westmoreland’s forfeited lands passed
to the crown, so that Bywell was held by Queen Elizabeth for a year
or two, until she sold the estate to a branch of the Fenwick
family.
Bywell is unique in Northumberland in possessing two churches side
by side yet in different parishes. The town of Bywell, we are told
by the same authority before quoted, lay in a long line by the
north bank of the Tyne, and was “divided into two separate
parishes” even then, so that there ought to be traces of former
buildings westward from the present village. In connection with the
two churches which adjoin each other so closely, tradition tells
the well-known story of the two quarrelsome sisters who could not
agree on the building of a church and therefore each built one. One
might have imagined, with some show of reason, that there being two
parishes, the two churches were placed there in sheltering
proximity to the castle, were it not for the fact that the churches
were in existence long before the stronghold of the Nevilles was
contemplated.
St. Andrew’s, called the “White” church from the fact of its being
served in later days by the White friars, is the more ancient of
the two. As we have seen, a church erected by St. Wilfrid stood on
this site, and a goodly portion of the Saxon work remains in the
tower. The hagioscope, or “squint” in this church, and the “leper”
window in St. Peter’s are interesting relics of the Middle Ages.
St. Peter’s, or the “Black” church which once belonged to the
Benedictines or Black friars, is of much later date than its
neighbour, though still an ancient building, being supposed to date
from the eleventh century. Its most interesting possessions are two
very old bells, bearing Latin inscriptions, one announcing “I
proclaim the hour for people rising, and call to those still lying
down,” and the other reading “Thou art Peter.”
Bywell suffered greatly in the flood of 1771, when the bridge was
swept away, many houses destroyed, several people drowned, and both
churches greatly damaged.
It is not surprising that this tranquil little village—“the retreat
of the old doomed divinities of wood and fountain, banished from
their native haunts,” to quote Mr. Tomlinson’s happy phrase—has
always been beloved of artists, many of whom have transferred to
their canvasses the beauties of its mingled scenery of graceful
woods and sparkling waters, ancient fortress, peaceful meadows, and
gray old towers. Many noteworthy and fine old trees are to be found
in and around this artists’ haunt.
On the opposite side of the river, Bywell’s younger sister,
Stocksfield, grows apace, reaching out towards the lulls and along
the eastward lanes, though not as yet in such measure as to cover
the hillsides with any semblance of a town, being still almost
hidden amongst the profusion of trees that clothe most of the
district in their leafy greenery. On the north bank of the stream
the village of Ovingham now rises into view, its name telling us
plainly that there was a settlement here in Saxon times “the home
of the sons of Offa”; and the slope above the river is fittingly
crowned by the ancient church of St. Mary, whose tower, with its
curiously irregular windows, is the work of the Saxon builders of
the original church. The rest of the building, except some Saxon
work at the west end of the nave, dates from early Norman days.
Here is the burial place of the famous brothers John and Thomas
Bewick, who were born at Cherryburn House, just across the river.
In this delightful spot the boy Thomas Bewick grew up, absorbing
unconsciously the natural beauties that are to be found here by the
Tyne and in the little ravine through which the Cherry Burn flows,
which beauties he so lovingly reproduced on his engraving blocks
later in life.
At the fords of Ovingham, Eltringham, and Bywell, the Scots under
General Leslie crossed the Tyne in 1644, and made their way into
Durham, leaving six regiments to watch Newcastle.
The picturesque ruins of Prudhoe Castle, whose lofty towers
dominate the valley for some distance up and down the stream, stand
on a commanding rocky ridge above the Tyne. The lands of Prudhoe
were given, soon after the Norman Conquest, to one of Duke
William’s immediate followers, Robert de Umfraville; and it was
Odinel de Umfraville who built the present castle in the twelfth
century. Its strength was soon put to the test, for a few years
after it was built William the Lion of Scotland found that the
place baffled all his attempts to capture it. In his anger he
determined to reduce the fortress of Odinel, who had spent much
time at the Scottish court in his youth, the Kings of Scotland
being at that time lords of Tynedale. The attempt ended in total
failure, the greatest harm the Scots did on that occasion being to
destroy the cornfields and strip the bark from the apple trees near
the Castle; while, a day or two afterwards, Odinel de Umfraville,
with Glanvile and Balliol, captured the Scottish monarch himself at
Alnwick.
