CHAPTER VIII.

ROBERT'S RETURN—A CURIOUS ENCOUNTER—THE PRIZE ENGINE.

One step forward; yes, a great one too, Stephenson thought. His beloved locomotive was to have a chance of being properly introduced to the great English public; and he felt that it only needed to be known to be valued. The building of it was a matter of no small moment, and he wanted above all things a tried and skilful hand to superintend and put into its construction every conceivable improvement. It must be the best engine yet built.

Where should he find the right man? No one would answer like his son Robert, and Robert he determined to send for. Robert, you remember, went to South America three years before. There he had regained his health, and on receiving his father's letter made immediate preparations to return to England.

On his way, at a poor little comfortless inn, in a poor little comfortless seaport on the gulf of Darien, where he was waiting to take ship, he met two strangers, one evidently an Englishman, who by his appearance looked as if the world had gone hard with him. A fellow-feeling drew the young man towards his poor countryman, and on inquiry, who should it prove to be, but the old Cornwall tin-miner, Captain Trevethick, whose first steam-carriage awoke so much curiosity in London nearly a quarter of a century before.

He had sown his idea to the winds. Others had caught it up, cherished it, pondered over it, examined it, dissected it, improved it, embodied it, and by patient study and persistent endeavour had reduced it to a practical force. And Robert Stephenson was now on his way to inaugurate it as one of the great commercial values of the kingdom and of the world. The poor inventor, what had he done meanwhile? While others worked had he slept? Oh, no! He had tried an easier and shorter road to fame and fortune. You remember he left his "dragon," as some people called his locomotive, in London, quite careless what became of it, and went scheming and speculating in other things. Several years after, in a shop window, it attracted the attention of a French gentleman passing by. He was from Peru, and had just come to England to get a steam-engine for pumping water from some gold-diggings in the new world. Delighted with the model, he bought it for twenty guineas. Taking it with him to Lima, an engine was built on the plan of it, which worked admirably. The gentleman was then sent back to England to hunt up and bring out the inventor himself. The captain was found, and came forth from his obscurity into sudden notice and demand. The gentleman engaged him to make five pumping-engines according to his model, which he did, and shipped them to Lima, the captain himself soon following.

At Lima he was received with great honours, and a public rejoicing. A guard of honour was appointed to wait on him; and in view of the wealth he was supposed to be able to engineer from their mines, a massive silver statue of him, as the benefactor of Peru, began to be talked of.

Of course poor Trevethick thought his fortune made, and no doubt looked back with pity on his humble English life. Friends at home spread the news of his successes, and when they stated that the smallest estimate of his yearly income amounted to one hundred thousand pounds, no wonder he was pronounced a success! Tardier steps to fortune seemed tedious; and many of his old associates perhaps sighed over the wholesome toil of a slower-paced prosperity.

Years passed on, and the poor captain next turns up at Cartagena, penniless and pitiable. In crossing the country he had lost everything. Fording rivers, penetrating forests, and fighting wild beasts, had left him little else than a desire to reach England again; and Robert Stephenson gave him fifty pounds to help him home. Sudden fortunes are apt as suddenly to vanish; while those accumulated by the careful husbandry of economy, industry, and foresight reward without waste. So character is stronger than reputation. For one is built on what we are, the other on what we seem to be; and, like a shadow, reputation may be longer or shorter, or only a distorted outline of character. One holds out, because it is real; the other often disappears, because it is but shadow.

Robert reached home in December, 1827, right heartily welcomed, we may well believe, by his father, who was thankful to halve the burden of responsibility with such a son. To build the prize locomotive was his work.

Stephenson had long been a partner in a locomotive factory at Newcastle, which had hitherto proved a losing concern to the owners. There was little or no market for their article, and they struggled on, year after year, waiting for better times. Nobody saw better times but Stephenson. He saw them ahead, shooting through the gloomy clouds of indifference and prejudice. And now, he calculated, it was very near. So he sent Robert to Newcastle to take charge of the works there, and construct an engine that would make good all his words.

