c-r 
 
 A4- 
 
 THE PEOPLE'S LIBRARY. 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES 
 
 OF 
 
 WORKING MEN 
 
 I3Y 
 
 GRANT ALLEN, B.A. 
 
 PUBLISHED UNDKK THE UIKECTION OE THE COMMITTEE 
 
 OF GENERAL LITEKATUKE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE 
 
 SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOW LEUf;':. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE, 
 NORTIIUMOERLAND AVENUE, (JIIARIXC CROSS, W.C. : 
 
 43, QUEEN VICTORIA STKKET, E.C. ; 
 26, ST. GEOKGE's ri.ACE, HYDE I'AKK COK.NEK, S.W. 
 
 LRIGllTON: 135, nokth stkeet. 
 
 New Yokk: E. & J. 13. YOUNG AND CO. 
 
 1SS5. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. TiiOMA?; Telford, Stonemason 
 
 II. George Stephenson, Exgixe-man 
 
 III, John GinsoN, Sculptor 
 
 I\'. \Vir,LL\M IIersciiei,, Bands?jan 
 
 V. Jean Fran>,ois }.Iillet, Painter ... 
 
 VI. James Garfield, Canal Loy ... 
 
 \'1I. Thomas EuwARDj Siioi:mak::r ... 
 
 TAG re 
 
 5 
 
 30 
 
 59 
 
 88 
 
 114 
 
 1 
 
 J? 
 
 164 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Y acknowlcdi^mcnts arc due to 
 Dr. Smilcs's " Lives of the Engi- 
 neers," ''Life of the Stephen- 
 sons," and " Life of a Scotch NaturaHst ; " to 
 Lady Eastlake's ''Life of Gibson;" to INIr. 
 Holden's ** Life of Sir WiUIam Herschel ; " to 
 M. Scusier's ''J. F. Millet, Sa Vie et Ses 
 CEuvres;" and to l\Ir. Thayer's " Lifc of 
 President Garfield ; " ironi which most of the 
 facts here narrated have been derived. 
 
 G. A. 
 
inOGRAPlIIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 -•"C-* 
 
 I. 
 
 THOMAS T1':LF0RD, Stonemason'. 
 
 IGH lip amoni^- the heather-clad hills 
 which form the broad dividino^ 
 [I barrier between Enoland and Scot- 
 ia land, the litde river Ksk brawls and 
 bickers over its stony bed throu^^h 
 a wild land of barren braesides and brown 
 peat mosses, forminp^ altOQ'ether some of the 
 gloomiest and most forbiddinij;' scenery in the 
 whole expanse of northern Britain. Almost 
 the entire bulk of the counties of Dumfries, 
 Kirkcudbrii^ht, and Ayr is composed of just 
 such solemn desolate upland wolds, with onl)' a 
 few stray farms or solitary cottages sprinkled at 
 wide distances over their bare bleak surface, 
 and with scarcely any sign of life in any part 
 save the little villaties which cluster here and 
 
niOGRAPIIIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 there at \o\v^ intervals around some stern and 
 simple vScottish church. Yet the hardy people 
 who inhabit this wild and chilly moorland 
 country may well be considered to rank amonpf 
 the best raw material of society in the whole of 
 Ih'itain ; for from the peasant homes of these 
 southern Scotch Ilic^hlands have come forth, 
 amoni^- a host of scarcely less distinL^uished 
 natives, three men, at least, who deserve to take 
 their place in the very front line of ]]ritish 
 thinkers or workers — Thomas Telford, Robert 
 Burns, and Thomas Carlyle. By origin, all 
 three alike belonL';ed in the very strictest sense 
 to the working- classes ; and the story of each 
 is full of lessons or of warnings for every one 
 of us : but that of Telford is perhaps the most 
 encoLa'aLiini'" and the most remarkable of all, as 
 showing how much may be accomplished by 
 energy and perseverance, even under the most 
 absolutely adverse and difficult circumstances. 
 
 Near the upper end of Eskdale, In the tiny 
 village of Westerkirk, a young shepherd's vrife 
 gave birth to a son on the 9th of August, 1757. 
 Her husband, John Telford, was employed in 
 tending sheep on a neighbouring farm, and he 
 and his Janet occupied a small cottage close by, 
 with mud walls and rudely thatched roof, such 
 as in southern England even the humblest 
 agricultural labourer would scarcely consent 
 willingly to inhabit. Before the child was 
 three months old, his father died ; and Janet 
 Telford was left alone in the w^orld with her 
 unwcaned baby. But in remote country dis- 
 
THOMAS TELFORD, STOXEMASO.W 7 
 
 tricts, neighbours are often more neii^-libourly 
 than in i^reat towiis ; and a poor widow can 
 manai^e to eke out a HveHhood for herself with 
 an occasional lift from the helpinc^ hands of 
 friendly fellow-villagers. Janet Telford had 
 nothin!^^ to live upon save her own ten fmoers ; 
 but they were handy enough, after the sturdy 
 Scotch fashion, and tlu;y earned some sort of 
 livelihood in a humble way for herself and her 
 fatherless boy. The farmers about found her 
 work on their farms at haymaking- or milking, 
 and their Avives took the child home with them 
 while its mother was busy labouring in the 
 harvest fields. Amid such small be^innino-s 
 did the o-reatest of EuLdish euQ-ineers before 
 the railway era receive his Hrst hard lessons in 
 the art of life. 
 
 After her husband's death, the poor widow 
 removed from her old cottao-e to a still more 
 tiny hut, which she shared with a neighbour — 
 a very small hut, with a single door for both 
 families ; and here young Tam Telford spent 
 most of his boyhood in the quiet honourable 
 poverty of the uncomplaining rural poor. As 
 soon as he was big enough to herd sheep, he 
 was turned out upon the hillside in summer like 
 any other ragged country laddie, and in w'inter 
 he tended cows, receiving for wages only his 
 food and money enough to cover the cost of 
 his scanty clothing. He went to school, too ; 
 how, nobody now knows : but he did go, to the 
 parish school of Westerkirk, and there he learnt 
 with a will, in the winter months, though he had 
 
8 niOGRAPIIIES OF IVORk'IXG ?IEN. 
 
 to spend the summer on the more profitable task 
 of workin*:^ in the iields. To a steady earnest 
 boy Hke young Tarn Telford, however, it makes 
 all the difference in the world that he should 
 liave been to school, no matter how simply. 
 Those twenty-six letters of the alphabet, once 
 fairly learnt, are the key, after all, to all the 
 book-learning in the whole world. Without 
 them, the shepherd-boy might remain an igno- 
 rant, unprogressivc shepherd all his life long, 
 even his undeniable native energy using itself 
 up on nothing better than a wattled hurdle or 
 a thatched roof ; with them, the path is open 
 ])efore him which led Tam Telford at last to 
 the Menai Bridge and Westminster Abbey. 
 
 When Tam had gradually eaten his way 
 through enough thin oatmeal porridge (with 
 very litde milk, we fear) to make him into a 
 hearty lad of fifteen, it began to be high time 
 for him to choose himself a fmal profession in 
 life, such as he was able. And here already the 
 born tastes of the boy began to show themselves : 
 for he had no liking for the homely shepherd's 
 trade ; he felt a natural desire for a chisel and a 
 hammer — the engineer was there already in the 
 grain — and he was accordingly apprenticed to a 
 stonemason in the little town of Lochmaben, 
 beyond the purple hills to eastward. But his 
 master was a hard man ; he had small mercy 
 for the raw lad ; and after trying to manage 
 with him for a few months, Tam gave it up, 
 took the law into his own hands, and ran away. 
 Probably the provocation Avas severe, for in 
 
THOMAS TKLl'ORn, STOXEMASOX. cj 
 
 after-life Telford always showed himself duly 
 respectful to constituted authority ; and we know 
 that petty self-made master-workmen are often 
 apt to be excessively severe to their own hired 
 helpers, and especially to heli)less lads or youUL^ 
 a[)prentices. At any rate, Tam wouldn't go 
 back ; and in the end, a well-to-do cousin, who 
 had risen to the proud position of steward at 
 the great h<dl of the parish, succeeded in getting 
 another mason at Langholm, the little capital of 
 I'Lskdale, to take over the runaway for the 
 remainder of the term of his indentures. 
 
 At Langholm, a Scotch country town of the 
 (juietest and sleepiest descri[)tion, Tam Telford 
 passed the next eight years of his uneventful 
 early life, first as an apprentice, and afterwards 
 as a journeyman mason of the humblest type. 
 He had a Qfood mother, and he was a ^ood son. 
 On Saturday nights he generally managed to 
 walk over to the cottage at Westerkirk, and 
 accompany the poor widow to the Sunday 
 services at the parish kirk. As long as she 
 lived, indeed, he never forgot her ; and one of 
 the first tasks he set himself when he was out 
 of his indentures was to cut a neat headstone 
 with a simple but beautiful inscription for the 
 grave of that shepherd father whom he had 
 practically never seen. At Langholm, an old 
 maiden lady, Miss Pasley, interested herself 
 kindly in Janet Telford's rising boy. She lent 
 him what of all thino-s the eager lad most 
 needed — books ; and the )-oung mason applied 
 himself to them in all his spare moments with 
 
to BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 the vig'orous ardour and perseverance of healthy 
 youth. The l^ooks he read were not merely 
 those which bore directly or indirectly upon his 
 own craft : if they had been, Tani Telford 
 mipht have remained nothino- more than a 
 journeyman mason all the days of his life. It 
 is a great mistake, even from the point of view 
 of mere worldly success, for a young man to 
 read or learn only what " pays " in his particular 
 calling ; the more he reads and learns, the more 
 will he fmd that seemingly useless things ''pay" 
 in the end, and that what apparently pays least, 
 often really pays most in the long run. This is 
 not the only or the best reason why every man 
 should aim at the highest possible cultivation of 
 his own talents, be they what they may ; but it 
 is in itself a very good reason, and it is a suffi- 
 cient answer for those who would deter us from 
 study of any high kind on the ground that it 
 *' does no cfood." Telford found in after-life 
 that his early acquaintance with sound English 
 literature did do him a c^reat deal of Qood : it 
 opened and expanded his mind ; it trained his 
 intellio;ence ; it stored his brain with ima^-es 
 and ideas which were ever after to him a source 
 of unmitigated delight and unalloyed pleasure. 
 He read whenever he had nothing else to do. 
 He read Milton with especial delight ; and he 
 also read the verses that his fellow-countryman, 
 Rob Burns, the Ayrshire ploughman, was then 
 just beginning to speak straight to the heart of 
 every aspiring Scotch peasant lad. With these 
 things Tam I'elford filled the upper stories of 
 
THOMAS TELFORD, STONEMASON, ii 
 
 his brain quite as much as with the trade details 
 of his own particular useful handicraft ; and the 
 result soon showed that therein Tani Tellord 
 had not acted uncannily or unwisely. 
 
 Nor did lie read only ; he wrote too — \erscs, 
 not very ci^ood, nor yet very bad, but well 
 expressed, in fairly well chosen language, and 
 with due rc-'ard to the nice laws of metre and 
 of L^rammar, which is in itself a great point. 
 Writing;' verse is an occupation at which only 
 very few even among men of literary (xlucation 
 ever really succeed ; and nine-tenths of published 
 verse is mere mediocre twaddle, quite unworthy 
 of being put into the dignity of print. Vet 
 Telford did well for all that in trying his hand, 
 with but poor result, at this most dil'ficult and 
 dangerous of all the arts. His rhymes were 
 worth nothing as rhymes ; but they were worth 
 a great deal as discipline and training : they 
 helped to form the man, and that in itself is 
 always something. IMost men who have in 
 them the power to do any great thiiig pass in 
 early life through a verse -makinsf staw. The 
 verses never come to much ; but they leave 
 their stamp behind them ; and the man is all 
 the better in the end for having thus taught 
 himself the restraint, the commuid of lanLi-ua'^e, 
 the careful choice of expressions, the exercise of 
 deliberate pains in composition, v;hich even bad 
 verse-making necessarily implies. It is a com- 
 mon mistake of near-sisjiited minds to look 
 only at the immediate results of things, without 
 considering their remoter effects. \\ hen Tarn 
 
12 niOGRAPIIIES OF WORKING MEX. 
 
 Telford, stonemason of Langholm, began at 
 twenty-two years of age to pen poetical epistles 
 to Robert Burns, most of his fellow-workmen 
 doubtless thought he was giving himself up to 
 very foolish and nonsensical practices ; but he 
 was really helping to educate Thomas Telford, 
 engineer of the Holyhead Road and the Cale- 
 donian Canal, for all his future usefulness and 
 greatness. 
 
 As soon as Tarn was out of his Indentures, 
 he began work as a journeyman mason at 
 Langholm on his own account, at the not very 
 magnificent wages of eighteenpencc a day. That 
 isn't much ; but at any rate it is an independence. 
 Besides building many houses in his own town, 
 Tam made here his first small beginning in the 
 matter of roads and highways, by helping to 
 build a bridge over the Esk at LanL>holm. He 
 was very proud of his part in this bridge, and 
 to the end of his life he often referred to it as 
 his iirst serious engineering work. Many of 
 the stones still bear his private mark, hewn 
 with the tool into their solid surface, \\'x\\ honest 
 workmanship which helps to explain his later 
 success. But the youni^ mason was bei>innini»- 
 to discover that Eskdale was hardly a wide 
 enough field for his budding ambition. He 
 could carve the most careful headstones ; he 
 could cut the most ornamental copings for doors 
 or windows ; he could even build a bridge across 
 the roaring fiooded Esk ; but he wanted to see 
 a little of the ^"reat world, and learn how men 
 and masons went about their work in the busy 
 
THOMAS TELFORD, STONEMASOX. 13 
 
 centres of the world's activity. So, like a 
 patriotic Scotchman that he was, he betook 
 himself straight to Edinburgh, tramping it on 
 foot, of course, for railways did not yet exist, 
 and coaches were not for the use of such as 
 young Thomas Telford. 
 
 He arrived in the grey old capital of Scotland 
 in the very nick of time. The Old Town, a 
 tangle of narrow alleys and close courtyards, 
 surrounded by tall houses with endless tiers of 
 floors, was just being deserted by the rich and 
 fashionable world for the New Town, w^hich lies 
 beyond a broad valley on the opposite hillside, 
 and contains numerous streets of solid and 
 handsome stone houses, such as are hardly to 
 be found in any other town in I)ritain, except 
 perhaps Dath and Aberdeen. Edinburgh is 
 always, indeed, an interesting place for an 
 enthusiastic lover of buildinof, be he architect or 
 stonemason ; for instead of being built of brick 
 like London and so many other English centres, 
 it is built partly of a fme hard local sandstone 
 and partly of basaltic greenstone ; and besides 
 its old churches and palaces, many of the public 
 buildings are particularly striking and beautiful 
 architectural works. But just at the moment 
 when young Telford walked wearily into 
 Edinburgh at the end of his long tramp, there 
 was plenty for a stout strong mason to do in 
 the long straight stone fronts of the rising- 
 New Town. Eor two years, he worked away 
 patiently at his trade in " the grey metropolis 
 of the North ; " and he took aclvantai^^e of the 
 
14 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 special opportunities the place afforded him to 
 learn drawin^^, and to make minute sketches in 
 detail of Holy rood Palace, Heriot's Hospital, 
 Roslyn Chapel, and all the other principal old 
 buildincjs in \vhich the neiijhbourhood of the 
 capital is particularly rich. So anxious, indeed, 
 was the young mason to perfect himself by the 
 study of the very best models i.i his own craft, 
 that when at the end of two years he walked 
 back to revisit his good mother in Eskdale, he 
 took the opportunity of making drawings of 
 Melrose Abbey, the most exquisite and graceful 
 buildino; that the artistic stone-cutters of the 
 Middle A^-es have handed down to our time in 
 all Scotland. 
 
 This visit to Eskdale was really Telford's last 
 farewell to his old home, before settini^ out on 
 a journey which was to form the turning-point 
 in his own history, and in the history of Ikitish 
 engineering as well. In Scotch phrase, he was 
 c^oinof south. And after takiniTf leave of his 
 mother (not quite for the last time) he went 
 south in good earnest, doing this journey on 
 horseback ; for his cousin the steward had lent 
 him a horse to make his way southward like 
 a gentleman. Telford turned where all enter- 
 prising young vScotchmcn of his time always 
 turned : towards the unknown world of London 
 — that world teeniing with so many possibilities 
 of brilliant success or of miserable squalid failure. 
 It was the year 1782, and the young man was 
 just twenty-five. No sooner had he reached 
 the great city than he began looking about him 
 
THOMAS TELFORD, STONEMASON. 15 
 
 for suitable work. He had a letter of introduc- 
 tion to the architect of Somerset House, whose 
 ornamental fronts were just then being erected, 
 facing the Strand and the river; and Telford 
 was able to get a place at once on the job as a 
 hewer of the finer architectural details, for which 
 both his taste and experience well fitted him. 
 He spent some two years in London at this 
 humble post as a stone-cutter ; but already he 
 began to aspire to something better. He earned 
 first-class mason's Avages now, and saved what- 
 ever he did not need for daily expenses. In 
 this respect, the improvidence of his English 
 fellow-workmen struck the cautious young 
 Scotchman very greatly. They lived, he said, 
 from week to week entirely ; any time beyond 
 a week seemed unfortunately to lie altogether 
 outside the range of their limited comprehension. 
 At the end of two years in London, Telford's 
 skill and study began to bear good fruit. His 
 next engagement was one which raised him for 
 the first time in his life above the rank of a 
 mere journeyman mason. The honest workman 
 had attracted the attention of competent judges. 
 He obtained employment as foreman of works 
 of some important buildings in Portsmouth 
 Dockyard. A proud man indeed was Thomas 
 Telford at this change of fortune, and very 
 proudly lie wrote to his old friends in Eskdale, 
 vv'ith almost boyish delight, about tlic trust 
 reposed in him by the commissioners and 
 officers, and the pains he was taking with the 
 task entrusted to him. For he was aljove all 
 
1 6 BIOGRAPHIES OF IVORKIXG MEN. 
 
 thlnii's a c^ood workman, and like all o-ood work- 
 men he felt a pride and an interest in all the 
 jobs he took in hand. His sense of responsil^ilit)' 
 and his sensitiveness, indeed, were almost too 
 (^reat at times for his own personal comfort. 
 Things ec^/// go wrong now and then, even with 
 the greatest care ; well-planned undertakings will 
 not always pay, and the best engineering does 
 not necessarily succeed in earning a dividend ; 
 but whenever such mishaps occurred to his 
 employers, Telford felt the disappointment 
 much too keenly, as though he himself had been 
 to blame for their miscalculations or over- 
 sanguine hopes. Still, it is a good thing to 
 put one's heart in one's work, and so much 
 Thomas Telford certainly did. 
 
 About this time, too, the rising young mason 
 ])egan to feel that he must get a little more 
 accurate scientific knowledge. The period for 
 general study had now passed by, and the 
 period for special trade reading had set in. 
 This was well. A lad cannot do better than 
 lay a good ^foundation of general knowledge 
 and general literature during the period when 
 he is engaged in forming his mind : a young 
 man once fairly launched in life may safely con- 
 fine himself for a time to the studies that bear 
 directly upon his own special chosen subject. 
 The thing that Telford began closely to investi- 
 gate was — lime. Now, lime makes mortar; and 
 without lime, accordingly, you can have no mason. 
 But to know anything really about lime, Telford 
 found he must read some chemistry ; and to 
 
THOMAS TELFOKn, STONEMASoX. 17 
 
 know anythln.L^ really about chemistry he must 
 work at it hard and unremittin^dy. A strict 
 attention to one's own business, understood In 
 this very broad and liberal manner, Is certainly 
 no bad thin*^^ for any strug-^lini^^ handicraftsman, 
 whatever his trade or profession may happen 
 to be. 
 
 In 1 786, when Telford was nearly thirt)', a 
 piece of unexpectcvl good luck fell to his lot. 
 And yet it was not so much good luck as due 
 recognition of his sterling (|ualities by a wealthy 
 and appreciative person. Long before, while 
 he was still in T^skdale, one Mr. Pulteney, a 
 man ot socicd im[)ortance, who had a large 
 house in the bleak northern valle)', had asked 
 hisad\ice about the repairs of his own mansion. 
 We may be sure that Telford did his Avork on 
 that occasion carefully and well ; for now, when 
 Mr. Pulteney wished to restore the ruins of 
 Shrewsbury Caslle as a dwellingdiouse, he 
 sought out the vouno- mason who had attended 
 to his vScotch property, and asked him to super- 
 intend the proposed alterations in his Shropsliire 
 castle. Nor was that all : by Mr. Pulteney's 
 inlluence, Telford was shortly afterwards ap- 
 pointed to be county surveyor of public works, 
 having under his care all the roads, bridges, 
 gaols, and public buildings in the whole of 
 Shro|)shire. Thus the Eskdale shc^pherd-boy 
 rose at last from the rank of a workin*.'" mason, 
 and attained the well-earned dignity of an 
 engineer and a professional man. 
 
 Telford had now a fair opportunity of showing 
 1 ,. c 
 
l!^ lllOCR.irniKS OF WORKING MI:X. 
 
 the real stuff of uhich he was made. Those, of 
 course, were the days when raih'oads fiad not 
 yet been dreamt of; when even roads were few 
 and bad ; when communiccitions g"enerally were 
 still in a very disorderly and unorg'anized con- 
 dition. It is Telford's special i^lory that he 
 reformed and altered this whole state of thini^'S ; 
 he reduced the roads of half ]]ritain to system 
 and order ; he made the finest hif^hways and 
 ])ridgcs then ever constructed ; and by his ma^*- 
 nificent enc^ineering- works, especially his aque- 
 ducts, he paved the w:iy unconsciously but surely 
 for the future railways. If it had not been for 
 such great undertakings as Telford's I-Iol}head 
 Road, which fiuuiliarized men's minds v/ith 
 costly engineering operations, it is probable that 
 projectors would long have stood aghast at thc^ 
 alarming expense of a nearly level iron road 
 runninL>- throuo-h tall hills and over broad rivers 
 the whole way froni London to Manchester. 
 
 At first, Telford's work as county surveyor 
 lay mostly in very small things indeed — mere 
 repairs of sidepaths or bridges, which gave him 
 little opportunity to develop his full talents as a 
 born eno-ineer. But in time, being- found faithful 
 in small things, his employers, the county magis- 
 trates, began to consult him more and more on 
 matters of comparative importance. First, it 
 was a bridge to be built across the vSevern ; then 
 a church to be planned at Shrewsbury, and next, 
 a second church in Coall^-ookdale. If he was 
 thus to be made suddenly into an architect, 
 Telford thouHit, almost without being consulted 
 
"IlIOMAS TJ'.LIOKD, .Sl\K\EM.\SOX. ig 
 
 in the matter, he must certainly set out to study 
 architecture. So, v/ith characteristic viij;our, 
 lie wen. to work to visit London, W^orcester, 
 Gloucester, liath, and Oxford, at each place 
 takinL!" care to learn whatever was to be learned 
 in the i)ractice of his new art. L^ortunately, 
 h.owever, for Telford and for Enidand, it was 
 not architecture in the strict sense that he was 
 fniall)' to practise as a real profession. Another 
 accident, as thour:ihtless people mi^ht call it, led 
 him to adopt enc^ineerinc; in the end as tlie path 
 in life he elected to follow. In 1793, he was 
 appointed engineer to the projected Ellesmere 
 Canal. 
 
 In the days before railways, such a canal as 
 this was an enLiineeriuL!' work of the \ery Urst 
 importance. It was to connect the Mersey, the 
 Dee, and the Severn, and it passed over ground 
 which rendered necessary some immense aque- 
 ducts on a scale never before attempted by 
 British engineers. Even in our own time, 
 every traveller by the Great Western line be- 
 tween Chester and Shrewsbury must have ob- 
 served on his riMit two maLinificent ranws as 
 high arches, which are as noticeable now as 
 ever for their boldness, their magnitude, and 
 their exquisite construction. The first of these 
 mighty archways is the Pont Cysyiltau aqueduct 
 which carries the lillesmere Canal across the 
 wide valley of the Dee, known as the Vale of 
 Llangollen ; the second is the Chirk aqueduct, 
 which takes it over th(i lesser glen of a minor 
 tributary, the Ceriog. Both these beautiful 
 
20 BluGRAPllIliS oi' ll'oA'AVXu A/EX. 
 
 worlcs were dcsig-ncd and carried out entirely 
 by Telford. They dilTer from many other great 
 modern cnc'incerinc{ achievements in the fact 
 that, instead of spoiling- the lovely mountain 
 scenery into whose midst they have been thrown, 
 they actually harmonize with it and heighten its 
 natural beauty. Both works, however, are splen- 
 did feats, regarded merely as efforts of practical 
 skill ; and the larger one is particularly memor- 
 able for the peculiarity that the trough for the 
 water and the elegant parapet at the side are 
 both entirely composed of iron. Nowadays, of 
 course, there would be nothing' remarkable in 
 the use of such a material for such a purpose ; 
 but Telford was the first engineer to see the 
 value of iron in this respect, and the Pont 
 Cysylltau acjueduct was one of the earliest 
 works in which he a[)plied tlie new material to 
 these unwonted uses. Such a step is all the 
 more remarkable, because Telford's own educa- 
 tion had lain entirely in what may fairly be 
 called the "stone ac!"e " of English en^ineerino- ; 
 while his natural predilections as a stonemason 
 might certainly have made him rather overlook 
 the value of the novel material. But Telford 
 was a man who could rise superior to such little 
 accidents of habit or trainino- ; and as a matter 
 of fact there is no other cnoincer to whom the 
 rise of the present '* iron age " in engineering 
 work is more directly and immediately to be 
 attributed than to himself. 
 
 INIeanwhile, the Eskdale pioneer did not for- 
 get his mother. For years he had constantly 
 
TJIOM.IS TELIORD, STOX E^fASOX. 21 
 
 written to her, \\\ print hand, so that the letters 
 nii^ht be more easily read by her aged eyes ; he 
 had sent her money in fiiU proportion to his 
 means ; and h(; had taken every possible care 
 to let her declininL;' years be as comfortable as 
 In's altered circumstances could readily make 
 tluMii. And now, in tlie midst of this Ci'reat and 
 responsible work, he found time to ** run down " 
 to I'lskdale (very different '' running" down " from 
 tliat which we ourselves can do by the London 
 and North W^estern Railway), to see his aged 
 mother once more before she died. What a 
 meeting that must have been, between the poor 
 old widow of the Eskdale shepherd, and her suc- 
 cessful son, the county surveyor of Shropshire, 
 and engineer of the great and important ]*dles- 
 mere Canal ! 
 
 While Telford was working busily upon his 
 wonderful canal, lu! had many other schemes to 
 carry out of hardly less importance, in con- 
 nection with his appointment as county surveyor. 
 His beautiful iron bridge across the Severn 
 cit l^)uildwas was another application of his 
 fivourite metal to the needs of the new^ world 
 that was gradually growing up in industrial 
 Mngland ; and so satisfied wms he with the 
 result of his experiment (for though not al)so- 
 lutely the first, it was one of the first iron 
 bridges ever built) that he proposed another 
 magnificent idea, w^hich unfortunately was never 
 carried into execution. Old London JUridci'e 
 had begun to get a trlllc shaky ; and instead of 
 reljuilding it, I'elford wished to span the wliolc 
 
BIOGRArillES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 river I)y a single iron arch, whose splcinhcl 
 (liiiKMisions would liave foriiKMl oik; of the: most 
 rcMiiarkahlc oncjinccrino; triumphs ever invented. 
 'Hie scheme, lor some ii^'ood reason, douljtless, 
 w^as not a(lo[)ted ; l)ut it is im[)ossible to io(;k 
 at Tehbrd's o^rand (h'awIuLi" ot the proposed 
 brid''"e — a sinij'le bold arch, curvin.>- across the 
 Thames from side to side, with the dome of 
 St. P.uil's rising;- majestically above it — without 
 a feeling* of re^'ret that such a n()])le piece of 
 theoretical architecture was n(n'er realized in 
 actual fact. 
 
 Telford had now come to l)c; rec^'arded as the 
 great practical authority upon all that concernc^d 
 roads or communications ; and he was reapins^ 
 the due money-reward of his diligence and 
 skill. l'>very day he was called upon to design 
 new bridges and other important structures in 
 all parts of the kingdom, but more especially 
 in Scotland and on the Welsh border. Many 
 of the most picturesque bridges in Britain, 
 wdiich every tourist has admired, often without 
 inquiring or thinking of the hand that planned 
 them, were designed by his inventive brain. 
 The cx([uisite stone arch which links the two 
 banks of the lesser Scotch Dee in its ooro-e at 
 Tongueland is one of the most picturesque ; 
 for Telford was a bit of an artist at heart, and, 
 unlike too many modern railway constructors, 
 he always endeavoured to make his bridges and 
 aqueducts beautify rather than spoil the scenery 
 in whose midst they stood. Especially was he 
 called in to layout the great system of roads by 
 
THOMAS TKLrORD, STOMMASOK. 23 
 
 which the Scotch 1 Ii_L;hl;incls, then so lately 
 reclaimed from a state; of com|)arativ(* bar- 
 barism, were laid oj)en for the; i^reat develop- 
 ment th(.y have since iinder^'one. In the 
 earlier ])art of the centiir)', it is true, a few 
 central hi^^hways had been run throui^h the 
 very heart of that !:;reat solid block of moun- 
 tains ; but these wvaw purely military roads, to 
 enable the king's 5;oldiers more easily to march 
 aiL^-ainst the re\'olted clans, antl they had 
 hardly more connection with the life of the 
 country than the bare military posts, like b^ort 
 William and b\jrt Aucrustus, which onarded 
 their ends, had to do with the ordinary life of 
 a commercial town. Meanwhile, howevca*, the 
 Highlands had be^un ''radually to settle down; 
 and Telford's roads wen; intended for the far 
 higher and better purpose of operiing out the 
 interior of northern Scotland to the humanizing- 
 inllucnces of trade and industry. 
 
 Fully to descril)e the great Avork which the 
 mature enmneer constructed in the Highland 
 region, would take up more space than could 
 be allotted to such a subject an^'wherc; save in 
 a complete industrial history of roads and 
 travelling in modern Britain. It must sulhcc 
 to say that when Telford took the matter in 
 hand, the vast block of country north and west 
 of the Great Glen of Caledonia (which divides 
 the Highlands in two between! Inverness and 
 Ben Nevis) — a block comprising the counties 
 of Caithness, Sutherland, Ross, Cromarty, and 
 half Inverness— had literally nothing within it 
 
24 lUOGRAPIIIES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 Avorthy of being called a road. Wheeled carts 
 or carriages were almost unknown, and all 
 burdens were conveyed on pack-horses, or, 
 worse still, on the broad backs of Hicrhland 
 lassies. The people lived in small scattered 
 villaoes, and communications from one to 
 another were well-nigh impossible. Telford 
 set to work to give the country, not a road 
 or two, but a main s)-stem of roads. Thirst, he 
 bridged the broad river Tay at Dunkeld, so 
 as to allow of a direct route straight into the 
 very jaws of the Highlands. Then, he also 
 bridged over the Beauly at Inverness, so as to 
 connect the opposite sides of the Great Glen 
 with one another. Next, he laid out a number 
 of trunk lines, running through the country on 
 both banks, to the very north of Caithness, and 
 the very west of the Isle of Skye. Wdioever 
 to this day travels on tlie main thoroughfares 
 in the greater Scottish Islands — in Arran, 
 Islay, Jura, i\Iull ; or in the wild peninsula of 
 jNIorvern, and the Land of Lome ; or through 
 the rugged regions of Inverness-shire and 
 Ross-shire, where tlu^ railway has not yet 
 penetrated, — travels throughout on Telford's 
 roads. The number of large bridijes and 
 Other great engineering masterpieces on this 
 network of roads is enormous ; among the 
 most famous and the most beautiful, are the 
 exquisite single arch which spans ^he Spey just 
 beside the lofty rearing rocks of Craig Lllachi(\ 
 and the bridge across the Dee, beneath the 
 purple heather-clad braes of Ballatcr. Altc- 
 
THOMAS TELFORD, STOXRMASOX 
 
 -5 
 
 i;clhcr, on TcHbrd's Hii^hland roads alone, 
 there are no fewer than twelve hundred 
 bridges. 
 
 Nor were these the only important labours 
 by which Telford ministered to the comfort and 
 welbl)eing of his Scotch fellow-countrymen. 
 Scotland's debt to the Eskdale stonemason is 
 indeed deep and lasting. While on land, he 
 improved her communications by his i^reat lines 
 of roads, which did on a smaller scale for tlu; 
 Highland valleys what railways have since 
 done for the whole of the civilized world ; he 
 also laboured to improve her means of transit 
 at sea by constructing a series of harbours 
 along that bare and inhospitable eastern coast, 
 onc(; almost a desert, but now teeming with 
 great towns and prosperous industries. It was 
 'Felford who formed the harbour of Wick, 
 which has since grown from a miserable ilsliing 
 village into a large town, the capital of the 
 North Sea herring fisheries. It was he who 
 {Milarged the petty port of Peterhead into the 
 chief station of the nourishing whaling trade. 
 It was he who secured prosperity for b^raser- 
 burgh, and Banff, and many other less impor- 
 tant centres ; while even Dundee and Aberdeen, 
 the chief commercial cities of the c;ast coast, 
 owe to him a large part of their present ex- 
 traordinary wealth and industr\'. When one 
 thinks how lar^'e a number of human beings 
 have been benetited by Telford's Scotch har- 
 bour works alone, it Is impossible not to en\'y 
 a great engineer his almost unlimited power 
 
6 niOGRAPiriES OF WORKING J\fEX. 
 
 of permanent usefulness to unborn thousands 
 of his fellow-creatures. 
 
