THE country about the lower
reaches of the Tweed, though perhaps less illustrious with song than the
upland vale of Yarrow and St Mary’s Loch, is rich with vivid memories of
historic events. The difference appears to be that while the upland
sources of Ettrick, Yarrow, and Tweed seem haunted by the spirit, mystic
and poetic chivalrous, and withal sad, of the ancient Cymric race who had
their fastnesses there, this lower champagne country has associations
rather of the iron deeds of later history, the warlike aggressions in
turn, of Saxon, and Dane, and Norman, and the more modern struggles of the
Scottish nation against the masterful attempts of Plantagenets and Tudors.
Thriving towns there are upon the river banks, trim, fresh, and pleasant,
where the agricultural and pastoral products of the district find a
market-place But it is not in the modern aspect of these towns that the
interest centres. Curiously significant
it seems that, even in this age of wealth-worship, human nature pays its
instinctive homage, not to the places redolent of keen bargainings, but to
the scenes of ancient valour and chivalry and learning—not to the
exchange or the counting-house, as might be expected, but to ruined castle
or cloister or the scene of some old and mournful story. From which it
would appear that it may not be gold after all, nor even cleverness in
getting it, that makes life glorious or worth remembering.
In this way Coldstream as a
modern market-town possesses little interest for the visitor. It is
Coldstream as a place of suggestive memories that the pilgrim pauses to
see.
A famous ford in ancient
times, it was here that the hostile armies of England and Scotland perhaps
most frequently crossed the Tweed into each other’s territory. Here,
about the year 1150, an abbey of the white - robed Cistercian nuns was
founded by Cospatrick, fourth Earl of Dunbar, and his countess, Derder.
Here, in 1491, three years after the death of James III. at Sauchieburn,
the plots of Henry VII. against the young King of Scots were stopped for a
time by the signing of a treaty between Scotland and England. And here,
during Cromwell’s wars, General Monk spent a winter, and raised his
famous regiment, the Coldstream Guards. One additional fact which is,
perhaps, not generally known regarding the bright little place, may also
be recorded. It was formerly, and probably still is, on the east Border
what Gretna Green was on the west, a recognised resort for the celebration
of Scots marriages.
To the present day in any
part of Scotland, a simple declaration before witnesses constitutes a
legal marriage. The superior advantage of executing that declaration at
Gretna, and perhaps also at Coldstream, was that a record of the
occurrence was preserved. Accordingly, in the books at Gretna are still to
be seen the names of hundreds—peers,
naval and military officers, and all sorts and conditions of men — who
during the last century and a half have come there to seal the fate of
their lives with stolen or romantic brides. Despatch and secrecy were the
chief advantages of these Border marriages, there being available at each
of the well-known stations, at any hour of the day or night, a
"blacksmith," so called from his readiness to strike while the
iron was hot. No fewer than three Lord Chancellors—Erskine, Brougham, and
Eldon—made runaway Border marriages of this sort, one at least of the
three, Lord Brougham, being married at Coldstream.1 [1 See The
Gretna Green Memoirs, by Robert Elliot, the Gretna Green
"blacksmith" of his day.] At the northern end of the bridge over
the Tweed at the latter place stands a little house in which the run- away
couples of Northumberland and Yorkshire used to find an opportunity of
declaring themselves man and wife. Some thirty or forty years ago the
ancient facility was still made use of by farm-servants and others of
these neighbouring counties, who after enjoying the amenities of a cheap
wedding at the bridge, were wont to be escorted in state through the town
by a happy procession of pipers, ragamuffins, and children.
The most heroic memories of
Coldstream, however, are probably those connected with the famous castle
of Wark. On the Tweed, a mile above Coldstream, stands the castle; and
though late evening is not the time usually chosen for sightseeing, there
is a peculiar charm of solitude then in the air, which suits at least this
storied country well.