It was a critical moment, but he had no fears of the result. Robert often came to Liverpool to consult with his father, and long and interesting discussions took place between father and son concerning the best modes of increasing and perfecting the powers of the mechanism. One thing wanted was greater speed; and this could only be gained by increasing the quantity and the quality of the steam. For this effect a greater heating surface was necessary, and mechanics had long been experimenting to find the best and most economical boiler for high-pressure engines.

Young James, son of Mr. James, who, when the new Liverpool and Manchester route was talked of, was the first to discover and acknowledge George Stephenson's genius, made the model of an improved boiler, which he showed to the Stephensons. Perhaps he was one of the boys who went to Killingworth with his father to see the wonders of "Puffing Billy," and whose terrors at the snorting monster were only smoothed by a pleasant and harmless ride on his back. Whether this gave him a taste for steam-engines we do not know. At any rate, he introduces himself to our notice now, with a patented model of an improved boiler in his hand, which Stephenson thinks it may be worth his while to make trial of. "Try it," exclaimed the young inventor, "try it, and there will be no limit to your speed. Think of thirty miles an hour!"

"Don't speak of thirty miles an hour," rejoined Stephenson; "I should not dare talk about such a thing aloud." For I suppose he could hardly forget how parliamentary committees had branded him as a fool and a madman for broaching such beliefs.

The improved boiler was what is called a multitubular boiler. You do not understand that, I suppose. An iron boiler is cast, six feet long, and three feet and a third in diameter. It is to be filled half full of water. Through this lower half there run twenty-five copper tubes, each about three inches in diameter, opened at one end to the fire, through which the heat passes to the chimney at the other end. You see this would present a great deal of heating surface to the water, causing it to boil and steam off with great rapidity. The invention was not a sudden growth, as no inventions are. Fire-tubes serving this use started in several fertile minds about the same time, and several persons claimed the honour of the invention; but it was Stephenson's practical mind which put it into good working order, and made it available; for he told Robert to try it in his new locomotive.

He did. The tubes were of copper, manufactured by a Newcastle coppersmith, and carefully inserted into the ends of the boiler by screws. Water was put into the boiler, and in order to be sure there was no leaking, a pressure was put on the water; when lo, the water squirted out at every screw, and the factory floor was deluged. Poor Robert was in despair. He sat down and wrote his father that the whole thing was a failure.

A failure indeed! Back came a letter by the next post telling him to "go ahead and try again!" The letter, moreover, suggested a remedy for the disaster—fastening the tubes into the boiler by fitting them snugly into holes bored for the purpose, and soldering up the edges. And it proved to be precisely what Robert himself had thought of, after the first bitter wave of disappointment had subsided. So he took heart and went to work again. Success crowned his efforts. A heavy pressure was put on the water, and not a drop oozed out. The boiler was quite water-tight.

This is precisely the kind of boiler now in use: some have fifty tubes; the largest engines one hundred and fifty.

Various other improvements were incorporated into the new engine, which, as you do not probably understand much about machinery, will not particularly interest you.

At last the new engine was finished. It weighed only four tons and a quarter, little less than two tons under the weight required by the directors. The tender, shaped like a waggon, carried wood in one end and water in the other.

It was forthwith put on the Killingworth track, fired up, and started off. Robert must have watched its operations with intense anxiety. Nothing could have met his expectations like the new boiler. It in fact outdid his highest hopes. The steam made rapidly, and in, what seemed to him then, marvellous quantities. Away went a letter to Liverpool that very evening.

"The 'Rocket' is all right and ready," wrote the young man joyfully. That was the engine's name, "Rocket," on account of its speed perhaps. "Puffing Billy" was quite cast into a shade.

It was shortly shipped to Liverpool in time for the grand trial.

The trial, rapidly approaching, elicited a great and general interest. The public mind was astir. The day fixed was the first of October. Engineers, mechanics, and scientific men, far and near, flocked to Liverpool. The ground where the exhibition was to take place was a level piece of railroad two miles long, a little out of the city. Each engine was to make twenty trips at a rate of speed not under ten miles an hour, and three competent men were appointed as judges.