 As a canal-maker, Telford was hardly less 
 successful than as a constructor of roads and 
 harbours. It is true, his greatest work in this 
 direction w^as in one sense a failure. He was 
 employed by Government for many years as the 
 engineer of the Caledonian Canal, which runs 
 up the Great Glen of Caledonia, connecting the 
 line of lakes whose basins occupy that deep 
 hollow in the Highland ranges, and so avoiding 
 the difficult and danri'erous sea voyace round 
 the stormy northern capes of Caithness. Unfor- 
 tunately, thouc-h the canal as an enr'ineerino- 
 work proved to be of the most successful cha- 
 racter, it has never succeeded as a commercial 
 undertaking. It v.'as built just at the exact 
 moment when steamboats were on the point of 
 rcvolutionizinq; ocean traffic ; and so, though in 
 itself a magnificent and lordly undertaking, it 
 failed to satisfy the sanguine hopes of its pro- 
 jectors. But though Telford felt most bitterly 
 the unavoidable ill success of this great scheme, 
 he might well have comforted himself by the 
 d'ood results of his canal-buildiuL'- elsewhere. 
 He went to Sweden to lay out the Gotha 
 Canal, which still forms the main high-road of 
 commerce between Stockholm and the sea ; 
 while in England itself some of his works in 
 this direction — such as the improvements on 
 the I)irmingham Canal, with its immense 
 tunnel — may fairly be considered as the direct 
 precursors of the great railway efforts of the 
 
 succeecling generation. 
 
77/njr.!S TKLFORD. STOXnJf.lSOX. 27 
 
 Tlu! most rcniark:ib]c of all Telford's designs, 
 however, and the one which most immediately 
 paved the \vay for the railway system, was his 
 magnificent Holyhead Road. This wonderful 
 highway he carried through the very midst of 
 the Welsh mountains, at a comparatively level 
 height for its Vvhole distance, in order to form 
 a main road from London to Ireland. On this 
 road occurs Telford's masterpiece of engineering, 
 the Menai suspension bridg-e, long regarded as 
 one of the wonders of the world, and still one 
 of the most beautiful suspension bridges in all 
 Europe. Hardly less admirable, however, in 
 its own way is the other suspension bridge 
 whicli he erected at Conway, to carry his road 
 across the mouth of the estuary, beside the 
 grey old castle, with which its charming design 
 harmonizes so well. Even now it is impossible 
 to drive or walk along this famous and pic- 
 turesque highv/ay without being struck at every 
 turn b)' the splendid engineering triumphs which 
 it displays throughout its entire length. The 
 contrast, indeed, between the noble grandeur of 
 Telford's bridges, and the works on the neigh- 
 Ijouring railwavs, is by no means llatterin''- in 
 every respect to our too exclusively practical 
 modern civilization. 
 
 Telford \vas now growing an old man. The 
 i\Ienai bridge was Ijegun in iSiQand finished 
 in 1826, when he was sixt)-eight years of age ; 
 and though he still continued to practise his 
 profession, and to design many valuable bridges, 
 drainage cuts, and other small jobs, that great 
 
2B niOGRAPIIIRS OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 undertaking was the last masterpiece ot his 
 long and useful life. His later da}'S were 
 passed in deserved honour and comparative 
 opulence ; for though never an avaricious man, 
 and always anxious to rate his services at 
 their lowest worth, he had i>'athered tocfethcr 
 a considera])le fortune by tlie way, almost 
 without seeking it. To the last, his happy 
 cheerful disposition enabled him to go on 
 labouring at the numerous schemes by wlu'ch he 
 hoped to benefit the world of workers ; and so 
 much cheerfulness was surely well earned by a 
 man who could himself look back upon so good 
 a record of work done for the welfare of 
 humanit)\ At last, on the 2nd of Scptemljcr, 
 1834, his quiet and valuable life came gently to 
 a close, in the seventy-eighth year of his age. 
 He was buried in Westminster Abbey, and few 
 of the men who sleep within that great national 
 temple more richly deserve the honour than 
 the W^esterkirk shepherd-boy. T'or Thomas 
 Telford's life Avas not merely one of worldly 
 success ; it was still more pre-eminently one ot 
 noble ends and public usefulness. Many 
 working men have raised themselves by their 
 own exertions to a position of wealth and 
 dignity far surpassing his ; few indeed have 
 conferred so many benefits upon untold thou- 
 sands of their fellow-men. It is impossible, 
 even now, to travel in any part of England, 
 Wales, or Scotland, without coming across 
 innumerable memorials of Telford's great and 
 useful life ; impossible to read the full record of 
 
THOMAS I I'.Ll-'OKl), S fOXJ-lMASOX. 
 
 29 
 
 his labours without findiii:^^ that numberless 
 structures we have Ioiil^ admired for their 
 beauty or utility, owe their orig-in to the 
 honoural:)le, upright, hardworking, thorough- 
 going, journeyman mason of the quiet little 
 I'^skdale village. Whether we go into the 
 drained fens of Lincolnshire, or traverse the 
 broad roads of the rugged Snowdon region ; 
 whether we turn to St. Katharine's I)ocks 
 in London, or to the wide quays ot Dundee 
 and those of Aberdeen ; whether we sail 
 l>eneath the INIenai suspension bridge at 
 Piangor, or drive over the lofty arches that 
 rise sheer from the precipitous river gorge at 
 Cartland, we meet ever^'wherc the lasting- 
 traces of that inventive and ingenious brain. 
 And yet. what lad could ever have started in 
 the world under apparently more hopeless 
 circumstances than widow Janet Telford's 
 penniless orphan shepherd-boy Tam, in the 
 bleakest and most remote of all the lonely 
 border valleys of southern Scotland ? 
 
II. 
 
 (iKORGE STEPHENSON, Ilnuink max. 
 
 NY time about the year i 786, a stranger 
 ill the streets of the grimy colHery 
 villao-e of Wylam, near Newcastle, 
 f/'^m^Jif^^ji niiijht have passed by without 
 notice a ragged, barefooted, chul^by 
 child of five years old, Geordie Stephenson by 
 name, playing merrily in the gutter and looking 
 to the outward e\'c in no \vay different from 
 I'lny of the other colliers' children who loitered 
 about him. Nevertheless, that ragged boy was 
 yet destined in after-life to alter the whole face 
 of England and the world by those wonderful 
 railways, which he more than any other man 
 was instrumental in first constructing ; and the 
 story of his life may rank perhaps as one of the 
 most marvellous in the whole marvellous history 
 of able and successful British workino- men. 
 
 George Stephenson was born in June, 1781, 
 the son of a fireman who tended the pumping 
 engine of the neighbouring colliery, and one of 
 
GEORGE STEPHEKSOX, ENGL\E-MAX. 3t 
 
 a penniless family of six children. So poor was 
 his father, indeed, that the -whole household 
 lived in a sincile room, with bare lloor and mud 
 wall ; and little Geordie g"rew up in his own 
 unkempt fashion without any schooling- what- 
 ever, not even knowing A from B when he was 
 a bic>" lad of seventeen. At an aofe when he 
 oucdit to have been learnino- his letters, he was 
 bird's-nestino" in the fields or running" errands 
 to the Wylam shops ; and as soon as he was 
 old enough to earn a fev/ pence b}- light work, 
 he was set to tend cows at the magnificent 
 wages of twopence a da)', in the village of 
 Dewley Burn, close 1.))', to which his father had 
 then removed. It might have seemed at first 
 as though the future railway enoineer was Q-oinu 
 
 ' 1 1 on 
 
 to settle down quietly to the useful but unevent- 
 ful life of an agricultural labourer ; lor from tend- 
 ing cows he proceeded In due time (with a splen- 
 did advance of twopence) to leading the horses 
 at the plough, spudding thistles, and hoeing 
 turnips on his employer's farm. But the native 
 bent of a powerful mind usually shows itself 
 very early ; and even during the days when 
 Geordie was still stumbling across the freshly 
 ploughed clods or driving the cows to pasture 
 with a bunch of hazel twigs, his taste for 
 mechanics already made itself felt in a very 
 marked and practical fashion. During all his 
 leisure tiiiie, the future engineer and his chum 
 Bill Thirlwall occupied themselves with making- 
 clay models of engines, and fitting up a winding 
 machine with corks and twine like those which 
 
'ii BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MUX. 
 
 j- 
 
 liftcd the colliery baskets. Though Gcordic 
 Stephenson didn't go to school at the village 
 teacher's, he was tcachinLT himself in his own 
 way by close observation and keen compre- 
 hension of all the machines and engines he 
 could come across. 
 
 Naturally, to such a boy, the great ambition 
 of his life was to be released from the hoeiniif 
 and spudding, and set to work at his father's 
 colliery. Great was Geordie's joy, therefore, 
 when at last he was taken on there in the 
 capacity of a coal-picker, to clear the loads from 
 stones and rubbish. It wasn't a very dignified 
 position, to be sure, but it was the first ste[) 
 that led the way to the construction of the 
 Liverpool and Manchester Raihvay. Geordie 
 was now fairly free from the uncongenial 
 drudgery of farm life, and able to follow his 
 own inclinations in the direction of mechanical 
 labour. Besides, Avas he not earning the grand 
 sum of sixpence a day as picker, increased to 
 cightpence a little later on, when he rose to the 
 more responsible and serious work of driving 
 the gin-horse ? A proud day indeed it was for 
 him when, at fourteen, he was finally permitted 
 to aid his father in firing the colliery engine ; 
 though he w^as still such a very small boy that 
 he us(kI to run away and hide when the owner 
 went his rounds of inspection, for fear he should 
 be thouofht too little to earn his untold wealth of 
 a shilling a day in such a grown-up occupation. 
 Humbler beginnings were never any man's who 
 lived to become the honoured Quest, not of kincrs 
 
GEORGE STEPHEXSOX, ENGINE-MAN. 33 
 
 and princes only, but of the truly greatest and 
 noblest in the land. 
 
 A coal-miner's life is often a very shifting one ; 
 for the coal in particular collieries gets worked 
 out from time to time ; and he has to remove, 
 accordingly, to fresh quarters, wherever employ- 
 ment happens to be lound. This was very 
 much the case with George Stephenson and his 
 family ; all of them being obliged to remove 
 several times over during his childish days in 
 search of new openings. Shortly after Geordie 
 had attained to the responsible position of as- 
 sistant fireman, his father was compelled, by the 
 closing of Dewley Burn mine, to get a fresh 
 situation hard by at Newburn. George accom- 
 panied him, and found employment as full fire- 
 man at a small workincf, whose little en^-ine he 
 undertook to manage in partnership with a mate, 
 each of them tending the fire night and day by 
 twelve-hour shifts. Two years later, his wages 
 were raised to twelve shillings a week, a sure 
 mark of his diligent and honest work ; so that 
 Georcre was not far wronof in remarkino- to 'a 
 fellow-workman at the time that he now con- 
 sidered himself a made man for life. 
 
 During all this time, George Stephenson 
 never for a moment ceased to study and en- 
 deavour to understand the working of every 
 part in the engine that he tended. He was not 
 satisfied, as too many workmen are, with merely 
 learning the routine work of his own trade ; 
 with merely knowing that he must turn such 
 and such a tap or valve in order to produce 
 
 D 
 
34 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 bucli and such a desired result : he wanted to 
 see for himself how and why the en^^ane did this 
 or that, what was the use and object of piston 
 and cylinder and crank and joint and condenser 
 — in short, fully to understand the underlying- 
 principle of its construction. He took it to 
 pieces for cleaning whenever it was needful ; he 
 made working models of it after his old childish 
 pattern ; he even ventured to tinker it up when 
 out of order on his own responsibility. Thus he 
 learnt at last something of the theory of the 
 steam-engine, and learnt also by the way a great 
 deal about the general principles of mechanical 
 science. Still, even nov \ incredible as it seems, 
 the future father of railways couldn't yet read ; 
 and he found this terrible drawback told fatally 
 against his further progress. Whenever he 
 wanted to learn something that he didn't quite 
 understand, he was always referred for informa- 
 tion to a Book. Oh, those books ; those mys- 
 terious, unattainable, incomprehensible books ; 
 how they must have bothered and worried poor 
 intelligent and aspiring but still painfully igno- 
 rant young George Stephenson ! Though he 
 was already trying singularly valuable experi- 
 ments in his own w^ay, he hadn't yet even 
 begun to learn his letters. 
 
 Under these circumstances, George Stephen- 
 son, eager and anxious for further knowledge, 
 took a really heroic resolution. He wasn't 
 ashamed to go to school. Though now a full 
 workman on his own account, about eighteen 
 years old, he began to attend the night school 
 
GEORGE STEPHENSON, ENGINE-ALLY. 35 
 
 at the nci'L^hbourincf villaijc of Walbottle, where 
 he took lessons in readini^ three evennigs every 
 week. It is a great thing when a man is not 
 ashamed to learn. Many men are ; they con- 
 sider themselves so immensely wise that they 
 Icok \\\)0\\ it as an impertinence in anybody 
 to try to tell them anything they don't know 
 alread)'. Truly wise or truly great men — men 
 with the capability in them for doing anything 
 worthy in their generation — never feel this false 
 and foolish shame. They know that most other 
 people know some things in some directions 
 which they do not, and they are glad to be 
 instructed in them whenever opportunity offers. 
 This wisdom George Stephenson possessed in 
 sufficient deo-rce to make him feel more ashamed 
 of his ignorance than of the steps necessary in 
 order to conquer it. Being a diligent and will- 
 ing scholar, he soon learnt to read, and by the 
 time he was nineteen he had learnt how to 
 write also. At arithmetic, a science closely 
 allied to his native mechanical bent, he was par- 
 ticularly apt, and beat all the other scholars at 
 the village night school. This resolute effort at 
 education was the real turning-point in George 
 vStephenson's remarkable career, the first step 
 on the ladder whose topmost rung led him so 
 high that he himself must almost have felt 
 giddy at the unw^onted elevation. 
 
 Shortly after, young Stephenson gained yet 
 another promotion in being raised to the rank 
 of brakesman, Avhosc duty it was to slacken the 
 engine when the full baskets of coal reached 
 
36 niocnAPniEs of ivorkixg mex. 
 
 the top of the shaft. This was a more serious 
 and responsible post than any he had yet filled, 
 and one for which only the best and steadiest 
 workmen were ever selected. His wa</es now 
 amounted to a pound a week, a very large sum 
 in those days for a skilled working-man. 
 
 Meanwhile, George, like most other young 
 men, had fallen in love. His sweetheart, Fanny 
 Henderson, was servant at the small farmhouse 
 where he had taken lodq^inijs since leavinqf his 
 father's home ; and though but little is known 
 about her (for she unhappily died before George 
 had begun to rise to fame and fortune), what 
 little we do know seems to show that she was in 
 every respect a fitting wife for the active young 
 brakesman, and a fitting mother for his equally 
 celebrated son, Robert Stephenson. Fired by 
 the honourable desire to marry Fanny, with a 
 proper regard for prudence, George set himself 
 to work to learn cobbling in his spare moments ; 
 and so successfully did he cobble the worn shoes 
 of his fellow-colliers after working hours, that 
 before long he contrived to save a whole 
 guinea out of his humble earnings. That guinea 
 was the first step towards an enormous fortune ; 
 a fortune, too, all accumulated by steady toil 
 and constant useful labour for the ultimate 
 benefit of his fellow-men. To make a fortune 
 is the smallest and least noble of all possible 
 personal ambitions ; but to save the first guinea 
 which leads us on at last to independence and 
 modest comfort is indeed an important turning- 
 point in every prudent man's career. Geordie 
 
GEORGE STEPHENSOX, ENGINE-MAN. 37 
 
 Stephenson was so justly proud of his achieve 
 ment in this respect that he told a friend in 
 confidence he might now consider himself a rich 
 man. 
 
 By the time George was twenty-one, he had 
 saved up enough by constant care to feel that 
 he might safely embark on the sea of house- 
 keq:)ing. He was able to take a small cottage 
 lodging for himself and Fanny, at Willington 
 Quay, near his work at the moment, and to 
 furnish it with the simple comfort which was 
 all that their existing needs demanded. lie 
 married Fanny on the 28th of November, 1802 ; 
 and the young couple proceeded at once to 
 their new home. Here George laboured 
 harder than ever, as became the head of a 
 family. He was no more ashamed of odd jobs 
 than he had been of learning the alphabet. 
 He worked overtime at emptying ballast from 
 ships ; he continued to cobble, to cut lasts, and 
 even to try his hand at regular shoemaking ; 
 furthermore, he actually acquired the art of 
 mending clocks, a matter which lay strictly in 
 his own line, and he thus earned a tidy penny 
 at odd hours by doctoring all the rusty or 
 wheezy old timepieces of all his neighbours. 
 Nor did he nccflect his mechanical education 
 meanwhile ; for he was always at work upon 
 various devices for inventing a perpetual motion 
 machine. Now, perpetual motion is the most 
 foolish will-o'-the-wisp that ever engaged a sane 
 man's attention : the thing has been proved to 
 be impossible from every conceivable point of 
 
38 BIOGRAPJriES OF IVORKIXG MEN. 
 
 view, and the attempt to achieve it, if pursued 
 to the last point, can only end in disappoint- 
 ment if not in ruin. Still, for all that, the 
 work Georp^e Stephenson spent upon this un- 
 practical object did really help to give him an 
 insight into mechanical science which proved 
 very useful to him at a later date. He didn't dis- 
 cover perpetual motion, but he did invent at last 
 the real means for making the locomotive engine 
 a practical power in the matter of travelling. 
 
 A year later, George's only son Robert was 
 born ; and from that moment the history of 
 those two able and useful lives is almost insepa- 
 rable. During the whole of George Stephen- 
 son's long upward struggle, and during the hard 
 battle! he had afterwards to fiij-ht on b ''lalf of 
 his grand design of railways, he met witii truer 
 sympathy, appreciation, and comfort from his 
 brave and gifted son than from any other 
 person whatsoever. Unhappily, his pleasure 
 and delight in the up-bringing of his boy was 
 soon to l)e clouded for a while by the one great 
 bereavement of an othervv'ise singularly placid 
 and happy existence. .Some tv/o years after 
 her marriage, T'anny Stephenson died, as yet a 
 mere girl, leaving her lonely husband to take 
 care of their l)aby boy alone and unaided. 
 Grief for this irretrievable loss drove the young 
 ^^•ido^ver away for a while from his accustomed 
 field of work among the Tyneside coal-pits ; 
 he accepted an invitation to go to Montrose in 
 Scotland, to overlook the working of a large 
 engine in some important spinning-works. He 
 
GEORGE STEPIIEKSON, ENGINE-MAX. 39 
 
 remained in this situation for one year only ; 
 but during that time he managed to give clear 
 evidence of his native mechanical insight by 
 curing a defect in the pumps which supplied 
 Avatcr to his engine, and wliich had hitherto 
 defied the best endeavours of the local enm- 
 necrs. The young father was not unmindful, 
 cither, of his duty to his boy, whom he had left 
 behind with his grandfather on Tyneside ; for 
 he saved so large a sum as £2^ during his 
 engagement, which he carried back with him 
 in his pocket on his return to England. 
 
 A sad disappointment awaited him when at 
 last he arrived at home. Old Robert Stephen- 
 son, the father, had met with an accident during 
 George's absence which made him quite blind, 
 and incapacitated him for further work. Help- 
 less and poor, he had no resource to save him 
 from the workhouse except George ; but George 
 acted towards him exactly as all men who have 
 in them a possibility of any good thing always do 
 act under siniilar circumstances. He spent £\^ 
 of his hard-earned savings to pay the debts the 
 poor blind old engine-man had necessarily con- 
 tracted durino" his absence, and he took a com- 
 fortal)le cottage for his father and mother at 
 Killino-worth, where he had worked before his 
 removal to Scotland, and where he now once 
 more obtained employment, still as a brakes- 
 man. In that cottage this good and brave son 
 supported his aged parents till their death, in 
 all the simple luxury that his small means would 
 then permit him. 
 
40 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 That, however, was not the end of George's 
 misfortunes. Shortly after, he was drawn by- 
 lot as a militiaman ; and according to the law of ^ 
 that time (for this was in 1807, during the very | 
 height of the wars against Napoleon) he must ' 
 either serve in person or else pay heavily to 
 secure a substitute. George chose regretfully 
 the latter course — the only one open to him if 
 he wished still to support his parents and his 
 infant son. But in order to do so, he had to 
 pay away the whole remainder of his carefully 
 hoarded savings, and even to borrow ^6 to 
 make up the payment for the substitute. It 
 must have seemed very hard to him to do 
 this, and many men would have sunk under 
 the blow, become hopeless, or taken to careless 
 rowdy drinking habits. George Stephenson 
 felt it bitterly, and gave way for a while to a 
 natural despondency ; he would hardly have 
 been human if he had not ; but still, he lived 
 over it, and in the end worked on again with 
 fuller resolution and vicrour than ever. 
 
 o 
 
 For several years Geordie, as his fellow-col- 
 liers affectionately called him, continued to live 
 on at one or other of the Killingworth collieries. 
 In a short time, he entered into a small con- 
 tract with his employers for '• brakeing " the 
 engines ; and in the course of this contract, he 
 invented certain improvements in the matter of 
 saving wear and tear of ropes, which were both 
 profitable to himself and also in some small 
 degree pointed the way toward his future plans 
 for the construction of railways, It is true, the 
 
GEORGE STErilENSON, ENGINE-MAX. 41 
 
 two subjects have not, apparently, much in 
 common ; but they arc connected in this way, 
 that both proceed upon the principle of xn- 
 ducini:,^ the friction to the smallest possible quan- 
 tity. It was this principle that Stephenson was 
 ij;radually learning- to appreciate more and more 
 at its proper value ; and it was this which 
 finally led him to the very summit of a great 
 and pre-eminently useful profession. The great 
 advantage, indeed, of a level railway over an 
 up-and-down ordinary road is simply that in 
 the railway the resistance and friction are almost 
 entirely got rid of. 
 
 It was in 18 10, when Stephenson was twenty- 
 nine, that his first experiment in serious en- 
 gineering was made. A coal-pit had been sunk 
 at Killino^worth, and a rude stcam-enoine of 
 that time had been set to pump the water out 
 of its shaft ; but, somehow, the engine made 
 no headway against the rising springs at the 
 bottom of the mine. For nearly a )-ear the 
 engine worked away in vain, till at last, one 
 Saturday afternoon, Geordie Stephenson went 
 over to examine her. " Well, George," said a 
 pitman, standing by, "what do you think of 
 her ? '' " jMan," said George, boldly, " I could 
 alter her and make her draw. In a week I 
 could let you all go the bottom." The pitman 
 reported this confident speech of the young 
 brakesman to the manager ; and the manager, 
 at his wits' end for a remedy, determined to Irt 
 this fellow vStephenson try his hand at her. 
 Alter all, if he did no good, he would be nuich 
 
PJOGRAPIIIKS OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 like all the others ; and anyhow he seemed to 
 have confidence in himself, which, if well 
 grounded, is always a good thing. 
 
 Georo-e's confidence ivas well QTounded. It 
 was not the confidence of i^-norance, but that of 
 knowlcdije. He luiclcrstood the enci'ine now, 
 and he saw at once the root of the evil. He 
 picked the engine to pieces, altered it to suit 
 the requircMncnts of the case, and set it to work 
 to pump without delay. Sure enough, he kept 
 his word ; and within the week, the mine was 
 dry, and the men were sent to the bottom. 
 This was a grand job for George's future. 
 The manager, a Mr. Dodds, not only gave him 
 ten pounds at once as a present, in acknow- 
 ledgment of his practical skill, but also ap- 
 pointed him engine-man of the new pit, another 
 rise in the social scale as well as in the matter 
 of Avages. Dodds kept him in mind for tlie 
 future, too ; and a couple of years later, on a 
 vacancy occurring, he promoted the promising 
 hand to be enQfine-wrioht of all the collieries 
 under his management, at a salary of ;^ioo a 
 year. When a man's income comes to be 
 reckoned by the year, rather than by the week 
 or month, it is a sicrn that he is ijrowinof into 
 a person of importance. George had now a 
 horse to ride upon, on his visits of inspection to 
 the various engines ; and his work was ratlier 
 one of mechanical enofineerinof than of mere 
 ordinary labouring handicraft. 
 
 The next few years of George Stephenson's 
 life were mainly taken up in providing for the 
 
GEORGE STEPHENSOX, ENGINE-MAX. \s 
 
 cdiicatioa of his boy Robert. He had l)cen a 
 o-ood son, and he was now a Qfood father. 
 FcclinG^ acutely how much h(; liimself had 
 suffenxl, and how many years he had been put 
 back, by his own want of a c^ood sound rudi- 
 mentary education, he determined that Robert 
 should not suffer from a similar cause. Indeed, 
 Geor!.;"e Stephenson's splendid abilities were 
 kept in the background far too lonq-, owin*;^ to 
 his early want of regular instruction. So the 
 good father worked hard to send his boy to 
 school ; not to the village teacher's only, but to 
 a school for gentlemen's sons at NevvTastle. 
 By mending clocks and watches in spare 
 moments, and by rigid economy in all un- 
 necessary expenses (especially beer), Stephen- 
 son had a!7ain Q'athcred toc^'ether a little hoard, 
 which mounted up this time to a hundred 
 piiincas. A hundred Q'uineas is a fortune and 
 a capital to a working man. He was therefore 
 rich enough, not only to send little Robert to 
 school, but even to buy him a donkey, on which 
 the boy made the journey every day from 
 Killingworth to Newcastle. This was in 1815, 
 when George was thirty-four, and Robert 
 twelve. Perhaps no man who ever climbed so 
 higli as George Stephenson, had ever reached 
 so litde of the way at so comparatively late an 
 age. For in spite of h.is undoubted success, 
 viewed from the point of view of his origin and 
 early prospects, he was as yet after all nothing 
 more than the common eni^'ine-wri^ht (jf the 
 Killingworth collieries — a long way off as yet 
 
44 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 from the distinguished father of the railway 
 system. 
 
 Geori^e Stephenson's connection with the 
 locomotive, however, was even now beginning. 
 Already, in iSi6, he and his boy had tried a 
 somewhat his/her llicfht of mechanical and 
 scientific skill than usual, in the construction 
 of a sun-dial, which involves a considerable 
 amount of careful mathematical work ; and now 
 George found that the subject of locomotive 
 engines was being forced by circumstances 
 upon his attention. From the moment he was 
 appointed engine-wright oi the Killingworth 
 collieries, he began to think about all pos- 
 sible means of hauling coal at cheaper rates 
 from the pit's mouth to the shipping place on 
 the river. For that humble object alone — an 
 object that lay wholly within the line of his 
 own special business — did the great railway 
 projector set out upon his investigations into 
 the possibilities of the locomotive. Indeed, in 
 its earliest oriij^in, the locomotive was almost 
 entirely connected with coals and mining ; its 
 application to passenger traffic on the large 
 scale was quite a later and secondary con- 
 sideration. It was only by accident, so to 
 speak, that the true capabilities of railways 
 were finally discovered in the actual course of 
 their practical employment. 
 
 George Stephenson was not the first person 
 to construct either a locomotive or a tramway. 
 Both were already in use. In more or less rude 
 forms, at several collieries. LUit he i<'as the 
 
GEORGE STEPHEXSOX, EXGEVE-JLIX. 45 
 
 first person to bring the two to such a pitch of 
 perfection, that what had been at first a mere 
 chinisy mining contrivance, became developed 
 into a smooth and easy iron higliway for the 
 rapid and convenient conveyance of goods and 
 passengers over immense distances. Of course, 
 this cfreat invention, like all other qrreat inven- 
 tions, was not the work of one day or one man. 
 Many previous heads had helped to prepare 
 the way for George Stephenson ; and George 
 Stephenson himself had been working at the 
 subject for many years before he even reached 
 the first stage of realized endeavour. As early 
 as 1814 he constructed his first locomotive at 
 Killingworth colliery; it was not until 1822 
 tliat he laid the first rail of his first large line, 
 the Stockton and Darlington Railwa}*. 
 
 Stephenson's earliest important Improvement 
 in the locomotive consisted in his invention of 
 what is called the steam-blast, by which the 
 steam is made to increase the draui^ht of tlic 
 fire, and so largely add to the effectiveness of 
 the engine. It was this invention that enabled 
 him at last to make the railway into the great 
 carrier of the world, and to begin the greatest 
 social and commercial upheaval that has ever 
 occurred in the whole history of the human race. 
 
 Meanwhile, however, George was not entirely 
 occupied with the consideration of his growing 
 engine. He had the clocks and watches to 
 mend ; he had Robert's schooling to look after ; 
 and he had another practical matter even 
 nearer home than the locomotive on which to 
 
46 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING ME\. 
 
 cxcrcis^j his inventive genius. One day, in 
 1814, the main gallery of the colliery caught 
 fire. Stephenson at once descended into the 
 burning pit, with a chosen band of volunteers, 
 who displa)ed the usual heroic courage of 
 colliers in going to the rescue of their comrades ; 
 and, at the risk of their lives, these brave men 
 bricked up the burning portion, and so, by 
 excluding the air, put out the dangerous fire. 
 Still, even so, several of the workmen luid 
 been suffocated, and one of the pitmen asked 
 Geordie in dismay whether nothing could be 
 done to prevent such terrible disasters in future. 
 " The price of coal-mining now," he said, *' is 
 pitmen's lives." Stephenson promised to think 
 the matter over ; and he did think it over with 
 p'ood effect. The result of his thoui^dit was the 
 apparatus still affectionately known to the pit- 
 men as " the Geordie lamp." It is a lamp so 
 constructed that the fiame cannot pass out into 
 the air outside, and so cause explosions in the 
 dangerous fire-damp which is always liable to 
 occur abundantly in the galleries of coal mines. 
 By this invention alone George Stephenson's 
 name and memory might have been kept green 
 for ever ; for his lamp has been the means of 
 saving thousands of lives from a sudden, a 
 terrible, and a pitiful death. Most accidents 
 that now occur in mines are due to the neglect 
 of ordinary precautions, and to the perverse 
 habit of carrying a naked lighted candle in the 
 hand (contrary to regulations) instead of a 
 carefully guarded safety lamp. Yet so culpably 
 
GEORGE STEP HEX SON, EKGIXE-MAX. 47 
 
 reckless of their own and other men's lives arc 
 a large number of people everywhere, that in 
 spite of the most strinL;-ent and salutary rules, 
 explosions from this cause (and, therefore, easily 
 avoidable) take place constantly to the present 
 (lay, though far less frequently than before the 
 invention of the Geordie lamp. 
 
 Curiously enough, at the very time when 
 George Stephenson was busy inventing his 
 lamp at Killingworth, Sir Humphrey Davy was 
 working at just the same matter in London ; 
 and the two lamps, though a little different in 
 minor points of construction, are practically the 
 same in general principle. Now, Sir Humphrey 
 was then the great fashionable natural philo- 
 sopher of the day, the favourite of London 
 society, and the popular lecturer of the Royal 
 Institution. His friends thought it a monstrous 
 idea that his splendid life-saving apparatus 
 should have been independently devised by 
 '' an enoine-wriL!-ht of Killino-worth of the name 
 of Stephenson — a person not even possessing a 
 knowledge of the elements of chemistry." 1 his 
 sounds very odd reading at the present day, v.hen 
 the engine-wright of the name of Stephenson 
 has altered the whole face of the world, while 
 Davy is chiefly remembered as a meritorious 
 and able chemist ; but at the time, Stephenson's 
 claim to the invention met with little courtesy 
 from the great public of London, where a 
 meeting was held on purpose to denounce his 
 right to the credit of the invention. What the 
 coal-owners and colliers of the North Country 
 
4^ niOGRAPIIIES 01' WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 t]ioii!.;ht about the matter was sufficiently shown 
 by their subscription of ;^iooo, as a Stephenson 
 testimonial fund. With part of the money, a 
 silver tankard was presented to the deserving 
 encrine-wriLrht, while the remainder of the sum 
 was handed over to him in ready cash. A very 
 acceptable present it was, and one which George 
 Stephenson remembered with pride down to his 
 dying day. The Geordie lamp continues in use 
 to the present moment in the Tyneside collieries 
 with excellent effect. 
 
 For some years more, Mr. Stephenson (he is 
 now fairly entitled to that respectable prefix) 
 went on still further experimenting on the 
 question of locomotives and railways. He was 
 now beginning to learn that much unnecessary 
 wear and tear arose on the short lines of rail 
 down from the pit's mouths to the loading-places 
 on the river by the inequalities and roughnesses 
 of the joints ; and he invented a method of 
 overlapping the rails which quite got over this 
 source of loss — loss of speed, loss of power, and 
 loss of material at once. It was in 1819 that he 
 laid down his first considerable piece of road, 
 the Hetton railway. The owners of a colliery at 
 the village of Hetton, in Durham, determined to 
 replace their waggon road by a locomotive line ; 
 and they invited the now locally famous Kil- 
 lingworth engine-wright to act as their engineer. 
 Stephenson gladly undertook the post ; and he 
 laid down a railway of eight miles in length, on 
 the larger part of which the trucks were to 
 be drawn by " the iron horse," as people now 
 
GEORGE STErilENSON, EXGL\E-MA.\. 49 
 
 began to style the altered and improved locomo- 
 tive. The Hetton railway was opened in 1822, 
 and the assembled crowd were delighted at 
 beholding a single engine draw seventeen loaded 
 trucks after it, at the extraordinary rate of four 
 miles an hour — nearly as fast as a man could 
 walk. Whence it may be gathered that Ste- 
 phenson's ideas upon the question of speed were 
 still on a very humble scale indeed. 
 
