If a town, or even a village, is of any importance nowadays it is sure to have within it or alongside it a railway station, a place that brings it into touch with the great outside world. Some seventy-five years ago there were no railways or railway-stations in Great Britain, or anywhere else, and people were content to post or coach along roads behind horses. But now times are changed, and it is not wonderful that the name of George Stephenson, the man who has opened up the country and spread lines upon it like a mighty network, is a name to-day that people look up to as one of the greatest inventors the world has ever known.

Most of us are fond of seeing the small beginnings of great endings, so it is natural enough that for us the tiny village of Wylam should be of deepest interest, for here George Stephenson first saw the light.

We cannot visit Wylam without feeling at once that we are in the heart of the colliery country. Newcastle’s lofty chimneys tower some eight miles off, and chimneys closer at hand belch forth great volumes of smoke and smut, and flaming furnaces shoot out lurid lights by night far across the country.

In a common little wayside house, just a labourer’s cottage, standing on the roadside, some 120 years ago a baby opened his eyes on a world that was to be rough enough at first for his young feet, though at last they were to land on the very topmost round of the ladder.

The second child of the fireman of the old pumping-engine of the colliery of Wylam, little George was born to grinding poverty. Time as it passed brought other children besides George to the Stephensons, and soon it came to be a question how the fireman and his wife and six children were to live on 12s. a week!

It was indeed a problem to solve and a struggle to face. When food had been got for the little mouths, what was left for clothes and schooling? Very little for the first, nothing for the second. No schooling certainly for little George, and so he spent his childhood between running errands for his mother and standing by his father’s engine fire, where the boys and girls of the village loved to gather to listen to old Robert’s wondrous tales, or to see the birds fed, for the old man loved birds of all kinds, and would save the crumbs from his own scant dinner to feed the robins. Here it was that baby George learned that early love of birds that lasted as long as life. As a boy he would catch and tame the blackbirds, and these would fly about the cottage all day, and at night come and roost at his bed-head. Years after, when he was an old man, he used to tell how, walking with his father one day, he parted some thick branches overhead and lifted the child in his arms that he might peep at a nest full of young blackbirds. It was a sight he never forgot.

But, baby though he was, his days were not all spent in play. At home there were seven younger brothers and sisters to be nursed and watched and kept out of the way of the heavy waggons that were dragged by horses along the tram-road in front of the house, and much of this fell to George’s share.

As the years passed the Stephenson family, obliged like other colliers “to follow the work,” moved to a place called Dewley Burn, and now as George had reached the age of eight he was ready to earn some money!

To show how smart and quick the child was for his years there has come down to us a pretty story.

He and his sister Nell had gone to Newcastle one day, and among their little commissions they were bent on buying Nell a new bonnet. They found the very thing she wanted in a shop, but the price was beyond their purse. It was 1s. 3d. over the mark, and the pair, sadly downcast, had to leave the shop. Standing crestfallen outside the boy suddenly exclaimed, “I have it! Wait here till I come back.” Off he darted, and Nell waited while the minutes wore to hours, and still he did not come. Just as she began to think he must either have been killed or run over he dashed up breathless and thrust the coveted 1s. 3d. into her hand.

“But where did you get it?” she asked, astonished.

“By holding gentlemen’s horses,” was the reply.

The child’s first situation at this time was with a woman who kept a farm and needed a boy to herd her cows and keep them out of the way of passing waggons. For this the little herd-boy was paid 2d. a day. How happy he was in long leisure hours to bird’s-nest or whittle whistles out of reeds, or in company with another boy—by-and-by, like himself, to be one of the world’s great engineers—to model toy engines out of clay, using hollowed corks for corves and hemlock stalks for steam pipes!

Soon George advanced a step in life. His work was still farm-work—hoeing turnips for 4d. a day, leading the plough horses when his little legs could hardly stride the furrows, and working in the dawning hours of day when other children slept.

But his heart was really at the engine fire or in the coal shaft. It was “bred in the bone,” and he gladly returned to the black, grimy life, and along with his brother became a coal-picker, separating stones and dross from the coal, and so earning 6d. a day.

By-and-by he was advanced to driving “the gin-horse,” a horse that travels round and round at the pit’s mouth drawing up and letting down by means of a rope wound round a drum, baskets of coal or buckets of water, and for this he was paid 8d. a day.

Long miles he had to walk every day to and from his work, “a grit-growing lad, with bare legs and feet,” and I think we may be sure there was not a bird’s nest on that familiar road that the little bird-lover did not know by heart.