The road from the town is
dusk enough when the moon is obscured, and from the river bank no more
than a ghostly gleam of light can be seen on the dark water swirling
below, sullen and deep, and suggestive of tragedy. Then there is the ferry
to be hallooed for, in primitive fashion, till a light appears high among
the trees of the opposite bank, and winds its flickering way down towards
the boat. Meanwhile there is time to reflect that on the spot where one
stands, during the last unsuccessful campaign of the vacillating Regent
Albany in 1523, Ker of Fernihirst, with Buchanan the historian and future
reformer in his train, planted the Scottish cannon against the castle. [See
the Life of George Buchanan prefixed to the transladon of his History
of Scotland, by James Aikman, Glasgow. 1827.]
A lonely enough place it is now. Not a sound is to be heard in the
darkness but the creak of oars as the ferry makes its way across, and the
waters of the river, as they lap with a gentle murmur against the bows.
Strange, too, to step ashore, a single adventurer, under that frowning
shadow. Might not the dead sentinels wake?
Wars ebbed and flowed
continually of old round the walls of this great fortress, and it played
its part more than once in the rise and fall of kingdoms. But its chief
fame rests with the legend that a lady dropped her garter here five
hundred years ago. Tradition relates how, in 1349, when Edward III., on
one of his warlike expeditions to Scotland, was holding a court at Wark,
the fair Countess of Salisbury, wife of the castelan, let fall a garter in
the presence of the king. Not a courtier essayed to restore it to its
embarrassed owner, until Edward himself stooped gallantly and picked it
up. At this a titter ran round the brilliant ring; whereupon, it is said,
the king, with the haughty words, "Honi soit qui mal y pense,"
fastened the ribbon round his own royal knee, and thus instituted the
Most Noble Order of the Garter. Allan Ramsay, in his Morning Interview,
apostrophises the incident:
A lady’s garters, earth! their
very name,
Though yet unseen, sets all the soul on flame.
The royal Ned knew well their mighty charms,
Else he’d ne’er hooped one round the English arms.
Let barb’rous honours crowd the sword and lance,
Thou next their king does British knights advance.
O Garter! Honi soit qui mal y pense."
But of Wark Castle there
remains only a great mound, overgrown with foliage, and silent against,
the sky—all that is left of the halls where chivalry was wont to pace,
where a light word once made history, and the lovely Salisbury smiled on
the warrior king.
Nothing further is to be
seen about the spot, and the pilgrim, lingering a while, at last must take
the road over the hill to the wayside station. And away presently through
the cool night air and the darkness, by the Tweedside, eastward, runs the
journey of the rumbling wheels.
Everywhere along the route
the scents of the fresh country come in at the open window—scents
reminiscent of the silent pastures and the storied woodlands. Here may be
felt most strongly the mysterious charm of passing through a historic
country by night. The names of the places are themselves every one full of
suggestion, and the imagination is free to form its own romance as to the
scenery amid which they are set. When rustic labourers, earth-stained and
smelling of the soil, come in out of the darkness at Twizel station, it is
curious to discover that these men have plodded every day of their lives
over the bridge there without a thought that once upon its crossing hung
the destiny of Scotland. Not but that the darkness and the mystery of the
moonlight are tantalising enough at times. Norham tower - and town here,
its church and castle and market-cross, its quaint inns and curious
houses, pass like a dream in the night.
Day set long ago on the
living glory of that "castled steep," but the fame of the deeds
done there in ancient days is not likely soon to be forgotten. Of the
feudal fortress itself by "Tweed’s fair river broad and deep,"
a massive ruin still keeps ward upon the Border, and castle and church and
village alike are full of reminiscence of history and romance.
David I., in 1138, when
marching against the usurper Stephen, to support the right of the Empress
Matilda to the English throne, took the castle from Flambard, its
Northumbrian bishop-lord; and though presently it returned to English
hands, its keeping proved no easy task. The holding of that great
red-stone keep of Norham, indeed, on its steep, tree-grown bank, was for
centuries afterwards a gage of chivalry. Hither, in 1318, there came from
Lincoln an actual Sir William Marmion, helmed with gold, it is said, under
pledge to win his lady-love by defending Norham "for a year and a
day." Alas for the gallant! however, the Scots Borderers proved too
warlike for him, and he lost his gage, his lady, and his life, in a single
ambuscade. Here, on 10th May, 1291, Edward I. met the Wardens of Scotland
to arrange the succession to the Scottish crown—by which
"arrangement" the crafty English king sowed the seeds of the
dire Wars of Succession in the northern kingdom. And it was in the green
meadow opposite the castle that on 13th June of the same year most of the
great nobles of Scotland took, upon the Gospels, oath of allegiance to the
English king.