 Before the Hetton railway was opened, how- 
 ever, George Stephenson had shown one more 
 proof of his excellence as a father by sending 
 his boy Robert, now nineteen, to Edinburgh 
 University. It was a serious expense for a 
 man who was even now, after all, hardly more 
 than a working man of the superior grade ; but 
 George Stephenson was well repaid for the 
 sacrifice he thus made on behalf of his only son. 
 He lived to see him the greatest practical 
 engineer of his own time, and to feel that 
 his success was in large measure due to the 
 wider and more accurate scientific trainincf the 
 lad had received from his Edinburgh teachers. 
 
 In 1 8 19 George married again, his second wife 
 bcino^ the dauMiter of a farmer at Black Callerton. 
 
 The work which finally secured the position 
 of George Stephenson and of his dearly loved 
 locomotive was the Stockton and Darlington 
 railway. Like all the other early railways, it 
 was originally projected simply as a mineral line. 
 Darlington lies in the centre of a rich inland 
 mining district ; but the impossibility of getting 
 the coal carried to the sea by cart or donkey 
 
50 BIOGRAPIIIEr 01 WORKIXG MEN. 
 
 long prevented the opening" up of its immense 
 natuml wealth. At last, as early as 1S17, 
 Edward Pease and a few other enterprising 
 Darlincfton Quakers determined to build a line 
 of railway from the mining region to Stockton, 
 on the river Tees, where the coal could be 
 loaded into sea-going ships. It w^as a very 
 long line, compared to any railway that had yet 
 been constructed ; but it was still only to be 
 worked by horse-po\Aer — to be, in fact, what 
 we now call a tramway, rather than a railway 
 in the modern sense. However, while the plan 
 was still undecided, George Stephenson, who 
 had heard about the proposed scheme, went 
 over to Darlington one day, and boldly asked 
 to see ]\Ir. Pease. The o-ood Quaker received 
 him kindly, and listened to his arguments in 
 favour of the locomotive. '' Come over to 
 Killingworth some clay and sec my engine at 
 work," said Stephenson, confidently; "and if 
 you do you will never think of horses again." 
 Mr. Pease, with Quaker caution, came and 
 looked. George put the engine through its 
 paces, and showed off its marvellous capabilities 
 to such good effect that Edward Pease was 
 immediately converted. Henceforth, he became 
 a decided advocate of locomotives, and greatly 
 aided by his w^ealth and inlluence in securing 
 their final triumph. 
 
 Not only that, but Mn Pease also aided 
 Sfephenson in carrying out a design which 
 George had long had upon his mind — the estab- 
 lishment of a regular locomotive factory, where 
 
GEORGE STEPHENSOX, EXGL\E-MAN. 51 
 
 the work of cnginc-makini^ for this particular 
 purpose nii\q;ht ho. carried on with all the 
 necessary finish and accuracy. Gcoro'c himself 
 put into the concern his precious £1000, not 
 owQ. penny of which he h.ad yet touched ; while 
 Pease and a friend advanced as much between 
 ihem. A factory was forthwith started at 
 Newcastle on a small scale, and the hard- 
 working cngine-wright found himself now fully 
 advanced to the commercial di[i^nity of Stephen- 
 son and Co. With the orradual cfrowth of rail- 
 ways, that humble Newcastle factory i^^rew 
 gradually into one of the largest and wealthiest 
 luanufacturini'- establishments in all Encrland. 
 
 JMeanwdiile, Stephenson was eagerly pushing 
 ou the survey of the Stockton and Darlington 
 railway, all the more gladly now that he knew 
 it was to be worked by means of his own 
 adopted child, the beloved locomotive. He 
 worked at his line early and late ; he took the 
 sights with the spirit-level with his own eye ; 
 he was determined to make it a model railway. 
 It was a long and heavy work, for railway sur- 
 \eying was then a new art, and the appliances 
 were all fresh and experimental ; but in the 
 end, Stephenson brought it to a happy con- 
 clusion, and struck at once the death-blow of 
 the old road-travelling system. The line was 
 opened successfully in 1825, and the engine 
 started off on the inaugural ceremony with 
 a magnificent train of thirty-eight vehicles. 
 "Such was its velocity," says a newspaper of 
 the day, " that in some parts the speed was 
 frequently twelve miles an hour." 
 
52 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEN. 
 
 The success of the Stockton and DarHngton 
 railway was so immense and unexpected, the 
 number of passengers who went by it was so 
 great, and the quantity of coal carried for ship- 
 ment so far beyond anything the projectors 
 themselves could have anticipated, that a desire 
 soon began to be felt for similar works in other 
 places. There are no two towns in England 
 which absolutely need a railway communication 
 from one to the other so much as Liverpool 
 and Manchester. The first is the great port 
 of entry for cotton, the second is the great 
 centre of its manufacture. The B rid Qe water 
 canal had helped for a time to make up for the 
 want of water communication between those 
 two closely connected towns ; but as trade 
 developed, the canal became too small for the 
 demands upon it, and the need for an additional 
 means of intercourse was deeply felt. A com- 
 mittee was formed to build a railway in this busy 
 district, and after a short time George Stephen- 
 son was engaged to superintend its construction. 
 
 A long and severe fight was fought over the 
 Liverpool and Manchester railway, and it was 
 at first doubtful whether the scheme would ever 
 be carried out. ]\Lany great landowners were 
 strongly opposed to it, and tried their best to 
 keep the bill for authorizing it from passing 
 through Parliament. Stephenson himself was 
 compelled to appear in London as a w^itness 
 before a parliamentary committee, and was 
 closely cross-examined as to the possibilities 
 of his plan. In those da}s, even after the 
 
GEORGE STEPHE.\SOX, EXGIXE-MAX. 53 
 
 success of the Stockton and Darlington line, 
 his views about the future of railways were still 
 regarded by most sober persons as ridiculously 
 wild and enthusiastic ; while the notion that 
 trains might be made to travel twice as fast 
 as stage-coaches, was scouted as the most 
 palpable and ridiculous delusion. One of the 
 members of the committee pressed Stephenson 
 very hard with questions. " Suppose," he said, 
 " a cow were to get upon the line, and the 
 engine were to come into collision with it : 
 wouldn't that be very awkward, now?" George 
 looked up at him with a merry twinkle of the 
 eye, and answered in his broad North Country 
 dialect, " Oo, ay, very awkward for the coo." 
 
 In spite of all Stephenson's earnestness and 
 mother wit, however. Parliament refused to 
 pass the bill (in 1825), and for the moment the 
 engineer's vexation was bitter to behold. He 
 and his friends plucked up heart, however ; 
 they were fighting the winning battle against 
 jirejudice and obstruction, and they were sure 
 to conquer in the long run. The line was re- 
 surveyed by other engineers ; the lands of the 
 hostile owners were avoided ; the causes of 
 offence were dexterously smoothed down ; and 
 after another hard fight, in 1826, the bill autho- 
 rizing the construction of the Liverpool and 
 Manchester railway was finally passed. The 
 board at once appointed Stephenson engineer 
 for constructing the line, at a salary of £iQOO 
 a year. George might now fairly consider 
 himself entitled to the honours of an Esquire. 
 
54 BIOGRAPHIES OF JVORKLXG MEA\ 
 
 The line was a diiTicuk one to construct ; but 
 George Stephenson set about it with the skill 
 and knowledge acquired during many years of 
 slow experience ; and he performed it with 
 distinguished success. He was now forty-four ; 
 and he had had more to do with the laying- 
 down of rails than any other man then living. 
 The great difficulty of the Liverpool and 
 Manchester line lay in the fact that it had to 
 traverse a vast shakinof boL*" or morass, Chat 
 Moss, which the best engineers had emphati- 
 cally declared it would be impossible to cross. 
 George Stephenson, however, had a plan for 
 making the impossible possible. He simply 
 floated his line on a broad bottom, like a ship, 
 on the top of the quaking quagmire ; and pro- 
 ceeded to lay down his rails on this seemingly 
 fragile support without further scruple. It 
 answered admirabl}', and still ansv/ers to the 
 present day. The other works on the railway, 
 especially the cuttings, were such as might well 
 have appalled the boldest heart in those experi- 
 mental ages of railway enterprise. It is easy 
 enouorh lor us now to undertake tunnellinir 
 great hillb or filling up wide valleys with long 
 ranges of viaduct, because the thing has been 
 done so often, and the prospect of earning a 
 fair return on the money sunk CcUi be calcu- 
 lated with so hi'»h a decree of reasonable 
 probability. But it required no litde faith for 
 George Stephenson and his backers to drive a 
 level road, for the first time, through solid rocks 
 and over trembling morasses, the whole way 
 
GEORGE STEPHENSON, ENGINE-MAN. 5i, 
 
 from Liverpool to Manchester. He persevered, 
 however, and in 1830, after four years' toilsome 
 and ceaseless labour, durin_Lj Avhich he had worked 
 far harder than the sturdiest navvy on the line, 
 his railway was finally opened for regular traffic. 
 
 Before the completion of the railway, Georoe 
 Stephenson had taken part in a great contest 
 for the best locomotive at Liverpool, a prize of 
 ;/,'500 having been offered by the company to 
 the successful competitor. Stephenson sent in 
 his improved model, the Rocket, constructed 
 after plans of his own and his son Robert's, 
 and it gained the prize against all its rivals, 
 travelling at what was then considered the in- 
 crcdil^le rate of 35 miles an hour. It was thus 
 satisfactorily settled that tlie locomotive was 
 the best power for drawing carriages on rail- 
 ways, and George vStephenson's long battle was 
 thus at last practically won. 
 
 The o]:)ening of the Liverpool and iMan- 
 clicster railway was an era in the history of the 
 Vv'orld. From the moment that great imder- 
 taking was complete, there could no longer be 
 any doubt about the utility and desirability of 
 railways, and all opposition died away almost 
 at once. New lines began immediately to be 
 laid out, and in an incredibl)' short time the 
 face of England was scarred by the main trunks 
 in that network of iron roads with which its 
 whole surface is now so closul)- covered. The 
 enormous development of the railway system 
 benefited tlui vSicphenson family in more than 
 one way. Robert Stephenson became the 
 
56 niOGRAPHlES OF IVOnKIXG MEX. 
 
 engineer of the vast series of lines now known 
 «is the London and North Western ; and the 
 increased demand for locomotives caused 
 George Stephenson's small factory at Newcastle 
 to blossom out suddenly into an immense and 
 flourlshincf manufacturlncr concern. 
 
 The rest of George Stephenson's life is one 
 long story of unbroken success. In 1831, the 
 year after the opening of the Liverpool and 
 Manchester line, George, being now fifty, 
 bei^an to think of settlincjf down In a more 
 permanent home. His son Robert, who was 
 surveying the Leicester and Swannlngton rail- 
 way, observed on an estate called Snibston, 
 near Ashby-de-la-Zouch, what to his experi- 
 enced geological eye looked like the probable 
 indications of coal beneath the surface. He 
 wrote to his father about it, and as the estate 
 was at the time for sale, George, now a com- 
 paratively wealthy man, bought it up on his 
 son's recommendation. He also pitched his 
 home close by at Alton Grange, and began to 
 sink shafts in search of coal. He found it in 
 due time ; and thus, in addition to his New- 
 castle works, he became a flourishing colliery 
 proprietor. It is pleasing to note that Stephen- 
 son, unlike too many other self-made men, 
 always treated his workmen with the greatest 
 kindness and consideration, erectincr admirable 
 cottages for their accommodation, and providing 
 them with church, chapel, and schools for their 
 relli^ious and social education. 
 
 While living at Alton Grange, Stephenson was 
 
GEORGE STEPHEXSOX, EXGIXE-MAX. 
 
 3/ 
 
 cneaircd in layini/ out several new lines in the 
 middle and north of Eni^land, especially the 
 Grand Junction and the Midland, both of which 
 he constructed with great boldness and practical 
 skill. As he grew older and more famous, he 
 began to mix in the truly best society ot 
 l^ngland ; his acquaintance being sought by all 
 the most eminent men in literature, science, and 
 political life. Though but an uneducated work- 
 ing man by origin, George Stephenson had so 
 improved his mind by constant thought and 
 expansive self-education, that he was able to 
 meet these able and distinguished friends of his 
 later days on terms of perfect intellectual and 
 social equality. To the last, however, he never 
 forgot his older and poorer friends, nor was he 
 ever ashamed of their acquaintance. A plea- 
 sant trait is narrated by his genial biographer, 
 Dr. Smiles, who notices that on one occasion 
 he stopped to speak to one of his wealthy ac- 
 quaintances in a fine carriage, and then turned 
 to shake hands with the coachman on the box, 
 whom he had known and respected in his 
 earlier days. He enjoyed, too, the rare pleasure 
 of feelini^ his i.i'reatncss recoc^nized in his own 
 time : and once, when he went over to Brussels 
 on a visit to the king of the l)e]glans, he was 
 [jleased and surprised, as the ro}al j)arty 
 entered the ball-room at the Town Hall, to 
 hear a ijeneral murmur amon^r the quests of 
 " Which is Stephenson ? " 
 
 George Stephenson continued to live for 
 sixteen years, first at Alton Grange, and after- 
 
58 lUOGRAPHIRS OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 wards at Tapton House, near Chesterfield, in 
 comfort and opulence ; growing big pines and 
 melons, keeping birds and dogs, and indulging 
 himself towards the end in the well-earned 
 repose to which his useful and laborious life 
 fully entitled him. At last, on the 12th of 
 August, 1848, he died suddenly of intermittent 
 fever, in his sixty-seventh year, and was peace- 
 fully buried in Chesterfield church. Probably 
 no one man who ever lived did so much to 
 change and renovate the whole aspect of human 
 life as George Stephenson ; and, unlike many 
 other authors of great revolutions, he lived long- 
 enough to see the full result of his splendid 
 labours in the girdling of England by his iron 
 roads. A grand and simple man, he worked 
 honestly and steadfastly throughout his days, 
 and he found his reward in the unprecedented 
 benefits which his locomotive was even then 
 conferring upon his fellow-men. It is indeed 
 wonderful to think how very different is the 
 England in which we live to-day, from that in 
 which we might possibly have been living were 
 it not for the barefooted little collier boy who 
 made clay models of engines at Wylam, and 
 who cfrcw at last into the great and famous 
 engineer of the marvellous Liverpool and Man- 
 chester railway. The main characteristic of 
 George Stephenson was perseverance ; and it 
 was that perseverance that enabled him at last 
 to carry out his magnificent schemes in the face 
 of so much bitter and violent opposition. 
 
III. 
 
 JOHN GIBSON, ScuLiTOR. 
 
 N most cases, die workiii*^ man who 
 raises himself to wealth and position, 
 does so by means of trade, which is 
 usually the natural outgrowth of his 
 own special handicraft or ceilling. If 
 he attains, not only to riches, but to distinction 
 as well, it is in general by mechanical talent, 
 the direction of the mind being naturally 
 biased by the course of one's own ordinary 
 occupations. England has been exceptionally 
 rich in orcat engineers and inventive geniuses 
 of such humble origin — workin<'' men who have 
 introduced great improvements in manufactures 
 or communications ; and our modern English 
 civilization has been immensely intluenced by 
 the lives of these able and successful mechanical 
 toilers. Erom Brindley, the constructor of the 
 earliest great canal, to Joseph Gillott, the in- 
 ventor of the very steel pen with which this 
 book is written ; from Arkwright the barber who 
 
Co BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEW 
 
 fashioned the first spinnino--machinc, to Cromp- 
 ton the weaver, whose mule ^i^ave rise to the 
 mighty Manchester cotton trade ; from New- 
 comen, who made the first rough attempt at a 
 steam-engine, to Stephenson, who sent the iron 
 horse from end to end of the land, — the chief 
 mechanical improvements in the country have 
 almost all been due to tlie energy, intellig'ence, 
 and skill of our labouring population. The 
 English mind is intensely j^ractical, and the 
 I^nglish working man, for the last two centuries 
 at least, has been mainly distinguished for his 
 g"reat mechanical aptitude, bursting out, here 
 and there, in exceptional persons, under the 
 form of exceedingly high inventive genius. 
 
 At our very doors, however, there is a small 
 nation of largely different blood and of wholly 
 different speech from our own ; a nation form- 
 ing a part of our own kingdom, even more 
 closely than the Scotch or the Irish, and yet in 
 some respects further from us in mind and 
 habit of life than either ; a nation marked 
 rather by the poetical and artistic, than by the 
 mechanical and practical temperament — the 
 ancient and noble Welsh people. It would 
 hardly be reasonable to expect from the Welsh 
 exactly the same kind of success in life which 
 we often find in English workmen ; the aims 
 and ideals of the two races are so distinct, and 
 it must be frankly confessed the advantage is 
 not always on the side of the Englishman. 
 The Welsh peasants, living among their oww 
 romantic hills and valleys, speaking their own 
 
JOHN GIBSON, SCULPTOR. 6i 
 
 soft and exquisite languao^e, treasuring their 
 own plaintive and melodious poetry, have 
 grown up with an intense love for beauty and 
 the beautiful closely intwincd into the very 
 warp and woof of their inmost natures. They 
 have almost always a natural refinement of 
 manner and delicacy of speech which is un- 
 fortunately too often wanting amongst our 
 rougher English labouring classes, especially 
 in large towns. They are intensely musical, 
 producing a very large proportion of the best 
 English singers and composers. They are 
 fond of literature, for which they have generally 
 some natural capacity, and in which they exer- 
 cise themselves to an extent unknow^n, pro- 
 bably, among people of their class in any other 
 country. At the local meetings of bards (as 
 they call themselves) in Wales, it is not at all 
 uncommon to hear that the first prize for 
 Welsh poetry has been carried off by a shep- 
 herd, and the first prize for Welsh prose com- 
 position by a domestic servant. In short, the 
 susceptibilities of the race run rather toward 
 art and imagination, than toward mere money- 
 making and practical ingenuity. 
 
 John Gibson, sculptor, of Rome, as he loved 
 to call himself, was a remarkable embodiment, 
 in many ways, of this self-respecting, artistic, 
 ideal Welsh peasant temperament. In a little 
 village near Conway, in North Wales, there 
 lived at the end of the last century a petty 
 labouring market gardener of the name of 
 Gibson, who knew and spoke no other tongue 
 
nWCxRAPIIIKS OF IVORk'IXG jVF.W 
 
 than his native Welsh. In 1790, his wife gave 
 birth to a son whom they christened John, and 
 who grew up, a workman's child, under the 
 shadow of the Q'reat castle, and amoncf the 
 exquisite scenery of the placid land-locked 
 Conway river. John Gibson's parents, like the 
 mass of labouring Welsh people, were honest, 
 God-fearing folk, with a great earnestness of 
 principle, a profound love of truth, and a hatred 
 of all mean or dirty actions. They brought up 
 the l)oy in these respects in the way he should 
 o-o ; and when he was old he indeed did not 
 depart from them. Throughout his life, John 
 Gibson w^as remarkable for his calm, earnest, 
 straightforward simplicity, a simplicity which 
 seemed almost childish to those who could not 
 understand so grand and uncommon and noble 
 a nature as his. 
 
 From his babyhood, almost, the love of art 
 was innate in the boy ; and when he was only 
 seven years old, he began to draw upon a slate 
 a scene that particularly pleased him — a line of 
 geese sailing upon the smooth glassy surface of 
 a neighbouring pond. He drew them as an 
 ordinary child almost always does draw^ — one 
 goose after another, in profile, as though they 
 were in procession, without any attempt at 
 grouping or perspective in any w\ay. His 
 mother praised the first attempt, saying to him 
 in Welsh, "Indeed, Jack, this is very like the 
 geese ; " and Jack, encouraged by her praise, 
 decided immediately to try again. But not 
 being an ordinary child, lie determined this 
 
JOHN arnsox, sculptor. 63 
 
 time to do better ; he drew the gcesc one 
 behind the other as one generally sees them 
 in actual nature. His mother then asked him 
 to draw a horse ; and '* after crazino- loncf and 
 often upon one," he says, *' I at last ventured to 
 commit him to the slate." When he had done 
 so, the good mother was even more delighted. 
 vSo, to try his childish art, she asked him to put 
 a rider on the horse's back. Jack went out 
 once more, '' carefully watched men on horse- 
 back," and then returning, made his sketch 
 accordingly. In this childish reminiscence one 
 can see already the first \vorkings of that spirit 
 which made Gil.ison afterwards into the o-reatest 
 sculptor of all Europe. lie didn't try even 
 then to draw horse or man by mere guess- 
 work ; he Vv'ent out and studied the subject at 
 first hand. There are in that single trait two 
 great elements of success in no matter what 
 line of life — supreme carefulness, and perfect 
 honesty of workmanship. 
 
 When Jack was nine years old, his father 
 determined to emigrate to America, and for that 
 purpose went to Liverpool to embark for the 
 United States. lUit when he had got as far as 
 the docks, ]\Irs. Gibson, good soul, frightened 
 at the bigness of the ships (a queer cause of 
 alarm), refused plumply ever to put her foot on 
 one of them. So her husband, a dutiful man 
 with a full sense of his wife's government upon 
 him, consented unwillingly to stop in Liverpool, 
 where he settled down to work aciain as a crar- 
 dcner. Hitherto, Jack and his brothers had 
 
64 lilOG RAP HIES OF WORKIXG MUX. 
 
 spoken nothing but Welsh ; Init at Liverpool 
 he was put to school, and soon learned to ex- 
 press himself correctly and easily in English. 
 Liverpool was a very different place for young 
 Jack Gibson from Conway : there were no hills 
 and valleys there, to be sure, but there were 
 shops — such shops ! all full of the most beautiful 
 and highly coloured prints and caricatures, after 
 the fashion of the days when George IV. was 
 still Prince Regent. All his spare time he now 
 gave up to diligently copying the drawings 
 which he saw spread out in tempting array 
 before him in the shop-windows. Flattening 
 his little nose against the glass panes, he used 
 to look long and patiently at a single figure, till 
 he had got every detail of its execution fixed 
 firmly on his mind's eye ; and then he would go 
 home hastily and sketch it out at once while the 
 picture was still quite fresh in his vivid memory. 
 Afterwards he would return to the shop- 
 window, and correct his copy by the original 
 till it was completely finished. No doubt the 
 boy did all this purely for his own amusement ; 
 but at the same time he was quite unconsciously 
 teaching himself to draw under a very careful 
 and accurate master — himself. Already, how- 
 ever, he found his paintings had patrons, for he 
 sold them when finished to the other boys ; and 
 once he got as much as sixpence for a coloured 
 picture of Napoleon crossing the Alps — " the 
 largest sum," he says brightly in his memoirs 
 long after, " I had yet received for a work of art." 
 Opportunities always arise for those who 
 
jOIIX CinSOX, SCULPTOR. 65 
 
 know how to use them. Little Jack Gibson 
 used to buy his paper and colours at a sta- 
 tioner's in Liverpool, who one day said to him 
 kindly, " My lad, you're a constant customer 
 here : I suppose you're a painter." " Yes, sir," 
 Jack answered, with childish self-complacency, 
 " I do paint." The stationer, who had himself 
 studied at the Ro)al Academy, asked him to 
 brine;' his pictures on view ; and when Jack did 
 so, his new friend, Mr. Tourmeau, was so much 
 pleased with them that he lent the boy draw- 
 ings to copy, and showed him how to draw for 
 himself from plaster casts. These hrst amateur 
 h.'ssons must have criven the direction to all 
 Ciibson's later life : for when the time came for 
 him to choose a trade, he was not set to till 
 tlie ground like his father, but w^as employed at 
 once on comparatively artistic and intelligent 
 handicraft. 
 
 Jack was fourteen when his father appren- 
 ticed him to a firm of cabinet-makers. For the 
 first year, he worked away contentedly at legs 
 and mouldings ; but as soon as he had learnt 
 the rudiments of the trade he persuaded his 
 masters to change his indentures, and let him 
 take the more suitable employment of carving 
 woodwork for ornamental furniture. He must 
 have been a good workman and a promising- 
 boy, one may be sure, or his masters w^ould 
 never have countenanced such a revolutionary 
 proceeding on the part of a raw^ apprentice. 
 Young Gibson was delighted with his new 
 occupation, and pursued it so eagerly that \\(\ 
 
 F 
 
66 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEN. 
 
 carved even durlni'- his leisure hours troni 
 phister casts. l)Ut att(n* another )-ear, as ill-luck 
 or good fortune would ha\'e it, he h;ippened to 
 come across a London ni;u'1)le-cutter, who had 
 come down to Liverpool to carve llowers in 
 marble for a local firm. The boy was en- 
 chanted with his freer and more artistic work ; 
 when the mar])le-cutter took him over a bier 
 }ard, and showed him the process of mode'lling- 
 and cuttini^, he bepan to feel a deep contempt 
 for his own stiif and lifeless occupation of wood- 
 carvin;;-. Inspired with the desire to learn this 
 higher craft, he bou;.dit some clay, took it home, 
 and moukhxl it for himself after all the casts he 
 could lay his hands on. Mr. b^-ancis, the pro- 
 prietor of th<; marble works, had a German 
 workman in his employ of the name ol' Lii;^e, 
 who use I to model small fi^nu'es, chieily, no 
 doubt, for monumental purposes. Young 
 Gibson borrowed a head of Bacchus that Lllge 
 lui'l comi)osf;d, and made a copy of it himself in 
 clay. J\ir. Francis was well pleased with this 
 early attempt, and also v\ith a clever head of 
 Mercury in marble, which Gibson cnrved in his 
 spare moments. 
 
 The more the lad saw of clay and marble, 
 tlu! ;;realer grew his distaste for mere wood- 
 work. At kist, he determined to ask Mr. 
 Francis to buy out his indentures from the 
 cabinet-makers, and let him linish his appren- 
 ticeship as a sculptor, l^ut unfortunately the 
 cabinet-makers found Gibson too useful a per- 
 son to be g(^t rid of so easily : they said he was 
 
JOHN GIBSON, SCULPTOR. C7 
 
 the most imlustrlous lad tlu:y had ever had ; 
 and so his vcM*y virtues seemed as It were to 
 lurn a.L;'ainst him. Not so, really: Mr. iM'ancIs 
 thouL,dit so \vell of the bo)' that he offered the 
 masters £'io to be f[uit of their bari^-aln ; and 
 in the end, Gibson himself ha\'inp;- made a very 
 firm stand in the matter, he was released from 
 his intlentiires and handed over fmally to Mr. 
 Francis and a sculptor's life. 
 
 And now the; eag"er boy was at List "truly 
 happy." He had to model all day loni;', and he 
 worked away at it with a will. Shortly after he 
 went to Mr. b^'ancis's yard, a visitor came upon 
 business, a mai^-nlficentdookln^- old man, with 
 snowy hair and Roman features. It was 
 William Roscoe, the ^Teat Liverpool l)anker, 
 himself a poor boy who had risen, and who had 
 found time not only to build up for himself an 
 ( normous fortune, but also to become thorouc;hly 
 well acquainted with literature and art by the 
 way. J\Ir. Roscoe had written bloc^'raphies of 
 Lorenzo de AL'dici, the great Morentlne, and of 
 Leo X., the art-lovini,^ pope; and throughout 
 lus whole life he was always deeply interested 
 in painting' and scul[)turc and everything that 
 related to them. lie was a i)hilanthr()[)ist, too, 
 who had borne his part bravel)- in the great 
 struggle for the abolition of the slave trade ; 
 ;in 1 to befriend a struggling hid of genius like 
 John Gibson was the very thing that was 
 nearest and dearest to his benevolent heart. 
 ]\Ir. I'rancis showed Roscoe the boy's drawings 
 and models ; and Roscoc's appreciative eye saw 
 
68 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORK IXC, ME.W 
 
 in them at once the visible promise of great 
 things to be. He had come to order a chimney- 
 piece for his Hbrary at Allerton, where his 
 imi)ortant historical works were all composed ; 
 and he determined that the clever 1)oy should 
 have a chief hand in its production. A few 
 days later he returned again with a valuable; 
 old Italian print. " I want you to make a bas- 
 relief in baked clay," he said to Gibson, " from 
 this print for the: centre of my mantelpiece." 
 Oibson was o\'erjoyed. The print was taken 
 from a fresco of Raphael's in the X^itican at 
 Rome!, and Gibson's work was to reproduce it 
 in clay in low relief, as a sculpture picture. lb; 
 did so entirely to his new patron's satisfaction. 
 and this his first serious work is now duly pn?- 
 served in the Liverpool Institution which Mr. 
 Roscoc luul been maiidy instrumental in 
 founding. 
 
 Roscoe had a sjjlendid collection of prints 
 and drawings at Allerton ; and Ik; invited the 
 clever Welsh lad over there fre([uently, and 
 allowed him to studv them all to his heart's 
 content. To a lad like John Gibson, such an 
 opportunity of becoming acquainted with the 
 works of Raphael and Michael Angelo was a 
 great and pure delight. Ik-fore he was nineteen, 
 he began to tliink of a big picture which he 
 hoped to paint some day ; and he carried it out 
 as well as he was able in his own self-taught 
 fashion. For as yet, it must be remembere^l, 
 Gibson had had no rec^ular artistic instruction : 
 there was none such, indeed, to be had at all in 
 
yujix uinsox, sculptor. 69 
 
 Liverpool in liis chiy ; and there was no real art 
 • •oin"" on in the town in any \va\'. Mr, L^rancis, 
 his master, was no artist ; nor was there anybody 
 at the works who could teach him : for as soon 
 as Mr. iM'ancis found out the full nifjasure of 
 Ciibson's abilities, he dismissed his German 
 artist Lui;e, and put the cle\er boy entirely in 
 his place. At this time, Gibson was onl\- recei\ini,^ 
 six shilliiT'S a week as wa^res ; but Mr. Francis 
 i^ot 14'ood [)rices for many of his works, and was 
 not ashamed e\'en to put his own name upon 
 the promising lad's artistic performances. 
 
 Mr. Roscoe did not merely encourage the 
 young sculptor ; he set him also on the right 
 road for ultimate success. He unjfed Gibson to 
 study anatomy, without which no sculpture 
 worthy of the name is possible. Gibson gladly 
 complied, for he knew that ?^Iichael Angelo had 
 been a great anatonu'st, and ?slichael was just at 
 that moment the budding scul[)tor's idol and 
 ideal. But how^ could he learn } A certain 
 Dr. Vose was then giving lectures on anatomy 
 to young surgeons at Liverpool, anel on Roscoe's 
 recommendation he kindly admitted the eager 
 student gratis to his dissef:ting-roc)m. Gibson 
 dissected there' with a will in all his spare 
 moments, and as he [)ut his mind into the work 
 he soon became well versed in the; construction 
 of the human bod\'. 
 
 b'rom the day that Gibson arrived at man's 
 estate, the c^reat dream of h.is WUi was to u'o to 
 Rome. I'or Rome is to art what Lontlon is to 
 industry the metrooolis in its own wav of the 
 
70 niOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEiW 
 
 entire earth. lUit travelling- in 1810 cost avast 
 deal of money ; and the poor Liverpool marble- 
 cutter (for as yet he was really nothinc^- more) 
 could hardl) /lOpe to earn the immense sum 
 that such an v xpedition would necessarily cost 
 him. So for six years more he went on workin''- 
 at Liverpool in his ov/n native untaught fashion, 
 doing- his best to perfect himself, but feelino- 
 sadly tlie lack of training and competition. One 
 of the last works he executed while still in r^Ir. 
 Francis's service was a chimney-piece for Sir 
 John Gladstone, father of the future premier. 
 Sir John was so pleased with the execution, tluit 
 he gave the young workman ten pounds as a 
 present. l)Ut in spite of occasional encourage- 
 ment like this, Gibson felt himself at Liverpool, 
 as he says, " chained down by the leg, and 
 panting for liberation." 
 
