CHAPTER V.
HUNTING UP HIS OWN WORK—AN ENTERPRISING QUAKER—WHAT WAS THE RESULT?
It appears strange to us that so simple a thing as the laying of a rail or the making of a tunnel seems to be, should have taken years of thought and experiment to do it. Nothing looks easier to have done than the straight smooth track of a railway, such as we now see in use; and yet it was only arrived at by slow steps through two hundred years.
In pondering upon the powers of "Puffing Billy," George Stephenson saw that the efficiency of locomotives must, in a great measure, depend upon what kind of roads they had to run upon. Many were sanguine that steam-carriages would some day come into use on common roads. After a long series of experiments George Stephenson said, "No, the thing wouldn't pay." For a rough surface seriously impairs the power of a locomotive; sand scattered upon the rails is sufficient to slacken and even stop an engine. The least possible friction is desirable, and this is found on the smooth rail.
Could they ever be laid up hill, or on "ascending gradients," as the scientific term is? No; as nearly level as possible, Stephenson's experiments showed, was the best economy of power. Then how to get rid of the jolts and jars and breakages of the rails as they were then laid? He studied and experimented upon both chairs and sleepers, and finally embodied all his improvements in the colliery railway.
"Puffing Billy" was in every respect a most remarkable piece of machinery, and its constructor one of the most sagacious and persistent of men; but how was the public, ever slow in discovering true merit, or accepting real benefits, to discover and appreciate them? Neither influence, education, nor patronage had Stephenson to command mind and means, or to drive his engine through prejudice, indifference, and opposition to profit and success.
But what he could not do other men could do and did do. Yes, there were already men of property and standing ready to listen to a new idea. While he worked they talked. As yet unknown to each other, but each by himself clearing the track for a grand junction.
One of these wide-awake men was Mr. Edward Pease, a rich "Friend," of Darlington, who, his friends said, "could look a hundred miles ahead." He needed a quicker and easier transit for his coal from the collieries north of Darlington to Stockton, where they were shipped; and Mr. Pease began to agitate, in his mind, for a railroad. A company for this purpose was formed chiefly of his own friends, whom he fairly talked into it. Scarcely twenty shares were taken by the merchants and shipowners of Stockton, whose eyes were not yet open to the advantage it would by-and-by be to them. A survey of the proposed road was made, when to the indifference of the many was added the opposition of the few. A duke was afraid for his foxes. Shareholders in the turnpikes declared it would ruin their stock. Timid men said it was a new thing, and it was best to let new things alone. The world would never improve much under such counsel. Mr. Pease was hampered on all sides. Nobody convinced him that his first plan was not the right one; but what can a man do in any public enterprise without supporters? So he reluctantly was obliged to give up his railroad, and ask parliament for liberty to build a tramroad—horse-power instead of steam-power; he seemingly could do no better, and even this was obtained only after long delay and at considerable cost.
Among the thousands who carelessly read in the newspapers the passage through parliament of the Stockton and Darlington Act, there was one humble man whose eye kindled as he read it. In his bosom it awakened a profound interest. He went to bed and got up brooding over it. He was hungry to have a hand in it; until at last, yearning with an irrepressible desire to do his own work in the world, he felt he must go forth to seek it.
One night a couple of strangers knocked at the door of Mr. Edward Pease's house in Darlington, and introduced themselves as two Killingworth colliers. One of them handed the master of the mansion a letter of introduction from a gentleman of Newcastle, recommending him as a man who might prove useful in carrying out his contemplated road.
To support the application a friend accompanied him.
The man was George Stephenson, and his friend was Nicholas Wood. It did not take long for Edward Pease to see that Stephenson was precisely the man he wanted.
"A railway, and not a tramroad," said Stephenson, when the subject was fairly and fully opened.
"A horse railway?" asked Mr. Pease.
"A locomotive engine is worth fifty horses," exclaimed Stephenson; and once on the track, he launched out boldly in its behalf.
