CHERRYBURN House, the place of my nativity, and which for many years my
eyes beheld with cherished delight, is situated on the south side of the
Tyne, in the county of Northumberland, a short distance from the river.
The house, stables, &c., stand on the west side of a little dean, at the
foot of which runs a burn.[6] The dean was embellished with a number of
cherry and plumb trees, which were terminated by a garden on the north.
Near the house, were two large ash trees growing from one root; and, at
a little distance, stood another of the same kind. At the south end of
the premises, was a spring well, overhung by a large hawthorn bush,
behind which was a holly hedge; and further away was a little boggy
dean, with underwood and trees of different kinds. Near the termination
of this dean, towards the river, were a good many remarkably tall ash
trees, and one of oak, supposed to be one of the tallest and straightest
in the kingdom. On the tops of these was a rookery, the sable
inhabitants of which, by their consultations and cawings, and the bustle
they made when building their nests, were among the first of the
feathered race to proclaim the approaching spring. The corn-fields and
pastures to the eastward were surrounded with very large oak and ash
trees. Indeed, at that time, the country between Wylam and Bywell was
beautified with a great deal of wood, which presented the appearance of
a continued forest; but these are long since stubbed up. Needy gentry
care little about the beauty of a country, and part of it is now,
comparatively, as bare as a mole-hill.
Footnote 6:
This, formerly, was supplied by a copious spring of fine water, which
having found its way into some pit workings and disappeared, the burn
is now only fed by day water from the fields.
To the westward, adjoining the house, lay the common or fell, which
extended some few miles in length, and was of various breadths. It was
mostly fine, green sward or pasturage, broken or divided, indeed, with
clumps of “blossom’d whins,” foxglove, fern, and some junipers, and with
heather in profusion, sufficient to scent the whole air. Near the burns,
which guttered its sides, were to be seen the remains of old oaks,
hollowed out by Time, with alders, willows, and birch, which were often
to be met with in the same state; and these seemed to me to point out
the length of time that these domains had belonged to no one. On this
common,—the poor man’s heritage for ages past, where he kept a few
sheep, or a Kyloe cow, perhaps a flock of geese, and mostly a stock of
bee-hives,—it was with infinite pleasure that I long beheld the
beautiful wild scenery which was there exhibited, and it is with the
opposite feelings of regret that I now find all swept away.[7] Here and
there on this common were to be seen the cottage, or rather hovel, of
some labouring man, built at his own expense, and mostly with his own
hands; and to this he always added a garth and a garden, upon which
great pains and labour were bestowed to make both productive; and for
this purpose not a bit of manure was suffered to be wasted away on the
“lonnings” or public roads. These various concerns excited the attention
and industry of the hardy occupants, which enabled them to prosper, and
made them despise being ever numbered with the parish poor. These men,
whose children were neither pampered nor spoiled, might truly be called—
Footnote 7:
This fell, or common, containing about 1852 acres, was divided in
1812. By this division, the poor man was rooted out, and the various
mechanics of the villages deprived of all benefit of it. The
neighbouring farmers who reared their young cattle, and kept as many
sheep upon it as they pleased, must now pay rent for the allotments
laid to their farms. The wisdom which dictated this change is
questionable, but the selfish greediness of it is quite apparent.
“A bold peasantry, their country’s pride;”
and to this day I think I see their broad shoulders and their hardy
sun-burnt looks, which altogether bespoke the vigour of their
constitutions.
These cottagers (at least those of them I knew) were of an honest and
independent character, while at the same time they held the neighbouring
gentry in the greatest estimation and respect; and these, again, in
return, did not overlook them, but were interested in knowing that they
were happy and well. Most of these poor men, from their having little
intercourse with the world, were in all their actions and behaviour
truly original; and, except reading the Bible, local histories, and old
ballads, their knowledge was generally limited. And yet one of
these—“Will Bewick”—from being much struck with my performances, which
he called pictures, became exceedingly kind to me, and was the first
person from whom I gathered a sort of general knowledge of astronomy and
of the magnitude of the universe. He had, the year through, noticed the
appearances of the stars and the planets, and would discourse “largely”
on the subject. I think I see him yet, sitting on a mound, or seat, by
the hedge of his garden, regardless of the cold, and intent upon viewing
the heavenly bodies; pointing to them with his large hands, and eagerly
imparting his knowledge to me with a strong voice such as one now seldom
hears. I well remember being much struck with his appearance—his
stern-looking brows, high cheek bones, quick eye, and longish visage;
and at his resolution (upon another occasion) when he determined upon
risking his own life to save that of another man. The latter, in the
employ of my father, while at work as a pitman, had lost his way in the
coal workings, and was missing for perhaps a day or two, (my father
being from home), when our old neighbour, just described, who was also a
pitman and knew the workings, equipped himself with everything he
thought necessary for so hazardous an undertaking; and, when he was
about to go down the pit shaft, I felt much distressed at seeing my
mother trembling in great agitation of mind for his safety and that of
his lost associate. After traversing through the old workings of the
colliery for a long time,—so long, indeed, that it was feared he had
also lost himself,—he found the man alive, when, with his well-known
thundering voice, he called from the bottom of the shaft, “all’s well,”
to the inexpressible joy of all who crowded the pit’s mouth.