 \\\ 1817, when he was just twenty-seven, he 
 determined to set off to London. lie took 
 with him good introductions from Mr. Roscoe 
 to jNIr. I brougham (afterwards Lord Chancellor), 
 to Christie, the big picture-dealer, and to several 
 other inlluential people. Later on, Ixoscoe 
 recommended him to still more import;uit leaders 
 in the world of art— Flaxman the great sculptor, 
 Benjamin West, the Quaker painter and Presi- 
 dent of the Royal Acadeni)-, and others of like 
 magnitude. IMr. Watson Ta)lor, a wealthy 
 art patron, gave Gibson employment, and was 
 anxious that he should stop in London. But 
 Gibson wanted more than employment; he 
 wanted to Icajii, to perfect himself, to become 
 
JOHN GinsOX, SCULPTOR. 
 
 great in his art. He could do that nowhere 
 but at Rome, and to Rome therefore h.e was 
 determined to qo. rJr.Tavlor still benf<2-ed liim 
 to wait a little. " Go to Rome I will," Gibson 
 answered boldly, " even it' I have to go there 
 on foot." 
 
 lie was not quite reduced to this heroic 
 measure, however, for his Liverpool friends 
 made up a jDursc of ^150 for him (we niay be 
 sure it was repaid later on) ; and with that 
 comparatively large sum in his pocket the youncr 
 stone-cutter started off gaily on his continental 
 tour, from which he was not to return for 
 twenty-seven years. He drove from Paris to 
 Roni(2, sharing a carriage with a Scotch gentle- 
 man ; and wiien he arrived in the Pope's city 
 (as it then was) he knew absolutely not a single 
 word of Italian, or of any other language on 
 earth save WY'lsh and Phiglish. In those days, 
 Canova, the great XXMietian sculptor, ^vas the 
 head of artistic societ}' in Rome; and as all 
 society in Rome is more or less artistic, he 
 might almost be said to have led the whole life 
 of the great and lively city. Indeed, the position 
 of such a man in Italy resembles far more that 
 of a duke in England than of an artist as we 
 here arc accustomed to think of him. Gibson 
 had letters of introduction to this prince of 
 sculptors from his London friends ; and when 
 he went to present them, he found Canova in 
 his studio, surrounded bv his numerous scholars 
 and admirers. The Li\-erpool stone-cutt(a* had 
 brought a few of his drawings with him, and 
 
72 lUOGRAPlIIES OF WORk'IXO .V/iX. 
 
 Canova examined them with great attention. 
 Instinctively he reco!j^nized the touch of genius. 
 When he had looked at them keenly for a few 
 minutes, he turned kindly to the trembling 
 young man, and said at once, ** Come to me 
 alone next week, for I want to have a talk with 
 you." 
 
 On the appointed day, Gibson, quivering 
 with excitement, presented himself once more 
 at the great master's studio. Canova was 
 surrounded as before by artists and visitors ; 
 but in a short time he took Gibson into a room 
 by himself, and began to speak with him in his 
 very broken English. Many artists came to 
 Rome, he said, with very small means, and that 
 perhaps might be Gibson's case. *' Let me 
 have the gratification, then," he went on, *' of 
 ass''stlng }ou to prosecute your studies. I am 
 rich. 1 am anxious to be of use to )'0U. Let 
 me forward you in your art as long as you stay 
 in Rome." 
 
 Gibson replied, with many stammerings, that 
 he hoped his slender means would suffice for 
 his personal needs, but that if Canova would 
 only condescend to gi\e him instruction, to 
 make him his pupil, to let him model in his 
 studio, he would be eternally grateful. Canova 
 was one of the most noble and loval)le of men. 
 He acceded at once to Gibson's rer^uest, and 
 Gibson never forgot his kind and fitherly assist- 
 anct\ " Dear generous master," the Welsh 
 sculptor wrote man\' ^cars aftcT, when Cano\a 
 liad loiv'- p.issed aw;i.\-, " 1 see \<)U before me 
 
yonx c;//;sox, sculptor. 
 
 I J 
 
 now. I hear your soft Venetian dialect, and 
 your kindly words inspirini^ my eftbrts and 
 rrcndy correcting- my defects. My heart still 
 swells with grateful recollection of you." 
 
 Canova told his new pupil to devote a few 
 (lays first to seeing the sights of Rome ; but 
 (libson was impatient to begin at once. " I 
 shall be at your studio to-morrow morning," the 
 ardent Welshman said ; and he kept his word. 
 Canova, pleased with so much earnestness and 
 promptitude, set him to work forthwith upon a 
 clay model from his own statue of the Pugilist. 
 Gibson went to the task with a will, moulding 
 the cla)' as best he could into shape ; but he still 
 knew so little of the technical wa)-s of regular 
 sculptors that he tried to model this work from 
 the clay alone, though its pose was such 
 diat it could not possibly hold together without 
 an iron framework. Canova saw his error and 
 smiled, but let him go on so tliat he mi'-ht 
 Icarn his business by experience. In a day or 
 two the whole thing, of course, collapsed by its 
 own weight ; and then Canova called in a black- 
 smith and showed the eapcr beginner how the 
 mechanical skeleton was formed with iron bars, 
 and interlacing crosses of wood and wire. This 
 was quite a new idea to Gil)son, who had 
 modelled hitherto only in his own self-taught 
 fishion with moist clay, letting it su[)port its 
 own weight as best it might. Another pupil 
 then lleslied out the iron skelet(^n with clay, and 
 roughly shaped it to the recjuired figure, so that 
 il stood as firm as a rock for Ciibson to work 
 
74 lUOGRAPIIIES OF IVORKIXG MhX. 
 
 Upon. The new hand turned to vi_c,^oroiisly 
 once more ; and, in spite of his secminq; raw- 
 ness, Hnished the copy so well that Canova 
 admitted him at once to tlie Academy io model 
 from life. At this Academy Canova himself, 
 who loved art far more than money, used to 
 attend twice a week to cive instruction to 
 
 o 
 
 students v/itliout receiving- any rcmuiieration 
 whatsoever. It is of such noble men as this 
 that the world of art is largely made up — that 
 world which Vv'e tr)o-practical EuLjlish have 
 always undervalued or even despised. 
 
 Gibson's student period at Rome under 
 Canova was a \"ery happy episode in a uni- 
 formly happy and beautiful life. His only 
 trouble was that he had not been able to come 
 there earlier. Singularly free from every taint 
 of envy (like all the great sculjjtors of his time), 
 he could not help regretting when he saw other 
 men tLU"ninq; out work ot such cfreat excellence 
 while he was still onlv a learner. " When I ob- 
 served the pov;er and experience of youths 
 much younger than myself," he says in his gene- 
 rous appreciative fashion, ** their masterly manner 
 of sketching" in the fioure, and their excellent 
 imitation of nature, niy spirits fell many degrees, 
 and I felt humbled and unhappy." lie need 
 not have done so, for the man who thus dis- 
 trusts his own work is al\va)s the truest work- 
 man ; it is only fools or poor creatures who are 
 pleased and self-satisfied with their own hr^it 
 bungling efforts. But the great enjoyment of 
 Rome to Gibson consisted in the free artistic 
 
yoHN Ginsox, sculptor. 75 
 
 society which he found there. At Liverpool, 
 he had felt almost isolated ; there was hardly 
 anybody with whom he could talk on an 
 equality about his artistic interests ; nobody but 
 himself cared about the thini^^s that pleased 
 and enc^rossed his earnest soul the most. But 
 at Rome, there was a great society of artists ; 
 every man's studio was open to his friends and 
 fellow-workers ; and a lively runninc^ {wc of 
 criticism went on everywhere about all new 
 works completed or in progress. He was for- 
 tunate, too, in the exact moment of his resi- 
 dence : Rome then contained at once, besides 
 himself, the two truest sculptors of the present 
 century, Canova the Venetian, and Thorv/aldsen 
 the Dane. Both these crreat masters were 
 singularly free froni jealousy, rivalry, or vanity. 
 In their perfect disinterestedness and sim[)licity 
 of character they closely resembled Gibson him- 
 self The ardent and pure-minded young 
 Welshman, who kept himself so unspotted from 
 the world in his utter devotion to his chosen 
 art, could not fail to derive an elevated happi- 
 ness from his daily intercourse with these two 
 noble and sympathetic souls. 
 
 After Gibson had been for some time in 
 Canova's studio, his illustrious master told him 
 that the sooner he took to modelling 'Ji life-size 
 figure of his own invention, the better. So 
 Gibson hired a studio (with what means he does 
 not tell us in his short sketch of his own life) 
 close to Canova's, so that the great Venetian 
 was able to drop in from time to tinie and as- 
 
yCi llIOCRAPIilES OI' WORk'IXO MKX. 
 
 sist him with his criticism and judoment. How 
 dch*_L;luful is the friendly communion of work 
 implied in all this graceful artistic Roman life! 
 How different from the keen competition and 
 jealous rivah')- which too often distinguishes our 
 busy money-getting English existence! In 
 1819, two )ears after Gibson's arrival at Rome, 
 he began to model his Mars and Cu[)id, a more 
 than life-size grou[), on which he worked 
 patiently and lovingly for many months. When 
 it was nearly finished, one day a knock came 
 at the studies door. After the knock, a hand- 
 some young man entered, and announced him- 
 self brusquely as the Duke of Devonshire. 
 " Canova sent me," he said, " to see what you 
 were doing." Gibson wasn't much accustomed 
 to dukes in those days — he grew more familiar 
 with them later on — and we may be sure the 
 poor young artist's heart beat a little more 
 fiercely than usual when the stranger asked 
 him the price of his Mars and Cupid in marble. 
 The sculptor had never yet sold a statue, and 
 didn't know how much he oui'ht to ask ; but 
 after a few minutes' consideration he said, " Five 
 hundred pounds. But, perhaps," he added 
 tiniidly, " 1 have said too much." " Oh no," the 
 duke answered, " not at all too much ; " and he 
 forthwith ordered (or, as sculptors prefer to sa}-, 
 commissioned) the statue to be executed for him 
 in marble. Gibson was delighted, and ran over 
 at once to tell Canova, thinking he had done a 
 splendid stroke of business. Canova shared 
 his pleasure, till the )'oung man came to the 
 
yOIIN Gins OX, SCULPTOR, 
 
 1 1 
 
 price ; then the older sculptor's face fell omi- 
 nously. " Five hundred pounds ! " he cried in 
 dismay ; '* why, it won't cover the cost of 
 marble and Avorkmanshif)." And so indeed it 
 turned out ; for when the work was fuiished, 
 it had stood Gibson in ,^520 for marble and 
 expenses, and left him twenty pounds out of 
 pocket in the end. So he got less than nothing 
 after all for his many months of thought and 
 labour over clay and marble alike. 
 
 Discouraoincr as this bec-inninof must have 
 proved, it was nevertheless in reality the Hrst 
 important step in a splendid and successful 
 career. It is somethiiiL!" to have sold vour fu'st 
 statue, even if you sell it at a disadvantage. In 
 1821 Gibson modelled a group of Pysclu; and 
 the Zephyrs. That winter Sir George Beaumont, 
 himself a distinLTuished amateur artist, and a 
 great patron of art, came to Rome ; and Canova 
 sent him to see the young Welshman's new 
 composition. Sir George asked the price, and 
 Gibson, this time more cautious, asked for time 
 to prepare an estimate, and finally named £'joo. 
 To his joy. Sir George immediately ordered it, 
 and also introduced many wealthy connoisseurs 
 to the rising sculptor's studio. That same 
 winter, also, the Duke of Devonsliire came 
 acfain, and commissioned a bas-relief in marbkt 
 (which is now at Chatsworth I louse, with man)- 
 other of Gibson's works), at a j^aying price, too, 
 which was a great point for the young man's 
 scanty exchequer. 
 
 Unfortunately, Gibson has not left us any 
 
78 niOGRAPIIir.S OF WORKING MKX. 
 
 notic(t of how \\v. manai-cd to make l)Oth ends 
 meet clurlnLT this long adult student period at 
 Rome. Inlormalion on that point would indeed 
 be very interesting;' ; but so absorl)ed was the 
 eac^er W^elshman always in his art, that he seldom 
 tells us anythinc,^at all about such mere practical 
 every-day matters as bread and bulter. To 
 say the truth, he cared but little about them. 
 Probably he had lived in a very simple penurious 
 style during his whole studenthood, taking" his 
 meals at a caJ/J or eating-house, and centering all 
 his arrc;ction and ideas upon his beloved studio. 
 But now wealth and fame began to crowd in upon 
 him, almost without the seeking. X'isitors to 
 Rome began to frequent the Welshnian's rooms, 
 and the death of " the threat and crood Canova," 
 which occurred in 1822, while depriving Gibson 
 of a dearly loved friend, left him, as it were, 
 that <''reat master's successor. Towards him and 
 Thorwaldsen, indeed, Gibson always cherished 
 a most filial regard. " May I not be proud," 
 he writes long after, " to have known such 
 men, to have conversed with them, watched 
 all their proceedings, heard all their great senti- 
 ments on art ? Is it not a pleasure to be 
 so deeply in their debt for instruction ? " 
 And now the Hood of visitors who used 
 to flock to Canova's studio bco-an to transfer 
 their interest to Gibson's. Commission after 
 commission was offered him, and he becfan to 
 make money faster than he could use it. PI is 
 life had always been simple and frugal — the 
 life of a \\orl<ing man with hicih aims and grand 
 
yOIIX GinSON, SCULPTOR. 79 
 
 ideals : lie hardly knew now how to alter it. 
 Pt;o|)lc who (lid not understand Gibson used to 
 say in his later days that he loved money, 
 hecause he made much and spent little. Those 
 who knew him better say rather that he worked 
 much for the love of art, and couldn't fmd much 
 to do with his nioney when he had earned it. 
 lie was sinL;ularly indillerent to i:,^ain ; he cared 
 not what he eat or drank ; he spent little on 
 clotlies, antl nothin;^'' on entertainments ; but he 
 paid his workuKMi liberally or even lavishly ; he 
 allowed one of his brothers more than he ever 
 spent upon himself, and he treated the other 
 with uniform kindn(\ss and L;'enerosity. The 
 r.ict is, Gibson didn't imderstand money, and 
 v.hen it poured in upon him in lan^e sums, he 
 simply left it in th(^ hands ot Iriends, who paid 
 him a very small percentage on it, and whom 
 he alwa)'s regardvd as l)einLf very kind to take 
 care of the troublesome stuff on his account. 
 In matters of art, Gibson was a r^reat master; 
 in matters of business, he was hardly more than 
 a simple-minded child. 
 
 Sometimes queer incidents occurred at Gib- 
 son's studio from the curious ignorance of our 
 countrymen oenerally on the subjc^ct of art. 
 One day, a distini^iiished and wealthy Welsh 
 [^■entleman called on the sculptor, and said that, 
 as a fellow Welshman, he was anxious to nive 
 him a commission. As he spoke, he cast an 
 admirin*^" eye on Gibson's group of Psyche borne 
 by the Winds. Gibson was pleased with his 
 admiration, but rather taken aback when the 
 
8o IiIOu/<APJ/Ii:s or WORKL\C, MI.X. 
 
 old gciUlcnian said blandly, "If you were to 
 take awa)' the Psyche and put a dial iu the 
 place, il'd make a capital design for a clock." 
 Much later, the Hrst Duke of Wellint^loii called 
 upon him at Rome and ordered a statue ot 
 Pandora, in an attitude which he; describetl. 
 Ciibson at once saw that the? Duke's idea was a 
 bad one, and told him so. ]>y-and-by, on a 
 \isit to J'Jigland, Gibson waited on the duke, 
 and submitted photot^raphs of the work he had 
 modelled. " P)Ut, INlr. Gibson," said the old 
 holdier, looking- at them curiously, " you haven't 
 followed ni)' idea." " Xo," answered the sculptor, 
 '' I have followc^d i)iy oicit!' " You are very 
 stubborn," said Wellinii^ton. " Duke," answered 
 the sturdy sculptor, " 1 am a \Vc;lshman, and all 
 the world knows that we are a stubborn race. ' 
 The Iron Duke oLiL;"h.t to have been delii^hted 
 to fmd another man as imbcMulinL,^ as himself, 
 but he wasn't ; and in the end he refused the 
 figure, which Gibson sold instead to Lady 
 Marian Al forth 
 
 P'or twenty-seven years Gibson remained at 
 Rome, working- assiduousK' at his art, and risint; 
 gradually but surely to the very hrst place 
 among then living sculptors. His studio now 
 became the oreat centre of all fashi(jnable 
 visitors to Rome. Still, he made no effort to 
 get rich, though lie got rich without wishing 
 it ; he worked on merely for art's sak(\ not for 
 money. He would not do as many sculptors 
 do, keep several copies in marble of his more 
 popular statues for sale ; he preferred to d (2 vote 
 
yoirx G/nsox, sculptor. si 
 
 all his time to new works. '* Gil^son was alwa\s 
 al)sor])cd in one subject," says Lady l-lasllakc, 
 ".iiul that was the particular work or ])art of a 
 work — were it but the turn of a corner o( ch'apery 
 • which was tlien under liis modellint;' liands. 
 '1 ini(; was nothii^i;' t<j him ; he was Ioul;" and 
 fa^lidious." Mis favourite pupil. Miss llosmer, 
 once exi)ressed regret to him that she had been 
 so Ion:;' about a [>iece of work on which she was 
 cn^aijed. "Al\va\s trv to do the b('st you 
 can," Gibson answered. " Never mind how 
 loiiLi' )'ou are ii[)on a wf)rk no. Xo oik^ will 
 ask how \o\Y^ you have been, except fools. You 
 don't care what fools think." 
 
 Durint;" his lon^- life at Kome. he was much 
 cheered by the presence and assistance of his 
 youn<]cr brother, IMr. JJen, as he always called 
 him, who was also a scul})tor, though of f.ir 
 less merit than John Ciibson himself. Mr. Inii 
 came to Rome jouni^ca* than J(3hn, and he 
 learned to be a ijreat classical scholar, and to 
 read those Greek and Latin books which John 
 oiil)' knew at second hand, but from whose 
 heauliful fanciful stories of ''(uls and heroes 
 h(j derived all the subjects for his works 
 of statuary. His other brother, Solomon, a 
 strange, wild, odd man. in wlu)m the family 
 L;enius had degenerated into mere eccentricity, 
 never did an)thin_!:^ for his own livelihood, but 
 lived always ii[)on John Gibson's i^enerous 
 bounty. h\ John's we-althy days, he and Mr. 
 ben used to escape every summer from the 
 heat anti (\u'>i of l^'ome -which is unendurable 
 
 o 
 
.^i niOGRAPIIIES OF II ORICIXG MEX. 
 
 ill July and y\iioust — to tlic dcll^litfiilly cool 
 air and mairnificent mountain scenery of the 
 Tyrol. " 1 cannot tell you how \\\i\\ I am,"' he 
 writes on one of these charmini;' visits, " and so 
 is j\Ir. I5en. Kvcry morninp^ Ave take our walks 
 in I lie woods here. I feel as if I wen; new 
 modelled." Anotlier passa^^'e in one of these 
 summ(;r tourist letters well deserves to be 
 co[)ied here, as it shows the artist's i)()int of 
 vic;w of labours like Tc^lford's and Stephenson's. 
 " I'rom Burmio," he sa\s, " the famous road 
 be^^ins which ])asses over the Stvlvio into the 
 'I'vrol ; the hiidiest carria^'e-road in the world. 
 W^e bet^'an the ascent early in the; mornini;'. 
 It is ma_L;niricent and wonderful. Man shows 
 his talents, his power over in'eat difficulties, in 
 the construction of these; roads. liehold the 
 cunnin;:^ little; workman — he comes, he cxi)lores. 
 and lie sa)s, 'Yes, I will send a carriage and 
 horses over tlu;se miL;hty mountains;' and, by 
 Jove, you are drawn up amoni;' the et(;rnal 
 snows. I am a o-rcat iulmircr of these; roads." 
 
 In 1^^4-1. Gibson [)aid his first visit to 
 I'^ngland, a \-ery different l'-ni;land indeed to 
 tlie one he had left twent) -seven years earlier. 
 His Liverpool friend.s, now thoroughly pnnid 
 of their stone-cuttjr, insisted upon giving him 
 a public banquet. Ola.sgow follov/ed the same 
 example; and the simple-minded scul[)tor, un- 
 iiccustomcd to such honours, hardly knew how 
 to bear his blushes decorously upon him. 
 During this visit, he received a command to 
 execute a statue of the queen. Gibson was at 
 
jOI/X GJJiSOX, SCL'LPIOR. S3 
 
 first quite disconcerted at sucli an awful sum 
 mons. " I don't know how to beliavc to 
 queens," he said. " Treat her like a lady," 
 said a friend ; iiu 1 Gii^son, foilowinc^ the 
 advice, found it sufficiently answered all the 
 n'iccssitle.s of the situation. lUit when he went 
 In arranj^e with the Prince Consort about tlu^ 
 statue, he was ratlu r puzzled what he should 
 do about measuring- the fac;, which he always 
 did for portrait sculpture with a j-air of com- 
 passes. All these difticulties were at last 
 .^inootlied o\-cr ; and Gibson was also permitted 
 to drape the (|U(hmi's statue in Greek costume, 
 {nv ill liis aiiistic consci(;ntiousness he abso- 
 kitely refused to dec^rade sculpture by represvint- 
 iiig" women in the lashionable L^own of l!ie da)', 
 I'r men in swallow-tail coats and hiL;h collars. 
 
 Another work which Ciibson designed durinr^ 
 this ^•isit possesses for us a singular and ex- 
 ceptional interest. It v. .iS a statue of Georg-e 
 Stejdienson, to be erected at Liverpool. Ihus, 
 hy a curious coincidence, the Liverpool stone- 
 cutter was set to immortalize the features and 
 iK'ure of the Killincrworth cnc-ine-man. ])il 
 those two PTcat men, as thev sat to'-'ether in 
 one room, sculptor and sitter, know one 
 another's early liistory and strange struggles, 
 we wonder? Perhaps not; but if they did, 
 it must surely have made a bond of union 
 between them. At any rate, (iil)son g-really 
 admired Stephenson, just as he h:id admired 
 the Stelvio road. " 1 will endeavour to give 
 him a look capable oi action and cner-y, ' he 
 
g^ nioGRAruii.s of iiORk'ixu mk.w 
 
 said ; " but he must be contemplative, i^rave, 
 sim[)le. He is a good subject. I wish to 
 make liim look Hkc an Archimedes."' 
 
 If Gibson achuirecl vStephcnson, however, he 
 chd not wholly achuire J^tephenson's railways. 
 The ]inc(land he had left was the Eni^land of 
 mail-coaches. In Italy, he had learnt to travel 
 by carriage, after the fashion of tlie country ; 
 but these new whizziu'*' loc motives, with their 
 time-tables, and their precision, and their in- 
 scrutable mysteries of shunts and junctions, 
 were cjuite too much for his sim[)le, childish, 
 old-world habits. lie had a knack of q^ettin^- 
 out too soon or too kite, which often led him 
 into oreat confusion. Once, when he wanted 
 to Qo to Chichester, he found himself landed at 
 Portsmouth, and only discovered his mistake 
 when, on asking the way to the cathedral, he 
 was told there was no cathedral in the town at 
 all. Another story of how he tried to reach 
 Wcntworth, Lord iMtzwilliam's place, is best 
 told in his own words. " The train soon 
 stopped at a small station, and, seeing some 
 people get out, I also descended ; when, in a 
 moment, the train moved on — faster and faster 
 — and left me standing on the platform. I 
 walked a few paces backward and forward in 
 disagreeable meditati n. * I wish to Heaven,' 
 thought I to myself, ' that I was on my way 
 back to Rome with a postboy.' Then I ob- 
 served a policeman darti.^g his eyes upon me, 
 as if he would look me throuMi. Said I to the 
 fellow, 'Where is that cursed train gone to? 
 
JOIIX CIBSO.W SCi'LPTOR. ^ 
 
 It's off with mv lii!?^a''G and here am I.' The 
 mail asked ine the name of tlie place wlicre I 
 took my ticket. ' I don't rememljer,' said I. 
 'How should I know the name of any of these 
 places ? — it's as lonc,^ as my arm. I've ^orot it 
 written down somewhere.' * Pray, sir/ said the 
 man, aftcT a little pause, * are )-ou a foreii^iier } ' 
 ' \o,' I replied, ' I am not a foreigner; I'm a 
 sculptor.' " 
 
 TIk; consequence of this almost childish carc- 
 iLSsness -was that Gibson had always to be 
 accompanied on his lonor journeys either by a 
 friend or a courier. While Mr. Vicn lived, he 
 usually took his brother in chari^e to some 
 extent ; and the relation between them was 
 mutual, for while John Ciibson found the sculp- 
 ture, Mr. Ben found the learninij^, so that Gibson 
 used often to call him *' my classical dictionary." 
 In 1847, however, Mr. lien was taken ill. lie 
 ^(jt a bad cold, and would have no doctor, take 
 no medicine. " I consider Mr. Ben," his brother 
 writes, " as one of the most amiable of human 
 beinos — too ^ood for this world — but he will 
 tak(i no care against colds, and when ill he is a 
 stubborn animal." That summer Gibson went 
 again to Mnghuid, and when he came back 
 found Mr. Ben no better. Vuv four years the 
 )ounger brother lingered on, and in 1S51 died 
 suddenly from the effects of a fall in walkino-. 
 Gibson was thus left quite alone, but for his 
 l-'upil Miss Idosmer, who became lo him more 
 than a daughter. 
 
 During his later years Gibson took largely to 
 
85 BIOGRAPHIES OF JVORk'IXG MEiX. 
 
 tinting his statues — coloiirinn^ tluMii faintly with 
 llcsh-toncs and otlicr hues Hkc nature ; and this 
 practice he advocated with all the strent^th of 
 his single-minded nature. All visitors to the 
 great Kxhihitioii of 1862 will remember hij 
 beautiful tinted Venus, which occupied the plac(! 
 of honour in a liL^ht temple (Tcctc^d for the 
 purpose by another distinguished artistic Welsh- 
 man, Wv. Owen Jones, \\\\o did much towards 
 raising the standard of tast(^ in tlu; J'lnglish 
 peo|)h\ 
 
 In January, 1866, John Gilison had a strol^c 
 of panil)'S!s, from v.hich he never recovered, 
 lie died within the month, and was Iniried in 
 the ICnglish cf^metcry at I\ome. Doth his 
 brothers had died before him ; and he left the 
 whole of his considc-ral;le fortune to the Royal 
 Acader.Ty in Ilngland. An immense number of 
 his works are in the possession of the Academy, 
 and are on view there throughout the year. 
 
 John (iibson's life is very different i:i many 
 respects from that of niost other great working 
 men whose story is told in this volume. Un- 
 doubtedly, he was deficient in se\cral of those 
 ruggc^d and st(M*n qualities to which English 
 workincr men have oftenest owed their fmal 
 success. l]ut there was in him a simple grandeur 
 of character, a purity of soul, and an earnestness 
 of aim which raised him at once far above the 
 heads of most among those who would have' 
 been tlu^ readiest to laugh at and ridicule him. 
 Besides his exquisite taste, his severe love of 
 beauty, and his marvellous power of expressing 
 
yoiix a IBS ox, scclptor. 
 
 87 
 
 the highest ideals of pure form, he had one 
 t'linci' which hnkcd him to all the other oreat 
 men whose lives we have here recounted — his 
 steadfast and unconcjuerable personal energy. 
 In one sense it may be said that he was not a 
 practical man ; and )et in anotlu;r and higher 
 sens(.', what could possiI.)ly be more practical than 
 this accomplished resolve of the po(jr Li\erpool 
 stone-cutter to overcome all obstacles, to t^^o to 
 Rome, and to make himself into a L;-reat sculptor? 
 Il is indeed a pity that in writiiiL;' hjr J'^ni^lish- 
 nien of the present day such a life should even 
 seem for a moment to stand in need of a prac- 
 tical apolo^L;}'. Vov purity, for ^c^uilelessness, for 
 ex^iuisite apj)rcciati()n of the true purpose of 
 sculpture as the hi;^hest embodiment of beauty 
 of form, John Gibson's art stands unsurpassed 
 in all the annals of modern statuary. 
 
IV. 
 
 WILLIAM iii:Kscm:L, r,A\i>^MAv. 
 
 LD Isaac Ilcrschcl, the ()bo(.:-pla\-crof 
 the Kini^-'s Guard in Llanovcr, had 
 served with liis regiment fur many 
 years in the chilly climate of North 
 (ierman\', and was left at last broken 
 down in health and spirits by the many hartlships 
 of several severe 1 'European campaii^ns. Isaac 
 llerschel was a man of tastes and education 
 above his position ; l)ut he had marricid a person 
 in some res]xxts quite; unfitlel for him. His 
 o'ood wife, Anna, thoui^h an excellent house- 
 keeper and an estimable woman in her way, had 
 never even learned to write ; and when the j)air 
 llnally settled down ^o old a^^'c in llanoxer, the\' 
 were hampered by the cares of a lar^'e family of 
 ten children. Respectable poverty in German}- 
 is e\'en more pressini^' than in li upland ; the; 
 decent poor an; accustomed to more fruL;al fcu\; 
 and c^^reater priwations than with us ; and tiic 
 domestic life of the llerschel family circle must 
 
WILLIAM IIKRSCIIKL, DASDSMAX. ^.) 
 
 needs have; been of the most carc^ful wwA penurious 
 description. Still, Isaac Ilerschel dearly loved 
 his art, and in it Ik; found many amends and 
 ronsolatlons for the sordid shifts and troubles of 
 a straitened German household. All his spare 
 time was ^iven to music, and in his later days 
 he was enal)l(.'d to find sufficient pupils to eke 
 out his little income with comparative comfort. 
 
 William 1 lerschel, the threat astronomer (born 
 in 173H), was the fourth child of his mother, and 
 with his brothers he was brou^i^ht up at the 
 garrison school in Hanover, tOL^cther with tlu; 
 sons of the oth(;r crMiimon soldiers. There he 
 learned, not onl)' the three R's, but also a little 
 iM'ench and I'^n^lish. Still, the bo)- was not 
 c(Mitent with these ordinary studies ; in his 
 own pla\time he took lessons in Latin and 
 mathematics privatel)'with the re_Lnmental school- 
 master. Tlie youni;' Ilerschels, indeed, were 
 exceptionally fortunate in the possession of an 
 excellent and intelligent father, who was able to 
 direct their minds into channels which few people! 
 of their position in life have the opportunity of 
 enteriuL^". Isaac I lerschel was partly of Jewish 
 descent, and he inh(.'rited in a marked deL;ree 
 two ver)' striking- J(;wish t;ifts — a turn for music, 
 and a turn for philosoph)-. Tlu! Jews an; 
 probably the okktst civilized race now remaining" 
 on earth ; and their musical faculties have been 
 continuously exercised from a time; long before 
 the days of David, so that now^ they produce 
 undoubtedly a far larger proportion of musicicUis 
 and composers tlian any other class of tluj 
 
90 niOGRAPIIIKS 01' IVOKKLXG MIL\. 
 
 popuhition whatsoever. They are also dec^ply 
 interested in the same profound theological and 
 l)hilosophical problems which were discussed 
 with so much acuteness and freedom in the Book 
 of Ecclesiastes and the subtle ar<^ument of J, > 
 and his friends. There has never been a time 
 when the Jewish mind has not exercised itself 
 profoundly on these deep and difficult questions ; 
 and the Hanover bandsman inherited from his 
 Jewish ancestry an unusual interest in similar 
 philosophical subjects. Thus, while the little 
 ones were slecpiu'j;- in the same common room 
 at ni,i:;ht, William and his fallicr were often 
 heard discussing!" the ideas of such aljstruse 
 thinkers as Nevv'ton and Leibnitz, whose names 
 must have sounded strancj'e indeed to the' 
 ordinary frequenters of the Hanover barracks. 
 On such occasions good dame Herschel was 
 often compc^lled to interpose between them, lest 
 the loudness of their logic should wake the 
 younger children in the crib hard b)'. 
 
 William, however, possessed yet another gift, 
 which he is less likely to have derived from the 
 Jewish side of the house. He and his brother 
 Alexander were both distinguished by a natural 
 taste for mechanics, and early gave proof of 
 their learning by turning neat globes with the 
 equator and ecliptic accurately engraved upon 
 them, or by making model instruments for their 
 ovvU amusement out of bits of pasteboard. 
 Thus, in early opportunities and educational 
 advantages, the young Herschels certainly 
 started in life far better equipped tlian most 
 
WILLIAM IIERSCIIEL, BANDS MAX. 91 
 
 working- men's sons ; and, considering their 
 father's doubtful i)osition, it may seem at fust 
 si^ht rather a stretch of lan^iia'^e to describe 
 him as a working man at all Nevertheless, 
 when one remembers the humble grade of 
 military bandsmen in Germany, even at the 
 present day, and the fact that most of the 
 1 lerschel family remained in that grade during 
 :'.ll their lives, it is clear that W'illiani llerschel's 
 life may be fairly included within the scope of 
 the present series. " In my fiftcxMith year," he 
 says himself, " I enlisted in military service," 
 and he evidently looked upon his enlistment in 
 exactly the same light as that of any ordinary 
 soKlier. 
 
 England and Hanover were, of course, very 
 closely connected together at the middle of the 
 last century. The king moved about a great 
 (leal from one country to the other ; and in 1 755 
 the rc'iment of Hanoverian Guards was ordered 
 un service to lingland for a year. William I ler- 
 schel, then seventeen years of age, and already a 
 member of the band, went toi^iether with his 
 lather; and it was in this modest capacity that 
 he first made acquaintance with the land where 
 he was afterwards to attain the dignity of knight- 
 liood and the post of the king's astronomer, lie 
 played the oboe, like his father before him, and 
 no doubt underwent the usual severe military 
 discipline of that age of stiff stocks and stern 
 punishments. His pay was very scanty, and 
 out of it he only saved enough to carry home 
 one memento of his English experiences. That 
 
93 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 memento was in itself a sufficient mark of tlie 
 stuff from which young Herschel was com- 
 pounded. It was a copy of " Locke on the 
 Muman Understanding." Now, Locke's famous 
 work, oftener named than read, is a very tough 
 and serious bit of philosophical exposition ; 
 and a boy of seventeen Avho buys such a book 
 out of his meagre earnings as a military bands- 
 man is pretty sure not to end his life within 
 the four dismal bare walls of the barrack. It 
 is indeed a curious picture to imagine young 
 William Herschel, among a group of rough and 
 boisterous German soldiers, discussing high 
 mathematical problems with his father, or sit- 
 ting down quietly in a corner to read ** Locke on 
 the Human Understandinof." 
 
