Northumberland Yesterday And To Day by Jean F. Terry (best novel books to read .txt) 📕

Of The Delavals, Which Family Became Extinct In The Male Line Early In

The Nineteenth Century. The Last Delaval, A Very Learned Man, Was Buried

In Westminster Abbey In 1814. The Hall Was Built For Admiral Delaval In

1707 To The Design Of Sir J. Vanbrugh, Who Also Designed Blenheim

Palace, Given By The Nation To The Great Duke Of Marlborough About The

Same Time.

Hartley Colliery, About Half A Mile Away, Has A Sad Interest As Being

The Scene Of The Terrible Accident In 1862, When A Number Of Men And

Boys Were Imprisoned In The Workings Owing To The Blocking Up Of The

Only Shaft By A Mass Of Débris, Caused By The Fall Of An Iron Beam

Belonging To The Pumping Engine At The Pit-Head. Before The Shaft Could

Be Cleared And A Way Opened To The Workings, All The Poor Fellows Had

Died, Overcome By The Deadly "Choke-Damp." Joseph Skipsey, The Pitman

Poet, In A Simple Ballad, Tells The Pathetic Story.

  "Oh, Father! Till The Shaft Is Rid,

  Close, Close Beside Me Keep;

  My Eyelids Are Together Glued,

  And I,--And I,--Must Sleep."

  "Sleep, Darling, Sleep, And I Will Keep

  Close By--Heigh Ho."--To Keep

  Himself Awake The Father Strives.

  But He--He, Too--Must Sleep.

  "Oh Mother Dear! Wert, Wert Thou Near

  Whilst--Sleep!" The Orphan Slept;

  And All Night Long, By The Black Pit-Heap

  The Mother A Dumb Watch Kept.

From Here, Northward, The Coast Is Rather Dull And Uninteresting,

Although The Sands Are Fine, Until We Reach Blyth, At The Mouth Of The

Little River Of The Same Name. This Town Is Growing Rapidly In Size And

Importance; The Export Of Coal Has Greatly Increased Since The Harbour

Was So Much Improved By Sir Matthew White Ridley, And Now Totals Some

Millions Of Tones A Year. The River Wansbeck Not Far North Of The Mouth

Of The Blyth, In The Latter Part Of Its Course Flows Through A District

Begrimed By All The Necessary Accompaniments Of The Traffic In "Black

Diamonds," And Reaches The Sea Between The Colliery Villages Of Cambois

And North Seaton.

On The Point At The Northern Curve Of Newbiggin Bay Stands Newbiggin

Church, And Ancient Building, Whose Steeple, "Leaning All Awry," Is A

Well-Known Landmark For Sailors. The Site Of This Church Is In Danger

Of Being Undermined By The Waves, And, Indeed, Part Of The Churchyard

Crumbled Away Many Years Ago; But Such Defences As Are Possible Have

Been Built Up Around It,--And The Danger Averted For A Time. Newbiggin

Itself Is A Large Fishing Village And An Increasingly Popular Holiday

Resort, For It Possesses Not Only Good Sands But A Wide Moor Near At

Hand Which Provides One Of The Best Of Golf Courses; And, Also, A Short

Distance Along The Coast, Are The Attractive Fairy Rocks.

Newbiggin Was A Town Of Some Importance In Plantagenet Days, With A Busy

Harbour, And A Pier; And In The Reign Of Edward Ii. It Was Required To

Contribute A Vessel Towards The Naval Defence Of The Kingdom.