"Come over to Killingworth, and see my 'Puffing Billy,'" said George; "seeing is believing." And Mr. Pease, as you may suppose, was quite anxious to see a machine that would outride the fleetest horse. Yet he did not need "Puffing Billy" to convince him that its constructor knew what he was advocating, and could make good his pledges. The good Quaker's courage rapidly rose. He took a new start, and the consequence was that all other plans and men were thrown aside, and Stephenson was engaged to put the road through much in his own way.
The first thing to be done was to make an accurate survey of the proposed route. Taking Robert with him, who had just come from college, and entered as heartily into the enterprise as his father, with two other tried men, they began work in good earnest. From daylight till night the surveyors were on duty. One of the men going to Darlington to sleep one night, four miles off.
"Now, you must not start from Darlington at daybreak," said Stephenson, "but be here, ready to begin work, at daybreak." He and Robert used to make their home at the farm-houses along the way, where his good-humour and friendliness made him a great favourite. The children loved him dearly; the dogs wagged their approving tails at his approach; the birds had a delighted listener to their morning songs; and every dumb creature had a kind glance from his friendly eye.
But George was not satisfied until Mr. Pease came to Killingworth to see "Puffing Billy," and become convinced of its economical habits by an examination of the colliery accounts. He promised, therefore, to follow George thither, bringing with him a large capitalist; and over they went in the summer of 1822.
Inquiring for George Stephenson, they were directed to the cottage with a stone dial over the door. George drove his locomotive up, hoisted in the gentlemen, harnessed on a heavy load, and away they went. George no doubt showed "Billy" off to the best advantage. "Billy" performed admirably, and the two wondering passengers went home enthusiastic believers in locomotive power.
A good many things had to be settled by the Darlington project. One was the width of the gauge, that is, the distance between the rails. How wide apart should they be? Stephenson said the space between the cart and waggon wheels of a common road was a good criterion. The tramroads had been laid down by this gauge—four feet and eight inches—and he thought it about right for the railway; so this gauge was adopted.
One thing which hampered Stephenson not a little was a want of the right sort of workmen—quick-minded, skilful mechanics, who could put his ideas into the right shape. The labour of originating so much we can never know. He had nothing to copy from, and nobody's experience to go by. Happily he proved equal to his task. We can readily imagine his anxiety as the work progressed. Hope and fear must have in turn raised and depressed him. Not that he had any doubts in regard to the final issue of the grand experiment of railroads—they must go.
Dining one day at a small roadside house with Robert and John Dixon, after walking over the route, then nearly completed, "Lads," he said, "I think you will live to see the day when railroads will be the great highway for the king and all his subjects. The time is coming when it will be cheaper for a working-man to travel on a railway than to walk on foot. There are big difficulties in the way, I know; but it will surely come to pass. I can hardly hope to live to see that day, much as I should like to; for I know how slow all human progress is, and how hard it is to make men believe in the locomotive, even after our ten years' success in Killingworth."
While the father roughed it through, Robert's health failed. His close application to business made sad inroads upon a frame naturally more delicate than his father's, and an offer to go out and superintend some mining operations in South America was thankfully accepted, in the hope that a sea voyage and less exciting labours might restore him.
Robert shortly sailed; and his father pushed on alone, with that brave spirit which carried him through many a darker hour.
On the 27th of September the Stockton and Darlington railway was finished and opened. A great many came to see the new mode of travelling, which had proved a fruitful subject of talk, far and near, for many months: some to rejoice; some to see the bubble burst; some with wonder, not knowing what to think; some with determined hostility. The opposition was strong—old England against young England—the counter currents of old and new ideas.
The road ran from Stockton to Darlington, a distance of twelve miles, and thence to the Etherly collieries; in all thirty-two miles.