 In 1757, during the Seven Years' War, Her- 
 schel was sent with his regiment to serve in the 
 campaign of Rossbach against the French. He 
 was not physically strong, and the hardships of 
 active service told terribly upon the still growing 
 lad. His parents were alarmed at his appear- 
 ance when he returned, and were very anxious 
 to " remove " him from the service. That, how- 
 ever, was by no means an easy matter for them 
 to accomplish. They had no money to buy his 
 discharge, and so, not to call the transaction by 
 any other than its true name, William Herschel 
 was forced to run away from the army. We 
 must not judge too harshly of this desertion, 
 for the times were hard, and the lives of men 
 in Herschel's position were valued at very little 
 by the constituted authorities, Long after, it is 
 
William iiERsaiEL, VjAndsmak. n 
 
 V3 
 
 Scikl, when Ilerschcl had distinguished himself 
 hy the discovery of the planet Uranus, a pardon 
 for this high military offence was duly handed 
 to him by the king- in person on the occasion 
 of his first presentation. George III. was not 
 a particularly wise or brilliant man ; but even 
 he had sense enough to perceive that William 
 Ilerschel could serve the country far better by 
 mapping out the stars of heaven than by playing 
 the oboe to the royal regiment of Hanoverian 
 Guards. 
 
 William was nineteen when he ran away. 
 His good mother packed his boxes for him 
 with such necessaries as she could manage, and 
 sent them after him to Hamburg ; but, to the 
 boy's intense disgust, she forgot to send the 
 copy of '' Locke on the Human Understanding." 
 What a sturdy deserter we have here, to be 
 sure ! " She, dear woman," he says plaintively, 
 "knew no other wants than good linen and 
 clothinof!" So William Herschel the oboe- 
 player started off alone to earn his living as 
 best he might in the great world of England. 
 It is strange he should have chosen that, of all 
 European countries ; for there alone he was 
 liable to be arrested as a deserter : but perhaps 
 his twelvemonth's stay in London may have 
 criven him a sense of beino- at home amonc^st 
 us which he w^ould have lacked in any other 
 part of Europe. At any rate, hither he came, 
 and for the next three years picked up a liveli- 
 hood, we know not how, as many other excel- 
 lent German bandsmen have done before and 
 
ij\ niOGRAPIIIES OF IVORKIXG iMI£X, 
 
 since him. Our information al^oiit his early 
 h'fc is very mcag-rc, and at this period \vc lose 
 sight of him for a \vhile altogether. 
 
 About the year 1 760, however, we catch 
 another incidental glimpse of the young- mu- 
 sician in his adopted country. By that time, he 
 had found himself once more a regular post as 
 oboist to the Durham militia, then quartered 
 for its muster at Pontefract. A certain Dr. 
 Miller, an organist at Doncaster, was dining 
 one evening at the officers' mess ; when his 
 liost happened to speak to him in high praise of 
 a young German they had in their band, who was 
 really, he said, a most remarkable and spirited 
 performer. Dr. Miller asked to see (or rather 
 hear) tliis clever musician ; so Hcrschel was 
 called up, and made to go through a solo for 
 the visitor's gratification. The organist was 
 surprised at his admirable execution, and asked 
 him on what terms he was eno-aoed to the 
 Durham militia. " Only from month to month," 
 Herrchel answered. " Then lea\'e them at the 
 end of your month," said Miller, "and come to 
 live with me. I'm a single man; I think v.-e 
 can manage together ; and I'm sure I can get 
 you a better situation." Herschel frankly ac- 
 cepted the offer so kindly made, and seems to 
 have lived for much of the next five years with 
 Miller in his litde two-roomed cottaq-e at Don- 
 caster. Here he took pupils and performed in 
 the orchestra at public concerts, always in a 
 very quiet and modest fashion. He also lived 
 for part of the time with a Mr. Bulman at 
 
I; ILLIAM IIKRSCIIEL. BAXDSMAX. 
 
 Leeds, for whom he afterwards generously pro- 
 vided a place as clerk to the Octagon Chapel at 
 Bath. Indeed, it Is a very pleasing trait in 
 William Herschel's character that to the end he 
 was constantly engaged in fuiding places for his 
 early friends, as well as for the less energetic or 
 less fortunate members of his own family. 
 
 During these years, Herschel also seems to 
 have o-i\-cn much attention to the or^an, which 
 enabled him to make his next step in life in 
 1765, when he was appointed organist at 
 Halifax. Now, there is a great social differ- 
 ence between the position of an oboe-player in 
 a band and a church ori^'anlst ; and it was 
 through his organ-playing that Herschel was 
 finally enabled to leave his needy hand-to- 
 mouth life in Yorkshire. A year later, he ob- 
 tained the post of organist to the Octagon 
 Chapel at Bath, an engagement which gave 
 him new opportunities of turning his mind to 
 the studies for which he possessed a very 
 marked natural inclination. Bath was in those 
 days not only the most fashionable watering- 
 place in England, but almost the only fashion- 
 able watering-place in the whole kingdom. It 
 was, to a certain extent, all that Brighton, Scar- 
 borough, Buxton, and Harrogate are to-da\-, 
 and somethinci' more. In our own time, when 
 railways and steamboats have so altered the 
 face of the world, the most wealthy and fashion- 
 able English society resorts a great deal to 
 continental pleasure towns like Cannes, Nice, 
 Florence, Vichy, Baden, Ems, and Homburg ; 
 
cy.: hlOGRAPIUKS OF WORKING MEX. 
 
 but in ihc cii;htccnth century it resorted almost 
 exclusively to IJath. The Octagon Chapel was 
 in one sense the centre of life in Bath ; and 
 tlirough his connection with it, Herschel was 
 thrown into a far more intelligent and learned 
 society than tliat which he had left behind him 
 in still rural Yorkshire. New books came early 
 to l^ath, and were read and discussed in the 
 readin^"-rooms ; famous men and women came 
 there, and contributed largely to the intellectual 
 life of the place ; the theatre was the finest out 
 of London ; the Assembl)' Rooms were famous 
 as the greatest resort of wit and culture in the 
 whole kingdom. Herschel here was far more 
 in his element than in the barracks of Hanover, 
 or in the little two-roomed cottage at rustic 
 Doncastcr. 
 
 He w^orked very hard indeed, and his work 
 soon brought him comfort and comparative 
 wealth. Besides his chapel services, and his 
 later encraoement in the orchestra of the 
 Assembly Rooms, he had often as many as 
 thirty-eight private pupils in music every week ; 
 and he also composed a few pieces, which were 
 published in London wnth some modest success. 
 Still, in spite of all these numerous occupations, 
 the eager young German found a little leisure 
 time to devote to self-education ; so much so 
 that, after a fatiguing day of fourteen or sixteen 
 hours spent in playing the organ and teaching, 
 he w^ould " unbend his mind " by studying the 
 higher mathematics, or give himself a lesson in 
 Greek and Italian. At the same time, he was 
 
\VILLIAM lIERSCilEL, n.lXDSMAX. Cy] 
 
 also working away at a line of study, seemingly 
 useless to iiim, but in which he was afterwards 
 to earn so great and deserved a reputation. 
 Anion^'* the books he read durin<^ this Bath 
 period were Smith's *' Optics " and Lalande's 
 " Astronomy." Throughout all his own later 
 writings, the influence of these two books, 
 thoroughly mastered by constant study in the 
 intervals of his Bath music lessons, makes itself 
 everywhere chstinctly felt. 
 
 Meanwhile, the family at Hanover had not 
 been flourishing quite so greatly as the son 
 William was evidently doing in wealthy England. 
 During all those years, the young man had 
 never forgotten to keep up a close correspond- 
 ence with his people in Germany. Already, 
 in 1764, during his Yorkshire days, William 
 Ilerschel had manaoed out of his savinQ;-s as 
 an oboe-player to make a short trip to his old 
 home ; and his sister Carolina, afterwards his 
 chief assistant in his astronomical labours, notes 
 with pleasure the delight she felt in having her 
 beloved brother with her once more, though 
 she, poor girl, being cook to the household 
 apparently, could only enjoy his society when 
 she was not employed *' in the drudgery of the 
 scullery." A year later, when William had 
 returned to England again, and had just re- 
 ceived his appointment as organist at Halifax, 
 his father, Isaac, had a stroke of paralysis, which 
 ended his violin-playing for ever, and forced 
 him to rely thenceforth upon coi)ying music for 
 a precarious livelihood. In 1767 he died, and 
 
<)S BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 poor Canjlliui saw before her in prospect 
 nothing but a Hfc of that domestic drudgery 
 AVliich she so disHkcd. " I could not Ijear the 
 idea of being turned into a housemaid," she 
 says ; and she thouglit tliat if only slie could 
 take a few lessons in music and fancy work she 
 might get " a place as governess in some family 
 where the want of a knowledge of I'rench 
 would be no objection." But, unhappil)-, good 
 dame Ilerschel, like many other uneducated 
 and narrow-minded persons, had a strange 
 dread of too much knowled'4'c. .Sh.e thouidit 
 that " nothing further w;is needed," sa)'s Caro- 
 lina, *' than to send me two or three months to 
 a sempstress to be taught to make household 
 linen ; so cdl that my father could do was to 
 indulo-e me sometimes with a short lesson on 
 the violin when ni)- mother was either in good 
 humour or out of the v/ay. It was her certain 
 belief that my brother William vv'ould have 
 returned to his country, and my eldest brother 
 would not have looked so high, if they had had 
 a little less learning." Poor, purblind, Vv ell- 
 meaning, obstructive old dame Herschel ! what 
 a boon to the world that children like yours 
 are sometimes seized with this incomprehensible 
 fancy for " looking too high '' ! 
 
 Nevertheless, Carolina manaoed bv risinu" 
 early to take a fev\^ lessons at daybreak from 
 a young woman wdiose parents lived in the 
 same cottaoe with hers ; and so she rot through 
 a little work before the regular daily business of 
 the family beci'an at seven. Imacine her deli^'ht 
 
WILLIAM IIKRSCHEL, n.lXD.^JLlX. oy) 
 
 then, just a^> the dlflicuklcs after licr father's 
 death are making* that housemaid's place seem 
 ahiiost inevitable, wl jn she gets a letter from 
 William at Bath, asking her to come over to 
 l^igland and join him at that gay and fashion- 
 able city. Me would try to prepare her for 
 singing at his concerts ; but if after tv/o years' 
 trial she didn't succeed, he would take her back 
 again to Hanover himself. In 1772, indeed, 
 William in i)erson canic over to fetch her, and 
 thenceforth the brother and sister worl^ed un- 
 ceasino'ly together in all their undertakiui'S to 
 the day of the great astronomer's death. 
 
 About this time Herschel had been reading 
 Ferguson's " Astronomy," and felt very desirous 
 of seeing for himself the objects in the heavens, 
 invisible to the naked e}'e, (jf which he there 
 found descriptions. For tills purpose he must 
 of course have a telescope. But how to obtain 
 one? that was the question. There was a small 
 tw"o-and-a-half foot instrument on hire at one oi 
 the shops at Bath ; and the ambitious organist 
 borrowed this poor little glass for a time, not 
 merely to look through, but to use as a model 
 for constructing one on his own account. l]uy- 
 ing was i impossible, of course, for telescopes 
 cost much money : but making would not be 
 difficult for a determined mind. IlelKid abvays 
 been of a inechanical turn, and he was now 
 lired wnih a desire to build himself a telescope 
 eighteen or twenty feet long. Fie sent to 
 London for the lenses, which could not be 
 bought at Bath ; and Carolina amused herself 
 
loo JlIOGRAPHIES 01 WORKIXG MEA\ 
 
 by makinp; a pasteboard tube to fit them in her 
 leisure hours. It was loner before he reached 
 twenty feet, indeed : his first effort was a seven- 
 foot, attained only " after many continuous 
 determined trials." The amateur pasteboard 
 frame did not fully answer llerschel's expecta- 
 tions, so he was oblig-ed to i^^o in i^rud^ingly for 
 the expense of a tin tube. The rcllectin<^ mirror 
 which he ou<^ht to have had proved too dear for 
 his still slender purse, and he thus had to foreg^o 
 it with much reofret. But he found a man at 
 Bath who had once been in the mirror-polishiniL,^ 
 line ; and he bought from him for a bargain all 
 his rubbish of patterns, tools, unfinished mirrors 
 and so forth, with which he proceeded to ex- 
 periment on the manufacture of a proper tele- 
 scope. In the summer, when the season was 
 over, and all the great people had left Bath, 
 the house, as Carolina says ruefully, ** was turned 
 into a workshop." William's younger brother 
 Alexander was busy putting up a big lathe in 
 a bedroom, grinding glasses and turning eye- 
 pieces ; while in the drawing-room itself, sacred 
 to William's aristocratic pupils, a carpenter, sad 
 to relate, was engaged in making a tube and 
 putting up stands for the future telescopes. 
 Sad goings on, indeed, in the family of a re- 
 spectable music-master and organist ! Many 
 a good solid shopkeeper in Bath must no doubt 
 have shaken his grey head solemnly as he 
 passed the door, and muttered to himself that 
 that young German singer fellow was clearly 
 going on the road to ruin with his foolish good- 
 for-nothing star-gazing. 
 
IVJLUAM IIERSCilKL, BANDSMAN. loi 
 
 In 1774, when William Ilcrschcl was thirty- 
 six, he had at last constructed himself a seven- 
 foot telescope, and bec^an for the first time in 
 his life to view the heavens in a systematic 
 manner. From this he advanced to a ten-foot, 
 and then to one of twenty, for he meant to see 
 stars that no astronomer had ever yet dreamt 
 of beholdin;^'. It was comparatively late in life 
 to bco'in, but Ilerschel had laid a solid founda- 
 tion alread)', and he was enabled therefore to 
 do an immense deal in the second half of those 
 threescore years and ten which are the allotted 
 average life of man, but which he himself really 
 overstepped by fourteen winters. As he said 
 loncf afterwards with his modest manner to the 
 poet Campbell, " I have looked further into 
 space than ever human being did before me. 
 I have observed stars of which the light, it can 
 be proved, must take two millions of years to 
 reach this earth." That would have been a 
 grand thing for any man to be able truthfully 
 to say under any circumstances : it was a 
 marvellous thing for a man who had laboured 
 under all the original disadvantages of Herschel 
 — a man who began life as a penniless German 
 bandsman, and up to the age of thirty-six had 
 never even looked through a telescope. 
 
 At this time, Herschel was engaged \\\ pla}-- 
 ing the harpsichord in the orchestra of the 
 theatre ; and it was during the interval between 
 the acts that he made his first general survey 
 of the heavens. The moment his part was 
 finished, he would rush out to gaze through 
 
n: BIOGRAPHIES Ol' WORKIKG MEX. 
 
 his telescope ; and in these short periods h(^ 
 manacred to ol).serve all the visiljle stars of Avhat 
 an! call(!d the fu'st, second, third, and lourth 
 ma!?"nitudes. I lenceforth he went on Iniildin'j- 
 telescope after telescope, each one bt^tter than 
 the last ; and now all his Hasscs v/ere ci'roiind 
 and polished either by his own hand or by his 
 brother Alexander's. Carolina meanwhile took 
 her part in the workshop ; but as she had also 
 to sin^;' at the oratorios, and her awkward 
 German manners mi^ht shock the sensitive 
 nerves of the I Kith aristocrats, she took two 
 lessons a week for a whole twelvemonth (she 
 tells us in her delightfully straightforward 
 fashion) "from Miss Fleming, the celebrated 
 dancinof mistress, to drill me for a cfentle- 
 woman." Poor Carolina, there she was mis- 
 taken : Miss Fleming- could make her into no 
 gentlewoman, for she was born oiie already, 
 and nothing proves it more than the perfect 
 absence of false shame with which in her 
 memoirs she tells us all these graphic little 
 details of their early humljle days. 
 
 While tlu:}' were thus working at Bath an 
 incident occurred which is worth mentioninof 
 because it shows the very different directions 
 in which the presence or the want of steady 
 persistence may lead the various members of 
 the very self-same family. William received a 
 letter from his widowed mother at Hanover to 
 say, in deep distress, that Dietrich, the youngest 
 brother, had rim away from home, it was sup- 
 posed for the purpose of going to India, "with 
 
u'lrjjAM iiERscm:L, bandsmax, 103 
 
 a yoiinpf idler no older than himself." l^'orLh- 
 with, the budding astronomer left the lathe 
 where he was busy turning an eye-piece from a 
 cocoa-nut shell, and, like a good son and brother 
 as he always was, hurried off to Holland and 
 thence to Ilanovcr. No ])ietrich was any- 
 where to be found. lUit \\\\\V\ he was away, 
 Carolina at liath received a lettc^r from Dietrich 
 himself, to tell her ruefully he was •' laid up 
 very ill " at a waterside tavern in \Vai)[>ing — 
 not the nicest or most savoury East End sailor- 
 suburb of London. Alexander immediately 
 took the coach to town, put the prodigal into 
 a decent lodging, nurs(xl him carefully f(3r a 
 fortnight, and then took him down with him in 
 triunij^h to the familv liome at Dath. There 
 brother \\'illiam found him safe and sound on 
 his return, under the sisterly care of good Caro- 
 lina. A pretty dance he had led the two 
 earnest and industrious astronomers ; but they 
 seem always to have treated this black sheep of 
 the family with uniform kindness, and long- 
 afterwards Sir William remembered him favour- 
 ably in his last will. 
 
 In 1779 and the succeeding years the three 
 Herschels were engaged during all their spare 
 time in mcasurino- the heiuhts of about one 
 hundred mountains in the moon, which William 
 gauged by three different methods. In the 
 same 3'ear, he made an acquaintance of some 
 importance to him, as forming his lirst introduc- 
 tion to the wilder world of science in London 
 and elsewhere, Dr. Watson, a b^ellow of the 
 
104 LIOGRAPJIir.S OF IVORKIXG MEN. 
 
 Royal Society, happened to see hiin working at 
 his telescope ; and this led to a visit from the 
 electrician to the amateur astronomer. Dr. 
 Watson was just then engaged in getting up a 
 Philosophical Society at Bath (a far rarer insti- 
 tution at that time in a provincial town than 
 now), and he invited William Herschel to join 
 it. Here Herschel learned for the first time to 
 mix with those who were more nearly his intel- 
 lectual equals, and to measure his strength 
 aofainst other men's. 
 
 It was in 1781 that Herschel made the great 
 discovery which immediately established his 
 fame as an astronomer, and enabled him to 
 turn from conductin^f concerts to the far higher 
 work of professionally observing the stars. On 
 the night of Tuesday, March 13th, Herschel 
 was engaged in his usual systematic survey of 
 the sky, a bit at a time, when his telescope 
 lighted among a group of small fixed stars upon 
 what he at first imac!"ined to be a new comet. 
 It proved to be no comet, however, but a true 
 planet — a veritable world, revolving like our 
 own in a nearly circular path around the sun as 
 centre, thou2:h far more remote from it than the 
 most distant planet then known, Saturn. Her- 
 schel called his new world the Gcorgiiini Sidns 
 (King George's star) in honour of the reigning 
 monarch ; but it has since been known as 
 Uranus. Astronomers all over Europe were 
 soon apprised of this wonderful discovery, and 
 the path of the freshly found planet was com- 
 puted by calculation, its distance from the sun 
 
1! 7LL/. l.V IIERSCIIEL, BA XDSM. L\\ 105 
 
 belncf settled at nineteen times that of our own 
 earth. 
 
 In order faintly to understand the importance 
 attached at the time to Ilerschel's observation 
 of this very remote and seemini;ly petty world, 
 we must remember that up to that date all the 
 planets which circle round our own sun had 
 been familiarly known to everybody from time 
 immemorial. To suggest that there was yet 
 another world belonging to our S3'stem outside 
 the path of the furthest known planet would 
 have seemed to most people like pure folly. 
 Since then, we have grown quite accustomed to 
 the discovery of a fresh small world or two 
 every year, and we have even had another large 
 planet (Neptune), still more remote than Hers- 
 chcl's Uranus, added to the list of known orbs 
 in our own solar system. But in Herschel's 
 day, nobody had ever heard of a new planet 
 beincf discovered since the beoinninof of all 
 things. A hundred years before, an Italian 
 astronomer, it is true, had found out four small 
 moons revolvini^f round Saturn, besides the biix 
 moon then already known ; but for a whole 
 century, everybody believed that the solar 
 system was now quite fully explored, and that 
 nothing fresh could be discovered about it. 
 Hence Herschel's observation produced a very 
 different effect from, say, the discovery of 
 the two moons which revoK'e round Mars, in 
 our own day. Even'people who felt no interest 
 in astronomy were aroused to attention. Mr. 
 Herschel's new planet became the talk of the 
 
io6 BIOGRAPHIES OF JVORKIiXG ML.W 
 
 town and tlie subj(!Ct of much admiring- discus- 
 sion in the London newspapers. Strange, indeed, 
 that an amateur astronomer of Batli, a mere 
 German music- master, should have hit upon a 
 planet which escaped the sight even of the 
 king's own Astronomer Royal at Greenwich. 
 
 Of course there were not people wanting wdio 
 ascribed this wonderful discovery of Ilerschel's 
 to pure chance. If he hadn't just happened to 
 turn his telescope m that particular direction 
 on tliat particular night, he v;ouldn't have seen 
 this Georgiuiii Sidus they made such a fuss 
 about at all. Quite so. And if he hadn't built 
 a twenty-foot telescope for liimself, he wouldn't 
 have turned it an}-wherc at any time. ]^)ut 
 Herschel himself knew better. "This was by 
 no means the result of chance," he said ; " but 
 a simple consequence of the position of the 
 planet on that particular evening, since it occu- 
 pied precisely that sjiot in the heavens which 
 came in the order of ilic minute observations 
 that ! had previous!)' riiapped out for myself. 
 Had I not seen it just when I did, I must inevi- 
 tably have come upon it soon after, since my 
 telescope was so perfect that I was able to dis- 
 tinouish it from a fixed star in the first minute 
 of observation." Indeed, when once Herschel's 
 twenty-foot telescope was made, he could not 
 well have failed in the lono^ run to discover 
 Uranus, as his own description of his mediod 
 clearly shows. " When I had carefully and 
 thoroughly perfected the great instrument in all 
 its parts," he says, " I made a systematic use of 
 
iVILUAM IIERSCIIEL, BAXDSMAX. 107 
 
 it in my observation of tlic heaven, first formin^c^ 
 a determination never to pass by any, the 
 smallest, portion of them ■witho^^t due investi- 
 gation. This habit, persisted in, led to the 
 discovery of the new planet {Gcoroitnii Sid/L)." 
 As well mi^ht one say tliat a skilled mining- 
 surve}or, digging for coal, came upon the seam 
 by chance, as ascribe to cliance the necessary 
 result of such a careful and methodical scrutiny 
 as this. 
 
 I'efore the year was out, the Ingenious ]\Ir. 
 Ilerschel of I'ath was elected a Fellovr of tlie 
 Royal Society, and was also presented with the 
 Copley gold medal. From this moment all 
 tlie distinguished people in Bath were anxious 
 to be Introduced to the philosophical music- 
 master; and, indeed, they intruded so much 
 upon his time that the daily music lessons were 
 novv' often Interrupted. He was soon, however, 
 to give up lessons for ever, and devote himself 
 to his more conr>-enial and natural work in 
 astronomy. In May, 17S2, he went up to 
 L.ondon, to be formally admitted to his Fellow- 
 ship of the Royal Society. There he stayed 
 so long that poor Carolina was cpiite frightened. 
 It was "double the time which my brother 
 could safely be absent from his scholars." The 
 connection would be broken up, and the as- 
 tronomy would be the ruin of the fcunily. (A 
 little of good old dame Herschel's housewifely 
 leaven here, perhaps.) But William's letters 
 from London to " Dear LIna " must soon have 
 quieted her womanly fears. William had 
 
io8 niOGRAPJ/IKS OF WORKING MKX 
 
 actually been presented to the king-, and " met 
 with a very gracious reception." He had 
 explained the solar system to the king and 
 queen, and his telescope was to be put up 
 first at Greenwich and then at Richmond. 
 The Greenwich authorities Avere delighted with 
 his instrument; they have seen what Herschcl 
 calls " my fine double stars " with it. " All 
 my papers are printing," he tells LIna with 
 pardonable ])ride, " and are allowed to be very 
 valuable." lUit he himself is far from satisfied 
 as yet with the results of his work. Evidently 
 no small successes in the field of knowledge 
 will do for William Hcrschel. " Amonir 
 opticians and astronomers," he writes to Lina, 
 " nothing now is talked of but ii'hat they call 
 my great discoveries. Alas ! this shows how 
 far they are behind, when such trifles as I have 
 seen and done are called great. Let me but 
 get at it again ! I will make such telescopes 
 and see such things ! " Well, well, William 
 Herschel, in that last sentence we get the very 
 keynote of true greatness and true genius. 
 
 But must he go back quietly to Bath and 
 the toils of teaching' .-^ "An intolerable waste 
 of time," he thought it. The king happily 
 relieved him from this intolerable waste. He 
 offered Herschel a salary of ^200 a year if he 
 would come and live at Datchet, and devote 
 himself entirely to astronomical observations. 
 It was by no means a munificent sum for a 
 king to offer for such labour ; but Herschel 
 gladly accepted it, as it v.'ould enable him to 
 
niLLlAM IIERSCIIEL, UAXDSM.LW lo; 
 
 give up the intciTLiption of teachinci;", and spend 
 all his time on liis beloved astronomy. His 
 Bath friend, Sir William Watson, exclaimed 
 ^vhen he heard of it, " Never bought monarch 
 honour so cheap." Herschel was forty-three 
 when he removed to Datchet, and from that 
 day forth he lived almost entirely in his ob- 
 servatory, wholly given up to his astronomical 
 pursuits. Even when he had to go to London 
 to read his papers before the Royal Society, he 
 chose a moonlicrht nkdit (when the stars would 
 be mostly invisible), so that it might not 
 interfere with his regular labours. 
 
 Poor Carolina was horrified at the house at 
 Datchet, which seemed terribly desolate and 
 poor, even to her modest German ideas ; but 
 William declared his willingness to live perma- 
 nently and cheerfully upon "eggs and bacon" now 
 that he was at last free to do nothhiLr on earth 
 but observe the heavens. NIoht after nlorht he 
 and Carolina worked toQ'ether at their silent 
 task — he notlnn- the small features with his bii2' 
 telescope, she " sweeping for comets " with a 
 smaller glass or "finder." Herschel could have 
 had no more useful or de\'Oted assistant than 
 his sister, who idolized him with all her heart. 
 Alexander, too, came to stay with them chu'ing 
 the slack months at Bath, and then the whole 
 strength of the family was bent together on 
 their labour of love in oau^flno- the heavens. 
 
 But what use was it all ? Why should they 
 wish to go star-gazing ? W^ell, if a man cannot 
 see for himself what use it was, nobody else 
 
i.o DIOGRAPHIR:^ OF IVORKIXG MEX. 
 
 can put tlic answer into him, any more thaii 
 they could put into him a love for nature, or 
 for beaut)-, or for art, or for music, if he had it 
 not to start with. What is the q;ood of a Q-rcat 
 picture, a splendid oratorio, a i^rand poem ? To 
 the man who does not care for them, nothin;:^;' ; 
 to the man who loves them, infinite. It is just 
 the same with science. The use of knowledge 
 to a mind like I lerschel's is the mere possession 
 of it. Widi such as he, it is a love, an object 
 of desire, a thing* to be sought after for its own 
 sake ; and the :nere act of finding it is in itself 
 purely delightful. " Happy is the man that 
 iindeth wisdom, and the nian that getteth under- 
 standing, r'or the merchandise of it is better 
 than the merchandise of silver, and the gain 
 thereof than fine gold. She is more [U'ecious 
 than rubies ; and all the things thou canst desire 
 are not to be compared unto her." So, to such 
 a man as Herschel, that peaceful astronomer 
 life at Datchet was indeed, in the truest sense 
 of those much-abused words, "success in life." 
 If you had asked sonie vulgar-minded neighbour 
 of the great Sir William in his later days 
 whether the astronomer had been a successful 
 man or not, he would doubtless have answered, 
 after his kind, "Certainly. He has been made 
 a knight, has lands in tvv-o counties, and has 
 saved ;/^3 5,000." But if you had asked 
 William Herschel himself, he Avould probably 
 have said, with his usual mixture of earnestness 
 and humility, " Yes, I have been a very for- 
 tunate nnan in life. I have discovered Uranus, 
 
WILLIAM IIERSCIIKL, HANDS MAX, i ! 
 
 and I have cifauii'cd all the clci^lhs of heaven, as 
 none before ever gauged them, with my own 
 great telescope." 
 
 Still, those who cannot S3mpathi/:c v/ith the 
 pure love of knowledge for its own sake— one 
 of the highest and noblest of human aims - 
 should remember that astronomy is also of 
 immense practical importance to mankind, and 
 especially to navigation and commerce. Unless 
 great astronomical calculations were correctly 
 performed at Greenvv-ich and elsciwhere, it would 
 be impossible for any ship or steamer to sail 
 with safety from England to Australia or 
 America. Every defect in our astronomical 
 knowledge helps to wreck our vessels on 
 doul)tful coasts ; every advance helps to save 
 the lives of many sailors and the cargoes of 
 many merchants. It is this practical utility 
 of astronomy that iustifies the spending of 
 national money on observatories and transits 
 of Venus, and it is the best apology for an 
 astronomer's life to those who do not appreciate 
 the use of knowledge for its own beauty. 
 
 At Datchet, Herschel not only made several 
 large telescopes for sale, for wdiich he obtained 
 large prices, but he also got a grant of ^^2000 
 from the kinof to aid him in constructing his 
 huge forty-foot instrument. It was here, too, 
 in 1783, that Herschel married. His wife was 
 ;i widow lady of scientific tastes like his own, 
 and she was possessed of considerable means, 
 which enabled him henceforth to lay aside all 
 anxiety on the score of money. They had but 
 
112 UlOGRArillES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 one child, a son, afterwards Sir John Ilcrschcl, 
 ahiiost as great an astronomer as his father 
 liad been before him. In 1785, tlie famil)' 
 moved to Clay Hall, in Old Windsor, and in 
 1786 to Slouoh, where Mcrschel lived for the 
 remainder of his long life. Mow completely 
 his whole soul was bound up in his work is 
 shown in the curious fact recorded for us by 
 Carolina llerschel. The last night at Clay 
 Hall was spent in sweeping the sky with the 
 great glass till daylight ; and by the next evening 
 the telescope stood ready for observations once 
 more in the new home at Slough. 
 
 To follow Herschel through the remainder 
 of his life would be merely to give a long 
 catalogue of his endless observations and dis- 
 coveries anion* >• the stars. Such a catalogue 
 would be interesting only to astronomers ; )'et 
 it would truly give the main facts of Herschel's 
 existence in his happy home at Slough. 
 Honoured by the world dearly loved in his 
 own family, and engrossed with a passionate 
 affection for his chosen science, the great 
 astronomer and philosopher grew grey In peace 
 under his own roof, in the course of a singularly 
 placid and gentle old age. In 1802 he laid 
 before the Royal Society a list of five thousand 
 new^ stars, star-clusters, or other heavenly bodies 
 which he had discovered, and which formed the 
 great body of his personal additions to astro- 
 nomical know^ledge. The University of Oxford 
 made him Doctor of Laws, and very late in 
 life he was knighted by the king— a too tardy 
 
WILLIAM JIF.RSCIIKL, liAXDSMAX. 113 
 
 acknowledgement of his immense services to 
 science. To the very last, however, he "worked 
 on with a will ; and, indeed, it is one of the 
 crreat charms of scientific interest that it thus 
 enables a man to keep his faculties on the alert 
 to an advanced old aqe. In 1819, when 
 Ilerschel was more than eij^hty, he writes to 
 his sister a short note — " Lina, there is a i»reat 
 comet. I want you to assist me. Come to 
 dine and spend the day here. If you can come 
 soon after one o'clock, we shall have time to 
 prepare maps and telescopes. I saw its situa- 
 tion last niqht. It has a lonir tail." How 
 delicfhtful to find such a livincr interest in life 
 at the age of eighty ! 
 
 On the 25th of August, 1822, this truly great 
 and simple man passed aw^ay, in his eighty-fifth 
 year. It has been possible here only to sketch 
 out the chief personal points in his career, 
 without dwelling much upon the scientific im- 
 portance of his later life-long labours ; but it 
 must suffice to say briefly upon this point that 
 Herschel's work was no mere mechanical star- 
 finding ; it was the most profoundly philo- 
 sophical astronomical work ever performed, 
 except perhaps Newton's and Laplace's. 
 Among astronomers proper there has been 
 none distinguished by such breadth of grasp, 
 such wide conceptions, and such perfect clear- 
 ness of view as the self-taught oboc-playcr of 
 1 lanover. 
 
V. 
 
