He would also frequently invite to his house the humbler companions of his early life, and take pleasure in talking over old times with them. He never assumed any of the bearings of a great man on such occasions, but treated the visitors with the same friendliness and respect as if they had been his equals, sending them away pleased with themselves and delighted with him. At other times, needy men who had known him in youth would knock at his door, and they were never refused access. But if he had heard of any misconduct on their part he would rate them soundly. One who knew him intimately in private life has seen him exhorting such backsliders, and denouncing their misconduct and imprudence with the tears streaming down his cheeks. And he would generally conclude by opening his purse, and giving them the help which they needed “to make a fresh start in the world.”
Mr. Stephenson’s life at Tapton during his latter years was occasionally diversified with a visit to London. His engineering business having become limited, he generally went there for the purpose of visiting friends, or “to see what there was fresh going on.” He found a new race of engineers springing up on all hands—men who knew him not; and his London journeys gradually ceased to yield him pleasure. A friend used to take him to the opera, but by the end of the first act, he was generally in a profound slumber. Yet on one occasion he enjoyed a visit to the Haymarket with a party of friends on his birthday, to see T. P. Cooke, in “Black-eyed Susan;”—if that can be called enjoyment which kept him in a state of tears during
half the performance. At other times he visited Newcastle, which always gave him great pleasure. He would, on such occasions, go out to Killingworth and seek up old friends, and if the people whom he knew were too retiring, and shrunk into their cottages, he went and sought them there. Striking the floor with his stick, and holding his noble person upright, he would say, in his own kind way, “Well, and how’s all here to-day?” To the last he had always a warm heart for Newcastle and its neighbourhood.
Sir Robert Peel, on more than one occasion, invited George Stephenson to his mansion at Drayton, where he was accustomed to assemble round him men of the highest distinction in art, science, and legislation, during the intervals of his parliamentary life. The first invitation was respectfully declined. Sir Robert invited him a second time, and a second time he declined: “I have no great ambition,” he said, “to mix in fine company, and perhaps should feel out of my element amongst such high folks.” But Sir Robert a third time pressed him to come down to Tamworth early in January, 1845, when he would meet Buckland, Follett, and others well known to both. “Well, Sir Robert,” said he, “I feel your kindness very much, and can no longer refuse: I will come down and join your party.”
Mr. Stephenson’s strong powers of observation, together with his native humour and shrewdness, imparted to his conversation at all times much vigour and originality, and made him, to young and old, a delightful companion. Though mainly an engineer, he was also a profound thinker on many scientific questions: and there was scarcely a subject of speculation, or a department of recondite science, on which he had not employed his faculties in such a way as to have formed large and original views. At Drayton, the conversation usually turned upon such topics, and Mr. Stephenson freely joined in it. On one occasion, an animated discussion took place between himself and Dr. Buckland on one of his favourite theories as to the
formation of coal. But the result was, that Dr. Buckland, a much greater master of tongue-fence than Mr. Stephenson, completely silenced him. Next morning, before breakfast, when he was walking in the grounds, deeply pondering, Sir William Follett came up and asked what he was thinking about? “Why, Sir William, I am thinking over that argument I had with Buckland last night; I know I am right, and that if I had only the command of words which he has, I’d have beaten him.” “Let me know all about it,” said Sir William, “and I’ll see what I can do for you.” The two sat down in an arbour, and the astute lawyer made himself thoroughly acquainted with the points of the case; entering into it with all the zeal of an advocate about to plead the dearest interests of his client. After he had mastered the subject, Sir William rose up, rubbing his hands with glee, and said, “Now I am ready for him.” Sir Robert Peel was made acquainted with the plot, and adroitly introduced the subject of the controversy after dinner. The result was, that in the argument which followed, the man of science was overcome by the man of law; and Sir William Follett had at all points the mastery over Dr. Buckland. “What do you say, Mr. Stephenson?” asked Sir Robert, laughing. “Why,” said he, “I will only say this, that of all the powers above and under the earth, there seems to me to be no power so great as the gift of the gab.” [350]
One Sunday, when the party had just returned from church, they were standing together on the terrace near the Hall, and observed in the distance a railway-train flashing along, tossing behind its long white plume of steam. “Now, Buckland,” said Stephenson, “I have a poser for you. Can you tell me what is the power that is driving that train?” “Well,” said the other, “I suppose it is one of your big engines.” “But what drives the engine?” “Oh, very likely a canny Newcastle driver.”
“What do you say to the light of the sun?” “How can that be?” asked the doctor. “It is nothing else,” said the engineer, “it is light bottled up in the earth for tens of thousands of years,—light, absorbed by plants and vegetables, being necessary for the condensation of carbon during the process of their growth, if it be not carbon in another form,—and now, after being buried in the earth for long ages in fields of coal, that latent light is again brought forth and liberated, made to work as in that locomotive, for great human purposes.”
During the same visit, Mr. Stephenson, one evening repeated his experiment with blood drawn from the finger, submitting it to the microscope in order to show the curious circulation of the globules. He set the example by pricking his own thumb; and the other guests, by turns, in like manner, gave up a small portion of their blood for the purpose of ascertaining the comparative livelinesss of their circulation. When Sir Robert Peel’s turn came, Mr. Stephenson said he was curious to know “how the blood globules of a great politician would conduct themselves.” Sir Robert held forth his finger for the purpose of being pricked; but once, and again, he sensitively shrunk back, and at length the experiment, so far as he was concerned, was abandoned. Sir Robert Peel’s sensitiveness to pain was extreme, and yet he was destined, a few years after, to die a death of the most distressing agony.
In 1847, the year before his death, Mr. Stephenson was again invited to join a distinguished party at Drayton Manor, and to assist in the ceremony of formally opening the Trent Valley Railway, which had been originally designed and laid out by himself many years before. The first sod of the railway had been cut by the Prime Minister, in November, 1845, during the time when Mr. Stephenson was abroad on the business of the Spanish railway. The formal opening took place on the 26th June, 1847, the line having thus been constructed in less than two years.