Tynemouth, November, 1822.
My Dear Jane,
It is in compliance1 with your wish that I have, after much hesitation2 and delay, made up my mind to give you some account of my life, as it may at a future day amuse you and your brother and sisters in your passage through the crooked3 as well as the pleasant paths of the world. I will commence by giving you some account of your pedigree as far back as I can.
My grandfather, Thomas Bewick, farmed the lands of Painshaw Field and Birches Nook, near Bywell, and also the Colliery on Mickley Bank, or Mickley Common—how long since I know not, but it might probably be about the year 1700. He had the character of being one of the most intelligent, active, and best farmers on Tyneside, and it was said that, by his good management and great industry, he became very rich; but, except his being an expert angler, I know little more about him. My grandmother’s maiden4 name was Agnes Arthur, the daughter of a laird of that name at Kirkheaton, at which place my father was born in the year 1715, while his mother was there (I believe) on a visit to her friends.
My maternal5 grandfather, Thomas Wilson, and my grandmother, whose maiden name was Hannah Thompson, lived at Ainstable, in Cumberland; but whether he was curate of the parish of that place, or parish clerk, I do not know. It is certain, however, that he was one or the other, and that he taught a school there; and, from the circumstance of his teaching his sons, and some of his daughters, Latin, I conclude he taught some of his scholars the same language. When he died, his eldest6 son, Christopher, became possessed7 of his freehold property, consisting of a house, &c., and a few fields adjoining. The rest of his family were left little beside a good education, and were spread abroad in the world to do the best they could for themselves. In this state of their affairs, my mother, Jane, and her youngest sister, Hannah, were taken by a distant relation, a Mrs. Gregson, of Appleby, to remain with her until she could get them places to live at. About this time, the Rev8. Christopher Gregson had been appointed to the curacy of Ovingham, and wanted a housekeeper9; and my mother, though young, was thought able to undertake that office, and accordingly engaged to perform it.
Your maternal grandfather’s name was Robert Elliot, and your grandmother’s Jane Forster. He farmed the land of Woodgate, near Bill Quay10, where your mother was born. He afterwards removed to a farm at Ovingham, where he died in 1777, leaving the character of a sensible, honest, and industrious11 man.
How long my mother lived with Mr. Gregson, before her marriage, I know not; but from him I afterwards learned that she was a valuable servant to him, both with respect to his house-keeping concerns, and for the occasional assistance she afforded him in hearing his pupils their Latin tasks. From Ovingham, in the year 1752, she married my father, and went to live with him at Cherryburn House, near the small village or Hamlet of Eltringham, where all their family, of which I was the eldest, were born. The family consisted of myself and brothers, John and William; and my sisters Hannah, Agnes, Ann, Sarah, and Jane. Sarah died at the age of 16; the rest were reared to maturity12, and were sent off, one way or another, into the world.
In August, 1753, I was born, and was mostly entrusted13 to the care of my aunt Hannah, (my mother’s sister), and my grandmother, Agnes Bewick; and the first thing I can remember was, that the latter indulged me in every thing I had a wish for; or, in other words, made me a great “pet.” I was not to be “snubbed” (as it was called), do what I would; and, in consequence of my being thus suffered to have my own way, I was often scalded and burnt, or put in danger of breaking my bones by falls from heights I had clambered up to.