 JEAN FRANCOIS MILLET, Painter. 
 ^'^®\1IIERE Is no part of iM-ancc so 
 
 sini^iilarly like l*>no-l;int1, both in the 
 aspect of the country itself and in 
 the features and character of the 
 inhal)itants, as Normandy. The 
 v;ooded hills and dales, the frequent copses and 
 apple orchards, the numerous thrivinc^- towns 
 and villages, the towers and steeples half hidden 
 among the trees, recall at every step the very 
 similar scenery of our own beautiful and fruitful 
 Devonshire. And as the land is, so arc the 
 people. Ai^'cs a<^o, ab^out the same time that 
 the An!^lo-Saxon invaders first settled down in 
 bhigland, a band of similar English pirates, 
 from the old common English home by the 
 cranberry marshes of the Baltic, drove their 
 long ships upon the long rocky peninsula of tlie 
 Cotentin, which juts out, like a French Corn- 
 wcdl, fr(.)m the mainland of Normandy up to 
 
JEA!^ FRAX(;OIS MILLEI\ PAIXTER. 115 
 
 the steep clilfs and hcclliiiL;- cim5;-.s of busy 
 CherboiirL;-. There they built themsc^lves h'ttle 
 hamlel.s and villages of trui! ImvjUsIi \\v>i\ 
 wliose very names to tlil.s day n.'mind one of 
 their ancient Saxon ori^L;in. Later on, the 
 Danes or Northmen con(iuered the country, 
 \vhicli they called after tlu'ir own name, Nor- 
 niandy, that is to say, the Northmen's land. 
 Mixint^" with the early Saxon or En^^lish settlers, 
 and with tlie still more primitive Celtic inhabi- 
 tants, the Northmen founded a nice extremely 
 like that v/hich now inhabits our own country. 
 To this day, the Norman peasants of the 
 Cotcntin ri'tain many m:u*ks of their origin and 
 their half-iorwDtten kinship with the JiniL^iish 
 race. Wh.ile other Frenchmen are c;"eneral!y 
 dark and thick-set, the Norman is, as a rule, 
 a tall, f:iir-haircd, blue-eyed man, not unlike in 
 build to our Yarmouth fisherman, or our Kentish 
 labourers. In body and niind, tlierc is some- 
 thin::;" about him even now which makes him 
 seem more nearly akin to us \\':\\\ the true 
 Frenchmen who inhabit almost all the rest of 
 bh'ance. 
 
 In the vilhi'^'e of Gruchv, near Greville, in 
 this wild and beautiful region of the CoLentin, 
 there lived at the beginning of the present 
 century a sturdy peasant f.uniU' of the name 
 of Millet. Th(i father of the family was one 
 of the petty village landholders so common in 
 France ; a labourer who owned and tilled his 
 own tiny patch of farm, with the aid of his 
 wife and children. \\'e h.ave now no class in 
 
Il6 JUOuKAPJUi:s t)l' U'OA'A'/Xu MKX. 
 
 I'jiL^land exactly answcrini,^ to the L'rcnch 
 peasant proprietors, who form so laroe and 
 important an element in the population just 
 across the Channel. The small landholder in 
 1*' ranee beloni^s by position to about the same 
 level as our own aj^ricultural labourer, and in 
 many ways is content with a style of dress 
 and a mode of livincr auainst which I'^ntjlish 
 labourers would certainly protest with horror. 
 And yet, he is a proprietor, with a i)roprietor's 
 sense of the dignity of his joosiiion, and an 
 ardent love of his own little much-subtlividetl 
 corner of asj^ricultural land. On this he spends 
 all his energies, and however many children he 
 may have, he will try to make a livelihood for 
 all by their united labour out of the soil, rather 
 than let one of them i;o to seek his fortune by 
 any other means m the great cities. Thus the 
 ground is often tilled up to an almost ridiculous 
 extent, the entire labour of the family being 
 sometimes expended in cultivating, manuring, 
 weeding, and tending a patch of land perhaps 
 hardly an acre in size. It is quite touching to 
 see the care and solicitude with which these 
 toilsome peasants will laboriously lay out their 
 bit of garden with fruits or vegetables, making 
 every line almost mathematically regular, plant- 
 ing every pea at a measured distance, or putting 
 a smooth Hat pebble under every strawberry 
 on the evenly ridged-up vines. It is only in 
 the very last resort that the peasant proprietor 
 will consent to let one of his daughters go out 
 to service, or send one of his sons adrift to seek 
 
7A'/1A l''KA.\\OIS MIJJJ:I\ J'ALXTI:/^. 117 
 
 his Ibrtune as an artisan in the big-, unknown, 
 outer world. 
 
 Millet the elder, however, had nine children, 
 which is an unusually lar;^^(! number for a iM'ench 
 p(\asant family (where the women ordinarily 
 marry late in liic) ; and his hule son Jean 
 r'rancois (the second child .u.u eldest boy), 
 thouc,di set to weed and hoe upon the wee farm 
 in his boyhood, was destined by his father for 
 some other life than that of a tiller of the soil. 
 He was born in the year before Waterloo — 
 1 8 14 — and was brought up on his fiither's plot 
 of land, in the hard rou^h wa)- to which 
 peasant children in lM\uice are alwa}'s ac- 
 customed. Bronzed by sun and rain, poorly 
 clad, and ill-fetl, he acquired as a lad, from the 
 oi)en air and the toilsome life he led, a vii^'our 
 of constitution which enabled him to bciar up 
 a_L;ainst the numerous hardships and stru^i^k's 
 of his later days, " A Norman Peasant," he 
 loved to call himself alwa)s, with a certain 
 proud humility ; and happily he had the rud(j 
 health of one all his life Ioult. 
 
 Hard as he worked, little Fnuicois' time was 
 nut entirely taken up with attendiuL,^ to the 
 fields or garden. He was a studious bo)', and 
 learned not only to read and write in P^xnch, 
 but also to try some higher flights, rare indeed 
 for a lad of his position. His family possessed 
 remarkable qualities as French peasants 0-0 ; 
 and one of his orcat-uncles, a man of admirable 
 strength of character, a priest in the days of 
 the great Revolution, had braved the godless 
 
ii8 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 republicans of his time, and thouL;li deprived 
 of his cure, a.nd comipelled to labour for his 
 livelihood in the fields, had yet laiided the 
 plough in his priestly garments. His grand- 
 mother first tau'j-ht him liis letters ; and when 
 she had instructed him to the lencrth of rcadinci- 
 any i^^'ench booh, thcit v\'as put before him, the 
 village priest took him in liand. In France, the 
 priest comes often from the peasant class, and 
 remains in social position a mem])er of thcit 
 class as lono" .as he lives. But he alwavs 
 possesses a fair knowledge of Latin, the 
 lanc>iKU''e in which all his reliijious services are 
 conducted ; and this knowledge serves as a key 
 to much th:it his unlearned parisliioners could 
 never dream of knowing". Youni'" Millet's 
 parish priest taught him as much Latin as he 
 knew himself; and so the boy was not only 
 able to read the Bible in tlie Latin or X^il^ate 
 translation, but rilso to make acquaintance with 
 the works of Vlrpil and several others of the 
 great Roman poets. Me read, too, the beautiful 
 " Confessions" of St. Augustine, and the " Lives 
 of the Saints," which he found in his father's 
 scanty library, as well as the works of the great 
 French preachers, Bossuet and I'^enelon. Such 
 early ac([uaintance with these and many other 
 masterpieces of higher literature, we may be sure, 
 helped greatly to mould the lad's mind into that 
 grand and sober shape which it finally acquired. 
 Jean Francois' love of art was first aroused by 
 the pictures in an old illustrated Bible which 
 belonged to his father, and which he was per- 
 
yEAN FRAXgOIS MILLET, IWIXTER. 119 
 
 mi'ttcd to look at on Snnchiys and festivals. 
 The child admired these pictures immensely, 
 and asked leave to be ])crmitted to copy them. 
 The only time he could fmd for the purpose, 
 however, was that of the mid-day rest or siesta. 
 It is the custom in T^'ancc, as in Southern 
 Europe generally, for labourers to cease from 
 V\'ork for an hour or so in the middle of the day ; 
 and durinc?- this " tired man's holidav," youno- 
 IMillet, instead of resting', used to take out his 
 pencil and paper, and try his hand at reproducing 
 the pictures in the big Bible. His father was 
 not without an undevek^pcd taste for art : " vSee," 
 he would say, looking into some beautiful combe 
 or ij'len on the lullside— " see that little cottac^c 
 half buried in the trees ; how beautiful it is ! I 
 think it ou<'ht to be drawn so — ; " and then he 
 would make a rough sketch of it on some scrap 
 of paper. At times he would niodel things with 
 a bit of clay, or cut the outline of a llower or an 
 animal with his knife on a llat piece of wood. 
 This unexercised talent l^'ancois inherited in a 
 still greater degree. As time went on, he pro- 
 m'cssed to makiniTf little drawincjs on his own 
 account ; and we may be sure the priest and all 
 the good wives of Gruchy had quite settled in 
 their own minds before long that Jean Francois 
 Millet's hands would be able in time to paint 
 quite a beautiful altar-piece for the village 
 church. 
 
 B^'-and-b}', v? hen the time came for bVancois 
 to choose a trade, he beini'" then a biix k^d ol 
 about nineleen, it was suc!,'o-estecl to his father that 
 
120 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEX. 
 
 young Millet mii^ht really make a regular painter 
 — that is to say, an artist. In France, the 
 general tastes of the people are far more artistic 
 than with us ; and the number of painters who 
 find work for their brushes in Paris is something 
 immensely greater than the number in our own 
 smoky, money-making London. So there was 
 nothing very remarkable, from a T^rench point 
 of view, in the idea of the young peasant turning 
 for a livelihood to the profession of an artist. 
 But INIillet's father was a sober and austere man, 
 a person of great dignity and solemnity, who 
 decided to put his son's powers to the test in a 
 very regular and critical fashion. Me had often 
 watched Francois drawino-, and he thouo-ht well 
 of the boy's work. If he had a real talent 
 for painting, a painter he should be ; if not, he 
 must take to some other craft, where he would 
 have the chance of makin^r himself a decent 
 livelihood. So he told T^rancois to prepare a 
 couple of drawings, which he would submit to 
 the judgment of M. IMouchel, a local painter at 
 Cherbourg, the nearest large town, and capital 
 of the department. Francois duly prepared the 
 drawings, and Millet the elder went with his 
 son to submit them in proper form for M. 
 Mouchel's opinion. Happily, M. Mouchel had 
 judgment enough to see at a glance that the 
 drawings possessed remarkable merit. '' You 
 must be playing me a trick," he said ; " that lad 
 could never have made these drawings." " I 
 saw him do them with my own eyes," answered 
 the father warmly. " Then," said Mouchel, 
 
JiwlN i'RAA\'OIS MILLET, PALXTER. 121 
 
 "all I can say is this : he has in him the makini^ 
 of a great painter." He accepted Millet as his 
 pupil ; and the j oung- man set off for Cherbourg 
 accordingly, to study with care and diligence 
 under his new master. 
 
 Cherbourg, though not yet at that time a great 
 naval port, as it afterwards became, was a busy 
 harbour and fishing town, where the young 
 artist saw a Q-reat deal of a kind of life with 
 which he possessed an immense sympathy. The 
 hard work of the fishermen putting out to sea 
 on stormy evenings, or toiling with their nets 
 ashore after a sleepless night, made a living 
 picture which stamped itself deeply on his 
 receptive mind. A man of the people himself, 
 born to toil and inured to it from babyhood, 
 this constant scene of toiliu''" and struQolinLr 
 humanity touched the deepest chord in his 
 whole nature, so that some of the most beautiful 
 and noble of his early pictures are really remi- 
 niscences of his first student days at Cherbourg. 
 But after he had spent a year in Mouchel's 
 •studio, sad news came to him from Gruch\'. 
 His father was dying, and Francois was only 
 just in time to see him before he passed awa}*. 
 If the family was to be kept together at all, 
 Francois must return from his easel and palette, 
 and take once more to ''uidinii" the plough. 
 With that earnest resolution which never forsook 
 him, Millet decided to accept the inevitable. He 
 went back home once more, and gave up his 
 lonoinos for art in order to till the t^round for 
 his fatherless sisters. 
 
122 lilOGRAPllIES 01' ]rORKIXG MEX. 
 
 Luckil}', ho\vc\'L'r, his friends at Gnicliy 
 succeeded after awliile in sendiii!:^ him Lack 
 ai>ain to Cherboiirc'', where he becian to study 
 under another master, Lano-Iois, and to have 
 hopes once more for liis artistic future, now tb.at 
 he was free at last to pursue it in his own wa)'. 
 At this time, lie read a oTcat deal — Shakespeare, 
 Walter Scott, r>yron, Goethe's " Faust," Victor 
 Ilui^'o and Chateaul)riand ; in fact, all the great 
 works he could lay his hands upon. Peasant as 
 he was, he [^'ave b.imself, half unconsciously, a 
 noble education. Ymy soon, it became apparent 
 that tlie CherbourL;' masters could do nothing 
 more for him, and that, if he really wished to 
 perfect himself in art, he must go to Paris. In 
 P^ ranee, the national interest felt in painting is 
 far la'eater and more C!'eneral than in England. 
 Nothing is commoner than for towns or depart- 
 ments to grant pensions (or as we should call 
 them, scholarships) to promising lads who wish 
 to study art in Paris. Young Millet had 
 attracted so much attention at Cherbourg, that 
 the Council Genend of the Department of the 
 Manche voted him a present of six hundred 
 francs (about £2^) to start him on the way ; and 
 the town of Cherbourg promised him an annual 
 grant of four hundred francs more (about £16), 
 So up to Paris Millet went, and there was duly 
 enrolled as a student at the Government "Scliool 
 of P'ine Arts." 
 
 Those student clays in Paris were days of 
 hunger and cold, very often, which Millet bore 
 Vvith the steady endurance of a Norman peasant 
 
'JEAN FRAKqOIS MILLET, PAIXTER. i.:;, 
 
 bo}'. 13ut they win'c also days of somcthinL;- 
 worse to hliii — of effort misdirected, and of con- 
 stant strnc^gling- against a system for which he 
 was not fitted. In fact, Millet was an orif^-inal 
 oeniiis, whereas the teachers at the School of 
 Fine Arts were careful and methodical rule-of- 
 thumb martinets. They w^islicd to train Milk't 
 into the ordinary pattern, which he could not 
 follow ; and in the end, lie left the school, and 
 attached himself to the studio of Paul Delaroche, 
 then the greatest painter of historical pictures in 
 all Paris. But even Delaroche, though an artist 
 of deep feeling and power, did not fully under- 
 stand his young Norman pupil, lie himself 
 used to paint historical pictures in tlie grand 
 style, full of richness and beauty ; but his sub- 
 jects were c Imost always chosen from the lives 
 of kinps or queens, and treated v/idi corre- 
 s[)onding calmness and dignity. " Tlie Young 
 Princes in the Tower," " The Execution of 
 Marie Antoinette," "The Death of Queen Pdiza- 
 beth," ''' Cromwell viewing the Body of Charles 
 I.'' — these w^ere the kind of pictures on which 
 Delaroche loved to employ himself. Millet, on 
 the other hand, though also full of dignity and 
 pathos, together with an earnestness far sur- 
 passing Delaroche's, did not care for these lofty 
 subjects. It w^as the dignity and pathos of 
 labour that moved him most ; the silent, wear)-, 
 noble lives of the uncomplaining peasants, 
 amongst whom his ow^n days had been mostl)' 
 passed. Delaroche could not make him out at 
 ail ; he was such a curi(jus, incomprehensible, 
 
124 J>IOGR APRILS UF \VORKL\G MKX. 
 
 odd youn_c( fellow ! " There, go your own way, 
 if )-ou will," the orcat master said to him at last ; 
 " for my part, I can make nothing" of you." 
 
 So, shortly after. Millet and his friend 
 Marolle set up a studio for themselves in the 
 Rue dc I'Est in Paris. The precise occasion 
 of their Qoin!*- was this. Millet was anxious 
 to obtain the Grand Prize of Rome annually 
 offered to the younger artists, and Delaroche 
 definitely told him that his own iniluence 
 would be used on behalf of another [)upil. 
 After this, the young Norman felt that he 
 could do better by following out his own 
 genius in his own fashion. At the Rue de 
 I'Est, he continued to study hard, but he also 
 devoted a large part of his time to painting- 
 cheap portraits — what artists call " pot-boilers ; " 
 mere hasty Avorks dashed off anyhow to earn 
 his daily livelihood. T'or these pictures he got 
 about ten to fifteen francs apiece, — in English 
 money from eight to twelve shillings. IIkj)- 
 were painted in a theatrical style, which Millet 
 himself detested — all pink cheeks, and red lips, 
 and blue satin, and lace collars ; whereas his 
 own natural style was one of great austerity and 
 a certain earnest sombreness the exact reverse 
 of the common Parisian taste to which he 
 ministered. However, he had to please his 
 patrons — and, like a sensible man, he went on 
 producing" these cheap daubs to any extent 
 required, for a living", while he endeavoured to 
 perfect himself meanwhile for the higher art he 
 was meditating for the future. In the great 
 
yj:.L\ FRAXi^OIS MILLi:i\ IWIXTKR. 125 
 
 • '-.lUcrics of the Louvre at Paris he found 
 abundant models which he could study in the 
 •works of the old masters ; and there, poriuL^ 
 over Michael An^elo and jNIantemia, he could 
 recompense himself a little in his spare hours 
 for the time he was obliged to waste on pinky- 
 white faces and taffeta gowns. To an artist by 
 nature there is nothinq- harder than workinir 
 perforce against the bent of one's own innate 
 and instinctive feelings. 
 
 In 1840, Millet found his life in Paris still so 
 hard that he seemed for a time inclined to c^ive 
 Lip the attempt, and returned to Greville, where 
 he painted a marine subject of the sort that 
 was dearest to his heart — a group of sailors 
 niending a sail. Shortly after, however, he was 
 back in Paris — the record of these years of 
 hard struggle is not very clear — with his wife, 
 a Cherbourg girl whom he had imprudently 
 married while still barely able to support him- 
 self in the utmost poverty. It was not till 
 1844 that the hard-working painter at last 
 achieved his first success. It was w^ith a 
 picture of a milkwoman, one of his own 
 favourite peasant subjects ; and the poetry and 
 sympathy which he had thrown into so common- 
 place a theme attracted the attention of many 
 critics among the cultivated Parisian world of 
 art. The " Milkwoman" was exhibited at the 
 Salon (the great annual exhibition of works of 
 art in Paris, like that of the Royal Academy 
 in London, but on a far larger scale) ; and 
 several good judges of art began immediately to 
 
i:6 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORK IXC, MKX. 
 
 inquire, " Who is Jean Francois Millet?" Hunt- 
 ing his address out, a party of friendly critics 
 presented themselves at his lodc;'in!.;s, only to 
 learn that Madame ^lillet had just died, and 
 that her husband, half in despair, had gone back 
 airain once more to his native Norman hills and 
 valleys. 
 
 But Millet was the last man on earth to sit 
 down quielly Vv'ith his hands folded, waiting for 
 something or other to turn up. At Cherbourg, 
 he set to work once more, no doubt painting 
 more " pot-boilers " for the respectable shop- 
 keepers of the neighbourhood — complacent por- 
 traits, perhaps, of a stout gentleman with a large 
 V\'atch-chain full)- displayed, and of a stout lady 
 in a black silk dress and with a vacant smile ; 
 and by hook or by crook he managed to scrape 
 too-ether a few hundred francs, with which once 
 more he mi^ht return to Paris. But before he 
 did so, he married again, this time more wisely. 
 His v/ile, Catharine Lemairc, was a brave and 
 good woman, who knew how to appreciate her 
 husband, and to second him well in all his 
 further struggles and endeavours. They went 
 for a while to Havre, v;hcrc Millet, in despair 
 of i2ettini>" better work, and not ashamed of 
 doing anything honest to pay his way, actually 
 took to painting sign-boards. In this way he 
 saved money enough to make a fresh start in 
 Paris. There, he continued his hard battle 
 against the taste of the time ; for French art 
 was then dominated by the influence of men 
 like Delaroche, or like Delacroix and Horace 
 
yE^\N FRANQOIS MILLET, PAIXTKR. 127 
 
 \'ernct, \\\\o luul accustomed the pul)llc to 
 pictures of a very lofty, a very romantic, or a 
 very fiery sort ; and tlxn'e were few indeed who 
 cared for stern and sympath(;tic dehneations of 
 the French i)easant's unlovely life of unreir.it- 
 ting toil, such as jMillet loved to set before 
 them. Yet, in spite of discoura!:;ement, he did 
 well to follow out this inner promptin;^ of his 
 own soul ; for in that direction he could do his 
 best work — and the best work is alwa)'s the 
 best worth dolno" in the lono' run. There are 
 some minds, of which b^ranklin's is a g"ood 
 type, so versatile; and so shifty that they can 
 turn v;ith advantage to any opening that 
 chances to offer, no matter In what direction ; 
 and such minds do right in seizing e\'er)' oj)por- 
 tunity, wherever it occurs. lUit there are other 
 minds, of which Gibson and Millet are excellent 
 examples, naturally restricted to certain definite 
 lines of thour-ht or work ; and such minds do 
 right in persistently following u]) their own 
 native talent, and refusing to 1 e led aside by 
 circumstances into any less natural or less 
 promising channel. 
 
 While living in Paris at this time, Alillet 
 painted several of his favourite peasant pictures, 
 amongst others " The Workman's pJonday," 
 which is a sort of parallel in painting to Bui'ns's 
 " Cotter's Saturday Night" in poetry. Indeed, 
 there is a great deal in jNIillet which strongly 
 reminds one at every step of Ijunis. Both 
 were born of the agricultural labourlnci' class ; 
 both remained ])easanls at heart, in feelings and 
 
128 niOGRAPlIIES OF U'ORKIXG MLX 
 
 sympathies, all their lives long ; neither was 
 ashamed of his orig-in, even in the days of his 
 greatest fame ; painter and poet alike loved 
 best to choose their themes from the simple life 
 of the poor whose trials and hardsliips they 
 knew so well by bitter experience ; and in each 
 cas(i they succeeded best in touching the hearts 
 of others when they did not travel outside their 
 own natural range of subjects. Only (if Scotch- 
 men will allow one to say so) there was in 
 Millet a far deeper vein of moral earnestness 
 than in Burns ; he was more profoundly im- 
 pressed by the dignity and nobility of labour ; 
 in his tender sympathy there was a touch of 
 solemn q;randeur which was wantin<j: in the too 
 genial and easy-going Ayrshire ploughman. 
 
 In 1848, the year of revolutions, Millet 
 painted his famous picture of " The Winnower,' 
 since considered as one of his finest works. 
 Yet for a long time, though the critics praised 
 it, it could not find a purchaser ; till at last 
 M. Ledru Rollin, a well-known politician, bought 
 it for what Millet considered the capital price of 
 five hundred francs (about £20). It would now 
 fetch a simply fabulous price, if offered for sale. 
 Soon after this comparative success Millet 
 decided to leave Paris, where the surroundings 
 indeed were little fitted to a man of his peculiarly 
 rural and domestic tastes. He would go where 
 he might see the living models of his peasant 
 friends for ever before him ; where he could watch 
 them leaning over the plough pressed deep into 
 the earth ; cutting the faggots with stout arms 
 
JEAX FRA.\\'OIS MIIJ.ET, />.!L\'/7:A\ I2<; 
 
 in the tliick-oTown copses; drivlnijf the cattle 
 home at milkiiiL;' time with weary feet, along 
 the endless, strai'-ht white hiijh-roads of the 
 r'rench rural districts. At the same time, he 
 must be within easy reach of Paris ; for though 
 he had almost made up his mind not to exhibit 
 any more at the Salon — people didn't care to 
 see his reapers or his fishermen — he must still 
 manage to keep himself within call of possible 
 purchasers ; and for this purpose he selected 
 the little village of Barbizon, on the edge of 
 the forest of Fontainebleau. 
 
 The woods of Fontainebleau stand to Paris 
 in somewhat the same relation that Windsor 
 Great Park stands to London ; only, the scenery 
 is more forest-like, and the trees are big and 
 antique looking. By the outskirts of this great 
 wood stands the pretty hamlet of Barbizon, a 
 single long street of small peasant cottages, built 
 with the usual French rural disregard oi beauty 
 or cleanliness. At the top of the street, in a 
 little three-roomed house, the painter and his 
 wife settled down quietly ; and here they lived 
 for twenty-seven years, long after Millet's name 
 had grown to be famous in the history of con- 
 temporary French painting. An linglish critic, 
 who visited the spot in the days of Millet's 
 greatest celebrity, was astonished to find the 
 painter, whom he had come to see, strolling 
 about the village in rustic clothes, and even 
 wearing the sabots or wooden shoes which are 
 in France the social mark of the working 
 classes, much as the smock-frock used once to 
 
 K 
 
130 niOGRAPIIIES OF WORKIXG ME.W 
 
 l)(i in tli(; remoter country districts of EiiL;lancl. 
 perhaps this was a htlle bit of affectation on 
 Millet's part — a sort ot proud declaration of the 
 fact that in spite of f.uiie antl honours he still 
 insisted u[)on counting" himself a simple peasant; 
 but if so, it was, after all, a very pretty and harm- 
 less affectation indeed. Better to sec a man 
 sticking pcn'tinaciously to his v.'ooden vshoes, than 
 turning- his back upon old friends and old 
 associations in the da)'s of his worldl}- prosperity. 
 At Barl)izon Millet's life moved on so quietly 
 tliat there is nothiuLf to record in it almost, save 
 a \q)\v^ list of pictures painted, and a gradual 
 growth, not in popularity (for tliat Millet never 
 really attained at all), but in the esteem of the 
 best judges, which of course brought with it at 
 last, first case, then comfort, and finally compara- 
 tive riches. Millet was able now to paint such 
 subjects as pleased him JK'st, and he threw him- 
 self into his work v.'ith all the fervour of his 
 intensely earnest and poetical nature. What- 
 ever might be the subject which he undertook, 
 he knew how to handle it so that it became 
 instinct with his own fine feeling for the life he 
 saw around him. In 1852 he painted his " Man 
 spreading Manure." In itself, that is not a 
 very exalted or beautiful occupation ; but what 
 Millet saw in it was the man, not the manure 
 — the toiling, sorrowing, human fellow-being, 
 whose labour and whose spirit he knew so well 
 how to appreciate. And in this view of the 
 subject he makes us all at once sympathize. 
 Other pictures of this period are such as " The 
 
JEAX FRAXqors MILLET, PAIXTKR. 131 
 
 (ll(?;incr.s," "The Reapers," "A IVasant c^rafiini^^ 
 a Tree," " The Potato Planters," and so forth. 
 These were very (lilTen'iU siihjects indeed from 
 tlie (li_L;'nified kin^s and queens paintecl by 
 l)c:laroche, or the fiery l)attk;-])ieces of Dela- 
 croix ; l)ut they touch a chortl in our souls 
 which those; great painters fail to strike, and 
 his treatment of them is always truthful, tender, 
 nielanchoK', ami excjuisite. 
 
 liit by bit, I'rench artistic opinion began to 
 recoLi'nize the real 'n'eatness of the retirinir 
 painter at liarbi/on. He came to be looked 
 upon as a true artist, and his pictures sold 
 every )-ear for increasingly large prices. Still, 
 he had not been officially recogni/c;d ; and in 
 P' ranee, where everything, even to art .and the 
 theatre, is under governmental regulation, this 
 want of official countenance is al\va)s severely 
 felt. At last, in 1867, Millet was awarded the 
 medal of the first class, and war. appointed a 
 Chevalier of the Legion of Honour. The 
 latter distinction carries v/ith it the rii-ht to 
 wear that little tag of ribbon on the coat which 
 all Fnmchmen prize so highly ; for to be 
 " decorated," as it is called, is in PVance a spur 
 to ambition of something the same sort as a 
 kniglithood or a peerage in England, though of 
 course it lies within the reach of a far greater 
 number of citizens. There is something to our 
 ideas rather absurd in the notion of bestowing 
 such a tacT of ribbon on a man of Millet's aims 
 and occupations ; but all honours are honours 
 just according to the estimation of the man who 
 
132 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 receives them and the society in which he hves ; 
 and Millet no doubt prized his admission to the 
 Leelon of Honour all the more because it had 
 been so long delayed and so little truckled for. 
 
 To the end of his days, Millet never left his 
 beloved Barbizon. He stopped there, wander- 
 ing about the fields, watching peasants at work, 
 imprinting their images firmly upon his eye and 
 brain, and then going home again to put the 
 figures he had thus observed upon his vivid 
 canvas. For, strange to say, unlike almost 
 every other great painter. Millet never painted 
 from a model. Instead of getting a man or 
 woman to sit for him in the pose he required, 
 he would go out into the meadows and look at 
 the men and women at their actual daily occu- 
 py. -ons; and so keen and acute was his power 
 of observation, and so retentive was his inner 
 eye, that he could then recall almost every 
 detail of action or manner as clearly as if he 
 had the original present m his studio before him. 
 As a rule, such a practice is not to be recom- 
 mended to any one who wishes to draw with 
 even moderate accuracy ; constant study of the 
 actual object, and frequent comparison by 
 glancing from object to copy, are absolutely 
 necessary for forming a correct draughtsman. 
 But Millet knew his own way best; and how 
 wonderfully minute and painstaking must his 
 survey have been when it enabled him to re- 
 produce the picture of a person afterwards in 
 every detail of dress or movement. 
 
 He did not paint very fast. He preferred 
 
JEAX FRAXqOIS MILLET, PALXTER. 133 
 
 dolnqr crood work to much work — an almost in- 
 variable trait of all the best w^orkmen. Durincf 
 the thirty-one years that he worked indepen- 
 dently, he produced only eit^hty pictures — not 
 more, on an averac^c, than two or three a year. 
 Compared w^ith the rate at which most success- 
 ful artists cover canvas to sell, this was very 
 slow. But then, Millet did not paint mainly to 
 sell ; he painted to satisfy his own strict ideas 
 of what constituted the highest art. His pic- 
 tures are usually very simple in their theme ; 
 take, for example, his " Angelus," painted at the 
 height of his fame, in 1867. A man and a 
 woman are working in the fields — two poor, 
 simple-minded, weather-beaten, devout French 
 peasants. It is nightfall ; the bell called the 
 " Angelus" rings out from the church steeple, and 
 the two poor souls, resting for a moment from 
 their labours, devote a few seconds to the silent 
 prayers enjoined by their church. That is all ; 
 and yet in that one picture the sorrows, the 
 toils, and the consolations of the needy French 
 peasantry are summed up in a single glimpse 
 of a pair of working and praying partners. 
 
 Millet died somewhat suddenly in 1875. 
 vStrong and hearty as he was, even the sturdy 
 health of the Norman peasant had been under- 
 mined by the long hardships of his early 
 struggles, and his constitution gave way at last 
 with comparative rapidity. Still, he had lived 
 lonof enoueh to see his fame established, to 
 enjoy ten years of ease and honour, and to 
 find his work cordially admired by all those for 
 
134 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 wliose admiration he could have cared to make 
 an effort. After his death, the pictures and 
 unfinished sketches in his studio were sokl for 
 321,000 francs, a Httle less than ;/" 13,000. The 
 peasant l.ioy of Greville had at last conquered 
 all the difficulties which oi)structed his path, 
 and had fought his own way to fame and 
 dignity. And in so fighting, he had steadily 
 resisted the temptation to pander to the low 
 and coarse taste in art of the men by whom he 
 was surrounded. In spite of cold, and hunger, 
 and poverty, he had gone on tr}ing" to put 
 upon his canvas the purer, truer, and higher 
 ideas with which his own beautiful soul was 
 profoundly animated. In that endeavour he 
 nobly succeeded. While too many contem- 
 porary French pictures are vicious and sensual 
 in tone and feeling, every one of Millet's 
 pictures is a sermon in colour — a thing to 
 make us sympatliize more deeply Avith our 
 kind, and to send us away, saddened perhaps, 
 )'et ennobled and purified. 
 
VI. 
 JAjMES GARFIELD, Canal B 
 
 >uV. 
 
 WS^f T the present time, tlie neighbourhood 
 life;! of Cleveland, Ohio, the busiest 
 
 town alono- the southern shore of 
 Lake Erie, may fairly rank as one 
 of the richest a'-'ricultural districts 
 in all America. But when Abram Garfield 
 settled down in the towniship of Orange in 
 1830, it was one of the wildest and most un- 
 peopled woodland regions in the v;holc of the 
 United States. Pioneers from the older states 
 had only just begun to make little clearings 
 for themselves in the unbroken forest ; and land 
 was still so cheap that Abram Garfield was able 
 to buy himself a tract of fifty acres for no more 
 than ,^20. His brother-in-law's family removed 
 there with him ; and the whole strength of the 
 two households was immediately employed in 
 buildino- a roucrh \o^ hut for their common 
 accommodation, Avhere both the Garfi(dds and 
 the Boyntons lived together during the early 
 
136 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEX. 
 
 days of their occupation. The hut consisted of 
 a mere square box, made by piling logs on top 
 of one another, the spaces between being filled 
 with mud, while the roof was formed of loose 
 stone slabs. Huts of that sort are every- 
 where common amonij the isolation of the 
 American backwoods ; and isolated indeed they 
 were, for the Garfields' nearest neighbours, 
 when they hrst set up house, lived as far as 
 seven miles away, across the uncleared forest. 
 
