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."