The next circumstance, which I well remember, was that of my being sent to Mickley School when very young; and this was not done so much with a view to my learning, as to keep me out of “harm’s way.” I was some time at this school without making much progress in learning my letters or spelling small words; the master, perhaps, was instructed not to keep me very close at my book; but, in process of time, he began to be more and more severe upon me; and I see clearly at this day, that he frequently beat me when faultless, and also for not learning what it was not in my power to comprehend. Others suffered in the same way. He was looked upon as a severe, or “cross,” man, and did not spare his rod. He was tall and thin; and, with a countenance14 severe and grim, he walked about the school-room, with the tawse or a switch in his hand. He, no doubt, thought he was keeping the boys to their lessons, while the gabbering and noise they made, was enough to stun15 any one, and impressed the people passing by with the idea that Bedlam16 was let loose. How long he went on in this way, I do not recollect17; but, like many others of his profession, who were at that time appointed to fill the most important office of a teacher, no pains had been taken to enquire18 whether he possessed the requisite19 qualifications befitting him for it. He went on with a senseless system of severity, where ignorance and arrogance20 were equally conspicuous21. Conduct like this, sours the minds of some boys, renders others stupid, and serves to make all more or less disgusted with learning. Upon some occasion or other, he ordered me to be flogged; and this was to be done by what was called “hugging,” that is, by mounting me upon the back of a stout22 boy, who kept hold of my hands over his shoulders while the posteriors were laid bare, where he supposed he could do the business freely. In this instance, however, he was mistaken; for, with a most indignant rage, I sprawled23, kicked, and flung, and, I was told, bit the innocent boy, on the neck, when he instantly roared out, and threw me down; and, on my being seized again by the old man, I rebelled, and broke his shins with my iron-hooped clogs24, and ran off. By this time, the boy’s mother, who was a spirited woman, and lived close by, attracted by the ferment25 that was raised, flew (I understood) into the school-room, when a fierce scold ensued between the master and her. After this I went no more to his school, but played the truant26 every day, and amused myself by making dams and swimming boats, in a small burn, which ran through a place then called the “Colliers Close Wood,” till the evening, when I returned home with my more fortunate or more obedient school-fellows.
How long it was before my absence from school was discovered, I know not, but I got many severe beatings from my father and mother, in the interval27 between my leaving the school and the old master’s death. As soon as another schoolmaster (James Burn) was appointed, I was sent to him; and he happened to be of a directly opposite character to the late one. With him I was quite happy, and learned as fast as any other of the boys, and with as great pleasure. After the death of this much respected young man, who lived only a very few years after his appointment, my learning any more at Mickley school was at an end.
Some time after this, my father put me to school under the care of the Rev. C. Gregson, of Ovingham; and well do I remember the conversation that passed between them on the occasion. It was little to my credit; for my father began by telling him that I was so very unguidable that he could not manage me, and he begged of my new master that he would undertake that task, and they both agreed that “to spare the rod was to spoil the child.” This precept28 was, I think, too severely29 acted upon, sometimes upon trivial occasions and sometimes otherwise.
I was for some time kept at reading, writing, and figures,—how long, I know not, but I know that as soon as my question was done upon my slate30, I spent as much time as I could find in filling with my pencil all the unoccupied spaces, with representations of such objects as struck my fancy; and these were rubbed out, for fear of a beating, before my question was given in. As soon as I reached Fractions, Decimals, &c., I was put to learn Latin, and in this I was for some time complimented by my master for the great progress I was making; but, as I never knew for what purpose I had to learn it, and was wearied out with getting off long tasks, I rather flagged in this department of my education, and the margins31 of my books, and every space of spare and blank paper, became filled with various kinds of devices or scenes I had met with; and these were accompanied with wretched rhymes explanatory of them. As soon as I filled all the blank spaces in my books, I had recourse, at all spare times, to the gravestones and the floor of the church porch, with a bit of chalk, to give vent32 to this propensity33 of mind of figuring whatever I had seen. At that time I had never heard of the word “drawing;” nor did I know of any other paintings besides the king’s arms in the church, and the signs in Ovingham of the Black Bull, the White Hare, the Salmon34, and the Hounds and Hare. I always thought I could make a far better hunting scene than the latter: the others were beyond my hand. I remember once of my master overlooking me while I was very busy with my chalk in the porch, and of his putting me very greatly to the blush by ridiculing35 and calling me a conjurer. My father, also, found a deal of fault for “mispending my time in such idle pursuits;” but my propensity for drawing was so rooted that nothing could deter36 me from persevering37 in it; and many of my evenings at home were spent in filling the flags of the floor and the hearth-stone with my chalky designs.