Four engines were entered on the list, "The Novelty," "Sans-Pareil," "The Rocket," "Perseverance."

Several others were built for the occasion in different parts of the kingdom, or rather projected and begun, but were not finished in time.

In order to afford ample opportunity for their owners to get them in good working order, the directors postponed the trial to October 6th. The day arrived, and a glance at the country round showed that an unusual occasion was drawing people together. Multitudes from the neighbouring towns assembled on the grounds at an early hour. The road was lined with carriages, and a high staging afforded the ladies an opportunity of witnessing the novel race.

The "Novelty" and "Sans-pereil," though first on the list, were not ready at the hour appointed. What engine was? The "Rocket." Stephenson, next on the roll, was called for by the judges, and promptly the little "Rocket" fired up at the call. It performed six trips in about fifty-three minutes.

The "Novelty" then proclaimed itself ready. It was a light, trim engine, of little more than three tons weight, carrying its wood and water with it. It took no load, and ran across the course sometimes at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour. The "Sans-pareil" also came out.

The "Perseverance," not able to go faster than five or six miles an hour, withdrew from the contest. As the day was now far spent, further exhibition was put off till the morrow.

What exciting discussion must have taken place among rival competitors and their friends! What a scrutiny of the merits and demerits, the virtues and defects, of opposing engines!

Before the appointed hour the next day the bellows of the "Novelty" gave out, and as this was one of its merits—a bellows to increase the draft of the air-blast—its builders were forced to retire from the list.

Soon after a defect was discovered in the boiler of the "Sans-pareil." Mr. Hackworth begged for time to mend it; as there was no time, none could be granted, and he, too, withdrew his claims.

The "Rocket" alone stood its ground. The "Rocket," therefore, was called for. Stephenson attached to it a carriage large enough to hold a party of thirty, and drove his locomotive along the line at the rate of twenty-five and thirty miles an hour, to the amazement and delight of every one present.

The next morning it was ordered to be in readiness to answer the various specifications of the offer. It snorted and panted, and steamed over the race-ground in proud trim, drawing about thirteen tons weight. In twenty trips, backward and forward, its greatest speed was twenty-nine miles an hour, three times greater than Nicholas Wood, one of the judges, declared to be possible. Its average rate was fifteen miles, five miles beyond the rate specified for the prize. The performance appeared astonishing. Spectators were filled with wonder. The poor directors began to see fair weather; doubts were solved, disputes settled; the "Rocket" had cleared the track for them. There could no longer be any question how to run the road. George Cropper, who had steadily countenanced stationary engines, lifted up his hands, exclaiming, "Stephenson has at last delivered himself!"

The two other locomotives, however, were allowed to reappear on the stage; but both broke down, and the "Rocket" remained victor to the last. It had performed, and more than performed, all it promised, fulfilled all the conditions of the directors' offer, and was accordingly declared to have nobly earned the prize, five hundred pounds.

But the money was little compared to the profound satisfaction which the Stephensons felt at this public acknowledgment of the worth of their life-long labours. George's veracity, skill, and intelligence had all been doubted, denied, and derided by men of all classes. Even old friends turned against him, and thought his mind was crazed by "one idea." He had to struggle on alone; faithful to his convictions, patiently biding his time, yet earnestly pleading his cause on every suitable occasion. He had a blessing for the world, and he knew when it felt its want of it, it would have it. That time had come. The directors flocked around him with flattering congratulations. All shyness and coolness vanished. Friends were no longer few. The shares of the company immediately rose ten per cent. Men and means were at his disposal. George Stephenson was a happy man.

The "Rocket" had blown stationary engines to the winds. And steam that day, on the land as well as the water, took its place as one of the grand moving powers of the world.

CHAPTER IX.

OPENING OF THE NEW ROAD—DIFFICULTIES VANISH—A NEW ERA.

There was no more waiting for work at the locomotive factory in Newcastle. Orders immediately arrived from the directors to build eight large engines for the new road, and all the workshops were astir with busy life. The victorious little "Rocket" was put on the road, and sensibly helped to finish it. Neither faith, men, nor means were now wanting, and the labour in every part went heartily on.