After many capturings by
Scots and English in turn, the fortress was besieged by James IV. in 1497;
and it was finally taken by the same king just before the battle of
Flodden. At one of these sieges the famous cannon, Mons Meg, brought from
Edinburgh for the purpose, battered the walls with her stone projectiles.
In the village church, too— the ancient place of worship, with its
massive Norman tower, in the quiet burial-ground beside the Tweed—the
marriage treaty of 1551 was signed between Edward VI. and the infant Scots
queen, Mary. The story of that treaty is well told by Scott in his Tales
of a Grandfather. Mary was but nine years old at the time, and the
rapacity of Henry VIII. in insisting upon the betrothal was resented by
the Scottish nobles. Henry, however, threatened war, which, in the
distracted state of Scotland just then, would have proved disastrous.
Immediate trouble was finally avoided upon the advice of a Scottish
councillor who told his fellow statesmen a story. It was the story of a
certain sultan who, upon pain of death for refusal, commanded his court
physician to teach a donkey to speak. The physician undertook the task,
but stipulated for ten years in which to accomplish it, and when rallied
by his fellow courtiers upon the impossibility of his undertaking, proved
his wisdom by his answer — in ten years the ass might die, the sultan
might die, or he himself might die, whereas, had he refused the command
outright, his immediate death would have been ensured. So Henry VIII. was
satisfied by the treaty of Norham, which, as the wisdom of its Scots
supporters foresaw, was nullified by the early death of Edward VI.
Events like these, though
past, are not forgotten, and by reason of them the single little street of
the village by the river, with the great Norman donjon rising at its end,
remains a place of national interest.
Soon after passing Norham
the cool wind is felt coming from the sea, while the shining lights of
Tweedmouth and Berwick appear scattered along the shores of the narrow
firth. And presently, steaming over the bridge on which the engineer
Stephenson wrote in letters of gold, "THE LAST ACT OF THE
UNION," the train stands still in the ancient capital of the
Bernician kings.
From the remotest past
Berwick has been a place of name and story. The county formed part of the
Roman province of Valentia, and Bede has recorded that it was
Christianized towards the close of the fourth century by Ninias, "a
most reverend bishop and holy man of the British nation." According
to the mediaeval romance-legends which echoed the history of early British
times, Berwick was presently the Joyeuse Garde, the stronghold of the
renowned Lancelot. Later, when the Saxon Ida, landing on the coast and
driving back the British and Pictish inhabitants, founded his kingdom of
Northumbria in 547, Berwick must have been one of his chief towns.
Upon his death, at any rate, at the hands of Owen, a noble Briton, in 549,
when his kingdom was divided into two, Deira and Bernicia, Berwick
became the capital of the district between the Tyne and the Forth. In turn
the Saxons were invaded by the sea-roving Danes, who, when they burned
Coldingham and Lindisfarne, doubtless found Berwick one of their richest
prizes. Torfaeus, as an evidence of wealth, narrates how, when the wife of
Cnut the Opulent, one of the town’s merchants, returning from a
pilgrimage, was taken by pirates, that magnate was able to set off in
pursuit with a fleet of fourteen sail in full array of war. The place’s
position at the deep river mouth must always have made it a good harbour,
the first essential for maritime prosperity.
In 1020, reunited Northumbria having
sunk to an earldom, the district north of Tweed was ceded to Malcolm II.,
King of Scots, and Berwick for the first time became a Scottish town.
Many, after that, were its turns of fortune. Surrendered to England by
William the Lion in order to regain his liberty after the battle of
Alnwick in 1174, it, with Roxburgh, was restored to the Scottish king by
Richard Coeur de Lion in 1189, for a payment of ten thousand merks, when
Richard was raising funds for his crusade. Richard’s successor, John,
bore Berwick an especial grudge, and, to overawe it, built at Tweedmouth
across the river a fortress which William the Lion promptly pulled down.
