fifty years more, the bare slope will look as warm and fertile as the lands near the Tweed; and the antiquary will find it more difficult than ever to identify the battle-field.

We passed Blinkbonny farm; near it was a small brook, which I thought might be the Blinkbonny burn, and questioned the boy thereupon; but he had never heard that the burn had a name, he only knew that it ran for three days and three nights with blood after the battle. Neither had he heard of that eagerly patriotic Northumbrian, who, some years ago, came all the way from America to Flodden, with his infant son, for the sole purpose of christening the child in Blinkbonny. Better to him was that crystal brook than all the waters of Niagara.

I waded through the rank wet grass to the top of the hill above the quarry. It commands a good view of the ground, and if your imagination be lively you may animate the ridge with the Scottish camp and army, and the fields below with the advancing divisions of the English host. On they come, in two great masses, named in the old speech the foreward and rearward, each having wings and a centre. The Admiral Lord Howard led the foreward, with his own troop of mariners, distinguished by dun-coloured armour, and with him came Clifford, "the Shepherd Lord," and Conyers and Lumley, and other noble chiefs, and the men of Durham, under the banner of St. Cuthbert, with bills and bows, and heavy mallets, and Tunstall, the Undefiled; and Cholmley, with their retainers from Yorkshire. The rearward, which marches not behind, but abreast of the other, is commanded by Lord Surrey, a resolute leader still, though verging in years on threescore and ten; and around

him are the good Lord Scrope with his dalesmen, and Lord Dacre, with squadrons of horse; and Stanley, with bows and bills from Lancashire and Cheshire; and there march the bowmen of Kendal, marked by red crosses on their white coats; and many of the stalwart tenantry of Cumberland and Westmoreland, formidable in the use of the deadly bill. And Heron is there with his border rovers, alike ready to fight and to steal; and many a knight and squire burning to win renown; and between the divisions, laboriously dragged by beasts of burden, appear the ponderous cannon and bands of gunners.

Meanwhile King James sets fire to his tents, abandons his camp, and draws off along the height to Branxton hill:-now recognisable by the clump of firtrees on its summit. The smoke rolls down upon the field, the artillery opens fire, and late in the afternoon. the battle begins, and the English right is repulsed by Huntly and Home. The king dismounts, hot with excitement, he will fight with the rest, and his proudest chiefs throng around him to shield his person and share his danger. Then as the smoke floats away upon the southerly breeze, the spectators see how

"Wide raged the battle on the plain;

Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain ;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly."

The battle continues; neither side will yield; is England to be beaten? Loud sounds the cry, and Stanley rushes to the charge; the shades of evening fall, and still the gallant band maintain their ground around their monarch, defying all attempts

"To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their King.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though billmen ply the ghastly blow,

Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spearmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood
The instant that he fell."

But all in vain, for before midnight

"Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash,
While many a broken band,

Disorder'd, through her currents dash,
To gain the Scottish land."

On the spot, and recalling the circumstances of the fatal day, the conclusion seems obvious that to cut their way through the enemy, and regain their native land was the purpose of the Scots, and had the English archers been less skilful, or the billmen less resolute, the movement would have succeeded. But it was a terrible day for Scotland; the pride of her kingdom perished, and for many a long year the name of Flodden was to her a cause of weeping and desolation. And this, fought on the 9th of September, 1513, was the last great pitched battle between the two nations. We may take our leave with a stanza from Leyden's spirited ode:

"Alas! that Scottish maid should sing

The combat where her lover fell!
That Scottish bard should wake the string,
The triumph of our foes to tell!
Yet Teviot's sons, with high disdain,
Have kindled at the thrilling strain
That mourn'd their martial fathers' bier;
And at the sacred font the priest

Through ages left the master-hand unblest,

To urge, with keener aim, the blood-encrusted spear."

In the distance, on the farther side of Tweed, we

THE KING'S WELL.

305

can see Home castle, and below us, on the right, the village of Etal, a model village, and Ford castle, on a slope, pleasantly sprinkled by wood. The boy, while I am looking at it through my telescope, tells me that the battle was very bloody; and that the king fled to Ford, and was chased thence by the English, who cut off his head in a field near the road as you go to Twizell, and set up the stone which is still to be seen to mark the place. He thinks it fortunate that the Scots did not beat; "because if they had beat, we should all be speaking Scotch, all the way to London."

I had planned to walk along the ridge to its western extremity, but the weather was treacherous, and by the time my survey from the top of the quarry was complete, heavy rain was falling. A hill-top is not inviting when gusty showers sweep across, I had therefore to seek the foot. On the way down, the boy showed me a spring, which he said was the King's well; the king had drunk from it during the battle. The water is excellent. The well which Scott represents as Sybil Grey's is now inclosed within a farm-yard, and has lost all the charm it possessed when bubbling from the lone hillock on the heath.

Under the circumstances, it seemed best to direct my steps to the railway station at Cornhill, some six miles distant. I made the boy happy by a piece of silver; and he for a final touch of service instructed me as to the way. It would lead me, he said, past the priest's house at Branxton. In this use of the term priest to signify clergyman, he showed himself a true rustic Northumbrian.

CHAPTER XXI.

Branxton-Pallinsburn-Cornhill-Coldstream-Putting-off the AppetiteRunning away from the Rain-Wark-Birgham-Kelso-The Teviot -The Eildons-Melrose-The Abbey-A Captious Guardian-Sublime Architecture: Ridiculous Epitaph-Fast-day Kale-Darnick-Abbotsford-The Visitors' Room-Sir Walter's Study-His Speak-a-bitPortraits-Past and Present-Choosing a Site-Teeming Associations -Mortality-Armoury and Hall-Up the Eildons-The Glorious Border-land-Witchcraft-King Arthur-Thomas the Rhymer-A Twilight Descent—An American Quaker-Talking and Travelling— The Tweed by Moonlight.

HEDGEROWS and agreeable prospects salute your eye as you descend the lane to Branxton, where the "priest's house," as may be seen in passing, enjoys a cheerful outlook. I should have liked a talk with the Rev. Mr. Jones, and a sight of his relics, picked up on the battle-field; but did not feel warranted to attempt an intrusion. The village, which lies a little below the vicarage, is a primitive-looking little place, with a church to match. Of things noticeable there are the pillars of the chancel arch, older than the Conquest; a place in the churchyard where a deposit of bones of men and horses was once found; and in the village the house in which Percival Stockdale was born; a poor little habitation. And we may remember that Pallinsburn, a hamlet not far off, is said to commemorate Paulinus and his numerous baptisms.

By lane and fieldpath I came at length to the highroad, and did not fail to mount the dyke to look for