His next rise was to a shilling a day. This was a great step up, and for this he had what was called a night shift, lading and unlading the coals as they came to the mouth of the pit, and reversing the rope to go down again. Monotonous enough work it was, but he held on to it for two years. And now another step up was at hand. It was a proud day for the boy—that Saturday afternoon when he was told that his wage had been raised to 12s. a week!

“I am a made man now,” he exclaimed in great delight.

And now he was seventeen years old. He had really stepped beyond his father both in wage and position. But there was one thing which he had yet to master. It may seem strange to us, but George could neither read nor write. It began to dawn upon him then that things about which he wanted to know—pumps and engines and the great world of mechanics—could only be learned from between the boards of books that were closed to him. But with George to realise an evil was to try at once to mend it. Inside the boy’s rough working jacket there beat a manly heart, with a great longing to make the most of his opportunities, to let no chance slip of doing his best.

So he actually went to school at nights—three times a week, spending 3d. out of his wages to be taught to read and write. He laboured on and made progress, and in time he wrote and read, and by-and-by he took another step and added to these arithmetic. With marvellous quickness he “caught on” to figures. In the long weary night shifts sitting by the blaze of the fire he would “work” the sums his master had “set” him or write his copies, just as years after, so eager was he to seize every opportunity that offered, he would many a time (in odd moments) chalk his sums on the sides of the coal waggons!

So little by little, by untiring labour and unwearied industry, by “neglecting nothing,” he rose. The miners who were his daily companions were, many of them, a rough lot. Their life was a hard one and their pleasures few, and on Saturday afternoons—pay-day—their amusements were cock-fighting, dog-fighting, and drinking in the ale-house, while the future great engineer might be found engaged in pulling to pieces his engine, cleaning it, getting to know it as we know the character, the habits, the face of our dearest friend, all the time laying in such a store of practical knowledge as was to serve him in good stead in time to come.

Not that George did not delight in exercise. Indeed, few of his companions could equal him in athletics. There was nothing he enjoyed like challenging them to feats of strength in throwing the hammer or in lifting heavy weights. And even in comparative old age he loved to engage in a wrestle with a friend.

About this time George had a favourite dog which he taught to fetch and carry his dinner in a pitcher tied round his neck. At the appointed hour the creature used to go straight to his master, turning neither to the right nor to the left. But one day he was beset with danger in the shape of a bigger dog with murder in its eye. George’s dog closed with it, and a deadly tussle began, but it beat the bully and came off victorious but bleeding. When he reached his master the pitcher was there, but the dinner was spilt; but George was prouder far, when an onlooker described the fight, of his dog’s courage than he would have been of the most sumptuous feast.

But in spite of his larger wage money was scarce, and George beat about in his own mind how he was to earn a few extra shillings. With keen eye ever on the outlook for what lay nearest, he lighted on the shoes of his fellow-workmen! He took to mending these, and he mended them so well that the pitmen soon got into the way of making George their cobbler. And from this he went on to making shoe-lasts for the village shoemaker. In this way it came to pass that in a fortnight’s time he would sometimes make as much as £2. When he had by long and careful labour saved his first guinea great was his delight. “I am now a rich man!” he said.

Yet another source of earning money was at hand. One day the chimney of his house went on fire, and being drenched with water, the soot and water together succeeded in damaging an eight-day clock that stood in his kitchen. Money was still scarce, and the watchmaker did not work without pay, so George set to work and took the clock to pieces, cleaned it, and put it together again. Rumours of this new “handiness” spread, and colliers from far and near sent their watches and clocks to him to doctor. It was almost as if nothing came amiss to these wonderful hands or, indeed, to that wonderful brain.

A wheezy engine pump, a clock out of gear, a pair of worn-out shoes—he had a remedy for all. Painstaking, conscientious, thorough—the work of the boy shadowed forth the success of the man.

If I had space I could tell you how, after he ceased to be a boy, he became a splendid man. That divine capacity—the creative faculty for making something out of nothing—that had been struggling long within him came to the surface, and he burst on the world as an Inventor.

The boon he gave to men—the thing with which his name will ever be linked in history—is the Locomotive Steam Engine.

What battles he fought for it when the country rose in arms and said they would rather hold by the old post-horses and coaches that had been good enough for their fathers! They were hard to convince. They declared if railways and trains came the country would be ruined. The engines would vomit forth smoke. No bird could live in the poisoned air. Game all over the country would be spoiled. The sparks that came from the engine would set fire to the houses near which they passed. Hens would stop laying! Cattle would cease to graze! The man who said he would send engines flying through the air at the rate of twenty miles an hour was a fool and a maniac!

Then Stephenson showed the same patience—for the world was long of being convinced—as he had done on those long night-shifts, sitting lonely by the engine fire and working out his sums, or as years later, when prospects were very dark and money scarce, he wept bitter tears, “for he knew not where his lot in life would be cast.”

