The Rocket: The Story of the Stephensons, Father and Son Page 2

  CHAPTER I.

  LIFE AMONG THE COAL PITS.

  What useful little fellow is this, carrying his father's dinner to himat the coal-pit? He takes care, also, of his little brothers andsisters, keeping them clear of the coal-waggons, which run to and frobefore the cottage door. Then he is seen tending a neighbour's cows.Now, he is moulding mud engines, putting in hemlock sticks forblow-pipes; besides cutting many a good caper, and uttering all sorts ofdrolleries for the benefit of other little boys, who like himself swarmround, too poor to go to school, if school there were—but schools therewere none.

  The boys called him "Geordie Steve."

  A lad is wanted to shut the coal-yard gates after work is over. Geordieoffers his services and gets the post, earning by it twopence a day. Aneighbour hires him to hoe turnips at fourpence. He is thankful to earna bit, for his parents are poor, and every little helps. He sees workahead, however, more to his taste. What? He longs to be big enough to goand work at the coal-pits with his father. For the home of this littlefellow, as you already perceive, is in a coal region. It is in the coaldistrict of Newcastle, in the north-eastern part of England.

  EARLY WORK.]

  I suppose you never visited a colliery? Coal is found in beds and veinsunder ground. Deep holes are made, down which the miners go and dig itout; it is hoisted out by means of steam-engines. These holes are calledshafts. The pit-men have two enemies to encounter down in thecoal-pits—water, and a kind of gas which explodes on touching the flameof a candle. The water has to be pumped out; and miners are now providedwith a lamp, called a safety-lamp, which is covered with a fine wiregauze to keep the gas away from the flame.

  SAFETY LAMP.]

  The coal is brought up from the pit in baskets, loaded on waggonsrunning on tram-roads, and sent to the sheds. Tram-roads were a sort ofwooden railway. A colliery is a busy and odd-looking spot.

  Geordie's family lived in one room—father, mother, four boys, and twogirls. Snug quarters, one would think; but the working-men of England atthat time had smaller wages and poorer homes than they now have—forGeordie was born in 1781, in the little village of Wylam, seven milesfrom Newcastle, and his full name is George Stephenson.

  BIRTHPLACE OF GEORGE STEPHENSON.]

  James, an elder brother, is "picker;" and by-and-by George is old enoughto be a picker too, going with his father and brother to their dailytasks, like a man. To clear the coal of stones and dross is theirbusiness. There are a number of pits around, and each one has aname,—"Dolly Pit," "Water-run Pit," and so on.

  I do not know how long he was picker, but we next find him driving agin-horse, at a pit two miles off, across the fields. Away he goes inthe early morning, gladdened all along by many bird songs. George andthe birds are fast friends. He knows where their nests are in thehedgerows, and watches over them with fatherly affection. At home he hastame birds, whose pretty, knowing ways are the wonder of theneighbourhood. For many years a tame blackbird was as much one of thefamily as George himself, coming and going at pleasure, and roosting atnight over his head. Sometimes it spent the summer in the woods, but wassure to come back with cold weather, to share his care and crumbsthrough the winter.

  George, too, had a famous breed of rabbits; and as for his dog, it wasone of the most accomplished and faithful creatures in the district. Infact, the boy had an insight into dumb-brute nature, as we shall find hehad into other things, that gave him power over it—a power which henever abused, but used kindly and well.

  George next rose to be assistant fireman with his father, at a shillinga day. He was fourteen, but so small of his age that he used to hidewhen the inspector came round, lest he should be thought too small forhis wages. If small in body, he was large in heart, intent in all thingsto _do his best_. And this made his work so well done, that it could notescape the notice of his employers. When he went to the office onSaturday night to receive his wages, double pay was given him—twelveinstead of six shillings! George could scarcely believe in his goodluck. When he found it was really no mistake, he took the money andrushed out of the office, exclaiming, "I am now a made man for life!"

  George rapidly shot ahead of his father, a kind old man, who alwaysstayed fireman, while his boy climbed one round after another up theladder of promotion. At seventeen we find him plugman. What duty isthat? A plugman has charge of a pumping-engine, and when the water inthe pit is below the suction-holes, he goes down the shaft and plugs thetube, in order to make the pump more easily draw. The post required moreskill and knowledge of machinery than any he had filled before, and heproved himself equal to it.

  Indeed, he loves his engine as he loves his birds. It is a pet with him.He keeps it in prime order. He takes it to pieces, and cleans it, andstudies it; pries into the whys and wherefores, and is never satisfieduntil he understands every spring and cog of the machinery, and gets themastery of it. You never find him idling away his time. In leisuremoments he is at his old kink, moulding clay engines, and putting newthoughts into them.

  He wished to know the history of engines, and how they were thought outat first. Somebody told him about Watt, the father of steam-power, andthat there were books which would satisfy his curiosity. Books! whatgood would books do poor George? He cannot read. Not read? No. He iseighteen, and hardly knows his letters. Few of the colliers did. Theywere generally an ignorant, hard-working, clannish set of men, whosepay-day was a holiday, when their hard-won earnings were squandered atcock-fights and in ale-houses.

  If one was found who _did_ read, what a centre of light was he! At nightthe men and boys gathered around him, when, by the light of his enginefire, he would give them the news from an old newspaper, or a scrap ofknowledge from some stray magazine, or a wild story from an odd volume;and on these occasions no one listened with more profound attention thanGeorge.

  Oh! it was so wonderful to read, he thought. It was to open the gatesinto great fields of knowledge. Read he must. The desire grew upon himstronger and stronger. In the neighbouring hamlet of Welbottle, oldRobin Cowens taught an evening school.

  "I'll go," cried George.

  "And I too," echoed Tommy Musgrove, a fellow-workman, quite carried awayby George's enthusiasm.

  Now they went to Robin's school three evenings a week. I do not know howit was with Tommy, but old Robin never had a better scholar than George;indeed, he soon outlearned his master! His schooling cost him threepencea week, and, poor as it was, put into his hand the two keys ofknowledge, reading and writing.

  These mastered, he longs to use them. Andrew Robertson opens an eveningschool nearer than Welbottle, and Andrew proposes to teach arithmetic, abranch George is anxious to grapple with next. "And he took to figurin'wonderful," said Master Andrew, speaking of his new scholar, who soonleft his classmates far behind. And no wonder. Every spare moment toGeorge was more precious than gold dust, and was used accordingly. Whennot on duty, he sits by his engine and works out his sums. No beer-shopever enticed him to its cups; no cock-fight ever tempted him to be itsspectator. He hated everything low and vulgar.

  AT SCHOOL.]

  Andrew was proud of his pupil, and when George removed to another pit,the old schoolmaster shifted his quarters and followed him. His booksdid not damage his interest in business. Was the plugman going to stayplugman? No. Bill Coe, a friend of his advanced to be a brakeman,offered to show George. The other workmen objected. And one inparticular stopped the working of the engine when George took hold ofit; "for," he cried angrily, "Stephenson can't brake, and is too clumsyever to learn."

  A brakeman has charge of an engine for raising coal from a pit. Thespeed of the ascending coal, brought up in large hazel-wood baskets, isregulated by a powerful wooden brake, acting on the rim of thefly-wheel, which must be stopped just when the baskets reach thesettle-board, where they are to be emptied. Brakemen were generallychosen from experienced engine-men of steady habits; and in spite of thegrumbling of older colliers, envious perhaps at his rise, it wa
s notlong before George learned, and was appointed brakeman at the Dolly Pit.This was in 1801.