After the death of the Scots king, however, John took and burned the town,
torturing the inhabitants by way of reprisal, on his raid into the north
in 1215.
Notwithstanding such sudden
vicissitudes, Berwick had become in the thirteenth century the principal
port in Scotland, and was described in the Chronicle of Lanercost as a
"city so populous and of such trade that it might justly be called
another Alexandria, whose riches were the sea and the waters its
walls." The wealth of the place, however, probably as much as its
strategic importance, made it too great a prize, and its inhabitants in
consequence had to suffer some terrible experiences.
Just before the fall of the
first Baliol, when that unhappy prince found his vassalage to Edward I.
becoming intolerable, the town was attacked and carried at the point of
the sword, in his interest, by three hundred gentlemen from Fife. The
consequent fate of the place at the hands of the English king—a fate
secured by a stratagem always considered dishonourable in war — is
tersely described in Wyntoun’s Cronykil of Scotland. Finding open
assault of no avail, Edward struck his tents and marched away. Shortly
afterwards, at sun-rising, the besieged saw what they took to be their
expected succours of the north, an army with Scottish banners, coming
towards them. But upon the gates being thrown open the disguised enemy
rushed in, and began an immediate and merciless slaughter which lasted an
entire day.
The English men there slew down
All hale the Scottish nation
That within that town they fand.
Of all condition nane sparand;
Learned and lewd, nun nnd frere,
All was slain with that powere;
Of allkyn state, of ailkyn
age,
They spared neither carl nor
page;
Baith auld and young, men
and wives,
And sucking balms there tint
their lives.
Yeoman and gentlemen alsa,
The lives all they took them
fra.
Thus they slaying were sa
fast
All the day, till at
the last
This King Edward saw in that
tide
A woman slain, and of her
side
A bairn he saw fail out,
sprewland
Beside that woman slain lyand.
"Laissez,
laissez!" then cried he;
"Leave off, leave
off," that word should be.
Seven thousand and five
hundred were
Bodies reckoned that slain
were there.
Two days out, as a deep
flood,
Through all the town there
ran red blood.
Berwick was presently
retaken by Sir William Wallace after his victory at Stirling Bridge.
It soon, however, fell again into the hands of the English king, and
it was in the castle there, a few years later, that Edward did another
altogether unpardonable thing. From time immemorial it had been the
hereditary duty of the earls of Fife to crown the Scottish
kings. Following this rule, Isabella, Countess of Buchan, had, in
default of her brother, the Earl of Fife, who was then on the English
side, placed the golden circlet of royalty on the head of Robert the
Bruce; and for her act of romantic patriotism the English king caused
her to be shut up on the walls of Berwick in a wooden cage, where,
according to one account, she hung exposed for seven years.
Berwick Castle was the
last fortress held in Scotland by the English after Bannockburn. It
was captured in 1318 by Douglas and the Earl of Moray, and the story
of its subsequent lengthy defence by Walter Stewart against the
attempt of Edward II. forms, as related in Barbour’s Bruce, one
of the best extant pictures of a mediaval siege. Ten years later the
great treaty of Northampton, which crowned the triumphs of Bruce with
an ample declaration of the independence of Scotland, was sealed at
Berwick by the marriage, with great joy and magnificence, of Bruce’s
five year old son, David, to the almost equally juvenile Johanna,
sister of Edward III. Bruce himself, on account of his increasing
disease, we are informed by the chroniclers, was unable to be present,
but he was represented
by Randolph and Douglas, while on the English side appeared the Queen
Dowager, the High Chancellor of England, the Bishop of Lincoln, and a
splendid retinue. The promise of that day, it may be supposed, was
welcomed by the long-harassed burghers of the town, but it was a
promise fated to have only scant fulfilment.
Still another episode
belonging to the same period, relating to the place, which illustrates
vividly the ruthless cruelty of the age, is narrated at length by
Wyntoun. In 1333, when Edward III. was besieging Berwick, of which Sir
Alexander Seton was governor, the town, being hard pressed, made a
covenant with the besiegers that unless relieved within three months
it should be yielded up. In token of good faith the governor handed
over as a hostage to the English king his son and heir Thomas Seton.