Another of our fell-side neighbours, Anthony Liddell, was a man of a
very singular character, and was noticed as such by the whole
neighbourhood; but a full account of him would far exceed the bounds I
wish to set to my narrative. He might, indeed, be called the “village
Hampden.” The whole cast of his character was formed by the Bible, which
he had read with attention, through and through. Acts of Parliament
which appeared to him to clash with the laws laid down in it, as the
Word of God, he treated with contempt. He maintained that the fowls of
the air and the fish of the sea were free for all men; consequently,
game laws, or laws to protect the fisheries, had no weight with him. He
would not, indeed, take a salmon out of the locks on any account, but
what he could catch with his “click-hook,” in the river, he deemed his
own. As to what he could do in shooting game, he was so inexpert, that
he afforded to sportsmen many a hearty laugh at his awkwardness; for he
could shoot none till he fixed a hay-fork in the ground to rest his
piece upon. Indeed, the very birds themselves might, by a stretch of
imagination, be supposed also to laugh at him; but his deficiencies did
not deter him from traversing over the country-side as eagerly as other
sportsmen, notwithstanding his want of success. Whatever he did was
always done in open day; for, as he feared no man, he scorned to skulk
or to do anything by stealth. The gaol had no terrors for him, for he
lived better there than he did at home; and, on one occasion of his
being confined, when he returned home he expressed his surprise to his
neighbours, that all the time “he had not had a single hand’s turn to
do,” and exulted not a little that the opportunity had thus been given
him of again reading the Bible through. He was a great reader of
history, especially those parts where wars and battles were described;
and, in any meetings with his neighbours, he took the lead in discourses
founded on knowledge of that kind. After the Bible, “Josephus” was his
favourite author, next the “Holy Wars”—these and “Bishop Taylor’s
Sermons” composed his whole library; and his memory enabled him nearly
to repeat whatever he had read. His deportment and behaviour were
generally the reverse of anything like sauciness; but, except in ability
and acquirements,—which, indeed, commanded his respect,—he treated all
men as equals. When full-dressed, he wore a rusty black coat. In other
respects he was like no other person. In what king’s reign his hat had
been made was only to be guessed at, but the flipes of it were very
large. His wig was of the large curled kind, such as was worn about the
period of the revolution. His waistcoat, or doublet, was made of the
skin of some animal. His buckskin breeches were black and glossy with
long wear, and of the same antiquated fashion as the rest of his
apparel. Thus equipt, and with his fierce look, he made a curious figure
when taken before the justices of the peace; and this, together with his
always—when summoned before them—undauntedly pleading his own cause,
often afforded them so much amusement that it was difficult for them to
keep their gravity.
Thomas Forster was a man of a different character from the last, but
singular enough in his way. He was distinguished for his frugality and
industry, and always showed a wish to be looked upon in a respectable
light. He used to call at our house on a Sunday afternoon, for the
purpose of having a bit of chat with my father and mother. He took a
liking to me, and would observe that, though I was mischievous enough,
yet he never could find that I was “parrentory,”—that is, impudent or
saucy with any one. Besides this part of the good opinion he had formed,
he must have had confidence as to my keeping any secrets he might impart
to me. He kept a few sheep on the fell; but his secret and main business
there was looking after his bees. He had a great number of hives placed
in very hidden and curious situations. Some of them were concealed under
the boundary hedge of the common, and were surrounded by a great extent
of whin bushes. Other hives were sheltered under the branches of old
thorns, and almost covered or overhung by brambles, woodbine, and hip
briars, which, when in blossom, looked beautifully picturesque, while at
the same time they served to keep the eye from viewing the treasures
thus concealed beneath. Others, again, were placed in the midst of a
“whin rush”—that is, a great extent of old whins, the stems of which
were about the thickness of a man’s arm. The entrance to these last was
always by a “smout hole,” or small opening, through which we crept on
hands and knees to the hives, and which, on leaving, was stopped up by a
bushy-topped whin. By way of taking off the attention of the
“over-inquisitive” as to his stock of honey, he kept hives in his garden
at home, and sold the produce of these to his neighbours; but the
greater part of his stock was sold at distant parts of the country. In
this way, and by his industry and good management, he became what was
accounted very rich; and, as prosperity excites envy, some people, in a
kind of derision (his mother being a midwife), called him “Tom Howdy.”