Another Umfraville, Richard, quarrelled with his neighbour of
Nafferton, on the opposite side of the river, for having begun to
erect a fortress much too near Umfraville’s own. He sent a petition
to the King on the subject and King John commanded Philip de
Ulecote’s building operations to cease. The unfinished castle,
known as Nafferton Tower, remains to this day as Philip’s masons
left it so many centuries ago.
Sir Ingram de Umfraville was by the side of Edward II. at
Bannockburn, when, before the battle, Bruce ordered his men to
kneel in prayer. Edward looked on the kneeling host, and turning to
Umfraville, exclaimed “See! Yon men kneel to ask mercy.” “You say
truth, sire,” answered the knight of Prudhoe; “they ask mercy—but
not of you.”
The last Umfraville, who died in 1381, left a widow, the Countess
Maud, who married a Percy of Alnwick, and so the castle passed into
the hands of that family, in whose possession it still remains.
When Odinel de Umfraville was building the keep of his castle,
every one in the neighbourhood was pressed into the service, and
all lent their aid except the men of Wylam. Wylam had been given to
the church of St. Oswyn at Tynemouth, and, as was customary, was
freed by charter from the duty of castle building, or any other
feudal service excepting such as were rendered to the Prior of
Tynemouth as occasion arose. So, in spite of the angry surprise of
the lord of Prudhoe, the Wylam men quietly held to their charter,
and not all Odinel’s threats or persuasions moved them one whit.
The Stanley Burn, which enters the Tyne close to Wylam railway
station, divides this part of the county of Durham from
Northumberland, so that from Wylam to the sea the south side of the
Tyne is in the county of Durham. The most noteworthy object at
Wylam, or, to be precise, a little way along the old post-road,
leading to Newcastle from Hexham, is the red-tiled cottage in which
George Stephenson was born in 1781. It stands on the north bank of
the Tyne, where it can be distinctly seen from passing trains. Its
neighbour cottage has been repaired and re-roofed, but Stephenson’s
cottage remains unaltered.
Mr. Blackett, who owned Wylam Colliery at the beginning of the
nineteenth century, took the keenest interest in the question of
locomotives, and had tried more than one on his estate before
George Stephenson brought them to the point of practical use. At
Newburn, just four miles down the Tyne, George Stephenson passed
many years of his youth; here he learned to read and write, when he
was old enough to earn a man’s wage and could afford the few pence
necessary; and here, in the parish church, may be seen, with an
interval of twenty years between them, the entries of his two
marriages.
Newburn is important nowadays for its steel works, within whose
workshops is incorporated an old building formerly known as Newburn
Hall; but in days long past its importance arose from its being on
the ford of the Tyne nearest to Newcastle. This ford was frequently
made use of, notably by the Scots in the reign of Charles I. Their
chief camping ground is pointed out to us by the name of Scotswood,
which also describes what Scotswood was like in those days—a great
contrast to its present appearance, when the lines of brick and
mortar stretching out uninterruptedly from Newcastle make it
practically one with that town. In 1640, the Scottish army, under
General Leslie, faced the Royalist troops, under Lord Conway, on
the south side of the river. The Scots mounted their rude cannon on
Newburn Church tower, and the English raised earthworks along the
bank of the river, which was here fordable in two places. The two
armies calmly watered their horses on opposite banks of the stream
all the next morning, but a shot at a Scottish officer from the
English ranks precipitated the battle; and the Scottish army,
having made a breach in both earthworks with their artillery, waded
across the fords and drove the Royalist troops up the bank, after
one spasmodic rally, which, however, failed to check the Scottish
advance. The way was now open for the Scottish army to continue
down the south bank of the Tyne and attack Newcastle from
Gateshead. It had been Lord Conway’s task to prevent this, but
owing to his incapacity or want of whole-hearted enthusiasm for his
cause, he failed entirely.
