In the very year James Watt built the first practical steam engine,
namely, the year 1769—the year Napoleon was born—fearful riots were
taking place in Russia, because some enlightened person had introduced
the potato, a useful vegetable as we all know, yet at this time one in
which the Russian peasant saw the Satanic thumb, for he was certain that
this humble vegetable was the “devil’s apple.” Though why this should
have detracted from its nutritive qualities I cannot say.
Looking back now, and we are nearing Brusselton, it seems to me that
there is no difference between the spirit of these deluded peasants and
those who, with shoe lasts, beat vigorously on the door of
Erichthonius’s house. They are one and all Sir Henry Herberts, though
the particular cut of their clothes may differ. George Stephenson,
having studied steam engines in general and Mr. Trevithick’s crude and
inefficient locomotive in particular, determined to build one of his
own, and, with the support of Lord Ravensworth, he accomplished this
feat at Killingworth in 1814. There the first efficient locomotive was
made. Had Lord Eldon been a Russian, he would probably have objected to
potatoes, but being an Englishman he preferred bigger game. “I am
sorry,” he said, “to find the intelligent people of the North-country
gone mad on the subject of railways.” A few miles had only been opened,
but this was quite sufficient to establish madness, and by some other of
his ilk, the adage, “A fool and his money are soon parted,” was applied
to Lord Ravensworth.
The Killingworth railway was followed by the Stockton and Darlington
line. Mr. Edward Pease, the Quaker supporter of Stephenson, had said:
“Let the country but make the railroads, and the railroads will make the
country.” Be it remembered that locomotives had been working at
Killingworth, and very efficiently, for ten years; but there were others
who, unlike Mr. Pease, were full of the spirit of old Herbert. The Duke
of Cleveland opposed the measure in Parliament, as the line would pass
through his fox covers, and, due to his influence it was thrown out. A
new survey was made, avoiding these precious earths, and the railway was
built.
The next line was that between Manchester and Liverpool. Lord Derby
turned out his farm hands to chase Stephenson’s surveyors off his
estates. Lord Sefton did likewise, and the Duke of Bridgewater
threatened to shoot them at sight. Stephenson had his theodolite so
often smashed that he deemed it wise to hire a prize fighter to carry
it. The “Quarterly Review” supported the project, and it is curious to
read what it said, for it will give the reader some idea of the
virulence of the opposition. It says:
“What can be more palpably absurd and ridiculous than the prospect held
out of locomotives travelling _twice as fast_ as stage coaches! We
should as soon expect the people of Woolwich to suffer themselves to be
fired off upon one of Congreve’s ricochet rockets, as trust themselves
to the mercy of such a machine going at such a rate.... We trust that
Parliament will, in all railways it may sanction, limit the speed to
_eight or nine miles an hour_, which we entirely agree with Mr.
Sylvester is as great as can be ventured on with safety.”
This was praise indeed, and it is amazing that the British Parliament,
which is always full of ordinary men, did not take the hint and limit
the speed of the locomotive to that of a trotting horse. Nevertheless,
though this grand opportunity was missed, the Parliamentary Committee
did all in its power to obstruct the measure. One of its members asked
George Stephenson: “Suppose a cow were to stray upon the line?” There
was a hush of horror, then he added: “Would not that, think you, be a
very awkward circumstance?” “Yes,” answered Stephenson, “very awkward
indeed—_for the coo_!”
The leading councils openly declared that this “untaught and
inarticulate genius” was mad.... “Every part of the scheme shows that
this man has applied himself to a subject of which he has no knowledge,
and to which he has no science to apply.” Not only would these
locomotive engines be a terrible nuisance, “in consequence of the fire
and smoke vomited forth by them,” but “the value of land in the
neighbourhood of Manchester alone would be deteriorated by no less than
£20,000!” “The most absurd scheme that ever entered into the head of man
to conceive,” shouted Mr. Alderson, the leading counsel. “No engineer in
his senses would go through Chat Moss,” solemnly declared Mr. Giles, the
most eminent engineer brought forward by the opposition. He estimated
the cost of such a project at £270,000. Stephenson did it for £28,000,
but the line was an expensive one as it had so many fox covers to avoid.
All this was but a preliminary skirmish, the main battle now began. The
beef-eating Briton was thoroughly aroused. George Stephenson was
considered to be an incarnation or certainly an implement of his Satanic
Majesty. The public were appealed to, and ever ready to hinder progress,
they took off their tuxedo, smocks, frocks, morning coats or whatever
covered their bodies, and formed phalanx against the common foe. A
meeting of Manchester ministers of all denominations was convened. This
meeting declared that the locomotive was “in direct opposition both to
the law of God and to the most enduring interests of society.” This set
match to powder. The doctors declared that the air would be poisoned and
birds would die of suffocation. The landowners, that the preservation of
pheasants and foxes was no longer possible. Householders, that their
houses would be burnt down and the air polluted by clouds of smoke.
Horse-breeders, that horses would become extinct. Farmers, that oats and
hay would be rendered unsaleable. Innkeepers, that inns would be ruined.
Passengers, that boilers would burst. Heaven knows who—“that the
locomotive would prevent cows grazing, hens laying, and would cause
ladies to give premature birth to children at the sight of these things
moving at four and a half miles an hour!”
Yet there was this consolation. The very, very ordinary man, the British
public at large, declared that “the weight of the locomotive (six tons!)
would completely prevent its moving, and that railways, even if made,
could _never_ be worked by steam power.” Yet for ten years now, and
more, the Killingworth engines were running daily!
The Stockton and Darlington line was a tremendous success; so also was
the railway between Manchester and Liverpool, yet opposition thickened
rather than lessened. In 1830, the “Rocket” had attained a speed of
thirty-five miles an hour, yet, in 1832, Colonel Sibthorpe (the Army now
come into the picture and oh! how bravely), declared his hatred of these
“infernal railroads,” and that he “would rather meet a highwayman, or
see a burglar on his premises, than an engineer!” When the Birmingham
railway bill was before Parliament, Sir Astley Cooper, that most eminent
of surgeons, declared: “You are entering upon an enormous undertaking of
which you know nothing. Then look at the recklessness of your
proceedings! You are proposing to destroy property, cutting up our
estates in all directions! Why, gentlemen, if this sort of thing be
permitted to go on, you will in a very few years _destroy the
noblesse_!” And this, from a man who had been knighted for cutting a wen
out of George IV.’s neck!