I might swell the list of such like characters (among the unnoticed
poor) as those I have described, but it would perhaps be tedious,
although, I think it is to be regretted that they are not better known
to some of the unthinking _great_; as it might serve to take off the
hauteur, which is too often shown towards them.
Another of these uncultivated, singular characters which exhibit human
nature left to the guidance of its uncontrolled will, but which,
sometimes, may be found—from the force of innate natural pride—to soar
above every meanness, was John Chapman. This man, though clothed in
rags, was noticed for his honour and integrity; and his word was
considered to be as good as one thousand pounds bond. He was one of my
father’s workmen,—either as a pitman, a labourer, or a sinker,—and was
of so strong a constitution that he thought it no hardship, on a cold,
frosty morning, to be let down to the bottom of a sinking pit, where he
was to be up to the middle, or perhaps to the breast, in water, which he
was to lave into buckets, to be drawn up to the top. He endured the
labour of every job he undertook without grumbling or thinking it hard.
His living was of the poorest kind. Bread, potatoes, and oatmeal, was
the only provender he kept by him; and with milk or water he finished
his repasts. When, by this mode of living, he had saved the overplus
money of his wages for a month or six weeks, he then posted off to
Newcastle to spend it in beer; and this he called “lowsening his skin.”
I was at this time located in Newcastle, and when the misguided man had
spent all his money, he commonly borrowed two shillings of me to set him
home again. In this irrational way of life he continued for many years.
On one occasion, when changing his beer house, and taking up his
quarters in another, he had made no stipulation with his new landlord as
to the place where he was to sleep at night; and, judging from his
ragged appearance, he was thought unfit to be trusted as an inmate
without inquiry being made into his character. I was, therefore, applied
to by the landlord, whom I satisfied by assuring him that,
notwithstanding the outward appearance of his singular-looking guest, he
might be trusted safely even with untold gold. I further told him that
the man who could sleep upon the fallen leaves in a wood wanted no bed
in his house better than a wooden seat, which would be as comfortable a
bed as he would wish for. Matters being now perfectly settled, he was
permitted, during his rambles, to make this house his home. He had been
but a short time in this asylum until he got a pretty numerous
acquaintance amongst the tradesmen who frequented the house, to whom his
singularity, his droll and witty stories, and his songs, afforded great
entertainment. Old age, however, overtook him at last, and he was then
obliged to seek parish relief. On this occasion, a neighbouring laird
persuaded him that his settlement was upon Eltringham, and prevailed on
him to swear to it. When he called upon the farmers there for his
pittance, and they convinced him that he had sworn to what was false, he
was much shocked, and never called upon them again for his pay. On being
asked why he had not done so, he said, “I would sooner have my hand cut
off, or be found dead on the highway through want, than claim or receive
money to which I am not justly entitled.” After this he wandered away
from Eltringham, and took up his abode in the glass house at Bill Quay,
where he did any little jobs in his power, and at the same time made
himself very agreeable and often very entertaining to the workmen, who
long remembered “Johnny Chapman.” From this place he set off on a visit
to a friend, at some distance, when he was rather unwell, and not very
able to undertake the journey, and was found dead on the road between
Morpeth and Newcastle.
Before taking leave of these hardy inhabitants of the fells and wastes,
whose cottages were surrounded with whins and heather, I must observe
that they always appeared to me, notwithstanding their apparent poverty,
to enjoy health and happiness in a degree surpassing that of most other
men. Their daily fare was coarse bread, potatoes, oatmeal porridge, and
milk, only varied by their boiling the pot with animal food, cabbage, or
other succulent vegetables, and broth, on Sundays. When tired, at night,
with labour, having few cares to perplex them, they lay down and slept
soundly, and arose refreshed from their hard beds early in the morning.
