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.

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—

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.

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.