 When Abram Garfield came to this lonely 
 lodge in the primceval woodlands, he had one 
 son and one daughter. In 1831, the year after 
 his removal to his new home, a second boy was 
 born into the family, whoni his father named 
 James Abram. Before the baby was eighteen 
 months old, the father died, and was buried 
 alone, after the only possible fashion among 
 such solitary settlers, in a corner of the wheat 
 field which he himself had cleared of its stumps. 
 A widow's life is always a hard one, but in such 
 a country and under such conditions it is even 
 harder and more lonely than elsewhere. Mrs. 
 Garfield's eldest boy, Thomas, Avas only eleven 
 years old ; and with the aid of this one inef- 
 fectual helper, she managed herself to carry on 
 the farm for many years. Only those who know 
 the hard toil of a raw American township can 
 have any idea what that really means. A 
 farmer's work in America is not like a farmer's 
 work in England. The man who occupies the 
 soil is there at once his own landlord and his 
 own labourer ; and he has to contend with 
 
yAMES GARFIELD. CAAAl BOY. 137 
 
 nature as nobody in England has had to con- 
 tend with it for the last five centuries at least. 
 He finds the land covered with trees, which he 
 has first to fell and sell as timber ; then he 
 must dig or burn out the stumps ; clear the 
 plot of boulders and large stones ; drain it, 
 fence it, plough it, and harrow it ; build barns 
 for the produce and sheds for the cows ; in 
 short, make his farm, instead of merely taking 
 it. This is labour from which many strong 
 men shrink in dismay, especially those who 
 have come out fresh from a civilized and fully 
 occupied land. For a woman and a boy, it is 
 a task that seems almost above their utmost 
 powers. Nevertheless, Mrs. Garfield and her 
 son did not fail under it. With her own hands, 
 the mother split up the young trees into rude 
 triangular rails to make the rough snake fences 
 of the country — mere zigzags of wood laid one 
 bit above the other ; while the lad worked 
 away bravely at sowing fall and spring wheat, 
 hocincr Indian corn, and buildinof a little barn 
 for the harvest before the arrival of the long- 
 cold Ohio winter. To such a family did the 
 future President originally belong ; and with 
 them he must have shared those strong qualities 
 of perseverance and industry which more than 
 anything else at length secured his ultimate 
 success in life. 
 
 For James Garfield's history differs greatly in 
 one point from that of most other famous work- 
 ing men, whose stories have been told in this 
 volume. There is no reason to believe that he 
 
138 niOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEX. 
 
 was a man of exceptional or cominandi'n<T 
 intellect. On the contrary, his mental powers 
 appear to have been of a very respectable but 
 quite ordinary and commonplace order. It was 
 not by brilliant genius that James Garfield made 
 his way up in life ; it was rather by hard work, 
 unceasing energy, high principle, and generous 
 enthusiasm for the cause of others. Some of 
 the fjreatest creniuses amouQf workinc'" men, such 
 as Burns, Tannahill, and Chatterton, though they 
 achieved fame, and though they have enriched 
 the world with many touching and beautiful 
 works, must be considered to have missed 
 success in life, so far as their own happiness was 
 concerned, by their unsteadiness, want of self- 
 control, or lack of fixed principle. Garfield, on 
 the other hand, was not a genius ; but by his 
 sterling good qualities he nevertheless achieved 
 Avhat cannot but be regarded as a true success, 
 and left an honourable name behind him in the 
 history of his country. 
 
 However poor an American township may be, 
 it is seldom too poor to afford its children a 
 moderate and humble education. While James 
 Garfield was still very young, the settlers in the 
 neighbourhood decided to import a schoolmaster, 
 whom they "boarded about" between them, 
 after a fashion very common in rural w^estern 
 districts. The school-house was only a log hut ; 
 the master was a lad of twenty ; and the text- 
 books were of the very meagrest sort. But at 
 least James Garfield was thus enabled to read 
 and write, v.'hich after all is the great first step 
 
yAMES GARFIELD, CAXAL BOV. 139 
 
 on the road to all possible promotion. The 
 raw, uncouth Yankee lad who taught the Ohio 
 boys, slept at Widow Garfield's, widi Thomas 
 and James ; and the sons of the neighbouring- 
 settlers worked o\\ the farm durin^^" the summer 
 months, but took lessons when the lonof ice and 
 snow of winter along the lake shore put a stop 
 almost entirely for the time to their usual labours. 
 James continued at school till he was twelve 
 years old, and then, his brother Thomas (being 
 by that time twenty-one) went away by agree- 
 ment still further Avest to Michigan, leavinof 
 young Jim to take his place upon the little farm. 
 The fences were all completed, by this time ; the 
 barn was built, the ground was fairly brought 
 under cultivation, and it required comparatively 
 little labour to keep the land cropped after the 
 rough fashion which amply satisfies American 
 pioneers, with no rent to pay, and only their bare 
 livino- to make out of the soil. Thomas was Lroincr 
 to fell trees in Michigan, to clear land there for 
 a farmer ; and he proposed to use his earnings 
 (when he got them) for the purpose of building 
 a "frame house" (that is to say, a house built of 
 planks) instead of the existing log hut. It must 
 be added, in fairness, that hard as were the 
 circumstances under wdiich the young Garfields 
 lived, they were yet lucky in their situation in a 
 new countr)-, where wages w^re high, and where 
 the struggle for life is far less severe or competi- 
 tive than in old settled lands like France and 
 England. Thomas, in fact, would get boarded 
 for nothing in Michigan, and so would be able 
 
140 BIOGRAPHIES OF H'ORKIXG MEX. 
 
 easily to save almost all his high wages for the 
 purpose of building the frame house. 
 
 So James had to take to the farm in summer, 
 while in the winter he began to work as a sort 
 of amateur carpenter in a small way. As yet 
 he had lived entirely in the backwoods, and had 
 never seen a town or even a villacfe ; but his 
 education in practical work had begun from his 
 very babyhood, and he was handy after the 
 usual fashion of American or colonial boys — 
 ready to turn his hand to anything that happened 
 to present itself. In new countries, where every- 
 body has not got neighbours and workmen 
 within call, such rough-and-ready handiness is 
 far more common than in old En inland. The 
 one carpenter of the neighbourhood asked James 
 to help him, on the proud day when Tom brought 
 back his earninQs from jNIichicran, and set about 
 the building of the frame house, for which he 
 had already collected the unhewn timber. From 
 that first beginning, by the time he was thirteen, 
 James was promoted to assist in building a barn; 
 and he might have taken permanently to a 
 carpenter's life, had it not been that his boyish 
 passion for reading had inspired him with an 
 equal passion for going to sea. He had read 
 INIarryatt's novels and other sailor tales — what 
 boy has not ? — and he was fired with the usual 
 childish desire to embark upon that wonderful 
 life of chasing buccaneers, fighting pirates, cap- 
 turing prizes, or hunting hidden treasure, which 
 is a lad's brilliantly coloured fancy picture of an 
 everyday sailor's wet, cold, cheerless occupation. 
 
JAMES GARFIELD, CANAL BOY. 141 
 
 At last, when James was about fifteen, his 
 lonQfhicr lor the sea cfrcw so strono^ that his 
 mother, by way of a compromise, allowed him 
 to go and try his luck with the Lake Eric cap- 
 tains at Cleveland. Shipping on the great lakes, 
 where one can see neither bank from the middle 
 of the wide blue sheet of water, and where wrecks 
 are unhappily as painfully frequent as on our own 
 coasts, was quite sufficiently like going to sea to 
 suit the adventurous young backwoodsman to 
 the top of his bent. But when he got to Cleve- 
 land, a fortunate disappointment awaited him. 
 The Cleveland captains declined his services in 
 such vigorous seafaring language (not unmixed 
 with many unnecessary oaths), that he was glad 
 enough to give up the idea of sailoring, and 
 take a place as driver of a canal boat from 
 Cleveland to Pittsburg in Pennsylvania, the 
 boat beinof under the charoe of one of his own 
 cousins. Copper ore was then largely mined on 
 Lake Superior, where it is very abundant, carried 
 by ship to Cleveland, down the chain of lakes, 
 and there transferred to canal boats, which took 
 it on to Pittsburg, the centre of a great coal and 
 manufacturing district in Pennsylvania, to be 
 smelted and employed in various local arts. 
 Younor Garfield stuck for a little while to the 
 canal business. He plodded along wearily upon 
 the bank, driving his still wearier horse before 
 him, and carrying ore down to Pittsburg with 
 such grace as he best might ; but it didn't 
 somehow quite come up to his fancy picture of 
 the seaman's life. It was dull and monotonous, 
 
142 BIOGRAPHIES OF IVORKIXG MEX. 
 
 and lie didn't care for it much. In wnuine 
 American language, *' he didn't find it up to 
 sample." The sea might be very well in its way ; 
 but a canal was a very different matter indeed. 
 So after a fair trial, James finally gave the busi- 
 ness up, and returned to his mother on the little 
 homestead, ill and tired with his long tramping. 
 
 While he was at home, the schoolmaster of 
 the place, who saw that the lad had abilities, 
 was never tired of urc^incr him to sfo to school, 
 and do himself justice by getting himself a first- 
 rate education, or at least as good a one as could 
 be obtained in America. James was ready 
 enough to take this advice, if the means were 
 forthcoming ; but how was he to do so ? " Oh, 
 that's easy enough," said young Bates, the 
 master. " You'll only have to work out of hours 
 as a carpenter, take odd jobs in your vacations, 
 live plainly, and there you are." In England 
 there are few schools where such a plan would 
 be practicable ; but in rough-and-ready America, 
 where self-help is no disgrace, there are many, 
 and they are all Avell attended. In the neigh- 
 bouring town of Chester, a petty Baptist sect 
 had started a young school which they named 
 Geauga Seminary (tliere are no plain schools 
 in America — they are all "academies" or 
 " institutes ") ; and to this simple place young 
 Garfield went, to learn and work as best he 
 might for his own advancement. A very strange 
 figure he must then have cut, indeed ; for a per- 
 son who saw him at the time described him as 
 wearing a pair of trousers he had long outworn, 
 
JAMES GARFIELD, CANAL BOY. 143 
 
 rouL;h cow-hide boots, a waistcoat much too 
 short for him, and a thread-bare coat, with 
 sleeves that only reached a Httle below the 
 elbows. Of such stuff as that, with a stout heart 
 and an eai^er brain, the buddin^r presidents of 
 the United Stat(;s are sometimes made. 
 
 James soon found himself humble lodginc^s at 
 an old woman's in Chester, and he also found 
 himself a stray place at a carpenter's shop in the 
 town, where he was able to do three hours' work 
 out of school time every day, besides ijiving up 
 the whole of his Saturday holiday to regular 
 labour. It was hard work, this schoolincr and 
 carpentering side by sld(j ; but James throve 
 upon It ; and at the end of the first term he was 
 not only able to pay all his bill for board and 
 lodging, but also to carry home a few dollars in 
 his pocket by way of savings. 
 
 James stopped three years at the "semi- 
 nary " at Chester ; and in the holidays he 
 employed himself by teaching In the little 
 township schools among the country districts. 
 There is generally an opening for young stu- 
 dents to earn a little at such times by instruct- 
 ing younger boys than themselves In reading, 
 Vv-rlting, and arithmetic ; and the surrounding 
 farmers, who want schooling for their bo}'s, are 
 c^lad enough to take the master in on the 
 '' boarding round " system, for the sake of his 
 usefulness in overlooking the lads in the pre- 
 paration of their home lessons. It is a simple 
 patriarchal life, very different from anything 
 we know In England ; and though Ohio was 
 
144 JUOGRAPIIIES OF WORK IXC, J/A.V. 
 
 by this time ii far more settled and populated 
 place than when Abram Garfield first went 
 there, it was still quite possible to manacle in 
 this extremely primitive and family fashion. 
 The fact is, thoui,di luxuries were compara- 
 tively unknown, food was cheap and abundant ; 
 and a young teacher who was willing to put 
 his heart into his w^ork could easily earn more 
 than enough to live upon in rough comfort. 
 Sometimes the school-house was a mere lof>: 
 hut, like that in which }oung Garfield had beei. 
 born ; but, at any rate, it was work to do, and 
 food to eat, and that alone was a cfreat thinof 
 for a lad who meant to make his own way in 
 the world by his own exertions. 
 
 Near the end of his third year at Chester, 
 James met, quite accidentally, with a young man 
 who had come from a little embryo "college," of 
 the sort so common in rising American towns, 
 at a place called Hiram in Ohio. American 
 schools are almost as remarkable as American 
 towns for the oddity and ugliness of their 
 names ; and this •* college " was known by the 
 queer and meaningless title of the " Eclectic 
 Institute." It w^as conducted by an obscure 
 sect who dub themselves " The Disciples' 
 Church," to which young Garfield's father and 
 mother had both belonored. His casual ac- 
 quaintance urged upon him strongly the desira- 
 bility of attending the institute ; and James, 
 who had already begun to learn Latin, and 
 wished to learn more, was easily persuaded to 
 try this particular school rather than any other. 
 
y.lMES GARFIELD, CAXAL nOV. t r, 
 
 In August, 1851, James Garfickl, then ac^cd 
 nearly twenty, presented himself at the "F.clectic 
 Institute," in the farm-labourer's clothes which 
 were his only existinp^ raiment. He asked to 
 see the " president" of the school, and told him 
 plainly that he wished to come there for educa- 
 tion, but that he was poor, and if he came, he 
 must work for his living-. ** What can you 
 do ?" asked the president. "Sweep the lloors, 
 light the fn-es, ring the bell, and make myself 
 generally useful," answered the young back- 
 woodsman. The president, pleased with his 
 eagerness, promised to try him for a fortnight; 
 and at the end of the fortnight, Garfield had 
 earned his teaching so well that he was ex- 
 cused from all further fees durincr the remainder 
 of his stay at the little institute. His post was 
 by no mean an easy one, for he was servant-of- 
 all-work as well as student ; but he cared very 
 little for that as long as he could gain the 
 means for self-improvement. 
 
 Hiram was a small town, as ugly as its name. 
 Twelve miles from a railway, a mere agricul- 
 tural centre, of the rough back-country sort, all 
 brand new and dreary looking, with a couj.lc of 
 wooden churches, half a dozen wooden shops, 
 two new intersectinor streets with wooden side- 
 walks, and that was all. The " institute " was 
 a square brick block, planted incongruously in 
 the middle of an Indian-corn plantation ; and 
 the students were the sons and daughters of the 
 surrounding farmers, for (as in most western 
 schools) both sexes were here educated together. 
 
 L 
 
U'J JJIOGRAPHIES Ol- WORKIXG MEX, 
 
 But t]u2 place suited GaiTield far better than 
 an older and more dignilied university would 
 have done. The other students knew no more 
 than he did, so that he did not feel himself at 
 a disadvantage ; they were dressed almost as 
 plainly as himself; and durino- the time he was 
 at Miram he worked away with a will at Latin, 
 Greek, and the higher mathematics, so as to 
 qualify himself for a better place hereafter. 
 Meanwhile, the local carpenter gave him plenty 
 of planing to do, with which he managed to 
 pay his way ; and as he had to rise before five 
 every morning to ring the first bull, he was 
 under no danger of oversleeping himself. By 
 1853, he had made so much progress in his 
 studies that he Vv'as admitted as a sort of pupil 
 teacher, oiving instruction himself in the Enci- 
 lish department and in rudimentary Greek and 
 Latin, while h(^ went on Vvith his own studies 
 with the aid of the other teachers. 
 
 James had now learnt as much as the little 
 " Eclectic Listitutc " could possibly teach him, 
 and he beQ^an to t;hink of Q'oino- to sonie better 
 college in the older-settled and more cultivated 
 eastern states, where he mioht get an education 
 somewhat higher than was afforded him by the 
 raw "seminaries" and "academies" of his native 
 Ohio. True, his own sect, the '* Disciples' 
 Church," had got up a petty university of their 
 own, " Bethany College " — such self-styled col- 
 leges swarm all over the United States ; but 
 James didn't much care for the idea of going to 
 it. " I was brought up among the Disciples," 
 
y.LMES GARFIELD, C.IA.IL EO]'. 147 
 
 he said ; " I have mixed chiefly ainono- them ; 
 I know little of other people ; it will enlarge 
 my views and give me more liberal feelings if 
 I try a college elsewhere, conducted otherwise ; 
 it I see a little of the rest of the world." More- 
 over, those were stirring times in the States. 
 The slavery question was beginning- to come 
 uppermost. The men of the free states in the 
 north and west wc:rc bcf'inninci' to say amonp' 
 themselves that they would no longer tolerate 
 that terrible blot upon American freedom — 
 the enslavement of four million negroes in tlie 
 cotton-growing- south, James Garfield felt all 
 his soul stirred witliin him b}' this great 
 national problem — the greatest that any modern 
 nation has ever had to solve for itself. Now, 
 his own sect, tlie Disciples, and their college, 
 Bethany, v\'ere strongly tinctured with a lean- 
 ing in favour of slavery, which )oung James 
 Garfield utterly detested. So he made up his 
 mind to havin;^- nothino- to do with the accursed 
 thing, but to go east to some New England 
 colleo-c, where he would mix iunoni>- men of 
 culture, and where he would probably fmd more 
 congenial leelings on the slavery cjuestion. 
 
 Before decidimr, he wrote to three eastern 
 colleges, ainongst others to Y;ile,, the only 
 American university which by its 1)uildings and 
 surroundings can lay any claim to compare, 
 even at a long distance, in beauty and associa- 
 tions, with the least amoni;- European univer- 
 sities. The three colleges gave him nearU' 
 similar answers; but one of tlv.m, in addition 
 
)l^ niOGRAPniES OF WORKIXG MKX. 
 
 to the formal statement of terms and so forth, 
 added tlie short kindly sentence, "If you come 
 liere, we shall be glad to do what we can for 
 )'0U." It was only a small polite phrase ; but 
 it took the heart of the rough western boy. 
 If other things were about the same, he said, he 
 would o'o to the colleo-e which offered him, as 
 it were, a friendly grasp of the hand. He had 
 saved a little money at Hiram ; and he pro- 
 posed now to go on working for his living, as 
 he had hitherto done, side by side with his 
 regular studies. But his brother, who was 
 always kind and thoughtful to him, would not 
 hear of this. Thomas had prospered mean- 
 while in his own small way, and he insisted 
 upon lending James such a sum as would cover 
 his necessary expenses for two years at an 
 eastern university. James insured his life for 
 the amount, so that Thomas might not be a 
 loser by his brotherly generosity in case of his 
 death before repayment could be made ; and 
 tlien, with the money safe in his pocket, he 
 started off for his chosen goal, the Williams 
 College, in one of the most beautiful and hilly 
 parts of Massachusetts. 
 
 During the three years that Garfield was at 
 this place, he studied hard and regularly, so 
 much so that at one time his brain showed 
 symptoms of giving way under the constant 
 strain. In the vacations, he took a trip into 
 Vermont, a romantic mountain state, where he 
 opened a writing school at a little country 
 villager ; and another into the New York State, 
 
JAMES GARFIELD, CAXAL nOV. 149 
 
 where he eng-agcd himself in a snnilar way at a 
 small town on the banks of the lovely Hudson 
 river. At college, in spite of his roiiQ'h western 
 dress and manners, he earned for himself the 
 reputation of a thorouq;hly ^ood fellow. Indeed, 
 geniality and warmth of manner, qualities 
 always much prized b}^ the social American 
 people, were very marked traits throughout ot 
 Garfield's character, and no doubt helped him 
 greatly in after life in rising to the high summit 
 which he finally reached. It was here, too, 
 that he lirst openly identified himself with the 
 anti-slavery party, which was then engaged in 
 lighting out the important question whether 
 any new^ slave states should be admitted to 
 the Union. Charles Sumner, the real orand 
 central ficrure of that noble struo-ole, was at 
 that moment thunderinef in Congress acjainst 
 the iniquitous extension of the slave-holding 
 area, and was employing all his magnificent 
 powers to assail the abominable Fugitive Slave 
 Bill, for the return of runaway negroes, who 
 escaped north, into the hands of their angry 
 masters. The American colleges are always 
 big debating societies, where questions of politics 
 cU*e repularlv aro-ucd out amono; the students ; 
 and Garfield put himself a. the head of the 
 anti-slavery movement at his own little uni- 
 versity, fie spoke upon the subject frequently 
 before the assembled students, and gained him- 
 self a considerable reputation, not only as a 
 zealous advocate of the rights of the negro, 
 but also as an eloquent orator iind a powerful 
 argumentative debater. 
 
MO BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG MEN. 
 
 In 1856, GaiTield took his decree at Williams 
 College, and had now finished his formal educa- 
 tion. By that time, he was a fair though not 
 a great scholar, competently read in the Greek 
 and Latin literatures, and with a good know- 
 ledge of French and German. lie was now 
 nearly twenty-five years old; and his experience 
 was larQ'e and varied enough to make him 
 already into a man of the world. I le had been 
 farmer, carpenter, canal driver, and student ; 
 he had seen the primitive life of the forest, 
 and the more civilized society o^ the Atlantic 
 shore ; he had taught in schools in manv states ; 
 he had supported himself for years by his own 
 labours ; and now, at an age when many young 
 men arc, as a rule, only just beginning life on their 
 own account, he had practically raised himself 
 from his own class into the class of educated and 
 cultivated gentlemen. As soon as he had taken 
 his degree, his old friends, the trustees of the 
 "Eclectic Institute" at Hiram, proud of their 
 former sweeper and bell-ringer, called him back 
 at a good salary as teacher of Greek and Latin. 
 It was then just ten years since he had toiled 
 wearily along the tow-path of the Ohio and 
 Pennsylvania Canal. 
 
 As a teacher, Garfield seems to have been 
 eminently successful. Mis genial character and 
 good-natured way of explaining things made 
 him a favourite at once with the rough western 
 lads he had to teach, who would perhaps have 
 thought a more formal teacher stiff and stuck- 
 up. Garhcld was one of themselves ; lie knew 
 
JAMES GARFIELD, CA\AL nOV. 151 
 
 tlicir ways and their manners ; he could make 
 allowances for their awkwardness and bluntness 
 of speech ; he could adopt towards them the 
 exact tone which put them at home at once 
 with their easy-going- instructor. Certainly, he 
 inspired all his pupils with an immense love 
 and devotion for him ; and it is less easy to 
 inspire those feelings in a sturdy Ohio farmer 
 than in most other varieties of the essentially 
 affectionate human species. 
 
 From 1857 to 1861, Garfield remained at 
 Miram, teaching and v/orking very hard. His 
 salary, though a good one for the time and 
 place, was still humble according to our luiglish 
 notions ; but it sufficed for his needs ; and as 
 yet it would have seemed hardly crediljle that 
 in only twenty years the Ohio schoolmaster 
 would rise to be President of the United 
 States. Indeed, it is only in America, that 
 country of peculiarly unencumbered political 
 action, where every kind of talent is most 
 rapidly recognized and utilized, that this par- 
 ticular form of swift promotion is really possible. 
 But while Garfield was still at his Institute, he 
 was taking a vigorous part in local politics, 
 especially on the slavery question. Whenever 
 there was a political meeting at Miram, the 
 young schoolmaster w^as always called upon to 
 take the anti-slavery side ; and he delivered 
 himself so effectively upon this fa\ourite to[)i: 
 that he began to be looked upon as a rising 
 political character. In America, politics are 
 less conhned to any one class than m Europe ; 
 
K2 niOGRAPIIIES OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 and there would be nothinGf uniisucil in the 
 selection of a schoolmaster who could talk to 
 a seat in the local or general legislature. The 
 practice of paying members makes it possible 
 for comparatively poor men to offer themselves 
 as candidates ; and politics are thus a career, 
 in the sense of a livelihood, far more than in 
 any other country. 
 
 In 1858, Garfield married a lady who had 
 been a fellow-student of his in earlier days, 
 and to whom he had been lonir entered. In 
 the succeeding year, he got an invitation which 
 greatly pleased and flattered him. The au- 
 thorities at Williams Colleoe asked him to 
 deliver the " Master's Oration" at their annual 
 festival ; an unusual compliment to pay to so 
 young a man, and one who had so recently 
 taken his degree. It was the first opportunity 
 he had ever had for a pleasure-trip, and taking 
 his young wife with him (proud indeed, we may 
 be sure, at this earliest honour of his life, the 
 precursor of so many more) he went to Massa- 
 chusetts by a somewhat roundabout but very 
 picturesque route, down the Great Lakes, 
 through the Thousand Islands, over the St. 
 Lawrence rapids, and on to Quebec, the only 
 town in America which from its old-world look 
 can lay claim to the sort of beauty which so 
 many ancient European cities abundantly pos- 
 sess. He delivered his address with much 
 applause, and returned to his Ohio home well 
 satisfied with this pleasant outing. 
 
 Immediately on his return, the speech-making 
 
JAMES GARFIELD, CAXAL BOY. 153 
 
 schoolmaster was met by a very sudden and un- 
 expected request that he would allow himself to 
 be nomniated for the State legislature. Every 
 state of the Union has its own separate little 
 legislative body, consisting of two houses ; and 
 it was to the upper of these, the Senate of 
 Ohio, that James Garfield was asked to become 
 a candidate. The schoolmaster consented ; 
 and as those were times of very great excite- 
 ment, when the South was threatening to secede 
 if a President hostile to the slave-ownin^f 
 interest was elected, the contest was fought out 
 almost entirely along those particular lines. 
 Garfield was returned as senator by a large 
 majority, and took his seat in the Ohio Senate 
 in January, i860. There, his voice was always 
 raised against slavery, and he was recognized 
 at once as one of the ablest speakers in the 
 whole legislature. 
 
 In 1 86 1, the crreat storm burst over the 
 States. In the preceding November, Abra- 
 ham Lincoln had been elected President. Lin- 
 coln was himself, like Garfield, a self-made man, 
 who had risen from the very same pioneer 
 labourer class ; — a wood-cutter and rail-splitter 
 in the backwoods of Illinois, he had become a 
 common boatman on tlie Mississippi, and had 
 there improved his mind by reading eagerly in 
 all his spare moments. With one of those 
 rapid rises so commonly made by self-taught 
 lads in America, he had pushed his way into the 
 Illinois legislature by the time he was twenty- 
 five, and qualified himself to practise as a 
 
15 1 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKJXO MEX. 
 
 barrister :it Sprln!:4rjcld. His shrewd orioinal 
 t.ilents had raised him witli wonderful quickness 
 into tlie front ranks of his own party; and 
 when the question between the North and South 
 rose into tlic rci^ion of practical politics, Lincoln 
 was selected by the republicans (the anti- 
 slavery i^'roup) as their candidate for the Presi- 
 dency of the United States. This selection 
 was a very significant one in several ways ; 
 Lincoln was a very strong- opponent of slavery, 
 and his candidature showed the southern slave- 
 owners that if the Republicans were successful 
 in tlie contest, a vi^'orous move a^'ainst the 
 slave-holding oligarchy would at once be made. 
 Ihit it Y,*as also sisj-nilicant in the iact that 
 Lincoln was a western n.ian ; it was a sign that 
 the farmers and ijranLi'ers of the aLJ-ricultural 
 west were beginning to wake up politically and 
 til row themselves into the lull current of 
 American State affairs. On both these grounds, 
 Lincoln's nomination must have been deeijly 
 interesting to Garfield, whose own life had been 
 so closely simihu*, and who was destined, 
 twenty years later, to follow him to the same 
 f^oal. 
 
 Lincoln was duly elected, and the southern 
 states began to secede. The firing upon Fort 
 Sumter by the South Carolina secessionists 
 was the first blow struck in that terrible war. 
 l^^very man who was privileged to live in 
 America at that time (like the present writer) 
 cannot recall without a glow of recollection the 
 memory of the wild eagerness with which the 
 
y.LUJIS GARFIELD, CAXAL nOY. 155 
 
 North answered that note of defiance, and went 
 forth witli overpowcrinc^ faitli and ea!_^erncss to 
 fiijlit the crood fiulit on l)ehalf of human freedom. 
 Such a spontaneous outburst of the entluisiasm 
 of humanity has never been known, before or 
 since. President Lincohi immediately called 
 for a supply of seventy- five thousand men. In 
 the Ohio Senate, his mcssao-e was read amid 
 tumultuous applause ; and the moment the 
 sound of the cheers died away, Garfield, as 
 natural spokesman of the repuljlican party, 
 spranc,^ to his feet, and moved in a short and 
 impassioned speech that the state of Ohio 
 should contribute twenty thousand men and 
 three million dollars as its share in the o-encral 
 preparations. The motion was immediately 
 carried v^ith the wildest demonstrations of 
 fervour, and Ohio, with all the rest of the North, 
 rose like one man to put down by the stroni:^ 
 hand the hideous traffic in human llesh and 
 blood. 
 
 During those fiery and feverish da)'s, every 
 citizen of the loyal states felt himself to be, in 
 reserve at least, a possible soldier. It was 
 necessary to raise, drill, and render effective in 
 an incredibly short time a larg-c army ; and it 
 would have ]3een impossible to do so had it 
 not been for the eager enthusiasm with which 
 civilians of every sort enlisted, and threw them- 
 selves into their military duties v.ith almost 
 incredible devotion. Garfield felt that he must 
 bear his own part in the struggle by fighting it 
 out, not in the Senate but on the field : and his 
 
156 niOGRAPHIES OF IVORk'lXG MEX. 
 
 first move was to obtain a large quantity of 
 arms from the arsenal in the doubttully loyal 
 state of Missouri. In this mission he was 
 completely successful ; and he was next em- 
 ployed to raise and orc^anize two new regiments 
 of Ohio infantry. Garfield, of course, knew 
 absolutely nothing of military matters at that 
 time ; but it was not a moment to stand upon 
 questions of precedence or experience ; the 
 born organizers came naturally to the front, and 
 Garfield was one of them. Indeed, the faculty 
 for orjranization seems innate in the American 
 people, so that when it became necessary to 
 raise and equip so large a body of men at a 
 few weeks' notice, the task was undertaken off- 
 hand by lawyers, doctors, shopkeepers, and 
 schoolmasters, without a minutes hesitation, 
 and was performed on the whole with dis- 
 tincfuished success. 
 
 When Garfield had organized his regiments, 
 the Governor asked him to accept the post of 
 colonel to one of them. But Garfield at first 
 mistrusted his own powers in this direction. 
 How should he, who had hitherto been poring 
 chiefly over the odes of Horace (his favourite 
 poet), now take so suddenly to leading a 
 thousand men into actual battle } He would 
 accept only a subordinate position, he said, if 
 a regular oflicer of the United States army, 
 trained at the great military academy at West 
 Point, was placed in command. So the 
 Governor told him to 00 amono- his own farmer 
 friends in his native district, and recruit a third 
 
yAMES GARFIELD, CAXAL BOW 157 
 
 regiment, promising to find him a West Point 
 man as colonel, if one was available. Garfield 
 accepted the post of lieutenant-colonel, raised 
 the 42nd Ohio regiment, chielly among his own 
 old pupils at Hiram, and set off for the seat of 
 operations. At the last moment the Governor 
 failed to find a regular officer to lead these raw 
 recruits, every available man being already 
 occupied, and Garfield found himself, against 
 his will, compelled to undertake the responsible 
 task of commanding the rec^iment. He ac- 
 cepted the task thus thrust upon him, and as it 
 by magic transformed himself at once from a 
 schoolmaster into an able soldier. 
 
 In less than one month, Colonel Garfield 
 took his raw troops into action in the battle 
 of Middle Creek, and drove the Confederate 
 General Marshall, with far larger numbers, out 
 of his intrenchments, compelling him to retreat 
 into Virginia. This timely victory did much to 
 secure the northern advance along the line of 
 the Mississippi. During the whole of the suc- 
 ceeding campaign Garfield handled his regi- 
 ment with such native skill and marked success 
 that the Government appointed him Brigadier- 
 General for his bravery and military talent. In 
 spite of all his early disadvantages, he had been 
 the youngest member of the Ohio Senate, and 
 now he was the youngest general in the whole 
 American armv. 
 
 Shortly after, the important victory of Chick- 
 amauga was gained almost entirely by the 
 energy and sagacity of General Garfield. For 
 
158 DIOGRAPlllES OF WORKING MEW 
 
 this service, he was raised one dcc^rcc in diL;iiiLy, 
 receiving his commission as Major-General, lie 
 served altoc;cther only two years and three 
 months in the army. 
 
 But while Garfield was at the head of his 
 victorious troops in Kentucky, his Irlends in 
 Ohio were arranr>'in!7, without his consent or 
 knowled!.ye, to call him away to a very diflercnt 
 sphere ot work. They nominated Garfield as 
 their candidate for the United States House of 
 Rc^presentativcs at \Vashinc;ton. The (General 
 himself was unv.^illinp^ to accede to their request, 
 when it reached him. lie thought he could 
 serve the country better in the field than in 
 Con|;"ress. Besides, he was still a compara- 
 tively poor man. Mis salary as IMajor-General 
 was double that of a member of the House ; 
 and for his wife's and children's sake hc^ hesi- 
 tated to accept the lesser position. Had he 
 continued in the army to the end of the war, 
 he would doubtless have risen to the vc;r}' 
 hii^hcst honours of that stirring- epoch. But 
 President Lincoln was very anxious that Ciar- 
 field should come into the Concrress, where his 
 presence would !:;reatly strengthen the Presi- 
 dent's hands ; and with a oenerous self-denial 
 which well bespeaks his thorough loyalt}', Gar- 
 field gave up his military post and accepted a 
 place in the House of Representatives. He 
 took his seat in December^ 1863. 
 
