MENDING AND MAKING--LITTLE BOB.
George was now twenty; sober, faithful, and expert. Finding a little
spare time on his hands, he took to cobbling to increase his gains,
and from this source contrived to save his first guinea. To this
greater diligence he was urged by his love for Fanny Henderson, a
fine, sweet-tempered girl, whom he shortly married, and went to
housekeeping in the upper room of a small cottage in Willington, six
miles from Newcastle. Happy were they in each other, and in their
simple, industrious, and frugal habits; and when a little son was born
to them, George, who loved birds, rabbits, and dogs so well, welcomed
with all the tenderness of a father's heart the little Bobby.
Robert he was named, after his grandfather.
Accidents, they say, will happen in the best regulated families.
Fanny's family was not an exception. One day the cottage chimney got
on fire, and the neighbours, with friendly zeal, not only poured water
enough down the chimney to put out a much bigger and more alarming
fire, but enough to deluge the poor little home of the brakeman with
soot and water, making a pitiful sight to the young husband when he
reached it. His eight-day clock, the choicest bit of furniture the
young couple had, was completely smothered by ashes. What was to be
done? Sending it to a clock-maker for repairs was quite out of the
question--it would cost too much.
"I'll try my own hand at it," said George. After righting everything
else he attacked the clock, took it to pieces, carefully cleaned it,
put it together, set it, and it _ticked_, ticking on as faithfully as
ever. The astonished neighbours now sent him their clocks, and George
became one of the most famous clock doctors in the district!
The young man's reputation for business soon won him a situation in
Killingworth, the best and largest colliery in the region. But his
brightened worldly prospects were soon clouded by a dark sorrow--the
death of his young wife, after three happy years of married life. Poor
George felt it deeply, which was perhaps one reason for accepting a
situation in Scotland, hoping in a change of scene to divert the
mournful current of his thoughts.
Leaving his little boy in kind hands, he set off to the north with his
pack on his back, a-foot and alone, for Montrose, a long journey in
those days. Good wages he received, and good friends he no doubt
made, for everybody loved his honest and generous character; yet by
the end of the year he yearned to get back to the friends and scenes
of his early days. It was not home in Scotland, for it is only home
where the heart is. With his savings in his pocket--twenty-eight
pounds--back he trudged to Killingworth; and not before his friendly
presence was greatly needed to comfort his aged parents, plunged in
debt and affliction. By a terrible accident his father had lost his
eyesight. No longer able to work, and receiving little or no help from
his other children, who were barely able to maintain themselves, the
old couple had a hard battle with life. But George is back again; all
is now righted. He paid off their debts, and moved them to comfortable
lodgings beside his own. He has father, mother, and Bobby to look
after, and is thankful and happy in doing it.
Those were dark days, however, for the working-men of England. War
was draining the country of men and money. Taxes were high, wages low,
bread scarce, and able-bodied men were liable at any time to be
impressed for the army or naval service. George himself was drawn, and
go he must, or find a substitute; he found one, but it cost all he had
to hire him.
Poor George was in straits. His spirits were much damped by the
prospect of things around and before him. All business was in a
discouraging condition. Some of his friends were about emigrating to
America, and he at one time nearly concluded to join them. It was a
sore trial to the young man. He loved his English home; and bitter
tears did he in secret shed as he visited old haunts, the fields and
lanes and scenes of his boyhood, feeling and fearing that all too soon
the wide Atlantic might roll between him and them. But the necessary
funds for such an enterprise were not forthcoming. George gave it up,
therefore, and went to work for what wages the times would allow.
Better times would come.
The thing nearest his heart was affording his little son an education.
Keenly alive to his own early deficiencies and disadvantages, he
determined to make them up in Robert. Every spare moment was of
twofold value to him; and all the work he could pick up he cheerfully
did. Besides tinkering old clocks and cobbling old shoes he took to
cutting out the pitmen's clothes. Never was there such a fit; for
George acted fully up to the principle that everything which was worth
doing was worth doing well.
Busy as were his hands, his mind was no less busy, catching up and
using every scrap of knowledge which came in his way. And it was a
perpetual surprise to his fellow-workmen to see what a knack he had at
bettering things. Everything improved in his hands. There was always
progress on his track.
A new pit was opened at one of the collieries. Streams of water rushed
in, which the most vigorous strokes of the pump could not lower. On
the engine went, pumping, pumping, pumping for a year, and the water
continued to flow in, until they nearly concluded to give up the pit
as a failure. George's curiosity and interest were much excited, and
always, on seeing the men, he asked how matters were coming on.
"Drowned out, drowned out," was the one and the same answer.
