CHAPTER XIV.

Yielding to an inclination—Alnwick Moor-A Foolish Custom-Agricultural Transformations-What o'clock will it be ?-Claes and BulletsA Crack with Keeper-Yon's Old Chivot-Wild Hills-Foxes and Fishing-Smugglers-An Invitation-Coquet-Dale—Weldon Brig— Brinkburn Priory-A Sparkling River-The Angler's Song-Rothbury -The Castle Quarry-A thickwalled Rectory-The Church and Bernard Gilpin-Prince Charlie's Head-quarters-A Pleasant Sojourn -The Lasses o' Coquet-Wetting a Bargain-Beasts and Brandy— How to judge of Northumberland-Old Simonside--Larbottle-A Northumbrian Village Cottages-Boxbeds, Hinds, and Bondagers— Domestic Habits-Shabby Hovels-Improved Cottages-Callaly Castle -Eslington-Hospitable Reception-Scomfished Fishes-A Jolly Dinner—A Spur in the Head-Equestrian Trip to the Hills—Cheviot Sheep-Ingram-The Breamish-A Wicked Water-Ilderton-Twilight Walk.

WHILE at dinner a desire came over me to take once more the walk to Rothbury. It would be going away from the sea; but I had seen Alnmouth, and remembered its features, and the flats by the river where samphire grows, the isolated church-hill, on which once stood Woden's church, where bones lay bleaching, and human skulls grinning horribly from the loose sandy margin. A memorable place, interesting to the antiquary; for from that river-mouth the royal and episcopal deputation rowed forth in 684 to beseech St. Cuthbert to leave his poor retreat on the Farne, and become their bishop. So I let inclination have its way, leaving my return to the coast for after consideration.

It is a twelve miles' walk to Rothbury, up and down all the way across the hills that rise between the vales

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of Aln and Coquet. You ascend at once from the town to Alnwick Moor, a height whence you can overlook the country for miles around. Hither the candidates for the freedom of the burgh used to come on St. Mark's day, clad in white, to wade through a muddy pond where, to make the ceremony the more impressive, they floundered perchance into a deep hole. The venerable custom, which is said to have been instituted by King John, and was quite worthy of that foolish monarch, actually lingered on into the present century.

What would Adam Smith or Arthur Young say if they could return and see how drainage and tillage are transforming the moorlands into fields of grain and potatoes, sour swamps into kindly pastures? Would they believe it possible that the farmer and the chemist, by taking counsel together, could so overcome the stubbornness of soil and the caprices of climate ? Where is the surprising amelioration to end? Is it to go on until even the bleakest fells yield generous crops for man and beast, and famine and hunger become as obsolete as loyalty to the young Pretender? It would seem so, when we look at what cultivators are doing on Northumbrian hills, and north of the Tweed; ay, and north of the Tay, even up to John o' Groat's. And how cunningly they set about their work, making old Mother Earth mend her ways out of her own bosom ! They dig down and find clay; they shape and burn this clay into gutters and drainpipes, which are put back into the ground; they dig down and bring to the surface the soil which has lain buried for thousands of years, and the sun, and the air, and the plough, and the harrow do the rest. And these are the jolterheads over whom your white-faced Cockney makes merry.

"What o'clock will it be?" asked a little boy, with

that Northumbrian propensity which substitutes the present tense by the future.

He expressed himself glad to hear that it was halfpast four, for he had sat there ever since six o'clock in the morning minding two horses; and "wasn't going to get nought for it."

I sympathised; and asked what he would do if he had money?

"Buy claes."

"And what would you do with a halfpenny?" "Buy bullets."

I remembered the time when I liked bull's-eyes myself, and made him supremely happy with a penny.

I was heedful of the plots, and fields, and the tilery, when a passing vehicle suddenly stopped, and a voice said, "How far are you going?" I looked round, answered, and was invited to a seat in the phäeton, with, "I can put you on about three miles." I soon discovered that Keeper, as I shall call him, really did, as he said, "like to have a crack;" and was very willing to communicate his topographical knowledge. He knew every acre of the country for miles around; all the short cuts across the fells, all the fox covers; and when I mentioned Yeavering Bell, it appeared that he knew all about the Cheviots. "Yon's old Chivot," he said, pointing with his whip; "that biggest hill;" then presently, as other summits rose to view, and with enthusiasm, "There, you's Yeavering Bell. Hey, mon; but it's beautiful out there!"

The three miles were soon passed, and we came to the road where he should turn off for Whittingham (Whitt'njum). He drew rein for a moment; then, saying half to himself, "Well, it won't be fifty miles out of my way if I put ye on a bit further," he kept

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on towards Rothbury. Every hill, as we advanced, looked wilder and barer than the last; and though the green spots might be widening round the farms here and there in the hollows, one could hardly believe that those rugged and stony slopes will ever pay tribute to Ceres. At times we crossed deep gullies in which the burn that dashed along below, was all but hidden by the dense scrub growing on the precipitous flanks; and of all such places Keeper has a word to say; for they remind him of fox hunts, and trout caught in rocky pools and gravelly shallows; and he recalled his adventures with the tone of one who enjoys out-door sports to the utmost. He knew, moreover, that in former days troops of smugglers used to come over the Border with whisky from Scotland, and travel by secret ways among the hills and across the fells to a spot near the settled districts, where they dispersed, each man with his load, to seek their customers. "Ah! but when government made the duties equal in the two countries, it soon put a stop to that game."

Then he tells me where he lives: how that Alewater (the Aln) flows through the park close by; that if I will call at his house on my way to Yeavering Bell, I shall have a taste of Alewater trout. I am to be sure to call, for he likes a crack.

And so, full of talk, we came to where the "midroad" from Newcastle to Edinburgh crosses ours, and there we drank a glass of beer and parted. "Mind you come," he cried, as he drove quickly away to the north. I was now about four miles from Rothbury, and the same from the most beautiful ecclesiastical ruin in Northumberland-Brinkburn Priory. It would double the distance to go round that way; but there was a long evening before me.

This time my walk was not solitary, for the road was alive with flocks of lambs on their way to be sold at Long Framlington fair. In about an hour we look into the vale of Coquet; and truly we may liken the river to a Naiad worthy of her name, and soon we are at the bridge and inn well known to anglers, many of whom can sing

"At Weldon Brig there's wale o' wine,

If ye hae coin in pocket;

If ye can thraw a heckle fine,

There's wale o' trouts in Coquet."

But as we are not anglers, we travel up the road towards Rothbury, and taking the river-side path at the foot of an ascent, enjoy a delightful walk by the side of the stream, till we are shut in by wooded heights, and the river makes a quick curve, above which the southern bank rises high and precipitous, an amphitheatre of foliage, while on the north a low green tongue of land rushes forward into the hollow, and on that embosomed by trees, stands the ruin. It is a place where rock, wood, and water exert their fascination; though it must be confessed that the charm would be the greater were Mr. Cadogan's house out of sight of the ruin: the sentiment of the place would be more impressive with greater solitude. Nevertheless, when shut in by the old walls, we can meditate undisturbed.

He who selected Brinkburn as the site of a religious house, had an eye for the picturesque, and a heart for the contemplative. William Bertram second Baron of Mitford, of that family who from the time of the Conquest held the castles of Mitford and Bothal, was the founder, in the reign of Henry I. The stream which turned the mill where the monks ground their