GRAPPLING WITH DIFFICULTIES--THE BOG--A PUZZLE--THE PRIZE OFFER.
The real work was now to be done. Hopes and fears had yet to be
verified.
At the first meeting of the directors, a man to put the enterprise
through was to be chosen. Who? The Rennies were anxious to get the
appointment. They naturally expected it. They had made the survey, and
their name had had weight in getting the Act of Parliament. But they
could not superintend the details of the work. They had other
enterprises on foot.
Stephenson, no doubt, was _the_ man. The directors felt him to be so.
No one could long be with him without feeling his power. Besides, what
he had done had been ably done. At the risk of offending the Rennies
and their friends, they chose him, and the result proved the wisdom of
their choice.
On receiving the appointment, he immediately moved to Liverpool, and
the work began in good earnest. It was a stupendous undertaking for
those days. Chat Moss had to be filled in, sixty-three bridges built,
excavations made, tunnels erected, and all the practical details
carried out, with very little past experience to profit by. Neither
was the kind of labour well understood, nor was there that division
of labour between contractors and engineers which relieves one man of
too heavy a responsibility. In fact, both tools and men had to be
made, and Stephenson had to do it.
The great quagmire was first grappled with. "No man in his senses
would undertake to make a road over Chat Moss," opposers said in
parliament: "That was to undertake the impossible." Stephenson,
however, meant to try. Formidable it certainly was. Cattle ploughing
on farms bordering the bog, where it ran underneath the tilled land,
had to wear flat-soled boots in order to keep their hoofs from sinking
down into the soft soil.
The proposed route ran four miles across it, and the way had to be
drained and filled in with sand and gravel. The drainage tasked their
ingenuity to the utmost, and almost baffled the workmen. After that
was in some degree accomplished, waggon after waggonful of earth was
thrown on for weeks and weeks, and it only sank into the mire and
disappeared--not an inch of solid footing seemed gained; and on they
went, filling and filling, without apparently having made the least
impression on the Moss: the greedy bog only cried out for more.
Stephenson's men began to have their doubts. The opposition might have
judged more correctly, after all. They asked him what he thought. "Go
ahead," was his answer. By and by the directors began to have _their_
fears. It looked to them like a very unpromising job. So it was. After
waiting and waiting in vain for signs of progress, they called a
meeting on the edge of the Moss, to see if it were not best to give it
up as a bad job. The bog, they were afraid, might swallow up all their
funds, as it had everything else. Stephenson lost not a whit of his
courage. "Go ahead," was his counsel. He never for a moment doubted
of final success. And considering the great outlay already made, they
wisely gave in to him.
Monstrous stories were afloat of the terrible accidents taking place
there. Every now and then the drivers of the coaches brought into
Manchester the astonishing news of men, horses, carts, and Stephenson
himself submerged and sunk for ever in the insatiable quagmire. Time
corrected one only to publish another. Newsmongers were kept in a
state of delightful excitement, and tea-table gossip was spiced to
suit the most credulous and marvel-loving taste, until the Moss was
conquered, as conquered it was acknowledged to be, when, six months
after the directors had met to vote to leave it to its original
unproductiveness, they were driven over it on a smooth and secure rail
to Manchester.
Another tough job was tunnelling Liverpool; excavating a mile and a
third of road through solid rock. Night and day the boring, blasting,
and hewing were kept in vigorous execution. Sometimes the miners were
deluged with water, sometimes they were in danger of being
overwhelmed by heavy falls of wet sand from overhead. Once, when
Stephenson was gone from town, a mass of loose earth came tumbling on
the heads of the workmen, frightening them, if nothing more. On his
return they were in a most refractory state, complaining of the
dangers, and stoutly refusing to go back to work. Wasting no time on
words, Stephenson shouldered a pickaxe, and called for recruits to
follow. Into the tunnel he marched, and the whole gang after him.
Nothing more was heard of fears, and the work went bravely on.
