In these lonely wilds, which occupy all the northwest of the county, one may travel all day and meet with no living thing save the birds of the air, and a few shy, wild creatures of the moorlands; curve after curve, the rounded hills stretch away into the distance, grass-grown or heatherclad, with occasional peat-mosses; above is the “grey gleaming sky,” and, all around, a stillness as of vast untrodden wastes, and a sense of solitude out of all proportion to the actual extent of this lonely region. The fascination of it, however, admits of no denial, even on the part of those newly making its acquaintance; while those who in childhood or youth roam over its wild fells, and feel the spell of its brooding mystery, retain in their hearts for all time an unfading remembrance of its magic charm. COLLEDGE WATER. My sire is the stooping Cheviot mist, My mother the heath in her purple train; And every flower on her gown I’ve kissed Over and over and over again. The secret ways of the hills are mine, I know where the wandering moor-fowl nest; And up where the wet grey glidders[10] shine I know where the roving foxes rest. I know what the wind is wailing for As it searches hollow and hag and peak; And, riding restless on Newton Tor, I know what the questing shadows seek. I know the tale that the brown bees tell, And they tell it to me with a raider’s pride, As, drunk with the cups of Yeavering Bell, They stagger home from the English side. I know the secrets of haugh and hill; But sacred and safe they rest with me, Till I hide them deep in the heart of Till, To be taken to Tweed and the open sea. —_Will. H. Ogilvie_. BY PERMISSION OF MESSRS. W. AND R. CHAMBERS [10] Glidders = Patches of loose stones on the hillside. CHAPTER VII. THE ROMAN WALL. “Take these flowers, which, purple waving, On the ruined rampart grew, Where, the sons of Freedom braving, Rome’s imperial standard flew. Warriors from the breach of danger Pluck no longer laurels there; They but yield the passing stranger Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty’s hair.” —_Sir Walter Scott._ (Lines written for a young lady’s album.) Of all the abundance of treasure which Northumberland possesses, from a historical point of view—of all its wealth of interesting relics of bygone days—ancient abbey, grim fortress, menhir and monolith, camp and tumulus—none grips the imagination as does the sight of that unswerving line which pursues its way over hill and hollow, from the eastern to the western shores of the north-land, visible emblem, after more than a thousand years, of the far-flung arm of Imperial Rome.