Tales of Northumbria Part 1

Tales of Northumbria.

by Howard Pease.

NORTHUMBERLAND

It is generally admitted that your Northumbrian pre-eminently possesses the quality which the pious but worldly Scotchman was used to pray for, namely, 'a guid conceit o' hissel'.'

It is the more unfortunate, therefore, that of late years a considerable landslip should have taken place in the ground whereon his reputation rested.

The local poet no longer hymns the 'Champions o' Tyneside,' for Chambers and Renforth and other heroes have long since departed, leaving 'no issue.'

Advancing civilization, again, has, it is to be feared, made havoc of the proud insularity of the Northumbrian squirearchy. No longer are they content, like the Osbaldistones of yore, to devote themselves to cellar and stable, to stay at home, contemptuous of London and its politics, of travel and of new ideas. 'Markham's Farriery' and the 'Guide to Heraldry' have lost their pristine charm, and the Northumbrian is, as a consequence, foregoing his ancient characteristics merely to become provincial.

'Geordie Pitman' alone makes a stand against all modern innovation.

Firm in his pele tower of ancient superiority, he is still convinced of the superiority of all things Northumbrian.

'Champions' may have died out elsewhere, and patriotism be decayed in the higher social ranks, but in the pit-village there still lingers an admirable quant.i.ty of the old self-love.

In each separate village you may find some half-dozen self-styled 'champions' who will match themselves against 'any man in the world'

for 10 or 15 a side at their own particular hobby or pastime.

Defeat has little effect upon a 'champion': like Antaeus, he picks himself up the stronger for a fall, and having advertised himself in the papers as 'not being satisfied' with his beating, challenges another attempt forthwith.

Now this self-satisfaction--though somewhat decayed of late--is probably one of the oldest strains in the Northumbrian character, having been developed, doubtless, in the first instance, under stress of constant raid and foray, and but little affected thereafter--owing to the remoteness of the county both from the universities and from London--by the higher standards of softer and more civilized centres.

After this, the next most predominant trait is a love of sport, for which the climate, together with the physical conformation of the county, may be held responsible; for the open aspect of the plain, the crown of bare western hills, the wind-swept moorland and the sea, suggest a life of hard endurance and fatigue, the strenuous toil of the hunter, the keen excitements of the chase.

Still, as of old, the wide and spreading gra.s.slands try horse and rider with a tempting challenge, as of one who cries, 'Come, who will tire first?' The music of the hounds sweeps down the brae: 'Yoi--yoi--yoi!' quivers the cry from the streaming pack. Onward the rider gallops, the plover perchance rising at his horse's heels, the long note of the curlew sounding in his ears, the breath of the west wind racing in his nostrils; he may see on this side the purple bar of Cheviot, on the other the blue, flat line of the sea, and therewith--if ever in his life--may taste of the primeval joy of living--of the joy of the early hunter who lived with his horse as with a comrade, drew from the sea the 'sacred fish,' from the moorland the 'winged fowl,' and knew not discontent.

The beauty of the southern counties is not to be met with here.

The south is the well-dowered matron, the north a bare-headed gipsy-la.s.s, freckled with sun and wind, who 'fends' for her living with strategies of hand and head.

Still, in the northern blood, the heritage of the 'raid' and the 'foray' abides, and still, as of old, are the children of the Borderland nursed by the keen wind of the moorland and the sea. 'Hard and heather-bred' ran the ancient North-Tyne slogan; 'hard and heather-bred--yet--yet--yet.'

'A LONG MAIN'

'So you're a county family?' I echoed, and, though it may have been impolite, I could not forbear a smile, for never had I seen County Family so well disguised before.

'Ay,' replied Geordie Crozier, 'I is,' and forthwith proceeded to search in the pocket of his pit-knickerbockers for his 'cutty.' He had just come up to 'bank' from the 'fore-shift,' and was leaning on a waggon on the pit-heap, about to have a smoke before going home for a 'wesh,' dinner, and bed. 'The last ov us,' he continued, having lit his pipe, 'that had Crozier Hall was grandfeythor--Jake Crozier, of Crozier Hall, was his name an' address, an'--an'--I's his relics.'

I glanced at the 'relics' afresh--six foot two if he was an inch, and broad in proportion, a magnificent pair of arms--he was champion hewer at the colliery--with legs to match, though slightly bowed through the constant stooping underground. Under the mask of coal-dust his eyes gleamed like pearls, and a thrusting lower lip, backed by a square jaw, gave evidence of determination and the faculty of enjoyment. A short, well-trimmed beard put the finishing touch to 'the Squire,' for so his friends styled him, half in jest.

'Well, and how was it lost?' said I. 'Was "cellar and stable," the good old Northumbrian motto, his epitaph? Or did your grandfather take an even quicker road to the bailiffs?'

'Grandfeythor was like us, I b'lieve; he was a fine spender but an ill saver, an' he had a h---- ov a time till the mortgages gave oot, for he was a tarr'ble tasteful man--la.s.ses, greyhounds, an' horses, racin', drinkin', c.o.c.kin', an' card-playin' were aal hobbies ov his at one time or another, but what was wa.r.s.e than aal this put togither was that he never wud be beat. Everything he had must be the best, an' the fact that anythin' belonged to him was quite enough to prove to him it was the best o' the sort i' the county. Well, for a while as a young man things went well wi' him. He win the Plate[1] two years runnin', an' many was the c.o.c.k-fight an' coursin' match he pulled off wiv his c.o.c.ks an' his hounds; but there was a chap came oot o' Aadcastle who was one too many for him at the finish. This chap had made a vast o'

bra.s.s i' the toon at ship-buildin' or such like, an' bein' wishful to set hisself up as a big pot, had hired a big place next grandfeythor's i' the country. Well, grandfeythor couldn't abide him, for, bein' a red-hot Tory, he didn't believe i' one man bein' as good as another at aal, an' when, as happened shortlies, his neighbour's son came sweetheartin' his daughter, he says, "No Crozier la.s.s ever yet married a shopkeeper's son, an' they never shall as long as I'm above ground--orffice boys mun marry wi' orffice gals," says he.