After I had long scorched38 my face in this way, a friend, in compassion39, furnished me with some paper upon which to execute my designs. Here I had more scope. Pen and ink, and the juice of the brambleberry, made a grand change. These were succeeded by a camel-hair pencil and shells of colours; and, thus supplied, I became completely set up; but of patterns, or drawings, I had none. The beasts and birds, which enlivened the beautiful scenery of woods and wilds surrounding my native hamlet, furnished me with an endless supply of subjects. I now, in the estimation of my rustic40 neighbours, became an eminent41 painter, and the walls of their houses were ornamented42 with an abundance of my rude productions, at a very cheap rate. These chiefly consisted of particular hunting scenes, in which the portraits of the hunters, the horses, and of every dog in the pack, were, in their opinion, as well as my own, faithfully delineated. But while I was proceeding43 in this way, I was at the same time deeply engaged in matters nearly allied44 to this propensity for drawing; for I early became acquainted, not only with the history and the character of the domestic animals, but also with those which roamed at large.
The conversations of the Nimrods of that day, in which the instincts and peculiar45 properties of the various wild animals were described in glowing terms, attracted my keenest attention; and to their rude and lengthened46 narratives47 I listened with extreme delight. With me they made a winter’s evening fly fast away. At holiday times,—and at other times when prevented by the floods of the Tyne from getting across to school,—I was sure, with the most ardent48 glee, to make one of the number in the hunting parties which frequently took place at that time; whether it might be in the chase of the fox or the hare, or in tracing the foumart in the snow, or hunting the badger49 at midnight. The pursuing, bating, or killing50, these animals, never at that time struck me as being cruel. The mind had not as yet been impressed with the feelings of humanity. This, however, came upon me at last; and the first time I felt the change happened by my having (in hunting) caught the hare in my arms, while surrounded by the dogs and the hunters, when the poor, terrified creature screamed out so piteously,—like a child,—that I would have given anything to have saved its life. In this, however, I was prevented; for a farmer well known to me, who stood close by, pressed upon me, and desired I would “give her to him;” and, from his being better able (as I thought) to save its life, I complied with his wish. This was no sooner done than he proposed to those about him, “to have a bit more sport with her,” and this was to be done by first breaking one of its legs, and then again setting the poor animal off a little before the dogs. I wandered away to a little distance, oppressed by my own feelings, and could not join the crew again, but learned with pleasure that their intended victim had made its escape.
The “musical din” of the hounds still continued to have its charms, and I still continued to follow them; but from that day forward, I have ever wished that this poor, persecuted51, innocent creature might escape with its life. The worrying of foxes, the baiting of foumarts, otters52, badgers53, &c., did not awaken54 in me similar feelings; for in the fierce conflicts between them and the dogs, there was something like an exchange of retaliation55, and not unfrequently the aggressors were beaten; and I have with pleasure seen that wonderfully courageous56 animal, the badger (with fair play), beat the dogs of a whole neighbourhood, one after another, completely off.
In the vermin-hunting excursions in the depth of winter, while the whole face of nature was bound in frost and covered with deep snow, in traversing through bogs57, amidst reeds and rushes, I have often felt charmed with the sight of birds,—flushed, and sometimes caught, by the terrier dogs,—which I had never seen or heard of before; and I am still in doubt whether some of them have not escaped being noticed as British birds.
These were the diversions of the winter months, which I enjoyed in an extreme degree, amidst the storm and the tempest. In that season I was also sometimes better employed in looking after a small flock of sheep on the fell, a part of which was my own.[3] The extremity58 of the weather had taught them to seek a place of shelter under a steep but low “brae,” overhung with whins, under which, in such weather, I was almost certain to find them and their associates all huddled59 together. To this place, through wreaths of snow, I early bent60 my way, with a bundle of hay on my back, and my pockets sometimes filled with oats, which I distributed amongst them. Upon these occasions, though at other times extremely wild, they were quite tame, and seemed to know me.
From my sheep thus drawing into shelter, gave rise to an opinion I formed, and which has been confirmed by long reflection, that much may yet be done to protect the larger flocks from being over-blown and lost on the bleak61 moors62, in great snow storms. Were long avenues made by double rows of whin hedges, planted parallel to each other at about six feet asunder63, and continued in the form of two sides of a square, with the whins of each side drawn64 together, and to grow interplatted at the tops, so as to form an arched kind of roof, the sheep would, on instinctively65 seeing the coming storm, immediately avail themselves of such asylums66, and particularly in the lambing season. In the corner of the angle of this square, the shepherd might have his hovel, thatched with heather and ling, and his beds for himself and his dogs, made of the same materials; and the whole of this “bield” might be rendered so snug67 as greatly to defy the severity of the winter’s drifting blasts and wreaths of snow.
