[original liberally illustrated with black-and-white photographs -- see below]
[visual emphasis added e.g. Watson]

The name of Wesley's host at Ling Riggs, as I have said, was Stephen Watson. His descendants, with their relatives, numbered several remarkable men. A volume might be filled with the history of the clan. In this story I must be content to select one only of the number - George Watson, a grandson of Stephen [*]. It should be remembered, however, in passing, that Dr. John Watson, one of the most scholarly ministers in the Primitive Methodist Church, and an Ex-President of the Conference, was also a grandson [**]. He was born in one of the pretty cottages on the hillside above the burn as you go up to Ling Riggs. The family also has sent at least two men into the ministry of our own Church - the Revs. Joseph and George Watson. Their brother I had the pleasure of meeting in one of his own hayfields, with his daughters and son. The group of cottages in the distance, below Mr. Watson's hayfield, marks the birthplace of the Rev. Featherstone Kellett. The story will complete the picture of days long gone by - days in which Methodism was being rooted in the dales, if I quote in his own words George Watson's account given not long before he died. "Man," said he, "I'm pleased life's journey's so far on." His relative said to him, "Well, would you not like to live life over again ?" "No," he replied, "I wouldn't. Man, I can look back at t' time when we were ten o' t' family, an' there was only mysel' working, an' we just had thirty shillings a month to live on. We were that puir till we couldn't raise a cart of coals till Sallie kurned and sent a bit o' butter to t' shop, an' then we sent Thomas to t' Low Pit (a distance of twenty miles) to get them cheaper. They only cost 1s. 6d. a load at Low Pit." He added, "And at yan time I were that puir that I borrowed money to pay t' interest and paid interest on money to pay interest." They were hard times, but even then he paid a penny a week and a shilling a quarter for his ticket, and was never known to be absent from class.

George Watson, Stephen's grandson [*], was born at Ling Riggs in the last year of the last century. His boyhood was hard and unblessed by the educational privileges his descendants have enjoyed. The village schooling soon came to an end. As a little lad he was sent to work in the lead mines. His youth does not appear to have been marred by sinful excesses, but he had no knowledge of vital religion until after his marriage, in 1823, to Sarah Thompson. In that same year, however, both husband and wife were brought to a saving knowledge of Christ. William Blundell and John Oliver were the ministers stationed at the time in the Weardale circuit. A series of prayer meetings, held in cottages throughout the neighbourhood, resulted in a great revival which had its centre in High House Chapel. The most remarkable feature in this revival was the number of young men and young women who were converted, and so soundly converted that twenty years after, in one of the great High House lovefeasts [***], they rose one after another - by that time men and women in middle life - to testify to the saving and sustaining grace of God. In one of the revival services George Watson was impressed with the need of salvation. At that time John Phillipson - another famous name in the story of the dale - met a class in one of the houses at East Hotts, on the hillside within sight of High House Chapel. On the Saturday night, George Watson, with the arrow of conviction rankling secretly in his heart, met a company of Methodists on their way to this class-meeting. He joined them, and they travelled together as far as the gate leading up to the house. The class members thought that George would go further, but to their astonishment and great joy he turned in with them and asked if they would admit him as a member. From that time, for forty years to the end of his life, first as a member and after the death of John Phillipson as leader, he clave to that same class-meeting. He was never known to be wilfully absent. With the same punctuality and regularity he did all his work in the Church - as Sunday School teacher, trustee, chapel steward, local preacher, or in any other office to which he might be appointed at High House or in the circuit. George Watson - and the same may be said with equal truth of many notable men and women who served Methodism in this dale - had an excellent training, and always there shone before him an example worthy of imitation. John Phillipson, whose home may be seen among the trees across the river in one of the illustrations, was a local preacher at High House. His name is in everlasting remembrance. No one was more highly respected. He was a model class leader and visitor. He travelled far and near to comfort the sick. When any person died who had not been connected with any Christian Church the neighbours always asked, "Has old John Phillipson been there?" And if John had knelt at the dying bed the people were satisfied with that all right. It was under the teaching and example of this man, great in goodness, that George Watson was trained as a Methodist. When the saintly old leader passed away his mantle fell upon the younger man. The class, which still met, on Saturday night and in the old place, was always well attended.