Besides laying out all the work, Stephenson had to make his tools. All
their waggons, trucks, carriages, switches, crosses, signals were
planned and manufactured under his superintendence, besides meeting
and providing for a thousand exigencies constantly occurring in a new
enterprise like this, giving full scope to all the sagacity,
invention, and good-humour which naturally belonged to him.
The expenses of the road were heavy, and money was not always
forthcoming. If the works lagged in consequence of it, the hopes of
the directors fell; so that Stephenson's energies were taxed to the
utmost during the four years of the work, and he showed, what
observation and history both teach us, that efficient men are men of
_detail_, as well as men of great plans.
Remember this, boys--for we sometimes despise little particulars, and
the day of small things--that the secret of effective doing lies not
only in making wise plans, but in filling up the minutest parts with
promptness and fidelity. There must be detail to achieve any great and
good work. If you would possess the fruits of learning, you must get
them by the toil of daily drudgery. If you undertake to become rich,
you must not despise the small gains and little economies by which a
fortune is made. If you would obtain a noble Christian manhood, you
must not neglect hourly self-restraint, watchfulness, and prayer, or
the daily exercise of those humbler virtues and godly industries which
make the woof of character.
Stephenson strikingly illustrated the practical force of this
principle. The minutest detail of every plan in this new enterprise
was thought out and carried on by himself, or under his direct
supervision. Both in summer and winter he rose early. Before breakfast
you might find him on a morning round, visiting the extensive
workshops where their machines and tools were made. Or perhaps "Bobby"
is brought to the door, and, mounted on this his favourite horse, he
is off fifteen miles to inspect the progress of a viaduct, a ride long
enough to whet the appetite for a tempting breakfast, one would think.
But nothing tempts him from his frugal habits; he eats "crowdie," and
that made by himself, which is nothing more or less than oatmeal
hasty-pudding and milk. Again he is off, inspecting the labours of his
men all along the line from point to point, pushing the works here,
advising there, and inspiring everywhere. "Bobby" is a living witness
that one beast at least is not to be scared by a locomotive. He can
face the snorting monster without so much as a shy step or a prick of
the ears. _He_ afraid? not "Bobby."
Returning home, bills are to be examined perhaps, when every item of
expense must be accounted for; or drawings are to be made, or
directions given, or letters written.
Several young men were received into his family, to be trained for
engineers. A second wife, frugal, gentle, and friendly, superintended
his household. Their evenings were passed in study and conversation,
brightened by the genial humour of the remarkable man whose genius
drew them together, and whose good-tempered pleasantries relieved the
heavier tasks of mind and body. The compendium of all his instructions
was, Learn for yourselves; think for yourselves; master principles;
persevere; be industrious, and there is no fear for you. It is an
indication of the value of these instructions that every young man
trained under him rose to eminent usefulness. "Ah," he sometimes said,
on relating a bit of his own early history, "you don't know what work
is, these days." And yet work is work, all the world over.
In spite of the best Stephenson could do, the directors, looking at
their unproductive capital, and not fully comprehending all the
difficulties to be overcome, sometimes urged greater despatch. "Now,
George," said Friend Cropper one day, "thou must get on with the
railway; thou must really have it opened by the first of January
next."
"Consider the heavy nature of the works, sir," rejoined George, "and
how much we have been delayed by want of money, to say nothing of the
bad weather. The thing is impossible."
"Impossible!" cried Cropper; "I wish I could get Napoleon to thee; he
would tell thee there is no such word as 'impossible.'"
"Tush!" exclaimed George, "don't tell me about Napoleon. Give me men,
money, and material, and I'll do what Napoleon couldn't do--drive a
railroad over Chat Moss."
He might have retorted, more significantly, by asking the directors
what _they_ meant to do; for Liverpool was tunnelled, and Chat Moss
railed, before they could agree what kind of power to put on it. There
were some who insisted upon using horse-power; but the majority
thought that was out of the question. Meeting after meeting was held,
debate followed debate, and the whole body became more and more
puzzled as the road itself neared completion.
Some kind of machine, but _what_? Ah, that was the question. You would
naturally have thought a locomotive, of course. But no; since
parliamentary opposition raged against it, steam had lost ground in
the public estimation, and it was very slow in getting back to favour.