Not until 1644, however, was a Scottish attack on Newcastle
actually made, for on this occasion Leslie, as we have already
seen, led his men across the fords higher up the river and marched
southwards. The earthworks thrown up by Conway’s troops may still
be seen on Stella Haughs.
It is supposed that the Romans had a fort here, commanding the
passage of the river; indeed it would have been strange had this
not been the case, for the Romans were not the people to disregard
any point of strategical importance, especially one so near their
stations of Pons AElii and Condercum. Many stones of Roman
workmanship have been used in the building of the Newburn church.
From this point to its mouth, nearly fifteen miles away, both banks
of the Tyne present an unbroken scene of industry. Between the
steel works of Newburn and the iron and chemical works, the brick
and tile works of Blaydon and past the famous yards of Elswick,
down to the wharves and shipyards of North and South Shields, the
Tyne rolls its swift dark waters through a scene of stirring
activity; the air is dusky with soot and smoke, and reverberant
with the clang of hammers and the pulsing beat of machinery. Some
old and world-famed works have been closed or removed, like Hawks’
and Stephenson’s, but others, many others, have opened; and the map
of the positions of Tyne industries, published under the auspices
of the Newcastle and Gateshead Chamber of Commerce, is a record of
resolute toil and brilliant achievement in the many aspects of
industrial life represented on the river.
And, apart from the mere prosperity and commercial supremacy of the
district, there is another cause for pride in the many notable
inventions which hail from Tyneside; from the locomotive and the
“Geordie” lamp of Stephenson, the hydraulic machinery and the big
guns of Armstrong, to the wonderful turbine engines of Parsons; the
invention of water-ballast, too, belongs to the Tyne, for it was
the idea of a Gateshead man, and first used at Jarrow.
And, in connection with ships and seafarers, though not in any
commercial sense, we may proudly recall the fact that the first
Lifeboat was launched on the Tyne and named after the river; and
the first Volunteer Life Brigade was formed at Tynemouth. The Worth
Eastern Railway is carried across the Tyne by the Scotswood Bridge;
and it was on this part of the river that the boat-races, for which
the Tyne was once famous, were rowed. At Newcastle, the river is
bridged by four huge structures—The Redheugh Bridge, the new King
Edward VII. bridge, the High Level, and Swing Bridges,—all
connecting Newcastle with the sister town of Gateshead. An
interesting sight it is to see the Swing Bridge gradually turning
on its central pivot, until it lies in a straight line up and down
the stream, allowing some huge liner to pass, or some new
battleship, fresh from Elswick, to sail down the river, on its way
to make its trial trip over the “measured mile” in the open sea at
the mouth of the river, and thereafter to take its place among the
armaments of the nations.
The High Level Bridge allows ships of any height to pass under its
lofty and graceful arches, which look so light, but are yet so
strong. This splendid bridge is an enduring monument of Robert
Stephenson, whose work it was; and the story of its erection, at
the cost of nearly half a million of money, makes most interesting
reading. It took nearly two and a half years to build, and was
opened for traffic in 1849—little more than three years after the
first pile was driven in. A few months later, in 1850, the newly
built Central Station, with its imposing portico, was opened by
Queen Victoria.
Passing down the Tyne from Newcastle, which requires separate
notice, and Walker, with its reminiscences of “Walker Pit’s deun
weel for me,” we arrive at Wallsend, which in twenty-five years has
grown from a colliery village with a population of 4,000 to a town
of 23,000 inhabitants. Here are great shipbuilding and repairing
yards, chemical works and cement works; here, too, are Parsons’
Steam Turbine Works, where was designed and built the little
“Turbinia,” on which tiny vessel the early experiments were made
with the new engines; and here are the famous mines which have made
“Best Wallsend” a synonym for best household coal all over the
land. These mines, after having been closed for many years, were
reopened at the beginning of the century, and now turn out upwards
of one thousand tons of coal per day.