Four steam-engines were employed, and two stationary engines, to hoist the trains over two hills on the route. The locomotives were of six-horse power, and went at the rate of five or six miles an hour. Slow as this was, it was regarded with wonder. A "travelling engine" seemed almost a miracle. One day a race came off between a locomotive and a coach running on the common highway, and it was regarded as a great triumph that the former reached Stockton first, leaving the coach one hundred yards behind.
The road was built for a freight road, to convey lime, coal, and bricks from the mines and kilns in the interior to the seaboard for shipment abroad. Carrying passengers was not thought of. Enterprise, however, in this direction took a new start. A company was soon formed to run two coaches on the rails between Darlington and Stockton by horse-power. Each coach accommodated six inside passengers, and from fifteen to twenty outside; was drawn by one horse, and went at the rate of nine miles an hour.
"We seated ourselves," said a traveller of those days, "on the top of the Defence coach, and started from Stockton, highly interested with the novelty of the scene, and of this new and extraordinary conveyance. Nothing could be more surprising than the rapidity and smoothness of the motion." Yet the coach was without springs, and jerked and jolted over the joints of the rails with a noise like the clinking of a millhopper.
"Such is the first great attempt to establish the use of railways," writes a delighted editor, "for the general purposes of travelling; and such is its success that the traffic is already great; and, considering that there was formerly no coach at all on either of the roads along which the railroad runs, quite wonderful. A trade and intercourse have arisen out of nothing, and nobody knows how."
Such was their small and imperfect beginning, we should say, now that railroads, improved and perfected, have fulfilled Stephenson's prediction, and have become the great highways of the civilized world.
These wonders stirred the enterprise of old Massachusetts. Bunker-hill monument was then being built, and built of Quincy granite. To make an easier and cheaper transit to the water, the company built a railway from the quarries to the wharf, a distance of three miles, whence the blocks were carried in boats across the harbour to Charlestown. The rails were made of oak and pine, and the cars ran by horses. This was the first railroad in the United States.
The example of the monument building committee, and the success of the Stockton road, put the Boston people on a new track to get into the country. By the old modes of travel, the Connecticut river valley was very far off. Intercourse with the interior towns cost time and money. Going to Boston was a long and expensive journey. Of course there were not many journeys made, and no more trading than was absolutely necessary. Cheap and easy travelling was the need: Boston wanted what the country produced, and the country wanted what Boston merchants had to sell.
A canal was talked of, and routes surveyed. But nobody was sure it was the best thing, when English newspapers broached railroads. Ah, there it was; the best thing! Two advantages it had over a canal. A canal must only be a skating-ground for boys some months in the year, while a railway could be run winter and summer. It was also quicker and pleasanter for passengers. So, as early as 1827, the subject was stirring the minds of business men, and brought before the notice of the legislature. It was a horse-railway they were thinking of, and nothing more. It, however, came to nothing.
The first passenger railway in America, the Baltimore and Ohio, was opened for fifteen miles, in 1830, with horse-power; and the Mohawk and Hudson, from Albany to Schenectady, sixteen miles, was run with horses in 1831. A few months later the steam-horse, with its iron sinews, drove them off, never to yield the right of way again.
CHAPTER VI.
THE TWO CITIES TRYING AGAIN—BUGBEARS.
One, two, three years passed by, and the Liverpool and Manchester project started up again. It was not dead, it had only slept; and the three years had almost worn out the patience of both merchants and manufacturers. Trade between the two cities must have speedier and easier transit. Trade is one of the great progressive elements in the world. It goes ahead. It will have the right of way. It will have the right way—the best, safest, cheapest way—of doing its business. Yet it is not selfish: its object is the comfort and well-being of men. To do this it breaks down many a wall which selfishness has built up. It cuts through prejudices. It rides over a thousand "can't bes" of timid and learned men. For learned men are not always practical. They sometimes say things cannot be done when it only needs a little stout trying to overcome difficulties and do them.
A learned man once said crossing the Atlantic by steam was impossible.