I have always felt much pleasure in revisiting them, and, over a tankard
of ale, in listening to their discourse. It was chiefly upon local
biography, in which they sometimes traced the pedigree of their
neighbours a long way back. With the aged men I felt much amused. From
the avidity with which they gathered news, they seemed to live upon it.
Several of them met every day at the lodge,[8] or earth-built hovel,
close by my father’s pit, for the purpose of being gratified in this
way. The carts and wains came in all directions, and many of them from a
great distance, for coals, the drivers of which imparted to them all
they knew of what was going on in their several neighbourhoods. The
information thus obtained was then speedily given in detail at the
smith’s shop at Mickley, whence it was spread over the neighbouring
country. One of these old men, John Newton (the laird of the Neuk),
almost every morning, while I was young, met me and my schoolfellows at
or near the Haly Well (Holy Well) as we were going to Mickley School,
and he seldom passed me without clapping my head, accompanied with some
good wishes. Many years after this, while I lived at the Forth,
Newcastle, I met a little boy, one morning coming to school there, when
I clapped his head, and hoped he was a good boy. I had not long passed
him, till I was rather struck with the coincident recollection of his
grandfather’s grandfather (above named) so long before having passed me
in the same way.
Footnote 8:
This lodge having always a good fire kept on in it, with a bed of
straw on each side, bounded by the trunks of two old trees, to answer
the double purpose of bed-stocks and seats, often proved a comfortable
asylum to the benighted, weary, shivering traveller wandering on the
road.
To these I must add another description of men scattered about the
neighbourhood, with whose histories and narratives I at that time felt
greatly interested. Their minute account of the battles they had been
engaged in, with the hardships they had endured, and their hairbreadth
escapes, told with so much enthusiasm and exultation, imparted the same
kind of feeling to me. This was long before I had reasoned myself into a
detestation of war, its cruelty, its horrors, and the superlative
wickedness of the authors of it. I had not pictured to my mind the
thousands and tens of thousands of men in their prime being pitted
against a like number of others towards whom they could have no
enmity—to murder each other!!—for what? It is foreign to my purpose to
enlarge upon this subject: I must leave that to others; and there is an
abundant scope to dilate upon, and to depicture, the horrors of war in
their true colours. The old soldiers, above alluded to, were mostly the
descendants of the Borderers, whose propensity for war might, perhaps,
be innate. I think, however, that the breed is thinned, from the numbers
that have been killed off in our wars. One of these—a near
relative—would describe how he had had his knapsack, as well as his coat
laps and the cocks of his hat, shot through and through, and yet had
escaped unhurt. Others of them would give similar descriptive accounts;
and, when a party of them met over their ale, it is not easy to
depicture the warmth with which they greeted each other, and prided
themselves on the battles they had won. One of these, during a walk, in
which I fell in with him, from Newcastle to Ovingham, described the
minute particulars of the battle of Minden; and how, in the absence of
Lord Sackville, they shook hands the whole length of the line, vowing to
stand by each other without flinching. This tall, stout man, John Cowie,
though old, appeared to be in all the vigour of youth. He lived at
Ovington. His associate, Ben Garlick, of Prudhoe, appeared as if his
constitution had been broken down. They had served in a corps called
Napier’s Grenadiers. Cowie appeared occasionally in his old military
coat, &c. After he died, this coat, which had been shot at at Minden and
elsewhere, was at last hung up on a stake on the corn rigs as a
scare-crow.
The ferocious people from whom, as I have intimated, the above
individuals were probably descended, bore nearly the same names on both
sides of the Border; their character seemed to have been distinct from
both their English and Scottish neighbours; and war and rapine had long
been their almost constant employment. Many of these—the retainers of
the chieftains of old, whose feet were swift to shed blood—were called
by names descriptive of their characters and persons, and which were
mostly continued by their offspring. These consisted of a great variety
of names of cunning or ferocious birds and beasts, as well as some
others, the meaning of which is now unknown. There were among them the
Hawk, Glead, Falcon, Fox, Wolf, Bloodhound, Greyhound, Raven, Crow,
Gorfoot, Crowfoot, &c., &c.
The farmers of the neighbourhood, at the early period which I have been
describing, always appeared to me to be not of so intelligent a cast as
the poor labouring men. Their minds being more exclusively occupied with
the management of their farms, they read but little. They were mostly of
a kind and hospitable disposition, and well-intentioned, plain, plodding
men, who went jogging on in their several occupations as their fathers
had done before them.