Northward From Newbiggin Point Is The Magnificent Sweep Of Druridge Bay,

Stretching In A Fine Curve Of Ten Miles Or More To Hauxley Haven. Here,

The Sands Of A Warm Golden Colour, The Wind-Swept Bents Of Silvery-Grey,

And The Vivid Green Of The Grassy Cliff Tops Edge The Curve Of The Bay

With A Line Of Bright And Delicate Colour, Only Thrown Into Greater

Relief By The Brown Reefs And Ridges Which Stretch Out From The Rocky

Shores, And By The Deep Blue-Green Of The Waves Rolling Inshore In Long

Majestic Lines, To Break Into Hissing Foam On The Sharp Reefs, Or Slide

Smoothly Up The Yellow Sands In The Centre Of The Bay. Above, Beyond The

Grassy Tops Of The Cliffs, Stretch Deep Woods, With The Old Pele-Tower

Of Cresswell Looking Out From Amongst The Trees, Fields Many-Coloured

With Their Burden Of Varying Crops, And Wide Lonely Moors, Where One May

Walk For Half A Day Without Hearing Any Sound Save The Wild Screaming Of

Sea-Birds, Or The Whistle Of The Wind, With The Low Boom Of The Waves

Below Sounding A Deep-Toned Accompaniment. The Bay Is Not Always So

Peaceful, However, And Many Wild Scenes And Terrible Shipwrecks Have

Taken Place Here, As Everywhere Along Our Wild North-East Coast. The

Bondicar Rocks, By Hauxley, And The Cruel Spikes Of The Reef At Snab

Point, Near Cresswell, Have Betrayed Many A Gallant Little Vessel To Her

Doom. Not, However, Without Bringing On Many An Occasion Proof Of The

Courage Which Is Shown As A Matter Of Course By The Fisher Folk On Our

Coasts. At Newbiggin, And Cresswell, For Instance, Deeds Have Been Done,

Which, In Their Simple Unassuming Heroism, May Be Taken As Typical Of

The Hardy Race Which Could Count Grace Darling Among Its Daughters.

About Thirty Years Ago, A Ship Drove Ashore Off Cresswell One Bitter

Night In January, And The Fisher Folk Crowded Down To The Shore,

Watching With Sorrowful Eyes The Hapless Crew Clinging To Their

Unfortunate Vessel, Which Was Slowly Being Broken Up By The Waves. There

Was No Lifeboat At Cresswell Then, And All The Men Of The Village,

Except The Old Men Who Were Past Work, Had Gone Northward, When The

Oncoming Storm Prevented Their Return. The Women And Girls Heard The

Cries Of The Schooner's Crew, And Mourned To Each Other Their Inability

To Help. But One Gallant-Hearted Girl, Named Peggy Brown, Cried Out, "If

I Thowt She Could Hing On A Bit, I Wad Be Away For The Lifeboat." But

Between Them And Newbiggin, The Nearest Lifeboat Station, The Lyne Burn

Runs Into The Sea, And Spreads Widely Out Over The Sands; And The Older

People Told Peggy She Could Never Cross The Burn In The Dark. She Set

Off, However, The Thought Of The Drowning Men Hastening Her On. For Four

Miles She Made Her Way In The Storm And Darkness, Partly Along The

Shore, Scrambling Over Rock's, And Wading Waist-Deep Through The Lyne

Burn And One Or Two Other Places Where The Waves Had Driven Far Up The

Sands, And Partly Across Newbiggin Moor, Where The Icy Wind Tore At Her

In Her Drenched Clothing. She Pressed On, However, And Managed To Reach

The Coxswain's House And Give Her Message. The Lifeboat Was Immediately

Run Out, And The Men Reached The Wreck In Time To Save All The Crew

Except One, Who Had Been Washed Overboard.

On Another Occasion One Of The Fishermen, Named Tom Brown, Was Preparing

To Go Out, With The Help Of His Two Sons, In His Own Fishing Coble To

The Aid Of A Ship In Distress On The Reef. A Carter Had Come Down To The

Beach, The Better To Watch The Progress Of Events, And, Terrified By The

Thundering Waves, His Horse Took Fright, And In Its Plunging Drove The

Cart Against The Little Boat, Making A Hole Clear Through One Side. "Big

Tom," As He Was Generally Called, Merely Took Off His Coat, Rolled It

Into A Bundle And Stuffed It Against The Hole. Then He Beckoned To

Another Fisherman, Saying To Him "Sit On That." The Man Clambered In,

And Without The Loss Of Another Minute These Four Heroes Set Off To Save

Their Fellow Creatures' Lives, With A Broken And Leaking Boat In A Heavy

Sea. And They Did It, Reaching The Brig Only Just In Time, For It Went

To Pieces A Few Minutes After The Shivering Crew Had Been Safely Landed.

Incidents Like These, Which Could Be Multiplied Indefinitely, Bring A

Glow Of Pride To The Heart, And A Reassuring Sense That The Degeneration

Of The Race Is Not Proceeding In Such Wholesale Fashion--In The Country

Districts, At Any Rate--As The Pessimists Would Have Us Believe.

At The Northern Extremity Of Druridge Bay Is The Little Fishing Village

Of Hauxley, With The Chimneys And Pit-Head Engines Of Ratcliffe And

Broomhill Collieries Darkening The Sky To The South-West. Passing The

Bondicar Rocks And Rounding The Point We Enter The "Fairway" For

Warkworth Harbour And Amble, Where A Brisk Exportation Of The Coal Of

The Neighbourhood Is Carried On.

Lying Out At Sea, Opposite Amble Coastguard Station, The White

Lighthouse On Coquet Island Keeps Watch Over The Entrance To The

Harbour. Some Of The Walls Of The Monastery, Which Stood On The Island

In Saxon Days, Can Now Be Seen Forming Part Of The Dwelling Of The

Lighthouse Keeper. For Many Generations, Too, Hermit After Hermit Went

To Dwell On This Tiny Islet, And St. Cuthbert Himself Is Said To Have

Inhabited The Little Cell At One Time. The Island Was Captured By The

Scots In The Civil Wars Of King Charles's Reign, And Held By Them For A

Time.