But though only a self-taught mechanic, Stephenson stuck to his guns in the face of the most skilled engineers in the land. For two long months the thing hung in the balance. It came before the great House of Commons. George himself was put into the witness-box. Single-handed, undaunted, he faced a world that was all against him. And then he had to bear the great trial of his life. The Bill was thrown out of Parliament. But still he did not despair. He looked into the future, and he saw himself conqueror. The Bill was again brought forward and eventually passed. I could tell you then of his long course of triumphs. How his engine, “The Rocket,” won a £500 prize. How really the first seed of the Railway System of the world was sown then. How then he got leave to make a railway between Stockton and Darlington, and in time one between Manchester and Liverpool. How when, in 1830, the line was finished, people flocked in hundreds and thousands to see “a steam coach running upon a railway at three times the speed of a mail-coach.”

The people were carried away with excitement! The great steam-horse that we look at half a dozen times a day with indifference was thought to be the world’s greatest wonder. And George Stephenson was the hero of the hour. As the train neared Manchester, the people in their excitement broke all bounds, and even the military could not keep order, as they swarmed on the carriage like bees, and hung on to the handles, many of them being tumbled off, while shoutings and cheers went up from a thousand throats.

And now that he was successful, now that people praised where they had blamed, and pandered where they had scoffed, the man remained the same—modest, single-minded, just what he had been as the boy earning his shilling a day by driving the old “gin” horse at the pit’s mouth.

And now from the humble labourer’s cottage he had climbed to the highest heights of fame. He was the first mechanical genius in the eyes of the world. The greatest in the land rejoiced to honour him. From the depths of poverty he had risen to wealth. Honours flowed in upon him. But the “boy is father to the man,” and it was peculiarly true of George Stephenson.

“I never want,” he had said long years before, when he was earning £100 a year, and was able to keep a horse, “I never want to be higher.”

He was much the same as in those old days. There was no dazzling him with worldly display or worldly honours. He cared little for social distinctions. His instincts all along had been “to dwell among his own people.” It gave him the keenest pleasure to have a day at Newcastle among the scenes of his boyhood, looking up the simple friends of his youth. And his tastes, too, remained in many ways just the old simple ones. When he was an old man, and nearing the end of his pilgrimage, when he was surrounded by every luxury of table and otherwise, he would call for a “crowdie,” and with the basin of boiling water between his knees, would stir in the oatmeal with his own hands, watching it with great satisfaction, and then sup the whole with sweet milk, pronouncing it “capital.”

His last days were very peaceful. He removed from the swirling current of business life into a side eddy, when he was about sixty, to a place called Tapton, where he lived a quiet life, meditating among his beasts and birds and flowers, reading in each something of the beauty of the mind of a Greater Inventor than he. He took no part in business life, leaving it to his son, though now and then he would hear from afar echoes from the old world as the old war-horse scents the smoke of battle.

There was no long illness to mar the end of his splendid energetic life. Those who had known him in the full tide and flush of health had not the pain of noting either physical or mental decay. He was at a meeting in connection with engineering in July. Some weeks later he took a severe fever, and after ten day’s illness, without much suffering, the end came. On the 12th August, in his sixty-seventh year, George Stephenson, the great engineer, passed away.

The whole civilised world bewailed his going. He had lived long enough for it to realise and appreciate the mark he had made on the age. But most of all did the colliers mourn him—the men to whom he had been as a kindly father, a leader, a hero. They laid him in the quiet little churchyard at Chesterfield, and they raised monuments to him all over the country, as a grateful people will do,—erected statues and memorial schools, and painted portraits. But a man like George Stephenson needs no memorial of stone. He has left an undying work to speak for him, and a character that has moved men to admiration everywhere for its simplicity, combined with its greatness, its manliness, that made it possible for him, the poor collier’s son, to meet on equal ground—himself also being a man—men of the highest rank in the land.

We cannot, any of us, imitate his genius or his power of invention, or his splendid physical strength, but it is within the scope of all of us, however young or insignificant, to copy his conscientious, unwearied hard work.

“Ah, ye lads,” he used to say to young men when he was himself an old one, in his broad, honest Doric, “there’s none o’ ye know what wark is!”

He has left us a splendid example of patience, content, courage, attention to detail. But most precious of all, of a heart that beat as kindly in old age as in youth, that made him dearly loved by his workmen, and that never turned away from hearing and helping those in trouble.

Riches and success and prosperity, crowding upon him in later years, had no power to spoil the simple beauty of his character, for the Wylam collier’s son, besides being the world’s honoured inventor, was also “one of Nature’s gentlemen.”