"For the good of the race we must have something truer than wind and tougher than sails," said trade. And it was not many years before ships steamed into every port.
"Carriages travelling at twelve, sixteen, eighteen, twenty miles an hour! Such gross exaggerations of the power of a locomotive we scout—it can never be!" cries a sober Quarterly.
"You may scout it as much as you please," rejoins trade; "but just as soon as people need cheaper, pleasanter, swifter modes of travel, it will be done;" and now the railroad threads the land in its arrowy flight.
"The Magnetic Telegraph!—a miserable chimera," cries a knowing member of parliament. "Nobody who does not read outlandish jargon can understand what a telegraph means."
"You will soon find out," answers trade; and now it buys flour by the hundred barrels, and sells grain by the thousand bushels, while fleets sail at its bidding, treaties are signed at its word, and the telegraph girdles the world.
You see trade is a civilizer, and Christian civilization makes all the difference in the world between Arabs and Englishmen.
Liverpool merchants were now fairly awake. "What is to be done?" was the question. Something. Could there be a third water-line between the two cities? No; there was not water enough for that.
Would the Bridgewater Canal increase its power, and reduce its charges? No.
A tramroad or railroad, then; there was no other alternative.
Mr. James, who was so much interested before, had failed and left the country. When he left he said to his friends, "When you build a road, build a railroad, and get George Stephenson to do it."
The Darlington and Stockton enterprise could not fail to be known at Liverpool, and a drift of opinion gradually began to set strongly in favour of the railway. People talked about it in good earnest.
"A railway!" cried the canal owners, "it is absurd—it is only got up to frighten us; it will fall through as it did before." They were easy.
"Let us go to Darlington and Killingworth, and see for ourselves," said the merchants; and four gentlemen were sent on a visit of inquiry. They went first to Darlington, where the works were in vigorous progress, though not done. It was in 1824, the year before they were finished. Here they met Stephenson. He took them to Killingworth to see "Puffing Billy."
Seeing was believing. "Billy's" astonishing feats won them completely over, and they went back to Liverpool warm for a railroad. Their clear and candid report convinced merchants, bankers, and manufacturers, who gave a verdict in its favour. Public opinion was now coming over.
Books were opened for funds. There was no lack of subscribers. Money was ready. To be sure of the safety of locomotive power, a second deputation was sent to Killingworth, taking with them a practical mechanic, better able to judge about it than themselves. The man had sense enough to see and to own that while he could not ensure safety over nine or ten miles an hour, there was nothing to be afraid of slower than that. Then a third body went. The enterprise required caution, they thought.
Yes, it did.
Having decided upon steam power, the next thing was to secure the right sort of man to carry on the work. Stephenson was that man. His energy and ability were indispensable. Before trying to get an act of parliament, the route needed to be surveyed again, and a careful estimate of expenses made.
The Stockton road done, Stephenson was free to engage in this new enterprise, his success in that proving his principles true on a larger scale.
The canal owners now took alarm. They saw there was a dangerous rival, and they came forward in the most civil and conciliatory manner, professing a wish to oblige, and offering to put steam power on their canals. It was too late. Their day had gone by.
You know the violent opposition made to a former survey. How would it be again? Did three years scatter the ignorance out of which it grew? Ah, no. There was little if any improvement. The surveyors were watched and dogged by night and by day. Boys hooted at them, and gangs of roughs threatened them with violence. Mr. Stephenson barely escaped duckings, and his unfortunate instruments capture and destruction. Indeed, he had to take with him a body-guard to defend them. Much of the surveying had to be done by stealth, when people were at dinner, or with a dark lantern at night.
When dukes and lords headed the hostility, you cannot wonder that their dependents carried it on. One gentleman declared he would rather meet a highwayman or see a burglar on his premises than an engineer; and of the two classes, he thought the former the most respectable! Widows complained of damaged corn-fields, and gardeners of their violated strawberry beds; and though Stephenson well knew that in many cases not a whit of damage had been done, he paid them for fancied injuries in hope of stopping their tongues.
