Chapter X: Tales and Legends

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

This offering proved successful in pacifying the creature, and it
remained in the cave at Spindleston, coming out daily to drink its
fill from the trough prepared for it. But the fear of it in no wise
diminished, and
“Word went east, and word went west, And word is gone over the sea,
That a laidly worm in Spindleston Heugh Would ruin the North
Countree.”

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

a sure defence against the spells of witchcraft; and hoisting their
silken sails they hasten homeward.
“... ... The wind with speed Blew them along the deep. The sea was
calm, the weather clear, When they approached nigher; King Ida’s
castle well they knew, And the banks of Bamburghshire.”

The wicked queen saw the little bark coming near, and knew that her
guilt was about to meet its reward. In haste she tried to wreck the
vessel, but the rowan-tree masts made her spells of no avail. Then
she bade her servants go to the beach and oppose the landing of the
Childe and his crew; but the servants were beaten back, and the
young knight and his men landed in Budle Bay. The worm came
fiercely to the attack, as the Childe Wynde advanced against it;
but on meeting him, and feeling the touch of his “berry-brown
sword,” it besought him to do it no harm.
“‘O quit thy sword, unbend thy brow, And give me kisses three; For
though I be a laidly worm No harm I’ll do to thee.
O quit thy sword, unbend thy brow, And give me kisses three; If I’m
not won ere the sun goes down Won shall I never be.’
He quitted his sword, and smoothed his brow, And gave her kisses
three; She crept intill the hole a worm, And came out a fayre ladie.”

The knight clasped his lovely sister in his arms, and, casting
around her his crimson cloak, led her back to her home, where the
trembling queen awaited them. Her doom was spoken by the Childe
Wynde—
“Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch; An ill death mayst thou dee! As
thou hast likened my sister dear, So likened shalt thou be”

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

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

(fancy “nerves” in a ballad!)—
“Sir knight, Sir knight, a beauty bright In durance waits for you.”

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

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

The legend similar to this in many respects is that of King Arthur
and his court at Sewingshields, to which allusion has already been
made in the chapter on the Roman Wall. I cannot do better than give
this in the words of Mr. Hodgson, who tells the story in his
History of Northumberland. “Immemorial tradition has asserted that
King Arthur, his queen Guenever, his court of lords and ladies, and
his hounds were enchanted in some cave of the crags, or in a hall
below the castle of Sewingshields, and would continue entranced
there until someone should first blow a bugle-horn that lay on a
table near the entrance of the hall, and then with the ‘sword of
the stone’ (was this Excalibur?) cut a garter, also placed there
beside it. But none had ever heard where the entrance to this
enchanted hall was, till the farmer at Sewingshields, about fifty
years since, was sitting knitting on the ruins of the castle, and
his clew fell, and ran downwards through a rush of briars and
nettles, as he supposed, into a subterraneous passage. Full in the
faith that the entrance to King Arthur’s hall had now been
discovered, he cleared the briary portal of its weeds and rubbish,
and entering a vaulted passage, followed in his darkling way the
thread of his clew. The floor was infested with toads and lizards;
and the dark wings of bats, disturbed by his unhallowed intrusion,
flitted fearfully around him. At length his sinking courage was
strengthened by a dim, distant light, which as he advanced grew
gradually brighter, till all at once he entered a vast and vaulted
hall, in the centre of which a fire without fuel, from a broad
crevice in the floor blazed with a high and lambent flame, that
showed all the carved walls and fretted roof, and the monarch and
his queen and court reposing around, in a theatre of thrones and
costly couches. On the floor beyond the fire lay the faithful and
deep-toned pack of thirty couple of hounds; and on a table before
it the spell-dissolving horn, sword, and garter. The shepherd
reverently, but firmly, grasped the sword, and as he drew it
leisurely from its rusty scabbard, the eyes of the monarch and his
courtiers began to open, and they rose till they sat upright. He
cut the garter; and as the sword was being slowly sheathed the
spell assumed its ancient power, and they all gradually sank to
rest; but not before the monarch had lifted up his eyes and hands,
and exclaimed—
“O woe betide that evil day On which this witless wight was born, Who
drew the sword, the garter cut. But never blew the bugle horn!”

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

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

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

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

Bertram replied that he served an aged lord whose only child had
been stolen away, and that he would know no happiness until he had
found her. The pilgrim comforted him and bade him hope, telling him
that
“Behind yon hills so steep and high, Down in a lonely glen, There
stands a castle fair and strong, Far from the abode of men.”

