Northumberland Yesterday and To-day

by Jean F. Terry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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