Over he went to the poor pit as often as he could to see for himself,
and over he turned in his mind again and again the whys and wherefores
of the failure.
"Weel, George," said his friend Kit one day, "what do you mak' o' her?
Do you think you could doctor her?"
"Man," answered George, "in a week's time I could send you to the
bottom."
The regular engineers were in high dudgeon with the forth-putting
brakeman. What right had _he_ to know how to cure an evil that had
baffled them? His words, however, were reported at head-quarters, and
the contractor was not long hastening over to see if he could make his
words good.
"Well, George," he said, "they tell me you think you can put that
engine to rights."
"Yes, sir," replied the young man modestly, "I think I can."
As matters could be no worse, Mr. Dodds was ready to let him try. And
George agreed, on condition that he should choose his own men to help
him. The old hands were highly indignant, but there was no help for
it. So they were ordered off, and George with his gang went on.
The engine was taken to pieces, examined, righted, and put together
again. It was set to work. Did it go? Many a looker-on shook his head
doubtfully, and prophesied in his inmost heart, "_No_ go." It pumped
and pumped. The obstinate water found it had an antagonist that could
master it. In less than two days it disappeared from the pit, and
workmen were sent to the bottom. Who could gainsay George's skill?
Mr. Dodds, of course, was delighted. Over and above his wages he put a
ten-pound note into the young man's hand, and engaged him to
superintend his works for the future.
A profitable job was this.
The fame of this engineering exploit spread far and wide. As an engine
doctor he took the lead, and many a weezy old thing was brought to him
to cure. Envious engineers tried to put him down. But real merit
cannot be put down. It is stern stuff.
George's cottage showed the bent of his tastes. It was like an old
curiosity shop; full of models of engines, complete or in parts,
hanging and standing round; for busy as he had need to be eking out
his means by engineering clocks and coats, the construction and
improvement of machinery for the collieries was his hobby.
Likeness of tastes drew a young farmer often to the cottage, John
Wigham, who spent most of his evenings in George's society. John had a
smattering of chemistry and philosophy, and a superior knowledge of
mathematics, which made him a desirable companion. George put himself
under his tuition, and again took to "figuring;" tasks set him in the
evening were worked out among the rough toils of the day. And so much
honest purpose did not fail to secure progress. Drawing was another
new line of effort. Sheets of plans and sections gave his rude desk
the air of mindwork somewhere. Thus their winter evenings passed away.
Bobby was growing up in a little thought-world by himself; for he
could not fail to be interested in all that interested his father,
that father always making his son the companion of his studies, and
early introducing him into the curious and cunning power of machinery.
Ah, that was a proud day when little Bob was old enough, and knew
enough, to be sent to the academy at Newcastle. He was thirteen. His
father's means had happily been increased. The old engine-wright of
the colliery having died, George Stephenson was promoted to the post,
on the salary of over a hundred pounds a year. This was in 1812.
The new office relieving him from incessant hard work, and the
necessity of earning a shilling by extra labours, he had more time for
study, and for verifying his plans of practical improvement; and the
consequence was very considerable improvement in the machinery of the
colliery to which he was attached.
Meanwhile Robert's education went on apace. The boy was hungry for
knowledge, not only for himself, but to satisfy the voracious appetite
of his father, and the no less keen one of John Wigham.
Robert joined a literary and philosophical society at Newcastle, whose
fine library opened a rich storehouse of material. Here the boy spent
most of his time out of school, storing his mind with principles,
facts, and illustrations, to carry home on Saturday afternoon. Books
also. The Edinburgh Encyclopaedia was at his command. A volume of that
at the cottage unfolded a world of wonders. But the library had some
books too choice to be trusted away. How was Robert to get the gist of
these home? His father had often said that a "good drawing and a
well-executed plan would always explain itself," and many a time he
had placed a rough sketch of machinery before his son and told him to
describe it. Robert, therefore, when he could do no better, put his
drilling to test, and copied diagrams and drew pictures, thus taking
many an important and perhaps rare specimen of machinery and science
to Killingworth, for his father's benefit.
We can well imagine Saturday afternoon was as much a holiday to father
as to son. Robert's coming was hailed with delight. John did not lag
far behind. Some of the neighbours dropped in to listen to discussions
which made the little room a spot of lively interest and earnest toil.
Wide-awake mind allows nothing stagnant around it.
Among the borrowed books of the day was Ferguson's "Astronomy," which
put father and son to calculating and constructing a sun-dial for the
latitude of Killingworth. It was wrought in stone, and fixed on the
cottage door; and there it stands still, with its date, August 11,
1816--a year or two before Robert left school--a fair specimen of the
drift of his boyish tastes.