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    TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA




    BY THE SAME AUTHOR

    BORDERLAND STUDIES
    THE MARK O' THE DEIL
    THE WHITE-FACED PRIEST




    TALES OF
    NORTHUMBRIA

    BY
    HOWARD PEASE

    METHUEN & CO.
    36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
    LONDON

    1899




    TO
    EARL GREY

    EVER KEENLY INTERESTED IN WHATEVER
    CONCERNS HIS NATIVE COUNTY
    THESE SKETCHES OF NORTHUMBRIAN CHARACTER
    ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR




CONTENTS


                                         PAGE

    NORTHUMBERLAND                          1

    'A LONG MAIN'                           7

    THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE                 29

    [`A] L'OUTRANCE                        41

    'T'OWD SQUIRE'                         59

    AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE                79

    'IN MEMORIOV'M'                       109

    'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK          121

    THE 'CALEB JAY'                       133

    GEORDIE ARMSTRONG 'THE JESU-YTE'      147

    'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG'              165

    YANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN           187

    THE PROT['E]G['E]                     209

    THE SPANISH DOUBLOON                  243




The tales that go to make up this small volume have already appeared
in print: the first part of the Introduction, 'A Long Main,' 'In
Memoriov'm,' in the _National Observer_; 'The Prot['e]g['e],' in the
_Queen_; 'Quaker John and Yankee Bill,' 'T'Owd Squire,' 'An Ammytoor
Detective,' in the _Newcastle Courant_; '[`A] l'Outrance,' in the
_Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_; and the remaining six in the _Newcastle
Daily Leader_. I desire to tender my thanks herewith to the various
editors concerned.




TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA




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 quantity 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 [GBP]10 or [GBP]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 grasslands 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-lass, 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--lasses, greyhounds, an' horses,
racin', drinkin', cockin', an' card-playin' were aal hobbies ov his at
one time or another, but what was warse 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 cock-fight an' coursin' match he pulled off wiv his
cocks 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'
brass 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 lass 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' cocks, 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 [GBP]1,000 a
side, an' also at a cockin' match--"a long main" it was to be--twenty
battles at [GBP]100 the "battle" and [GBP]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 cock 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 brass ower formerly.

'The time comes, an' the comp'ny is aal assembled i' the cock-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' cock.

'Where he'd gathered them nobody knew save old Ned Stevison--an
ancient old cock-fighter o' Bridgeton, who loved cocks 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 cocks; from six to six and a half pounds
their weight was to be, an' the fight commences.

'Bob Stevison fought Smithson's cocks for him, an' grandfeythor fought
his own, kneelin' doon on the cock-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 cocks 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 cock just before the start--an' holds him ready for the
battle.

'Then grandfeythor, he oots wiv his champion cock--"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.

'Stevison's mouth was tremblin' like a bairn's as he took his
favouryte up, for there was blood on his lower breast feathers, but
Stingo wasn't touched ava, an' grandfeythor, puffed oot wi' pride,
claps a bit mair o' the fam'ly property on to his champion.

'It was a bit lesson for the other cock; he was just as determined as
ever, but a bit quieter like; round an' round Stingo he goes like a
prize-fighter, clickin' in noo an' again as he thought he saw his
openin', an' when they grappled tegither wi' their beaks, though his
comb was almost torn in two, he hammered for Stingo's eye as a
blacksmith hammers on his anvil.

'After about fifteen minutes neither cock could stand straight; at a
distance you'd have said they was both as drunk as my lord; both were
drippin' blood; Stingo had lost an' eye, an' neither o' t'other's were
