g up
before some country inn for lunch, we skimmed through a gate only a mile
or two away, and stopped under the shadowy frown of an imposing mediaeval
stronghold. It was Haughton Castle, whose towers and keep are crowded
with stories of the past, and the visit was to be a surprise for us. Sir
Lionel knew the owner, who had asked us all to lunch, for the "dragon's"
sake; and it looked quite an appropriate resting-place for a dragon of
elegant leisure. It was as interesting within as without; and after
luncheon they took us over the castle; best of all, down in the deep
dungeon where Archie Armstrong, a chief of moss-troopers, was forgotten
and starved to death by his captor, Sir Thomas Swinburne, a stout knight
of Henry the Eighth's day.

There is a long story about Archie, too long to tell you here; but each
castle of Northumberland (the county of castles, not of collieries) has
dozens of wonderful old stories, warlike, ghostlike, tragic, and
romantic. I have been reading a book about some of them, which I will
bring you. It's more interesting than any novel. And King Arthur legends
are scattered broadcast over Northumberland, as in Cornwall. Also the
"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled" did much of their bleeding and fighting
here. There's history of "every sort, to please every taste," from
Celtic times on; but I'm not sure that the troublous days of the great
feudal barons weren't the most passionately thrilling of all.

If the first sight of the Wall was wonderful to the Roman soldiers, so
must have been the first sight of the wide Tyne. I know it was so to me,
as we flashed upon it at the first important twist of the straight Roman
road, and crossed it on a noble bridge.

Of course, Newcastle has a castle; and it was "new" when William the
Conqueror was new to his kingdom. Now that I've seen this great, rich,
gay, busy city, ancient and modern, I realize how stupid I was to
associate it with mere coal, as strangers have a way of doing, because
of the trite remark about "taking coals to Newcastle." Why, the very
names of the streets in the old part chime bell-like with the romance of
history! And I like the people of Northumberland--those I have met; the
shrewd, kindly townsfolk, and the country folk living in gray villages,
who love old, old ways, and emit quaint wit with a strong, rough "burr."

They have the look in their eyes that Northern people have, all the
world over; a look that can be hard, yet can be kind