Upon tidings of the compact, the Warden of Scotland, Lord Archibald of
Douglas, gathered an army and marched to raise the siege. Fearing the
success of that attack, the English, though the three months had not
expired, demanded delivery of the town. This, as a breach of contract,
Seton indignantly refused, whereupon the besiegers erected a tall
gallows within sight of the walls, and actually hanged young Seton
upon it before the eyes of his father and mother. It adds to the
tragedy of the episode that the sacrifice did not save the town, for
the Scots succours were presently defeated at Halidon Hill, all the
prisoners, at Edward’s command, being put to death; and the whole
country fell into the English hands, excepting four castles and a peel
tower.
By way of contrast to
those barbarities, under the walls of Berwick in 1338 was held a great
and famous jousting, in which the knights of both English and Scottish
sides, commanded respectively by Henry of Lancaster and Sir Alexander
Ramsay, displayed no less courage and address than noble chivalry and
high - hearted honour. The tournament, of which a very full
description is given by Wyntoun, is chiefly memorable for the
redoubtable jousting of Sir Patrick Graham.
A hundred and fifty years later, in
1482, Richard of Gloucester, with twenty-two thousand men, laid siege to
Berwick, and took the town, but found the castle impregnable, under its
governor, the stout Lord Hales. Nevertheless, shortly afterwards castle
and town were ceded to England by the Scottish king. By that final
cession, Berwick obtained some relief from harassment of war, and
presently regained its ancient prosperity. By statute of Edward IV. it was
made the channel of all merchandise passing from Scotland to England.
Bounties also were granted to the monks of Melrose and others upon the
shipments of wool, &c., which they might make from the port.
At last, in 1551 Berwick, after many
changes of masters, was made a free town, part neither of England nor of
Scotland, and in Acts of Parliament till recent years it had special
mention as "the good town of Berwick."
Such were the vicissitudes of an old
Border fortress. At no time in its history was the governor’s post here
a sinecure. A striking, picture the place must often have made from the
sea by night in troublous times, when, as the alarm bells went clashing in
the town below, and the burghers went hurrying along the narrow streets to
their places on the battlements, red fire began to pour from the walls and
the castle ramparts, and a tongue of flame from the beacon - turret above
shot up its warning to the Borders.
Long ago, however, Berwick castle, notwithstanding its thrilling and
warlike memories, was dismantled and demolished, and in its place now
stands the railway station—fit type of the changes which the years have
brought.
It is difficult on a warm
Sunday morning, when the kirk bells are ringing and the quiet folk are
moving in little knots to service across the steep clean streets, to
realise that the place has so often been drenched with blood, that furious
men have rushed through its narrow ways with torch and sword, while thatch
and rafter flamed up to heaven, and the air rang full of the shouts of the
victors, the hoarse oaths of the vanquished, and the shrieks of women in
peril.
The grey old walls of the
town still stand, and with the surrounding earthworks might yet, if
fortified, make Berwick formidable to an invader. It was across Berwick
bridge that, in 1603, James VI. of Scotland passed to the kingdom and
throne of Elizabeth; and, before he did so, it is recorded that he
inspected these walls and fortifications. One can picture him easily, the
timid king of Scott’s Fortunes of Nigel, stepping quaintly round
the ramparts and giving a wide berth to the cannon fired in his honour. On
these walls, too, as he walked round them one May morning in 1787, Robert
Burns records in the diary of his Border tour that he met Lord Errol, and
"was much flattered" by his lordship’s notice.
After kirk-time this, as
well as the breakwater running out to the lighthouse half a mile at sea,
continues a favourite strolling ground with the townsfolk. These old
ramparts form a choice resort for the long quiet talks of friendship, and
this use of them appears to be by no means neglected either by the grey
seniors or by the happy loiterers with whom it is still pairing-time.
Tempted by the dry path and the sunshine, many an octogenarian may be seen
taking the air along these walls, and as one passes knot after knot and
couple after couple of interested younger folk, it would be difficult to
say whether the rosy blush seen there upon a comely face were answer to
the warm word of a lover, or only to the cool strong kiss of the sea.
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