In June a meeting of the directors was held in Manchester, when the "Rocket" made a trip from Liverpool to that city with a freight and passenger train, running through in two hours. Chat Moss never quivered; and the directors, I daresay, would have been very glad to forget their disconsolate meeting on the edge of it, when they nearly voted themselves beaten by the bog, only Stephenson would not let them.

On the 15th of September, 1830, there was to be a public opening of the road, and preparations were made at each end, and all along the way, for the grand event. The occasion awakened a deep and universal interest. It was justly regarded as a national event, to be celebrated with becoming honours. The Duke of Wellington, then Prime Minister, was present; also Sir Robert Peel and Mr. Huskisson, whose stirring words revived the drooping spirits of the directors after their defeat in parliament, and whose influence served to get their bill successfully through at last. No one, perhaps, had watched the progress of the enterprise with deeper interest than Mr. Huskisson, or rejoiced more in the vanquishing of one difficulty after another to its final finishing. Great numbers came from far and near, who, assembling by the slow mode of travel of those days, took time accordingly.

Carriages lined the roads and lanes; the river was crowded with boats; and soldiers and constables had their hands full to keep the people from the track.

The new locomotives, eight in number, having been faithfully tested, steamed proudly up. The "Northumbrian," driven by George Stephenson, took the lead. Next the "Phœnix," under Robert's charge; then the "North Star," by a brother of George. The "Rocket," and the rest, with their trains, followed. Six hundred persons were in this procession, flying at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour! Oh, the wonder and admiration which the spectacle excited! These noble steam-horses panting, prancing, snorting, puffing, blowing, shooting through tunnels, dashing across bridges, coursing high embankments, and racing over the fields and far away. England and the world never saw before a sight like that.

But the joy and the triumph of the occasion were destined to be dampened by a terrible disaster. At Parkenside, seventeen miles from Liverpool, the "Northumbrian," which carried the Duke and his party, was drawn up on one track, in order to allow the other trains to pass in review before them on the other. Mr. Huskisson alighted, and, standing outside, was talking with the Duke, when a hurried cry of "Get in! get in!" went up from the bystanders; for on came the "Rocket," steaming along at full speed. Mr. Huskisson, startled and confused, attempted to regain the carriage an instant too late; he was struck down, and the "Rocket" went over him.

"I have met my death!" exclaimed the unfortunate statesman; which, alas! proved but too true, for he died that evening.

A sad confusion prevailed. The body of the wounded gentleman was lifted into the car, or carriage as it then was, and the "Northumbrian" took him over the track home, a distance of fifteen miles, in about twenty minutes. So swiftly and easily done! The use rather than the abuse of the new power made the strongest impression.

The mournful accident threw a cloud over the occasion. The Duke wished to stop the celebration, and immediately return to Liverpool. Mr. Huskisson's friends joined with him in the wish. Others felt that Manchester should not be disappointed in witnessing the arrival of the trains, and that the accident might become magnified and misrepresented, and thus operate mischievously upon public sentiment in relation to railroads; the party therefore consented to proceed to their journey's end, but were unwilling to mingle in any of the rejoicings common to such occasions.

But the railroad needed no such demonstrations to prove its worth. It had within itself more substantial proof. Time was saved; labour was saved; money was saved. Coal, cotton, and every article of merchandise useful to men could be carried cheaper, could be had cheaper, than ever before, and, what was better, had in quantities sufficient to satisfy the industry and necessities of men. And with cheapness was combined comfort and safety. The first eighteen months seven hundred thousand persons were carried over the road, and not an accident happened.

But were not people frightened by the smoke, cinders, fire, and noise of the engines, as the opposition in Parliament declared they would be? No, no. It was not long before everybody wanted land near the track; and land, therefore, near the road rapidly rose in value. The farmers who had scouted the surveyors from their fields now complained of being left on one side; and those who had farms near the stations to rent rented them at a much higher rate than ever before. Barren lots became suddenly profitable, and even Chat Moss was turned into productive acres.

