Geordie's family lived in one room—father, mother, four boys, and two girls. Snug quarters, one would think; but the working-men of England at that time had smaller wages and poorer homes than they now have—for Geordie was born in 1781, in the little village of Wylam, seven miles from 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 enough to be a picker too, going with his father and brother to their daily tasks, like a man. To clear the coal of stones and dross is their business. There are a number of pits around, and each one has a name,—"Dolly Pit," "Water-run Pit," and so on.
I do not know how long he was picker, but we next find him driving a gin-horse, at a pit two miles off, across the fields. Away he goes in the early morning, gladdened all along by many bird songs. George and the birds are fast friends. He knows where their nests are in the hedgerows, and watches over them with fatherly affection. At home he has tame birds, whose pretty, knowing ways are the wonder of the neighbourhood. For many years a tame blackbird was as much one of the family as George himself, coming and going at pleasure, and roosting at night over his head. Sometimes it spent the summer in the woods, but was sure to come back with cold weather, to share his care and crumbs through the winter.
George, too, had a famous breed of rabbits; and as for his dog, it was one of the most accomplished and faithful creatures in the district. In fact, the boy had an insight into dumb-brute nature, as we shall find he had into other things, that gave him power over it—a power which he never abused, but used kindly and well.
George next rose to be assistant fireman with his father, at a shilling a day. He was fourteen, but so small of his age that he used to hide when the inspector came round, lest he should be thought too small for his wages. If small in body, he was large in heart, intent in all things to do his best. And this made his work so well done, that it could not escape the notice of his employers. When he went to the office on Saturday night to receive his wages, double pay was given him—twelve instead of six shillings! George could scarcely believe in his good luck. When he found it was really no mistake, he took the money and rushed 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 always stayed fireman, while his boy climbed one round after another up the ladder of promotion. At seventeen we find him plugman. What duty is that? A plugman has charge of a pumping-engine, and when the water in the pit is below the suction-holes, he goes down the shaft and plugs the tube, in order to make the pump more easily draw. The post required more skill and knowledge of machinery than any he had filled before, and he proved 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, and studies it; pries into the whys and wherefores, and is never satisfied until he understands every spring and cog of the machinery, and gets the mastery of it. You never find him idling away his time. In leisure moments he is at his old kink, moulding clay engines, and putting new thoughts into them.
He wished to know the history of engines, and how they were thought out at first. Somebody told him about Watt, the father of steam-power, and that there were books which would satisfy his curiosity. Books! what good would books do poor George? He cannot read. Not read? No. He is eighteen, and hardly knows his letters. Few of the colliers did. They were generally an ignorant, hard-working, clannish set of men, whose pay-day was a holiday, when their hard-won earnings were squandered at cock-fights and in ale-houses.