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 began housekeeping in
the upper room of a small cottage in Wellington, 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 the old fireman 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 on 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 and
soberly as ever! The astonished neighbours sent him their clocks, and
George became one of the most famous clock doctors thereabouts.
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 change the
mournful current of his thoughts.
[Illustration: MENDING THE CLOCK.]
Leaving his little boy in kind hands, he set off to the north with his
pack on his back, afoot 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 will be righted. He paid off their debts,
and removed 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 to emigrate 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 to afford 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 two-fold
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 it was 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 in 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 wheezy old thing was brought 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, by clocks, and by coats—the construction and improvement of
machinery for the collieries was his hobby.
Likeness of taste 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 mind-work 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 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 Encyclopædia" 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 the 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. A
wide-awake mind allows nothing stagnant around it.
[Illustration: THE SUN-DIAL.]
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 over the
cottage door; and there it is 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.