'Well, the lad's feythor was tarr'ble vext at this, an' he swears he'll have his revenge on the Squire--an' it wasn't long before he got his opportunity.

'He'd set hissel' up as a sportin' man, ye ken, when he come to the country, an' wes tarr'ble keen o' shootin' wiv a gun, an' occasionally he meets grandfeythor at a shootin' party, an' always takes the opportunity to differ from him i' a polite sort o' way on every topic under the sun.

'Well, after their dinners one day, grandfeythor, bein' fairly full up wi' beer, ye ken, begins sneering at all toon's folk settin' up as sportsmen. "It stan's to reason," says he, "if a man's forbears have never handled a gun, nor shot nowt mevvies[2] but a hoody crow or a seagull on a holiday, that the bairns canna shoot either, for it's bred an' born in a man--it's part o' his birthright, like a fam'ly jool," says he; "a heditary gift, the same as a proper knowledge o'

horseflesh, fightin' c.o.c.ks, greyhounds an' aal; money won't buy it, an' it's no use argifyin' aboot it, for it's a fact, and the will o'

Providence," says he.

'Noo, when grandfeythor got on aboot Providence, most folks, I b'lieve, used to say nowt, but Smithson--that was the chap's name--he gies a sort o' tee-hee at this oot loud, which would be the same as if you or me were to say, "It's just d----d nonsense."

'Well, there was a tarr'ble tow-row at this, grandfeythor as red as a bubbly-jock an' swearin' like a drunken fishwife, and Smithson as polite as a counter-jumper wiv his "pardon me's" and "pray be seated, sirs"--aal to no effect.

'At the finish, when matters were quieted doon a bit, Smithson offers to back hissel' at a shootin' match wi' grandfeythor for 1,000 a side, an' also at a c.o.c.kin' match--"a long main" it was to be--twenty battles at 100 the "battle" and 1,000 the "main."

'Well, aal the comp'ny thought it was just a bit swagger on the part o' Smithson, an' that when the time came he'd just cry off an' pay forfeit, for the match was to take place in three weeks' time, and never a c.o.c.k had Smithson in his place ava, whereas grandfeythor, he had a rare breed, the best i' the county--mixed Rothbury an'

Felton--an' the old Felton breed was the one the King o' England win his bra.s.s ower formerly.

'The time comes, an' the comp'ny is aal a.s.sembled i' the c.o.c.k-pit at Bridgeton, grandfeythor, full o' beans an' bounce, backin' hissel'

like a prize-fighter, takin' snuff an' handin' roon' the box to his friends, an' sayin' noo an' again, "Where's that dam' fellow Smithson?"

'Well, the clock on the old tower was just on the stroke of ten, when in saunters Smithson, cool as a ha'penny ice, an' behind him, in green and gold liv'ries, come ten flunkies each wi' two big bags behind his shoulder, an' in each bag a tarr'ble fine fightin' c.o.c.k.

'Where he'd gathered them n.o.body knew save old Ned Stevison--an ancient old c.o.c.k-fighter o' Bridgeton, who loved c.o.c.ks more than many a man his missus. "The Moonlight Breed" he called them, but they had a strain of the famous old Lord Derby's breed i' them, and were blood uns to the bone.

'Some half dozen were Stevison's own, but the remainder 'twas said he had stolen from awa doon Sooth for Smithson, an' anyways "Captain Moonlight" was his nickname ever afterwards.

'Well, they weighs aal the c.o.c.ks; from six to six and a half pounds their weight was to be, an' the fight commences.

'Bob Stevison fought Smithson's c.o.c.ks for him, an' grandfeythor fought his own, kneelin' doon on the c.o.c.k-pit floor wiv his coat off so as to handle them the better.

'The first two or three battles grandfeythor wins easy, Stevison using his warst c.o.c.ks at the first, d'ye see, oot o' craft mevvies to get longer odds i' the bettin', so that at one time grandfeythor was five battles to two to the good; a bit later it was eight all, an' the excitement was immense, bets flyin' aboot like snowflakes at Christmas.

'Then Stevison oots wiv a beauty--a perfect picture it was ov a fighter; eyes like a furnace at night, liftin' his legs like a Derby winner, wings an' tail clipped short--aal glossy wi' health an'

shinin' like mahogany.

'Stevison runs him up an' doon the floor to heat his blood, an' tweaks a feather doon from his rump--that was a clever trick he had, to madden his c.o.c.k just before the start--an' holds him ready for the battle.

'Then grandfeythor, he oots wiv his champion c.o.c.k--"Stingo," he called him--an old favouryte ov his, a gran' bird too, six years old, an' a little past his prime mevvies, though he'd never lost a battle in his life.

'As soon as they sees each other "Stingo" gies a bit triumphant crow, an' leans forward from his master's hand to try an' nip hold o' the other wiv his beak. The other says nowt, just looks at him wi' fiery eyes red hot wi' murder, an' as soon as ever his feet touch the sawdust bends low, then springs straight for Stingo, drivin' wiv his spur o' shinin' steel right for his heart.

'Just i' the nick o' time Stingo leaps i' the air to meet him; there's a "click, click," "click, click," as o' daggers crossin', an' pantin'

from the shock, doon sinks either bird to the ground.