George was an out-and-out Methodist, and had no sympathy with people who called themselves Methodists and neglected their class-meeting. At one time he had a man in his class who was not remarkable for regularity of attendance, and who sometimes fell into arrears, so that he had to receive two quarterly tickets together. One day this man went to a lovefeast [***] at Lane Head - but I had better tell the story as it was told to me by Mr. T. G. Watson, in Weardale dialect, pure so far as it goes, but a little translated for the sake of the unlearned:- One Monday morning George went to work in the mine . Some of his partners belonged to Lane Head. One of them said, "Well, Geordie, you must be gettin' on well at High House at the present time." "Why," Geordie replied, "I dunnot think 't. But what maks th' say so?" "Why we had a lovefeast yester' afternoon at oor place, an we had old John Wallace oop, an' he gav' a grrand experience." "Ye what?" "Why, we had old John Wallace oop, an' he had a glorious time." "Why, man," replied his class-leader, "he were like to have a grrand time, for he had twae bran' new tickets of his pocket."

George worked in Breckon Syke mine, near Mr. Thompson's house, about a mile beyond Wear Head Chapel. The mine has been abandoned, but the entrance still remains. One of George's partners professed to be an infidel. They were working together once in an extremely dangerous place, and could not get timber enough to protect the roof. One morning when they went into the mine the infidel said, "Why, lads, just sit down and get your pipes, an' I'll gan oop an' see what she's like." (A mine, like a ship, is always of the feminine persuasion.) When he returned George looked at him and said, "Why, what is she like, Cuddie?" "'Dangers stand thick,' Geordie," giving a sneering quotation from one of the favourite Methodist hymns. Instantly George replied with all solemnity, "Let's pray then." And down he went on his knees and prayed that God would take care of them. That was George's answer to the scoffer, and every man in the mine knew that he meant it, and knew, also, that they were all the safer amidst the perils of the mine for the presence with them of the simple Methodist class-leader who believed in God and was not ashamed to pray. On one occasion a portion of the roof fell and completely cut him off from his comrades. Whilst they were trying to extricate him he heard their voices through the imprisoning rocks bidding one another to be careful, as the place was far from safe. Then there came a feeble voice, the voice of the Methodist hero whom they had so often heard singing -   "While I draw this fleeting breath, When my voice is lost in death." And this is what the voice said:- "Dunnot put yoursel's into any danger to get me oot. If my life be lost, my soul is saved." But they did get him out. When he recovered he made a sermon which he preached to the people, and which is remembered to this day, as well it might, for its text he had tested in perils of the mine, "For, to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain."

He is remembered to this day in the dale as a popular local preacher, eccentric, but only that he might more effectually gain a hearing for the message of salvation, often raising a smile by his queer sayings and homely illustrations, but more frequently melting to tears by the loving pathos of his appeals. Many and divers are the tales told about him by the fireside. The beginning of his preaching was on this wise. In 1840 a preacher failed to fulfil his appointment at High House Chapel. George Watson was prevailed upon to take the service. He preached from "Blessed are they that do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled." The people were so pleased that they begged the superintendent minister to put his name upon the plan. He always commanded large congregations. Preaching one Sunday morning, at Burnhope, on the wiles of the devil - who to the early Methodists was a person all too real - and referring to a sermon he had preached at High House on the previous Sunday, he said, "Next day I was mowing with George Coates and 'Geordie' i'd gap (the latter was the father of the Revs. Joseph and George Watson), and Satan came to me just as we were whetting (the scythes). 'Thou made a blundering set yesterd'y afternoon,' said he. "'Hold on, Satan,' I said, 'till I'm done whetting, an' I'll let thee see what I can do.' So after I'd done (whetting the scythe), away I went striking at big bats (swathes of grass) as I could. Joe and Geordie wondered what was t' matter, but I got clear o' Satan." Another time he said, "I'd been preaching at Stanhope, and was coming home on a very stormy night when Satan came to me just about Park House and said - "'Thou's just a poor slave for Jesus Christ.' "'I know that well enough, Satan, but I was in thy service four-and-twenty years, an' thou promised great things, but thou was very slow about paying anything.' "At last he left me and I came on my way." Preaching from Luke ii. 41, 42, he said, "There are Marthas and Marys at the present time - Marthas who are careful and troubled about many things, cumbered about much serving, far too anxious about things relating to this life, to the neglect of the soul; there are Marys who are good sort of persons so far, but they sometimes lose the bottom of their floors, and sometimes they may be seen holding up the fire-grate when there is no danger of its falling. I'll tell you what," he said, "if I had to choose a wife, I would neither have a Martha nor a Mary, but one possessing a little of the best qualities of both." Is not that both sound exposition and common-sense from a local preacher?

