494 COQUET SIDE. 



heard. There she sits, and seems Tradition ; the ample chimney re- 

 cess half hiding her form ; her palsied hand, with the short pipe, rest- 

 ing on her knee, and the thin blue wreaths of smoke scattered into 

 fantastic forms by the tremulous motion of the shrunken limb ; her 

 feet beating time to the ancient chant, her dim blue eyes lighted up 

 by the memory of other days, and her thin gray hairs escaping from 

 her coif ; there she sits, till you feel the awe of old age stealing over 

 your spirit ; and the weak withered creature, in her wild animation, 

 seems to you something unearthly, from whose fascination you fear, 

 yet are wishful, to escape. She tells you of a hundred deeds of blood 

 which have been committed on these hills of troopers borne down to 

 the ground, fighting desperately even when transfixed with the spear 

 of stubborn strokes and subtle skill combating against each other; 

 in dolorous strains she chants the ballad of " The Woeful Wednes- 

 nesday of the Wreckhill," when the Scots slaughtered every soul of 

 that doomed place ; or, changing her measure to one more sprightly, 

 she tells you that, 



" The Umfranvilles of Coquet-side, 



And down the dale of Reed, 

 Are lords of mickle power and pride ; 



A stern and stalwarth breed. 

 From Elsdon down to Warkworth-keep 



Their wide domains extend ; 

 A thousand troopers stanch and true, 



At their bugle blast attend." 



Listening to the old beldame's chant, you almost see before you 

 Robert with the beard, the first Umfranville who received all Redes- 

 dale, with the castle of Harbottle, which stands on the Coquet, upon 

 the condition of " defending that part of the country from enemies 

 and wolves," which grant he received from William the Conqueror, in 

 the tenth year of his reign ; you hear the gathering of his troopers in 

 his castle court, the clang of the drawbridge, the rattling of spears 

 and shields, and the ringing of bits and stirrups as the wild warriors 

 fall into order at the approach of the stern Norman ; your blood 

 mounts up at their gallant array, and you feel " the spirit breathed 

 from dead men to their kind," the spirit of wild adventure and rush- 

 ing into combats, and grappling in mortal struggles with fierce foes, 

 the battle-shout, and the cry of victory booming over the hard-fought 

 field ; but, lo ! the tale is done, and with it the vision has departed, 

 your blood resumes its equable flow ; and now, with a smile half of 

 scorn, half of regret, you remember that the family is gone, the lands 

 and forests past into twenty different hands, their very memory for- 

 gotten, save by some frail old creature like that now again sunk into 

 a state of almost fatuity before you. " Such is the moral of all human 

 tales !" 



But we must keep to our original purpose, which was to introduce 

 every one who can tie on a bob-fly, or holla to a hound, to the sports, 

 men, and banks of the Coquet. Let the reader then accompany us 

 in an expedition down the valley. 



Leaving the Chevy-chace coach at Elsdon, Carter-bar, or Reid- 

 swire, where the famous battle was fought between the Scotch and 