In 1692 an old writer states, "There is an admirable commodiousness both for men and women of the better rank to travel from London, the like of which has not been known in the world; and that is, by stage-coaches, wherein one may be transferred to any place, sheltered from foul weather, with a velocity and speed equal to the fastest posts in foreign countries; for the stage-coaches called 'Flying-coaches' make forty or fifty miles a day."

An English paper, bearing the date of January, 1775, has this advertisement, "Hereford Machine. In a day and a half, twice a week, continues flying from the 'Swan' in Hereford, Monday and Thursday, to London."

What would the people of those days say to a railroad carriage, especially on the "Lightning Train?"

The first stage-coach between Boston and New York began, June 24, 1772, to run once a fortnight, starting on the thirteenth, and arriving on the twenty-eighth, fifteen days' travel. Now the distance is gone over in less than the same number of hours. And so the first stage-coach between New York and Philadelphia, begun in 1756, occupied three days in the journey. Three days dwindle down to three hours in the train.

In the Scriptures we find Isaiah with prophetic eye looking over the centuries to these later times, and penning down, "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain;" and "swift messengers" are seen executing the world's affairs—no meagre description of the great means of intercourse in our day, the railway and telegraph. The prophet saw in it a clearing of the track for the coming kingdom of the Redeemer, which is, some time, to spread over the whole earth as "the waters cover the sea." Men make good tools and instruments for themselves. They forget they are perfecting them for God also, who is using them, and who will use them to make known the precious Gospel of His Son, "peace on earth, and good will to men."

What powerful preachers for the Sabbath are the railway and telegraph, doing away with all necessity and every excuse for Sabbath travelling, as they do. Long journeys and the most urgent business can be done between Sabbath and Sabbath, giving a rest-day to the nation. And this view of them is deserving more and more regard.

The institution of the Sabbath was founded with the human race. It was meant to be the rest-day of the entire world. It was set up as a blessing: "The Lord blessed the Sabbath-day, and hallowed it." The bodies of man and beast need it. The muscles, bones, nerves, sinews, and brain cannot endure the strain of constant and uninterrupted work. It is a day of making up the waste of the animal frame under continual labour and excitement. Night rest is not enough. The God of nature and the God of the Sabbath has fitted the one to the other.

When the knowledge of God had faded out of the earth, and God chose a people to restore and preserve it, besides a code of national laws particularly for them, He enacted from Sinai a code of moral laws for man. Among them was the rest-law of the Sabbath. It is the Fourth Commandment of the Decalogue, taught in all our Sabbath-schools, pulpits, and homes: "Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy: in it thou shalt do no work," man or beast. Farther, God promises great reward to those who call "the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable * * not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words, but delighting thyself in the Lord;" showing not only the rest-use of the Sabbath, but its soul-use, as a day of special intercourse with God.

"The Sabbath was made for man," says Jesus Christ; and the Christian Sabbath incorporated into it the finishing of the great plan of our redemption, when Christ,

left the tomb and ascended to heaven. Thus it is appropriately called "the Lord's day," the day when our worldly business is to be set aside, and Christ presses His claims upon the hearts and consciences of men. It is a break in the hurrying whirl of this life's interests, to consider the solemn issues of eternity, and that Atoning Love which is mighty to save all who, by repentance and faith, accept its terms of mercy.

We find it was on the observance or desecration of the Sabbath that the prosperity of the Hebrew nation hung. "You bring wrath upon the nation," cried Nehemiah to the Sabbath-breaking traders. "This very profanation has been the cause of our disasters in times past." For Sabbath profanation leads to forgetfulness of God; and God left out, what becomes of man? Ruin stares him in the face. "The ungodly shall not prosper." What becomes of a nation? Ruin. They shall be left to their own doings. The French nation blotted out the Sabbath, and showed what it was to be left of God.

When an African prince sent an ambassador to Queen Victoria with costly presents, and asked her to tell him in return the secret of England's greatness and England's glory, presenting him with a copy of the Bible, the queen replied, "Tell your prince that this is the secret of England's greatness."