At that time of life, every season had its charms; and I recollect well of listening with delight, from the little window at my bed-head, to the murmuring of the flooded burn which passed my father’s house, and sometimes roused me from my bed, to see what it was like. After this, my first and common employment was to “muck” the byer; and, when the servant girl did not come soon enough, I frequently tried my hand at milking the cows; and I was always particularly keen of being there in snow storms. When this was the case, within the byer door, I snugly68 watched the appearance of various birds, which passed the little dean below, and which the severity of the weather drove from place to place, in search of shelter. With the sight of my intimate acquaintances, the robins69, wrens70, blackbirds, sparrows, a solitary71 crow, and some others, I was not much attracted, but always felt an extreme pleasure and curiosity in seeing the more rare visitants,—such as the woodcock, the snipe, and other waders, with the red wings, fieldfares, &c.,—make their appearance.
The winter evenings were often spent in listening to the traditionary tales and songs, relating to men who had been eminent for their prowess and bravery in the border wars, and of others who had been esteemed72 for better and milder qualities, such as their having been good landlords, kind neighbours, and otherwise in every respect bold, independent, and honest men. I used to be particularly affected73 with the warlike music, and with the songs relative to the former description of characters; but with the songs regarding the latter, a different kind of feeling was drawn forth74, and I was greatly distressed75, and often gave vent to it in tears. These songs and “laments” were commemorative of many worthies76; but the most particular ones that I now remember were those respecting the Earl of Derwentwater, who was beheaded in the year 1715, and was looked upon as having been a victim to the cruelty of the reigning77 family, and who was venerated78 as a saint upon earth. It was said that the light from Heaven attended his corpse79 to the vault80 at Dilston Hall, and that prosperity would shine no more upon Tyneside. Then followed the sorrowful remembrances of those that were dead and gone. To sigh over them was unavailing; they had filled the space allotted81 to them on this side of Time, and the winds had blown over their silent graves for ages past. The predictions that the mansions82 of those that remained would soon, for want of heirs, become desolate—these and such like melancholy83 reflections made a deep impression on my mind; and I have often since, with feelings of extreme regret, beheld84 these mansions, once the seats of hospitality, dilapidated, and the families which once occupied them extinct and forgotten.
When the winter began somewhat to abate85 of its rigours, or in the early spring, it was a common job for me, before setting off to school, to rise betimes in the morning,—as indeed I was always accustomed to do,—and equipt with an apron86, an old dyking mitten87, and a sharpened broken sickle88, to set off amongst the whin bushes, which were near at hand, to cut off their last year’s sprouts89. These were laid into a corner till the evening, when I stript, and fell to work to “cree” them with a wooden “mell,” in a stone trough, till the tops of the whins were beaten to the consistency90 of soft, wet grass; and, with this mess, I fed the horses before I went to bed, or in the morning as occasion might require. They were shy about eating this kind of provender91 at first, and I was obliged to mix oats with it; but they soon became so fond of it, alone, that there was no need of any mixture. I know not whether a scarcity92 of fodder93 first gave rise to the suggestion of using this expedient94, or it was tried as an experiment; but certain it is that this kind of food agreed so well with the horses that they became soon very sleek95, and cast their winter coats of hair long before other horses that were fed in the common way. Cows would not eat the whin tops thus prepared, but, in a winter of scarcity, I have known all hands at work in cutting ivy96 from the trees, and even small ash twigs97, to be given to the cattle as fodder.
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1
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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12
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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ridiculing
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的现在分词 ) | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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38
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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41
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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44
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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45
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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46
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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48
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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49
badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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51
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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52
otters
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| n.（水）獭( otter的名词复数 )；獭皮 | |
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53
badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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54
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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bogs
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| n.沼泽，泥塘( bog的名词复数 )；厕所v.（使）陷入泥沼， （使）陷入困境( bog的第三人称单数 )；妨碍，阻碍 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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mitten
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| n.连指手套，露指手套 | |
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sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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