We often encounter gangs of navvies, who have their own ideas on most subjects, and like to air them.
“I don’t want tracts; I have heaps of books at home, and read all Sunday and every evening,” said one. “I’ll warrant me I have some you haven’t. Have you got ‘Heaven is my Home’? and ‘Paradise Lost’?” He enumerated many others, after which he poured forth his feelings on political matters, inveighing against the Poor Law, the School Board, the distraint system, and saying what he would do if he were in power. When we ventured to suggest that he would not mend matters if he went the lengths he proposed, he began an argument that we were obliged to cut short both for his employer’s sake and our own; but he was a fair example of “The British Workman.” The navvy is a shrewd discriminator.
“Is that in favour of Bradlaugh?” asked one; “because, if it is, I must decline it.
“Oh, if it isn’t I’ll read it with pleasure.”
Another stood considering his small offering, and volunteered, “This don’t tell us to throw away one’s pipe and backy; somebody gave me a tract as did. They’ve kept many a man from doing a rash act. If I was without my backy I should sometimes be inclined to destroy myself. It calms one down, somehow, and makes one more contented. ’Tis all very well to preach against drinking, but as to backy, that’s different.”
A fine, stalwart-looking young man lamented that he had had scarcely any schooling, and feared that the reading we offered him might be too abstruse for him. He had taught himself to write a little by copying letters, and could spell out easy sentences; but his education had ceased when he was six years old. His home was in Devonshire, but his navvy work had taken him far afield. We recommended him to go to a night-school, and he was well inclined to do so. We fell in with him several times afterwards, and found that he had followed our advice, and went three times a week. He said the teacher would not let him rest after he had spoken to him, but made him go at once.
All young men are not so amenable, and sometimes make a jest of what is meant to help them.
“Have you anything to suit me? I am an atheist,” asked one, glancing at our wares.
“They are sure to suit you; take which you like,” we replied.
He chose one haphazard, and the title was “Cross-bearing.”