If this is true of England, much more must it prove true of America. For all our institutions, all our civil and religious interests, month by month and year by year, are in the hands of and are subject to the will of the people. What ought such a people to be. Pre-eminently they need the morality of the Bible, the conscience and the self-restraint which the Bible enjoins; and for this purpose they must vigorously support the institutions of the Bible. Foremost in the foreground is the Sabbath. It has come down to us through the ages, the great anniversary-day of a finished creation and a completed atonement, summoning men to call on the name of the Lord, and bless and praise His holy name.

On its observance the highest moral education of the people depends. Every railroad corporation is bound to be a Sabbath-keeping corporation. It makes time enough to do its work. The nature of its work demands responsible men. An immense amount of property is in its hands, requiring officers of scrupulous integrity to manage its interests. The gross receipts of eight of the railways terminating in London are over two hundred and fifty thousand pounds a week.

It has the life and limbs of thousands upon thousands entrusted to its charge, at the mercy of its employers, engineers, firemen, brakemen, switchmen, the recklessness or unfaithfulness of any of whom can bring sudden death to scores, and plunge a nation into mourning. These men, to be kept the right men, need the Sabbath. To be honest, responsible, vigilant, true, God-fearing men, fit for their posts of duty, they must have the Sabbath.

Many roads are Sabbath-keeping. Some of those which do run on that day are poorly paid. Carrying the mail helps them out. They run, perhaps, for that purpose. But is it necessary to keep up Sabbath violation on our great routes in order to forward the mail? Does not the Saturday telegraph do away with that necessity? Every important item of business can be put through on the wires in time.

The side of the Sabbath is the side of God.

What became of George Stephenson and his son Robert? the boys will have the curiosity to ask.

George and Robert Stephenson took their rank among the great men of England—that class of great men who contribute to the true prosperity of the world, by giving it better tools to do its labour with. A good tool is a great civilizer. The more perfect the instrument, the better the work. The more perfect the instrument, the greater the number of persons benefited: for the sagacity necessary to invention and discovery, and the intelligence required to mature them, are large-hearted and broad-minded. They work for the many, not the few.

The history of railways in England it is not my object to give you, and that enters largely into the remaining period of George Stephenson's life; you will find it fully detailed in Smiles' life of him. He became rich and famous, yet he always preserved the simple habits and tastes of his early days. Though asked to dine at the richly-spread tables of lords and baronets, no dish suited his taste better than his frugal oatmeal "crowdie," and no cook served it better than himself. Kings and queens thought it a privilege to talk with him. Liverpool erected a statue of him. The King of Belgium knighted him. But he cared little for honours. When somebody, wishing to dedicate a book to him, asked what his "ornamental initials" were, "I have to state," replied he, "that I have no flourishes to my name, either before or after. I think it will be as well if you merely say, 'George Stephenson.'"

Young men beginning life often called upon him for advice and assistance. He hated show and foppery, and a weakness in that direction often got reproof. One day one came flourishing a gold-headed cane. "Put by that stick, my man," said Stephenson, "and I will talk with you."

"You will, sir, I hope, excuse me," he said, on another occasion, to a gaily-dressed youth; "I am plain spoken, and am sorry to see a clever young man like you disfigured by that fine-patterned waistcoat, and all those chains and fang-dangs. If I, sir, had bothered my head with those things when I was of your age I should not have been where I now am."

Wholesome as were his reproofs, his counsel was as reliable, and his help as timely. From the mine of his own rugged experience he had gathered truths richer than grains of gold; and he never allowed any good opportunity to pass without insisting upon the practice of those homelier and sterner virtues which form the strong woof of character. When building a road between Birmingham and London, Robert walked twenty times over the entire route, illustrating the patient assiduity taught him by his father. No slip-shod work could escape their eye. "Neglect nothing," was their motto. As a Killingworth collier, George put his brains and his heart into his work; as a master-builder, he put his conscience into it. All his work was honest, representing the actual character of the man.

When the rough and tumble of life began to subside, and he became a more stationary engine, with greater leisure for the enjoyment of his now ample home, his old love for birds, dogs, horses, and rabbits revived. There was not a bird's nest upon his grounds that he did not know, and he often watched their building with a builder's interest; a blade of grass, a bit of bark, a nest of birds, an ant tugging for one poor grain, were all to his mind revelations of the wonderful mechanism and creative power of God.