The Situation Of Amble, At The Mouth Of The Coquet, Has Been Looked Upon

As Convenient From Very Early Days, For There Are Signs Which Tell Us Of

A Population Here At An Early Period. Several Cist-Vaens, Or Ancient

Stone Coffins, Have Been Found Near The Town, And A Broken Roman Altar

Was Unearthed In The Neighbourhood. The Monastery Which Stood Here, Like

That On Holy Island, Was, In Later Times, Inhabited By Benedictine

Monks, Who Were Under The Authority Of The Prior Of Tynemouth. William

The Conqueror Gave The Then Prior The Right To Collect The Tithes Of The

Little Town.

A Short Distance From Amble, And Practically Encircled By The Coquet

Which Here Makes A Wide Sweep, We Come Upon Warkworth, Prettiest Of

Villages, Combining The Beauties Of Sea-Shore And River Scenery, And

Rich In The Possession Of That Romantic Castle, The Ruins Of Which Carry

The Mind Back To Saxon Times; For They Stand On The Site Of An Older

Fortress Erected By Ceolwulf, A Saxon King Of Northumbria. He Was The

Patron Of Bede, Who Dedicated His "Ecclesiastical History" To His Royal

Friend. Ceolwulf Built Both The Fortress And The Earliest Church At

Warkworth, And A Few Stones Of This Latter Building Are Still To Be

Seen. In 737, Two Years After The Death Of Bede, This Royal Saxon Laid

Aside His Kingly State And Became A Monk On Lindisfarne,

  "When He, For Cowl And Beads, Laid Down

  The Saxon Battle-Axe And Crown."

It Was When The Castle Was Bestowed By Edward Iii. Upon Lord Percy Of

Alnwick That It Became, For More Than Two Hundred Years, The Chief

Residence Of That Illustrious Family; Becoming In The Next Reign Of

Historical Value As The Home Of That Hotspur Whose Valour And Gallantry

Made Henry Iv. Envy The Earl Of Northumberland, In That He "Should Be

The Father Of So Blest A Son." In Act Ii., Scene 3 Of "Henry Iv.," Part

Ii., Shakespeare Has Laid The Scene At Warkworth Castle, Where Hotspur's

Wife, Troubled By Her Lord's Moody Abstraction, Tries To Win From Him

The Reason Of His Secret Care. And After The Battle Of Shrewsbury,

Rumour, Flying With The News Of Hotspur's Death, Says:--

  "Thus Have I Rumoured Through The Peasant Towns,

  Between The Royal Field Of Shrewsbury

  And This Worm-Eaten Hold Of Ragged Stone,

  Where Hotspur's Father, Old Northumberland,

  Lies Crafty-Sick."

Two Years After This, The Castle Was Besieged By Henry Iv. Himself, And

Surrendered To Him After A Brief Bombardment By The Newly Invented

Cannon. The Keep Was Re-Built By Hotspur's Son, After The Family

Possessions Had Been Restored To Him By Henry V., And It Is Now The Only

Remaining Part Of The Castle Which Is Almost Perfect. One Of The

Half-Ruinous Towers Remaining Is Called The Lion Tower, From The

Sculptured Lion On Its Walls; While Another Rejoices In The Curious Name

Of Cradyfargus. A Strange Story Is Told Of A Blue Stone To Be Seen In

The Courtyard Of The Castle. Many Years Ago, So Runs The Tale, One Of

The Custodians Of Warkworth Castle Dreamed Three Nights In Succession

That A Large Treasure Was Concealed Beneath A Blue Stone In A Certain

Part Of The Castle Grounds. He Told This Dream To A Neighbour, And After

Allowing Two Or Three Days To Pass, Finding The Dream Constantly

Recurring To His Mind, He Thought He Would Go To The Place Indicated,

And See What He Could Find. To His Disappointment, However, He

Discovered That Some One Had Been There Before Him; A Large Hole Had

Been Dug, And On The Edge Of It Lay The Blue Stone.

Needless To Say, The Hole Was Empty, Nor Could The Keeper Discover

Anything About The Treasure In The Neighbourhood. It Is Said That A

Certain Family In The Village Became Suddenly Rich; And, Many Years

Afterwards, A Large And Ancient Pot, Supposed To Have Been That In Which

The Buried Treasure Had Been Contained, Was Found In The Coquet.

The Main Street Of Warkworth Leads Straight Up To The Postern Gate Of

The Castle, And Many Stirring Sights Have The Successive Inhabitants Of

The Little Village Looked Upon, As The Fortunes Of The Owners Of The

Castle Waxed And Waned Throughout The Many Centuries In Which The Lords

Of Warkworth