The next advance in society were the Lairds, who lived upon their own
lands. I have always, through life, been of opinion that there is no
business of any kind that can be compared to that of a man who farms his
own land. It appears to me that every earthly pleasure, with health, is
within his reach. But numbers of these men were grossly ignorant, and in
exact proportion to that ignorance they were sure to be offensively
proud. This led them to attempt appearing above their station, which
hastened them on to their ruin; but, indeed, this disposition and this
kind of conduct invariably leads to such results. There were many of
these lairds on Tyneside; as well as many who held their lands on the
tenure of “suit and service,” and were nearly on the same level as the
lairds. Some of the latter lost their lands (not fairly I think) in a
way they could not help; many of the former, by their misdirected pride
and folly, were driven into towns, to slide away into nothingness, and
to sink into oblivion, while their “ha’ houses” (halls), that ought to
have remained in their families from generation to generation, have
mouldered away. I have always felt extremely grieved to see the ancient
mansions of many of the country gentlemen, from somewhat similar causes,
meet with a similar fate. The gentry should, in an especial manner,
prove by their conduct that they are guarded against showing any symptom
of foolish pride, at the same time that they soar above every meanness,
and that their conduct is guided by truth, integrity, and patriotism. If
they wish the people to partake with them in these good qualities, they
must set them the example, without which no real respect can ever be
paid to them. Gentlemen ought never to forget the respectable station
they hold in society, and that they are the natural guardians of public
morals, and may with propriety be considered as the head and the heart
of the country, while “a bold peasantry” are, in truth, the arms, the
sinews, and the strength of the same; but when these last are degraded,
they soon become dispirited and mean, and often dishonest and useless.
I think the late Duke of Northumberland must have had an eye to raising
the character of the peasantry when he granted them small portions of
land at a reasonable rate. If so, in my way of judging, he was an honour
to the peerage, and set an example worthy of himself and worthy of
imitation. By going a step further, and planting healthy, strong, men
and women on these spots, his patriotism would have been crowned with
immortality; for I cannot help thinking that, if the same pains were
taken in breeding mankind that gentlemen have bestowed upon the breeding
of horses and dogs, human nature might, as it were, be new modelled,
hereditary diseases banished, and such a race might people the country
as we can form no conception of. Instead of a nation of mongrels, there
would in time appear a nation of “Admirable Chrichtons.” If the lands
commonly attached to townships had been continued as such, and let in
small portions to mechanics and labourers (as the late Duke did),
instead of dividing them by act of Parliament among those who already
had too much, the good effects to the community at large would have been
soon felt; and, in addition to this, if savings banks and benefit
societies were encouraged by every possible means, there would be little
occasion for poor laws except as a provision for helpless children, and
the lame and the blind. By such means as these, perhaps, this national
evil might be done away. All men ought to provide for the necessities of
old age, and be made sensible of the manly pleasure of being
independent. It is degrading, and in most cases disgraceful, to those
who look to parish assistance after a life spent in laziness and
mismanagement.
I must not omit mentioning a circumstance that happened to Eltringham
while I was a boy. It was to have been called “Little Birmingham,” but
this was not accomplished. In 17—, a person of the name of Laidler, who
was said to have amassed a large fortune in London, came to the North,
and established the Iron Works at Busy Cottage, near Newcastle; and, on
his taking a view of Tyneside, he fixed upon Eltringham as a place at
which he could carry on works to a much greater extent. He set about
this business in great haste. All kinds of workmen were gathered
together for the purpose of speedily accomplishing what he had in view;
and, while some of them were busy in making the mills and machinery,
others were digging a mill-race of about a quarter of a mile in length.
But lo! when this was done,—not being permitted to encroach on the bed
of the river,—it was found they had not much more than a foot of
waterfall; and, as the sides of the mill-race were cut perpendicularly,
about two yards deep, through the dark fine soil, the first great flood
of the Tyne nearly levelled and filled it up. The people in and about
the place, including my father, who had got licenses to sell ale, &c.,
were obliged to decline, and the sign of my father’s house,—the Seven
Stars,—which hung up between the two ash trees, was taken down. The
projector made our house his home while the works were going on, and the
men were paid their wages there. All was as suddenly sold off as it was
begun, and my father came to some loss after all the trouble and turmoil
he had been put to.
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