The church of St. Peter, at Wallsend, is little more than a hundred
years old; the old Church of Holy Cross, now long disused, was
built towards the end of the twelfth century. But Wallsend itself,
as all the world knows, is of much greater antiquity, for was it
not, as its name proclaims, situated at the end of the Great Wall?
Its name then, however, was not Wallsend but Segedunum.
Willington Quay, further down the river, was, for a time, the home
of George Stephenson, and here his son, Robert, was born. At
Howdon, which used to be known as Howdon Pans, from the salt-pans
there, the painter John Martin and his brothers once worked when
boys, being employed in some rope-works. Here, too, the Henzells, a
family of refugees who settled in the district in the days of
Elizabeth, founded some glass works, for which industry the Tyne
has been famous from that day to this.
[Illustration: The River Tyne at Newcastle (showing Swing Bridge
Open).]
Before the railway on the south side of the river was laid down,
passengers who wished to reach Jarrow had to alight at Howdon and
cross the river; and a racy dialect song—“Howdon for Jarrow” with
its refrain of “Howdon for Jarra—ma hinnies, loup oot”—commemorates
the fact. Willington Quay and Howdon carry on the line of
shipbuilding yards to Northumberland Dock and the staithes of the
Tyne Commissioners, where the waggon ways from various collieries
bring the coal to the water’s edge. Tyne Dock, just opposite, and
the Albert Edward Dock near North. Shields, provide abundance of
shipping accommodation, besides what is afforded by the river
itself; and now the river flows between the steep banks of North
and South Shields. As the names declare, these two growing and
prosperous towns once consisted of a few fishermen’s huts, or
“shielings”; but that was long ago, when the north shore of the
Tyne was owned by the Prior of Tynemouth, and the southern shore by
the Bishop of Durham, and the citizens of Newcastle complained to
King Edward I. that these two ecclesiastics had raised towns,
“where no town ought to be,” and that “fishermen sold fish there
which ought to be sold at Newcastle, to the great injury of the
whole borough, and in detriment to the tolls of our Lord the King.”
These quarrels between Newcastle and the other settlements on the
Tyne continued with varying results, until in the days of Cromwell,
Ralph Gardiner of Chirton, a little village close to North Shields,
took up the cudgels for the growing towns; and by dint of great
perseverance, and in spite of much persecution and ill-will,
succeeded in getting most of the unjust privileges of their
stronger neighbour abolished.
There were salt-pans, too, on both sides of the mouth of the Tyne,
which were worked in connection with the monasteries from very
early days; and Daniel Defoe, when he visited the north in 1726,
declared that he could see from the top of the Cheviot “the smoke
of the salt-pans at Sheals, at the mouth of the Tyne, which was
about forty miles south of this.”
North Shields clings haphazard to the steep bank of the Tyne, and
spreads away up and beyond it, reaching out towards Wallsend on the
river shore and Tynemouth along by the sea, the older parts by the
river looking black and grimy to the last degree; but there is a
silver lining to this very black cloud—not visible, it is true, but
distinctly audible—in the great shipbuilding and repairing works
known as Smith’s Dock, one of the largest concerns of the kind in
Great Britain, where so many hundreds of men earn their daily
bread; and in the fishing industry, which was the foundation of the
town’s prosperity, and bids fair to be so for many years to come,
as it is increasing year by year. The Fish Quay at North Shields is
a sight worth seeing; and, in the herring season, it is
increasingly frequented by Continental buyers.
The fortunes of South Shields and Jarrow, though these towns are
not in Northumberland, are yet so bound up with the story of the
Tyne that no one would ever think of that river without them.