A survey made under such circumstances must needs have been imperfect, but it was as good as could be made. And no time was lost in taking measures to get a bill before parliament.
A storm of opposition against railways suddenly arose, and spread over every corner of the kingdom. Newspapers and pamphlets swarmed with articles crying them down. Canal and turnpike owners spared no pains to crush them. The most extraordinary stories were set afloat concerning their dangers. Boilers would burst, and passengers be blown to atoms. Houses along the way would be burnt; the air would become black with smoke and poisoned with cinders, and property on the road be stripped of its value.
The Liverpool and Manchester bill, however, got into parliament, and went before a committee of the House of Commons to decide upon it, in March, 1825.
First its friends had to show the necessity of some new mode of travel between the two cities, and that it was not difficult to do.
But when it came to asking for liberty to build a railway and run a locomotive, the matter was more difficult to manage. And to face the tremendous opposition leagued against it, the courage of its friends was severely tried.
The battle had to be fought inch by inch.
Stephenson of course was the chief witness for locomotives. But what headway could he, an uneducated Northumbrian mechanic, make against members of parliament, backed by all the chief engineers of the kingdom. For very few had faith in him; but those few had strong faith. He was examined and cross-examined. They tried to bully him, to puzzle him, to frighten him. On the subject of locomotives his answers were clear. He declared he could drive an engine, and drive it safely, at the rate of twelve miles an hour!
"Who can believe what is so notoriously in the teeth of all experience?" cried the opposition; "the witness is a madman!"
Famous engineers were called as witnesses. What had they to say? One declared the scheme a most wild one. He had no confidence in locomotives. They were affected by the wind, the weather; with difficulty were kept on the track, and were liable to constant accidents; indeed, a gale of wind would render it impossible to start a locomotive, either by poking the fire or keeping up the steam till the boiler should burst: they could never be relied on.
The proposed route had to cross an ugly quagmire, several miles in extent, called Chat Moss, a very shaky piece of land, no doubt; and here the opposition took a strong stand. "No engineer in his senses," cried one, "would think of going through Chat Moss. No carriage could stand on the Moss short of the bottom."
"It is absurd to hold out the notion that locomotives can travel twice as fast as stage-coaches," says another; "one might as soon trust himself to a rocket as to the mercy of a machine going at that rate."
"Carriages cannot go at anything like that speed," added another; "if driven to it, the wheels would only spin on their axles like a top, and the carriages would stand stock-still!"
So much for learned arguments against it.
Then came the dangers of it. The dumb animals would never recover from the sight of a locomotive; cows would not give their milk; cattle could not graze, or horses be driven along the track, cried the opposition.
"As to that," said Stephenson, "come to Killingworth and see. More quiet and sensible beasts cannot be found in the kingdom. The farmers there never complain."
"Well," asked one of them, "suppose, now, one of those engines to be going along a railroad at the rate of nine or ten miles an hour, and that a cow were to stray upon the line and get in the way of the engine; would not that, think you, be a very awkward circumstance?"
"Yes," answered Stephenson, with a droll twinkle in his eye, "very awkward indeed—for the coo!"
The inquirer, as you may suppose, was silent.
The danger in other respects was thus dwelt on: "In addition to the smoke and the noise, the hiss and the whirl, which locomotive engines make going at the rate of ten or twelve miles an hour, and filling the cattle with dismay, what," asked an honourable member, "is to be done with all those who have advanced money in making and mending turnpikes? What with those who may still wish to travel in their own or hired carriages, after the fashion of their forefathers? What is to become of coach-makers and harness-makers, coach-masters and workmen, innkeepers, horse-breeders, and horse-dealers? Iron would be raised one hundred per cent., or more probably exhausted altogether. The price of coal would be ruinous. Why, a railroad would be the greatest nuisance, the biggest disturbance of quiet and comfort, in all parts of the kingdom, that the ingenuity of man could invent."