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

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

“Bonny Grizzy” was a Scottish maid, though her gallant if lawless
deed was performed on Northumbrian soil; but there is one
Northumbrian maiden whose fame will live as long as the sea-waves
beat on the wild north-east coast, and as long as men’s hearts
thrill to a tale of courage and high resolve. Grace Darling’s name
still awakens in every bosom a response to all that is
compassionate, courageous, and unselfish; and the thoughts of all
north-country folk bold that admiration for the gentle girl which
has been voiced as no other could voice it, in the magical words of
Swinburne—
“Take, O star of all our seas, from not an alien hand, Homage paid of
song bowed down before thy glory’s face, Thou the living light of all
our lovely stormy strand, Thou the brave north-country’s very glory
of glories, Grace.”

The story of her gallantry has been many times re-told, but never
grows wearisome. The memory of that stormy voyage of the
_Forfarshire_, which ended in disaster on the Harcar rocks in the
Farne group, remains in men’s minds as the dark and tragic setting
which throws into bright relief the gallant action of the father
and daughter who dared almost certain death to rescue their
fellow-creatures in peril. It was in September, 1838, that the
ill-fated vessel left Hull for Dundee; but a leak in the boilers
caused the fires to be nearly extinguished in the storm the vessel
encountered. It reached St. Abb’s Head by the aid of the sails, but
then drifted southward, driven by the storm, and struck in the
early morning, in a dense fog, on the Harcar rocks. Nine of the
people on board managed to escape in a small boat, which was driven
in a miraculous manner through the only safe outlet between the
rocks. They were picked up by a passing boat and taken to Shields.
Meanwhile a heavy sea had crashed down upon the _Forfarshire_, and
broken it in half, one portion, with the greater number of crew and
passengers, being swept away immediately. The remaining portion,
the fore part of the vessel, was firmly fixed upon the rock. Here
the shivering survivors clung all that stormy day, the waves
dashing over them continually. The captain and his wife were washed
overboard, clasped in each others’ arms; and two little children, a
boy of eight and a girl of eleven years of age, died from exposure
and the relentless buffeting of the waves, their distracted mother
clasping them by the hand long after life was extinct. To a
terrible day succeeded a yet more terrible night.
“Scarce the cliffs of the islets, scarce the walls of Joyous Gard
Flash to sight between the deadlier lightnings of the sea; Storm is
lord and master of a midnight evil-starred, Nor may sight nor fear
discern what evil stars may be.”

Until the morning they endured; and in the stormy dawn the keeper
of the Longstone lighthouse, William Darling, and his daughter
Grace saw them huddled in a shivering heap upon the wave-swept
fragments of the wreck. The girl begged her father to try to save
them, and to allow her to help in the task, and after some natural
hesitation he consented. The brave-hearted mother helped them to
launch the boat, and they set forth.

“Sire and daughter, hand on oar and face against the night. Maid and
man whose names are beacons ever to the north. ...... all the madness
of the stormy surf Hounds and roars them back, but roars and hounds
them back in vain.
Not our mother, not Northumberland, brought ever forth. Though no
southern shore may match the sons that kiss her mouth, Children
worthier all the birthright given of the ardent north, Where the fire
of hearts outburns the suns that fire the south.”
They reached the rock, where nine persons were still clinging to the
wreck, and
“Life by life the man redeems them, head by storm-worn head, While
the girl’s hand stays the boat whereof the waves are fain.”

With five of the exhausted survivors the boat returned to the
Longstone; and two of the men went back with William Darling for
the other four. All were safely housed in the lighthouse and tended
by the noble family of the Darlings; but the storm raged for
several days longer, and made it impossible for them to be put
ashore. When at length they returned to their homes, and the story
of the rescue was made known, the whole country was moved by it;
and presents of all kinds, money, and offers of marriage poured in
upon Grace, who remained quite unmoved by it all, and was still the
gentle unassuming girl that she had always been. She refused to
leave her home, though she was offered twenty pounds a night at the
Adelphi if she would consent merely to sit in a boat for London
audiences to gaze upon her. Sad to say, she died of consumption
about two years afterwards, after having tried in vain to arrest
the course of her sickness by change of air at Wooler and Alnwick;
and she sleeps in Bamburgh churchyard, within sound of the sea by
which she had spent her short life.
“East and west and south acclaim her queen of England’s maids. Star
more sweet than all their stars, and flower than all their flowers.”

The actual boat in which the gallant deed was performed was long
preserved at Newton Hall, Stocksfield; but the owners have lately
presented it to the Marine Laboratory at Cullercoats.