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.