Not content with decrying his engine, they could not stop short of abusing Stephenson himself. "He is more fit for Bedlam than anywhere else," they cried; "he never had a plan, he is not capable of making one. Whenever a difficulty is pressed, as in the case of a tunnel, he gets out of it at one end; and when you try to catch him at that, he gets out at the other."
"We protest," they said, "against a measure supported by such evidence and founded upon such calculations. We protest against the Exchange of Liverpool striding across the land of this country. It is despotism itself."
What had the friends of steam-power to say?
"We beseech you," they pleaded to the committee, "not to crush it in its infancy. Let not this country have the disgrace of putting a stop to that which, if cherished, may in the end prove of the greatest advantage to our trade and commerce. We appeal to you in the name of the two largest towns in England—we appeal to you in the name of the country at large—and we implore you not to blast the hopes that this powerful agent, steam, may be called in aid for the purpose of land communication; only let it have a fair trial, and these little objections will be done away."
Flaws were picked in the surveys, and the estimate of costs based on them. The surveys, quite likely, were imperfect; indeed, how could they be otherwise, when every mile of the line had to be done at the risk of their necks?
The battle lasted two months, and a very exciting one it was. It was skilfully and powerfully carried on. Who beat?
The opposition. The bill was lost.
Matters looked dark enough. Judging from appearances the enterprise was laid on the shelf, and the day of railways long put off. As for poor Stephenson, his short day of favour seemed about gone. His being called a madman and regarded as a fool, as he had been by the opposition, was not without its effect upon his newly-made friends. Their faith in him sensibly cooled. But he did not lose faith in himself, not he. He had waited long for the triumph of his engine, and he could wait longer. A great blessing to the nation was locked up in it he well knew, and the nation would have it some time, in spite of everything.
Was the enterprise a second time to be abandoned? No, no. Taking breath, its friends again started on their feet. Never give up, was their motto, for they were in earnest. They rallied, and met in London to consult what to do next.
Mr. Huskisson, a member of parliament for Liverpool, came into the meeting and urged them to try again—to try at the next session of parliament.
"Parliament must in the end grant you an act," he said, "if you are determined to have it." And try they determined to, for a horse railroad at least.
For this purpose another and more careful survey had to be made.
Stephenson was left out. A known man must be had. They meant to get surveyors and engineers with well-established reputations to back them up, Stephenson was too little known. He had no fame beyond a little circle in one corner of the kingdom. How did he feel to be thus thrown in the background? George was not a man to grumble; he was too noble to complain. In fact, you see, he was ahead of the times—too far ahead to be understood and appreciated. He could afford to wait.
Two brothers by the name of Rennie were appointed in his stead. In time the new survey was finished, the plans drawn, and the expense reckoned up. Changes were made in the route. Ill-tempered land-owners were left on one side, and every ground of complaint avoided that could be.
The new bill was then carried to parliament, and went before the committee in March the next year. The opposition was strong indeed, but less furious. Much of its bitterness was gone. It made a great show of fears, which the advocates of the bill felt it was not worth while to waste words in answering. They left it to the road to answer them. Build it, and see.
Mr. Huskisson and others supported it in a strong and manly tone, and after a third reading the bill passed in the House of Commons. So far so good. It then had to go to the House of Lords. What would befall it there? The same array of evidence on both sides was put forward. The poor locomotive engine, which had proved such a bugbear in the House of Commons, was regarded as quite a harmless affair by most of the lords; and the opposition made such poor work in showing off its dangers that no plea in its behalf was called for. They were satisfied, they said, and the bill passed almost unanimously, Victory! Victory!
The victory cost more than four thousand five pound bank-notes! For a first cost it looked large. But nothing worth doing can be done without effort, and effort made on faith. Nothing done, nothing have.
CHAPTER VII.
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.