Locomotives, or travelling engines, as they were called, were hid in a
cloud of doubts; and more than ever since the parliamentary debates.
They were dangerous, they were frightful, "they could never go fast
enough," their utmost speed would not be ten miles an hour. Some of
the most distinguished engineers would give no opinion of them at all.
They had none. It was certainly hard to patronize them, in spite of
their indifference, and possibly their sneers. Certainly, if the poor
locomotive depended upon their verdict its fate was sealed.
One staunch friend remained. Stephenson stood faithfully by "Puffing
Billy," puffing away in his far off Northumberland home. He never
flinched advocating its principles, and urged the directors to try
one on the road. They at last ordered one to be built, one that would
be of service to the company, and no great nuisance to the public. It
was built, and excellent service it did, drawing marl from the
cuttings and excavations to fill up the bogs and hollows.
Nevertheless, it settled nothing, and convinced nobody not already
convinced.
Meanwhile the directors were deluged with projects, plans, and advice
for running their road. Scheme upon scheme was let loose upon them.
Some engines to go by water-power; some by gas; some by cog-wheels.
All the engineering science in the kingdom was ready to engineer for
them in its own way; but who among all could pronounce the best way,
and, upon the whole, decide which was the right motive power?
A deputation was despatched to Darlington and Stockton to inspect the
fixed and locomotive engines employed on that road. But the
deputation came back differing so among themselves that the directors
were more puzzled than ever. Two professional engineers of high
reputation were then sent, who on their return reported in favour of
_fixed engines_: for safety, speed, economy, and convenience, fixed
engines by all means; reiterating again and again all the frightful
stories of danger and annoyance charged upon steam. They proposed
dividing the road into nineteen stages, of a mile and a half in
length, and having twenty-one stationary engines at different points
to push and draw the trains along. The plan was carefully matured.
Poor Stephenson! how did he feel? "Well," he said, with the calm
earnestness of a man of faith, "one thing I know, that before many
years railroads will become the highways of the world."
Could the directors accept a project without consulting him? Again
they met. What had he to say concerning it? Fight it he did. He dwelt
upon its complicated nature, the liability of the ropes and tackling
to get out of order, the failure of one engine retarding and damaging
and stopping the whole line--a phase of the matter which did not fail
to make an impression. The directors were moved. Friend Cropper,
however, headed the stationary-engine party, and insisted upon
adopting it. "But," answered the others, "ought we to make such an
outlay of money without first giving the locomotive a fair trial?" And
Stephenson pleaded powerfully, as you may suppose, in its behalf.
"_Try_ it, _try_ it," he urged; "for speed and safety there is nothing
like it." And the words of a man with strong faith are strong words.
"Besides," he said, "the locomotive is capable of great improvements.
It is young yet; its capacities have never been thoroughly tested.
When proper inducements are held out, a superior article will be
offered to the public."
Never were directors in a greater strait. There was no withstanding
Stephenson, for he knew what he was talking about. All the rest were
schemers. At last one of the directors said, "Wait; let us offer a
prize for a new locomotive, built to answer certain conditions, and
see what sort of engine we can get."
That was fair. It was right his engine should be properly tested. All
agreed; and in a few days proposals were issued for the building of
one. There were eight conditions, two of which were, that if the
engine were of six tons' weight it should be able to draw twenty tons
at a speed of _ten_ miles an hour. The prize was five hundred pounds.
The offer excited a great deal of attention, and many people made
themselves merry at its expense. The conditions were absurd, they
said; nobody but a set of fools would have made them. It had already
been proved impossible to make a locomotive engine go at ten miles an
hour, and one gentleman in his heat even went so far as to say that
if it ever _were_ done, he would undertake to eat a stewed engine
wheel for his breakfast. As that condition was answered, it is to be
hoped he was relieved from his indigestible dish.
More candid minds turned with interest to the development of this new
force struggling into notice. Stephenson felt how much depended on the
issue. And the public generally concluded to suspend its verdict upon
the proper working of railways until time and talent gave them better
means of judging.