As a Methodist George Watson was loyal to his Church. During the Reform agitation, when so many class-meetings were broken up and the members scattered to the winds, he clave to his class and saved it from ruin. A minister came to the circuit who, like many others in those days, seemed to be smitten with a passion for driving members away. He quite sincerely thought he was doing God service by turning them out of Society wholesale. There is evidence that this became a positive epidemic in some circuits, a phenomenon difficult to account for. This minister tried his hand on Mr. Watson's class, but he found the old leader more than a match for him. At the close of the meeting when all the precious members, for whom their leader had travailed in birth, were saved from the ravening wolf of ministerial panic, the minister asked George to give out a hymn. This was the hymn he gave out: - "Jesus, great Shepherd of the sheep      To Thee for help we fly: Thy little flock in safety keep;      For O ! the wolf is nigh.   "He comes, of hellish malice full,      To scatter, tear, and slay; He seizes every straggling soul,      As his own lawful prey.   "O do not suffer him to part      The souls that here agree; But make us of one mind and heart,      And keep us one in Thee.   "Together let us sweetly live,      Together let us die; And each a starry crown receive,      And reign above the sky."

For many weeks previous to his death, although going to and fro amongst his near neighbours daily, he was troubled with an awful cough which he knew would be fatal. Yet he still kept up his jovial spirits. One night a neighbour said - "Why, how is th' t' neet, Geordie? " "My cough's a bit worse," he replied, "an' I think that's a better sign." He was waiting for his change, and longing to be with Christ; the cough he regarded simply as the means that would "hurry his soul to the skies." On the afternoon before his death his sister came to visit him. He was very ill, and his family were anxious that the sister should stay all night. While she was making excuses to get away home, the old man raised himself up in bed, and, with a touch of the old humour, said to her, "Thou might'st stop t' neet. Ah niver deed before." As morning drew on, he was taken worse, and his cousins, George and Joseph Watson, were called in. The dying saint knew that the end was near. He looked at his cousin Joseph, and said, "Thou might pray, Joseph, that t' water may be low when I've to pass over !" After they rose from their knees he was a little easier, and they heard him repeating the words from Pope's Ode to the Dying Christian, so popular among the Methodist people of the past generation -   "The world recedes; it disappears !      Heaven opens on my eyes ! My ears With sounds seraphic ring:      Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! --- ." He ceased to speak. There lay the lifeless form, but the spirit had gone with the angels to the Paradise of God.

The old Methodists cherished the memory of brave and beautiful death-bed stories. Let me tell one more. When Joseph Watson was dying his thoughts became all confused between driving home from a country chapel and going to heaven. "Tom," he said to his son, "all's ready. We can get off home, can't we ?" "Yes, father, I think so." "Can't ye yoke t' horse then, and let's be gaun' ?" They sang the hymn -   "For me the elder brethren stay,    And angels beckon me away,       And Jesus bids me come." At the last word the old man threw up his arms in an ecstasy. "That's it, Tom, go on, go on !" And so he also passed over the river. And as his son ended the tales he was telling me of the long past, he added, "That's what Methodism has done for Weardale."

Accompanying illustrations ~ The Wear: The Hermitage in the distance ~ Mr. William Watson and daughters in the hayfields ~ Birthplace of the Rev. Dr. John Watson (Ex-President of the Primitive Methodist Conference) ~ Mine in which George Watson worked ~ The class-meeting cottage at East Hotts ~ George Watson's grave in the churchyard of St. John's Chapel ~ Wear Head Wesleyan chapel ~ The Wear, with Ireshopeburn in the distance

Footnotes