He died in August, 1848, in the sixty-seventh year of his age.

Robert proved himself worthy of such a father. They were alike in character, intimately associated in the great engineering enterprises of their day, and bound to each other by the fondest affection.

George built roads, Robert bridges to run them over; for railroads have given birth to the most stupendous and splendid bridges the world ever saw. The famous tubular bridge over the Straits of Menai, connecting Holyhead with the main land, and the High Level bridge of Newcastle, built by him, are monuments of engineering skill. You often see pictures of them. The most remarkable work of his genius, however, is on the American side of the Atlantic ocean.

The Grand Trunk Railway of Canada, terminating at Montreal, wanted to connect with the seaboard; and the road was extended from Montreal to Portland, Maine. But the river St. Lawrence, deep and broad, sweeping down its mighty current the waters and ice of the great lakes, broke the line, and separated the road into two parts. The river must be spanned. A bridge must be built. It was a stupendous undertaking, but Robert Stephenson can do it. Robert Stephenson did do it. It is thrown from Languire to a point half a mile below the city, a distance of nearly two miles. It is composed of twenty-four spans, and has three million feet of solid masonry in it. The road runs through iron tubes, sixty feet above the river, and the train is nine minutes going across. There are ten thousand tons of iron in the tubes. It was six years in building. It is called the Goliath of bridges, and is named the Victoria Bridge, in honour of the Queen.

TUBULAR BRIDGE OVER THE MENAI STRAITS.

Robert drafted, calculated, estimated, and superintended section after section of this immense work, and yet never visited the scene of labour; photographs were sent him of its progress step by step. It was finished December, 1859, and opened with all the festal honours possible in that season of the year. At the entertainments given there was one sentiment: "Robert Stephenson, the greatest engineer the world ever saw," followed by no cheers. A deep hush swept over the assembly.

For Robert Stephenson was dead. He died the twelfth of October, two months before the full completion of the work, in the rich prime of a noble manhood. His death was looked upon as a public calamity, and England, with a true sense of his worth, laid him side by side with her most honourable dead. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, with her kings and queens, her princes and poets, her warriors and statesmen. The funeral procession was between two and three miles long; thousands lined the streets, and thousands pressed into the Abbey. Tickets were necessary in order to get entrance; and one of the most pressing applicants was a humble working-man, who, years before, drove the first locomotive engine from Birmingham to London, with Robert Stephenson at his elbow.

The humble Newcastle collier-boy crowned his life with honourable toil, and at his death a nation mourned a great man fallen.

You have read this short history with great interest, I doubt not, my young friends; and some I hear say, "I wish I could achieve some great and useful work in the world, and have my name written in a book."

It is not a mean aspiration. Every noble spirit desires to be better and greater than it is, and God gives to each of you a great and precious work to do.

You have a Saviour to serve and glorify, and heaven to win, which is indeed our great life-work here.

The Lord Jesus, having bought our redemption by His own blood on the cross, has set up His kingdom in the world, and says to you and to every one, "Son, give Me thy heart."

And there is but one true purpose to make before every other purpose in life: "As for me, I will serve the Lord." If by true repentance and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ you give yourself to Him, the noblest life is before you. This work will bless all other work. This path will make all other paths safe. No matter what your situation in this world may be, high or low, rich or poor, your Master is most honoured by godliness and humility, and they are out of place nowhere.

The world is so poor that it can give its honours to but a few. God, in His infinite richness, offers heaven to us all; and by the gift of His Holy Spirit, for which we must ever pray, a life of piety is within the reach even of a little child.

The steady trust and singleness of purpose which have so delighted you in the lives of the Stephensons, may you have, my children, in the service of your blessed Lord, who will make you victorious over every hindrance, and bring you safe to His sweet presence in heaven at last.

There you will find your name written in the Lamb's Book of Life, never, never to perish.

George Watson and Co., Printers, 28, Charles Street, Farringdon Road, London.