Especially is this the case with Jarrow, which “Palmer’s” has
raised from a small colliery village to a large and flourishing
town. In those famous yards, everything that is necessary for the
building of the largest ironclad, from the first smelting of the
ore until the last rivet is in place, can be done. All
Northumbria—Northumbria in the ancient and widest sense of the
word—owes a debt of gratitude to Jarrow, for was it not the home of
Bede? The monk of Jarrow, who spent all his long life in the same
monastery by the Don, coming to it when he was a child of ten, made
that spot of Northumbrian ground famed to the farthest limits of
the civilized Europe of his day; and scholars from all over the
Continent came to learn at the feet of the Northumbrian teacher.
Beloved and revered by all, and in harness to the last hour of his
busy life, he died in the year 735, just one hundred years after
the coming of Aidan to Lindisfarne. “First among English scholars,
first among English theologians, first among English historians, it
is in the monk of Jarrow that English literature strikes its
roots.”—_J.R. Green_.
The Jarrow of to-day, and all its neighbours of industrial
Tyneside, possess no beauty of aspect such as the towns that are
more fortunately situated on the upper reaches of the river; they
are muffled in clouds of smoke and soot, and darkened by the
necessities of their toil in grimy ores and the ever-present coal.
But no one who has ever looked on these smoky reaches of the Tyne
with a seeing eye, or steamed down the river on a day either of
gloom or sunshine, can refuse to acknowledge that it has a certain
grandeur, a stern beauty of its own, that can stir the heart and
the imagination more deeply than any mere prettiness.
From the numberless hives of activity on both sides of the river
clouds of smoke roll heavily upward, and jets of steam from panting
machinery leap up in momentary whiteness on the dark background;
the white wings of flocks of wheeling gulls flash in the occasional
sunshine which lights up the scene, and between the clouds there
are glimpses of blue sky. Towards sunset, the evening mists drape
the darkening banks and crowded shipping in a soft robe of gray,
which, together with the glowing sky behind, produces most
wonderful Turneresque effects; and the fall of night on the river
only changes the aspect without diminishing the interest of the
scene. The blaze from a myriad workshops and forges glows against
the darkness, the lamps twinkle overhead on the steep banks, and
the lights from wharf and steamer are reflected in a thousand
shimmering lines on the dark water, which flows on soundlessly,
like the river of a dream.
On a day of wind and sun all these beauties are intensified a
thousandfold; the smoke is blown hither and thither in flying
clouds, the current seems to rush more swiftly, and a sense of
vigorous life permeates the whole scene, giving to the beholder a
feeling of keen exhilaration, as of new life rushing through his
veins. Especially is this the case on reaching the mouth of the
river and meeting the dancing waters of the open harbour, where the
twin piers of South Shields and Tynemouth reach out sheltering
arms. Within the wide bay they enclose, the storm-driven vessel may
always find comparatively smooth water, how wildly soever the waves
may rage and roar outside.
It is difficult to believe that so lately as the years 1858-60, the
“bar” at the mouth of the Tyne was an insuperable obstacle to all
but vessels of very moderate draught; and that ships might lie for
days, and sometimes weeks, after being loaded, before there came a
tide high enough to carry them out to sea. The river was full of
sand-banks, and little islands stood here and there—one in
mid-stream, where the ironclads are now launched at Elswick. Three
or four vessels might be seen at once bumping and grounding on the
“bar” unable to make their way over. Well might the old song say—
“The ships are all at the bar, They canna get up to Newcastle!”
An old map of the Tyne shows a number of sand-banks down the lower
reaches of the river, with ships aground on each, of them.
But the River Tyne Commissioners have changed all that, and their
implement of warfare has been the hideous but necessary dredger. No
longer need vessels of heavy tonnage desert the Tyne for the Wear,
as they were perforce driven to do during the first half of the
nineteenth century, for the Wearsiders had set about deepening and
widening their river long before the Tynesiders did the same by
theirs. Considerable and continuous pressure had to be brought to
bear on the civic authorities at Newcastle before they finally took
action; but having once done so, the future of the Tyne was
assured. Now it ranks second only to the Thames in the actual
number of vessels entering and leaving, and owns only the Mersey
its superior in the matter of tonnage.
[Illustration]