 P^or seventeen years. General Garfield sat in 
 the general legislature of the United States as 
 one of the members for Ohio. Durin'>- all that 
 
 o 
 
y.lMES GARIIELD, CAXAL UoW 150 
 
 time, he disLln^nuishcd himself most lionour- 
 ably as the fearless advocate of honest govern- 
 ment, and the pronounced enemy of those 
 underhand dodges and wire-pullin;^* machinery 
 which arc too often the di^;'.a*ace of i\merican 
 politics. He was opposed to all corru[)tion and 
 chicanery, especially to the bad system of re- 
 wardiuL^ [)olitical supporters with places under 
 Govcrriment, which has loni^ been the chief 
 blot upon American republican institutions. As 
 a person of stalwart honesty and sin!:;leness ot 
 pur[)ose, he made himself respected by both 
 sides alike. Politically s))eakin^i:;', different men 
 will jud<;e very differently of Garfield's acts in 
 the House of Re[)rescntatives. liln^lishmen 
 especially cannot fail to remark that his altitude 
 towards ourselves was almost alwavs one of 
 latent hostility ; but it is impossible for any- 
 body to deny that his conduct was imiformly 
 guided by hii^h principle, and a constant defer- 
 ence to what he regarded as the right course 
 of action. 
 
 In 1880, when General Garfield had already 
 risen to be the acknowledoed leader of the 
 House of Representatives, his Ohio sup[)orters 
 put him In nomination for the upper chamber, 
 the Senate. They wished Garfield to come 
 dov/n to the state cai)ital and canvas for sup- 
 port ; but this the General would not hear of. 
 " I never .'isked for any place yet," he said, 
 " except the post of bell-ringer and general 
 sweeper at the Hiram Institute, and 1 won't 
 ask for one now." But at least, his friends 
 
iro BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEW 
 
 urged, he would be on the spot to encourage 
 and confer with his partisans. No, Garfield 
 answered ; if they wished to elect him they 
 must elect him in his absence ; he would avoid 
 all appearance, even, of angling lor office. 
 The result was that all the other candidates 
 withdrew, and Garneld was elected by accla- 
 mation. 
 
 After the election he went down to Ohio and 
 delivered a speech to his constituents, a part 
 of which strikingly illustrates the courage and 
 independence of the backwoods schoolmaster. 
 " During the twenty years that I have been in 
 public life," he said, "almost eighteen of it in 
 the Congress of the United States, I have tried 
 to do one thing. Whether I was mistaken or 
 otherwise, it has been the plan of my life to 
 follow my conviction, at whatever personal cost 
 to myself. I have represented for many years 
 a district in Congress whose approbation I 
 greatly desired ; but though it may seem, 
 perhaps, a little egotistical to say it, I yet 
 desired still more the approbation of one 
 person, and his name was Garfield. He is 
 the only man that I am compelled to sleep 
 with, and eat with, and live with, and die with ; 
 and if I could not have his approbation I should 
 have bad companionship." 
 
 Only one higher honour could now fall to 
 the lot of a citizen of the. United States. The 
 presidency was the single post to which Gar- 
 field's ambition could still aspire. That honour 
 came upon him, like all the others, without his 
 
y.lMES UARFIELD, CA.XAL BOY. loi 
 
 seeking ; and it came, too, quite unexpected 1}'. 
 Five months later, in the summer of i8So, the 
 National Republican Convention met to select 
 a candidate Tor their party at the forthcomingf 
 presidential election. E\ery lour years, before 
 the election, each party thus meets to decide 
 upon the man to whom its votes will be given 
 at the fmal choice. After one or two ineffectual 
 attempts to secure unanimity in favour of other 
 and more prominent politicians, the Convention 
 with one accord chose James Garfield for its 
 candidate — a nomination which was quite as 
 great a surprise to Garfield himself as to all the 
 rest of the world. He was elected President 
 of the United States in November, i8So. 
 
 It was a marvellous rise for the poor canal 
 boy, the struggling student, the obscure school- 
 master, thus to find himself placed at the head 
 of one among the </reatest nations of the earth. 
 He was still less than fifty, and he might 
 reasonably have looked forward to many )'ears 
 of a happy, useful, and honourable life. Never- 
 theless, it is impossible to feel that Garfield's 
 death was other than a noble and enviable one. 
 He was cut off suddenly in the very moment of 
 his brightest success, before the cares and dis- 
 appointments of office had begun to dim the 
 pleasure of his first unexpected triumph. He 
 died a martyr to a good and honest cause, and 
 his death-bed was cheered and alleviated by 
 the hushed sorrow and sym[)athy of an entin- 
 nation — one might almost truthfull)- add, of the 
 whole ci\ ili;:ed world. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 IIIOGRAPHIES UF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 rVoiii the first, President Garfield set his face 
 sternly against the bad practice of rewarding 
 political adherents by allowing them to nuniinate 
 officials in the [)ublic service — a species of covert 
 corruption sanctioned by long usage in the 
 United States. This honest and independent 
 conduct raised up for him at once a host ot 
 enemies among liis own party. The talk uhich 
 they indulged in against the President [n'oducecl 
 a deep eitect U[)'3n a half-crazy and w ildly ego- 
 tistic P^'ench-Canadian of th(^. name of Guiteau 
 Avho had emigrated to the States and become 
 an American citizen. Genend Garfield had 
 arranged a trip to New England in the summer 
 of 180 1, to attend the annual festival at his 
 old school, the Williams College, INLassachu- 
 setts ; and for that purpose he left the White 
 House (the President's oQlcial residence at 
 Washington) on July 2. y\s he stood in the 
 station of the l)altimore and Potom.ic Railway, 
 arm in arm with Mr. Plaine, the Secretary of 
 State, Guiteau approached him casually, and, 
 drawing out a pistol, fired tw(; shots in rapid 
 succession, one e-f which took effect on the 
 President above the third rib. The assassin 
 was at once secured, and the wounded President 
 was carried back carefully to the White House. 
 
 Almost everybody who reads this book will 
 remember the long suspense, while tlie President 
 lay stretched u[3on his" bed for weeks and weeks 
 together, with all Europe and America watching 
 anxiously for any sign of recovery, and sympa- 
 thizing deeply with the wounded statesman and 
 
JAMES GARFIELD, CANAL BOY. 163 
 
 his dcvolcd wife. Every effort that was pos- 
 sible was made to save him, Lut the wound was 
 past all surc^ical skill. After lini^eriiif^ loni;* 
 with the stored-iip force of a c;()od constitution, 
 James Garfield passed away at last of blood- 
 poisoning-, more deeply res^'retted perhaps than 
 any olher man whom the present generation 
 can remember. 
 
 It is only in i\merica that [precisely such a 
 success as Garfield's is possible for people who 
 spring-, as he did, from the midst of the people. 
 In old-settled and we.ilthy countries we must 
 be content, at best, with slower and less lofty 
 promotion. Ihit tlie lesson of (larfield's life is 
 not for /imerica onl\', but for the whole world 
 of workers everyv/here. Ihe same qualities 
 which procured his success there will [)roduce 
 a different, but still a solid success, anywhere 
 else. As Garfield himself fittiu'^ly put it, with 
 his usual keen i\merican common sense, " There 
 is no more conimon thought anion:'" voun!/ 
 peo|)le thcUi the foolish one, that by-and-by 
 something- will turn up by which the\' will 
 suddenly achieve fame or forluriC. No, )"oung 
 gentlemen ; things don't turn \\\~) in this world 
 unless somebody turns tlvin u[)." 
 
VII. 
 
 THOMAS EDWARD, Suolmakkk. 
 
 y;>'^."T is the object of this volume to set 
 \m forth the lives of workincr men who 
 tliroiigh industi')', perseverance, and 
 hio"h principle hiive raised them- 
 selves by their own exertions from 
 humble bc'oinnin^^s. Raised themselves ! Yes ; 
 but to what ? Not merely, let us hope, to 
 wealth and position, not merely to worldly 
 respect and hit^h office, but to some conspicuous 
 field of real usefulness to their fellow men. 
 Those whose lives we have hitherto examined 
 did so raise themselves by their own strenuous 
 energy and self-education. Either, like Gar- 
 field and Eranklin, they served the State 
 zealously in peace or war ; or else, like Stephen- 
 son and Telford, they improved human life by 
 their inventions and enq;ineerinfj; works ; or, 
 again, like Herschel and Eraunhofer, they added 
 to the wide field of scientific knowledge ; or 
 finally, like Millet and Gibson, they beautified 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER. 165 
 
 the world with their noble and inspirinf^ artistic 
 productions. But in every one of these cases, 
 the men whose lives we have been here 
 considering" did actually rise, sooner or later, 
 from the class of labourers into some other 
 class socially and monetarily superior to it. 
 Though they did great good in other ways to 
 others, they did still as a matter of fact succeed 
 themselves in quitting the rank in which they 
 were born, and rising to some other rank morc^ 
 or less completely above it. 
 
 Now, it will be clear to everybody that so 
 long as our present social arrangements exist, 
 it must be impossible for the \ast mass of 
 labouring men ever to do anything of the sort. 
 It is to be desired, indeed, that every labouring 
 man should by industry and thrift secure inde- 
 pendence in the end for himself and his family ; 
 but however much that may be the case, it will 
 still rest certain that the vast mass of men will 
 necessarily remain workers to the last ; and 
 that no attempt to raise individual working" 
 men above their own class into the professional 
 or mercantile classes can ever greatly benefit 
 the working masses as a whole. What is most 
 of all desirable is that the condition, tlie aims, 
 and the tastes of working nicn, as working 
 men, should be raised and bettered ; that with- 
 out necessarily going" outside their own ranks, 
 they should become more prudent, more thrifty, 
 better educated, and wider-mind(j(l than many 
 of their predecessors have been in the past. 
 Under such circumstances, it is ^ureU' w<.ll to set 
 
ir,6 nioGRAniiEs of workixg aMen. 
 
 bcforc ourselves some examples of workin^^ 
 men who, wliile still rem:iinin;4' members of their 
 own class, have in the truest and best sense 
 *' raised themselves " so as to [ittain the respect 
 and admiration of others whether tlieir etpials 
 or su[)eriors in the artificial scah^. Dr. Smiles, 
 who has done much to illustrate the history of 
 the picked men among the labouring orders, 
 has chosen two or three lives of such a sort for 
 investigation, and from them w(^ may select a 
 single one as an example of a v.crking man's 
 career rendered conspicuous by qualities other 
 than those that usually secure external success. 
 
 Thomas Edward, associate of the Linnean 
 Society, though a vScotchman nil his life long, 
 was accidentally Ijorn (so to speak) at Gosport, 
 near Portsmouth, on Christmas Day, 1814. 
 His father v/as in tlie iMfeshire militia, and in 
 those warlike da)s, Vv'hcn almost all tlie regulars 
 were on tlie Continent, fighting Napoleon, 
 militia regiments used to be ordered about the 
 country from one place to another, to watch the 
 coast or mount guard over the b'rench prisoners, 
 in the most unaccountable fashion. So it 
 happened, oddly enough, that Tliomas Edward, 
 a Scotchman of the Scotch, v.:is born close 
 under the big forts of Portsmouth harbour. 
 
 After Waterloo, however, the P^ifeshire regi- 
 ment v/as sent home again ; and the militia 
 being before long disbanded, John Edward, our 
 hero's father, went to live at Aberdeen, where 
 he plied his poor trade of a handdoom linen 
 weaver for many ye.irs. It was on the green 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, Sl!Or.}rAKER, ir,; 
 
 cit Aberdeen, surroiinclocl by small Lil)oiirers' 
 cottages, that Thomas Edward passed his early 
 days. iM'om his babyhood, almost, the boy had 
 a stronrr love for all the beasties he saw cvcm'v- 
 ■where around him ; a fondness for birds and 
 animals, and a hal)it of taming- them which can 
 seldom be acquired, but which seems with some 
 ]Deopl(; to come instinctively by nature. Whiles 
 Tam was still quite a child, he loved to wander 
 by himself out into the country, alonp;- the green 
 banks of the Dee, or among" the tidal islands at 
 the mouth of the river, overgrown by waving 
 seav;ceds, and fringed with trreat v/hite bunches 
 of blossoming scurvy-grass. He loved to hunt 
 for cral)s and sea-anemones beside the ebbing 
 channels, or to watch the jelly-fish left high an.d 
 dry ii})on the shore l)y the n^treating water. 
 Alread\% in his simple way, the little ragged 
 bare-footed Scotch laddie was at heart a l)orn 
 naturalist. 
 
 \"er)' soon, Tam was not content with 
 lookin"; at the *' venomous l)easts," as the neiirh- 
 hours called them, but he must needs begin to 
 bring them home, and set up a small a(juarium 
 and zoological garden on his own account. All 
 was fish that came to Tam's net : tadpoles, 
 newts, and sticklelxick from the ponds, beetles 
 from the dung-heaps, green crabs from the 
 sea-shore — nay, even in time such larger prizes 
 as hetb-ehof's, moles, and nestfuls of birds. 
 Nothincr deli<^hted him so much as to be out 
 in the iields, huntiiig for and taming these his 
 natural |:)ets. 
 
1 68 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN, 
 
 Unfurtunatcly, Tarn's father and mother did 
 not share the lioy's passion for nature, and 
 instead of encou rapine;" him in pursuinLf his in- 
 born taste, they scolded liini and punish(xl him 
 bitterly for brin^L^inc;* home the nasty creatures. 
 lUit nothinf^ could win away Tam from the 
 love of the beasties ; and in the end, he had 
 lu's own way, and lived all his life, as Ik^ himself 
 afterwards beautifully put it, " a fool to nature." 
 Too often, unhappily, fathers and mothers thus 
 try to check the best impulses in their children, 
 under mistaken notions of rii^ht, and especially 
 is this the case in many instances as req^ards 
 the love of nature. Children are constantly 
 chidden for t:d<in^i^- an interest in the beautiful 
 works of creation, and so have their hrst in- 
 telligent inquiries and aspirations chilled at 
 once ; when a little care and sympathy would 
 get rid of the impleasantness of having white 
 mice or lizards crawlincf about the house, with- 
 out putting a stop to the young beginner's 
 lonofincr foi* more knowledLTc of the wonderful 
 and beautiful Avorld in whose midst he lives. 
 
 When Tam was nearly five years old, he was 
 sent to school, chiefly no doubt to get him out 
 of the way ; but Scotch schools for the children 
 of the working classes were in those; days very 
 rough hard ])laces, where the taws or leather 
 strap was still regarded as the chief instrument 
 of education. Little Edward was not a child 
 to be restrained by that particular form of 
 discipline ; and after he had had two or three 
 serious tussles with his instructors, he was at 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER. 169 
 
 last SO cruelly l)catcn by one of his masters that 
 he refused to n-turn, and his parents, who were 
 themselves by no means lackini;- in old Scotch 
 severity, u[jheld him in his determination. lie 
 had picked ii[) reading' by this time, and now 
 for a while he was Uift alone to hunt about to 
 his heart's content amon_![]f his favourite; fields 
 and meadows. J hit by tlie tinu; he was six 
 years old, he felt he ought to be going to work, 
 ])rave little mortal that he was ; and as his 
 fither and mother thought so too, the poor 
 wee mite was sent to join his elder brcjther in 
 working at a tobacco factory in the town, at 
 the wages of fourteen-pence a week. So, for 
 the next two years, little Tam waited upon a 
 spinner (as the workers are called) and began 
 life in earnest as a working man. 
 
 At the end ot two years, however, the 
 brothers heard that better wasjes were beintjf 
 given, a couple of miles away, at Grandholm, up 
 the river Don. So off the lads tram[)ed, one 
 fast-day (a recognized Scotch institution), to 
 ask the manager of the Cirandholm factory if 
 he could give them em[)loyment. They told 
 nobody of their intention, but trudged away on 
 their own account ; and when they came back 
 and told their parents what they had done, the 
 father was not very well satisfied with tlu! pro- 
 posal, because he thought it too far for so small 
 a l3oy as Tam to walk every day to and from 
 his work. Tam, however, was very anxious to 
 go, not only on account of the increased wages, 
 but also (thoug-h this was a secret) because of 
 
170 niOGRAPniES OF JVORKJXG MEN. 
 
 the beautiful woods and cracks round Grand- 
 holm, llu'oui^h which he hoped to wander 
 durlnt^- the short dinner hour. In the end, 
 Jolin Edward g-avc way, and the boy.'j were 
 allowed to follow their own fancy in troincr to 
 the new factory. 
 
 It wa.s very hard work; tlie hours were from 
 six in the morning;" till eiL;ht at nic^ht, for there 
 was no h^actory Act then to ou.-u'd the interest 
 of helpless cliildriMi ; so the boys had to be up 
 at four in the morninLT, and were seldom home 
 ai^^ain till nin;; at ni^ht. In Avinter, the snow 
 lies long- and deep on those chilly Aberdeen- 
 shire roads, and the east winds from the 
 Germaii Ocean blow cold and cutting up the 
 narrow valley of the I )on ; and it was dreary 
 work t(jilin!^' alonq- them in the dark of morninof 
 or of night in l)lcak and cheerless Deceml)er 
 weather. Still, Tain liked it on the whole 
 extremely well. His wages were now three 
 shillings a week ; and then, twice a day in 
 summer, there was the beautiful walk to and 
 fro along the leafy high-road. " People may 
 say of factories what they please," Edward 
 wrote much later, " but 1 liked this factory. 
 It was a ha[)py time for me whilst I remained 
 there. The woods were easy of access during 
 our meal-hours. What lots of nests I What 
 insects, wild flowers, and plants, the like of 
 which I had never seen before." The boy 
 revelled in the beauty of the birds and beasts 
 he saw here, and he retained a delightful recol- 
 lection of them throughout his whole after life. 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER. 171 
 
 This happy timo, however, was not to last 
 for ever. \\lu;n xouiv'" Edward was eleven 
 years old, his failier took him away from 
 Grandholm, and apprenticed him to a work ini^^ 
 shoemaker. The apprenticeship was to c^o on 
 for six years ; the wai^'es to be^in at cij^ditt^en- 
 pence a v/eek ; and the hours, too sadly lon_<^, 
 to be from six in the mornini:^ till nine at ni^ht. 
 Tam's master, one Charles Ij(-'^'^', was a drunken 
 London workman, who had wandered ji^radually 
 north ; a f;'ood shoemaker, but a quarrelsome, 
 rowdy fellow, lovini;- nothini;' on earth so much 
 as a round with his fists on the slightest pro- 
 vocation. From this unpromisiuL,^ teacher, 
 lulward took his frst lessons in the useful art 
 of shoemakin^- ; and thouL^h he learned fast — for 
 he was not slothful in l)usiness — he would have 
 learned faster, no doubt, but for his employer's 
 very drunken and careless v.a)'s. When l-)<^'Lr.L^ 
 came home from the public-house, much the 
 v.'orse for v.hisk)', he would first beat Tarn, and 
 then proceed upstairs to beat his wife. Vox 
 three )ears younp;' lulward lived under this 
 intolerable t)ranny, till he cou.ld stand it no 
 longer. At last, IJeci'er beat and ill-treated him 
 so terribly that Tam refused outright to com- 
 plete his apprenticeship. Begi^ was afraid to 
 compel him to do so — doulitless fearing to 
 expose his ill-usage of the lad. So Tam went 
 to a new master, a kindly man, with whom lu^ 
 v/orked in future far more happil)-. 
 
 The boy now began to make himself a little 
 botanical rarden in the Ixick yard of his 
 
172 r.IOGRAPIIlES or IVORk'/XCr MEX. 
 
 mother's liousc — a piece; of waste ground 
 covered with nil)l)ish, such as one often sees 
 behind the |)oorer class of cottac^es in towns. 
 Tani det(-rniined to alter all that, so he piled 
 up all th(! stones into a small rockery, dui^ up 
 the plot, manured it, and filled it with wild and 
 nardc:n flowers. The wild flowers, of course, 
 lie found in the woods and hedirerows around 
 him ; but the cultivated kinds he _!L;^ot in a very 
 inL;enious fashion, by visiting all the; rubbish 
 h(;aps of the neighbourhood, on which garden 
 refuse was usually piled. A good many roots 
 and plants can generally be found in such 
 places, and by digging them up, Tam was soon 
 able to make himself a number of bri<'*ht and 
 lively beds. Such self-help in natural history 
 always lay very much in Edward's way. 
 
 At the; same time, young Kdward was now 
 bcofinniniif to feel the desire for knowinof some- 
 thincf more about the beasts and birds of which 
 he was so fond. He used to go in all his spare 
 moments among the shops in the town, to look 
 at the pictures in the windows, especially the 
 pictures of animals ; and though his earnings 
 were still small, he bought a book whenever he 
 was able to afford one. In those days, cheap 
 papers for the people were only just beginning 
 to come into existence ; and Tam, who was 
 now eighteen, bought the first number of the 
 Penny jMagazine, an excellent journal of that 
 time, which he liked so much that he continued 
 to take in the succeeding numbers. Some of 
 the papers in it were about natural history, and 
 
THOMAS J:DII^AI<1\ SJIOKMAKKN. 1,3 
 
 these, of course, particularly tleli^^hted the youiv^" 
 man's heart. He also bou^dit the U'cik/y 
 Visitor, which he read throUL;h over and over 
 aLTain. 
 
 In 1831, when Tarn was still eiL;hte('n, he 
 enlisted in the Aberdeenshire militia, and durinir 
 his brief period of service an amusin!^- circum- 
 stance occurred which well dis[)lays the almost 
 irresistible character of Edward's love of nature. 
 While he was drillinij^ with the awkward scpiad 
 one mornin^^ a butterlly of a kind that he had 
 never seen before happened to llit in front of 
 him as he stood in the ranks. It was a beautiful 
 large brown buttcrll)', and Edward was so fasci- 
 nated by its appearance that he entirely forgot, 
 in a moment, where he was and what he was 
 doin''". Without a second's thou'dit, he darted 
 wildly out of the ranks, and rushed after the 
 butterfly, cap in hand. It led him a pretty 
 chase, over sandhills and shore, for five minutes. 
 He was just on the point of catching it at last, 
 when he suddenly felt a heavy hand laid upon 
 his shoulder, and looking round, he saw the 
 corporal of the company and several soldiers 
 come to arrest him. Such a serious offence 
 against military discipline might have cost him 
 clear indeed, for corporals have little s)'mpathy 
 with butterfly hunting; but luckily for Edward, 
 as he was crossing the parade ground imder 
 arrest, he happened to meet an officer walking 
 with some ladies. The officer asked the nature 
 of his offence, and when the ladies heard what 
 it was they were so much interested in such a 
 
174 niOGRAPIIIES OF IVOKK'IXO MKX 
 
 stran;.;'c ci'Laturc as a butU.ii]) -lovlnc;" inlllliaiiian, 
 that thny interceded for him, and linally beii^'^cd 
 him oU his expected pimisliment. The story 
 sh(j\vs us what sort of stuff luhvard v\as really 
 made of. He felt so deep an interest in all the 
 beautiful living creatures around him for their 
 own sake, that he could hardly restrain his 
 feelinu's even under the most untoward circum- 
 stances. 
 
 Wiien lulward was tweiiU", he removed from 
 AberdecMi to Banffj where he worked as a 
 journeyman for a new master. The hours 
 were very lon^", but bv lakinc" advantage of the 
 sunuuer exeninc^'s, he v/as still able to hunt ior 
 his beloved birds, calcn-pillars, and butlerlhes. 
 Still, the \()\\' wa!^"es in the trade discourai^'ed 
 him nuich, and he almost made up his mind to 
 save money and emigrate to America. liut 
 one small accident alone prevented him from 
 carryint;" out this [)urpose. Like a [4*00.! many 
 other )-oun^- men, the naturalist shoemaker fell 
 in love. Not onl)* so, but his fallinc;' in love 
 took practical sliape a little later in his caltin^c^ 
 married ; and at twenty- three, the lonely butter- 
 fly hunter brought back a suitable youni.^" wife to 
 his little home. The marriage was a very ha|)py 
 one. i\Irs. I'^dward not only lo\"ed her husband 
 deeply, but showed him sympathy in his favourite 
 pursuits, and knew hov.' to appreciate his sterling- 
 worth. Lon;-- afterwards she said, that thouL^h 
 many of her neighbt)urs could not understand 
 her husband's strange behaviour, she had always 
 felt liow much better it was to have one who 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER. 175 
 
 spent his spare time on the stiul)' of nature than 
 one who spent it on the pLibhc-house. 
 
 As soon as luhvard j^ot a home of his own, 
 he bei-'an to make a regular collection of all the 
 animals and plants in ikinffshire. This was a 
 difficult thincT for him to do, for he knew little 
 of books, and had access to very {^^w, so that he 
 couldn't even fnid out the names ol all the crea- 
 tures he caught and preserved. But, thou!:;h he 
 didn't always know what they were called, he 
 did know their natures and habits and all about 
 them ; and such first-hand knowled^'e in natural 
 history is really the r.irest aiid the most valu- 
 able of all. lie saw liule of his fellow-workmen. 
 They were usually a drunken, careless lot ; 
 lulward v/as sober and thoui-htful, and had 
 other things to think of than those that they 
 cared to talk about with one another. But he 
 went out much into the fields, with invincible 
 determination, havini,^ made up his mind that 
 he would t^et to know all about the plants and 
 beasties, however much the knowledge might 
 cost him. 
 
 b'or this object, he bought a rust)' old gun for 
 four-and-sixpence, riud invested in a few boxes 
 and bottles for catchini'- insects. His working 
 hours were from six in the morning till nine at 
 night, and for that long day he always worked 
 hard to support his wife, and (when the)' came;) 
 his children, lie had therefore only the night 
 hours between nine and six to ^o all his col- 
 lecting, ivny other man, almost, wouKl have 
 given up the attempt ns hopeless; but ICdward 
 
1/(3 lUuCRAPIUES OF WORKIXu M1:X. 
 
 resolved never to waste a single niomeiit or a 
 sinc;ie i)enny, and by cai'e and indomitable 
 enero^y he succeeded in niakinc;" his wished-for 
 collection. Sometimes he was out trampint^ 
 the wlv-)le nli^ht ; sometimes he slept anyhow, 
 under a hedge or haystack ; sometimes lui took 
 up temporary quarters in a barn, an outhouse, 
 or a ruined castle. lUit nii;ht after nii^ht he 
 went on collectini^-, whenever he was able ; and 
 he watched the habits and manners of the fox, 
 the badger, the otter, the weasel, the stoat, the 
 pole-cat, and many other regular night-roamers 
 as no one else, in all probal^ility, had ever before 
 watched them in the whole world. 
 
 Sometimes he suffered terrible disiippoint- 
 ments, due directly or indirectly to his great 
 poverty. Once, he took all his cases of insects, 
 containing nine hundred and sixteen specimens, 
 and representing the work of four years, up to 
 his garret to kee[) them there till he was able 
 to o'laze them. When he came to take them 
 down again he found to his horror that rats had 
 got at the boxes, eaten almo.st every insect in 
 the whole collection, and left notliing behind 
 but the bare pins, with a few scattered legs, 
 wino's, and bodies, stickinf>- amongst them. 
 INlost men would have been so dis<'-usted with 
 this miserable end to so much labour, that they 
 would have given up moth hunting for ever. 
 But Edward was made of different stuff. He 
 went to work again as zealously as e\'er, and in 
 four years more, he had got most of the beetles, 
 tlies, and chafers as carefully collected as before. 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER. 177 
 
 \Sy the year 1S45, Edward had orathcrcd 
 to<reth(jr about two thousand specimens of 
 beasts, birds, and insects found in the neii^h- 
 bourhood of his own t(jwn of IJanff. 11(2 made 
 the cases to hold them himself, and did it so 
 neatly that, in the case of his shells, each kind 
 had even a separate little com[)artment all of its 
 own. And now he unfortunately beL;an to 
 think of makini;" money l)y exhibiting- his small 
 museum. If only he could j^^et a few pounds 
 to help him in buying books, materials, perhaps 
 even a microscope, to help him in prosecuting 
 his scientific work, what a magnificent thing that 
 wouUl be for him ! b'illed with this grand idea, 
 he took a room in the Trades Mall at Ikuiff, 
 and exhibited his collection during a local fair. 
 A good many people came to see it, and th(^ 
 Banff paper congratulated the poor shoemaker 
 on his energy in gathering together such a 
 museum of curiosities "without aid, and undt;r 
 discouratrino- circumstances which few would 
 have successfully encountered." He was so far 
 lucky in this first venture that he covered his 
 expenses and was able even to put awa\- a little 
 money for future needs. Encouraged by this 
 small triumph, the unwearied naturalist set to 
 work during the next year, and added several 
 new attractions to his little show. At the suc- 
 ceeding fair he again exhibited, and made stiil 
 more money out of his speculation. Unha[)pily, 
 the petty success thus secured led him to hope 
 he might do even better by moving his collection 
 to Aberdeen. 
 
 N 
 
\-]?> niOGRAPIIIRS OF WORKIXG MEX. 
 
 'JVj .Mjcrclccn, .'icc;(;rJinL;l)', lulw anl v/cnt. I le 
 took a shop in the great ij^ay thoroiiglifarc of 
 that cold northern city — Union Street — and 
 prepared to receive the v/orld at large, and to 
 ij^'ct the money for the lonL;ed-for books and the 
 nuich-desired microscope. Now, Aberdeen is a 
 bicf, bus)-, Ijustlinc;' town ; it has plenty of amuse- 
 ments and recreations ; it has two colleges and 
 many learned men of its own ; and the people 
 did not care to come and see tlie workincr shoe- 
 maker's poor small collection. If he had been 
 a president of the 1 British Association fur the 
 Advancement of Science, now — some learned 
 knight or baronet come dov/n by special train 
 from London — the Aberdeen doctors and pro- 
 fessors might have rushed to hear his address ; 
 or if lie h:id been a famous musicdiall singer or 
 an imilati(jn negro minstrel, the public at large 
 mi^ht have Hocked to be amused and dc-raded 
 by his parrot-like buffoonery ; but as lie was 
 only a working shoemaker from Banff, with a 
 heaven-born instinct for watchinc' and discover- 
 incf all the strange beasts and birds of Scotland, 
 and the Vv"ays and tlioughts of them, why, 
 of cour e, respectable Aberdeen, hi;>;h or lov/, 
 would have nothing in [);irticular to say to him. 
 Diiy after C\\\ went b)-, and liardly an\body 
 came, till at last poor lulward's heart sank ter- 
 ribly with.in him. Evc^.n the few who did come 
 were loth to l)elieve that a working shoemaker 
 could ever have I'-athcrcd together such a hu'LTc 
 collection by his own exertions. 
 
 *' V).^ \()u mean to sa>'." said one of the Aber- 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER, 179 
 
 dccn physicians to J'^Kwircl, "that you've main- 
 tained )-nur wifr: and family by workinr^f at your 
 trade, all the while that you've been making 
 this collection ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do," Kd'.vard anr,v.crcd. 
 
 " Oil, nonsense ! '" tlic doctor said. " I low is it 
 possible you could have done that ? " 
 
 *' l>y never losing' a single minute or part of 
 a minute," was the loravc reply, " that 1 could 
 by nny means improve." 
 
 It is Vv'onderful indeed that v.hen once Kdward 
 had bcnrun to attract a:iyl)ody's attention at all, 
 he and his exhibition should ever Ikivc been 
 allowed t ) pass so unnoticed in a great, rich, 
 learned city like A1.)erdeen. Eiit it only shows 
 hovv' very liard it is for unassuming* merit to 
 push its way ; for the Abn^rdeen people still 
 Vv'ent unlieeding past the shop in Union Street, 
 till Edward at last bc^an to fear and tremble as 
 to how he should ever meet the expenses of the 
 exhikition. After tl:e show had been open four 
 weeks, one blacl: Friday came when Edward 
 never took a penny the v.hxolc day. As he sat 
 there alone and despondent in the empty room, 
 the postman brought him a letter. It was from 
 his master at BLUiif. " Return immediatel}'," it 
 said, '•' or you will l^e discharg'ed." Whiit on 
 earth could he do? He couldn't remove liis 
 collection ; he couldn't pay his debt. i\. few 
 more days passed, and he sav/ no v;ay out of it. 
 At hist, in blank despair, he offered the whole 
 collection for sale. A gentleivian proposed to 
 pay iiiin the paltry sum of /^20 io.n". for the 
 
iSo BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKIXG ME.V. 
 
 entire lot, the slow accumulations of ten loni;- 
 years. It was a miserable and totall}' inade- 
 quate price, but Edward could c;et no more. In 
 the dei)ths of his misery, he accepted it. 'i1ic 
 ij-entleman took the collection home, oavc it to 
 his boy, and fmally allowed it all, for want of 
 care and attention, to ^o to rack and ruin. 
 And so that w^as the q.\\A of ten years of poor 
 Thomas Edward's unremittino- oriL;inal work in 
 natural history. A sadder tale of unre([uited 
 labour in the cause of science has seldom been 
 Avritten. 
 
 How he ever recovered from such a downfall 
 to all his hopes and expectations is extraordi- 
 nary. But the man had a wonderful power of 
 bearing- up against adverse circumstances ; and 
 when, after six weeks' absence, he returned to 
 Banff, ruined and dispirited, he set to work 
 once more, as best he might, at the old, old trade 
 of shoemakino*. He was obli^fed to leave his 
 wife and children in Aberdeen, and to tramp 
 himself on foot to Banff, so that he mi-'ht earn 
 the necessary money to bring them back ; for 
 the cash he had got for th(i collection had all 
 gone in paying expenses. It is almost too sad 
 to relate; and no wonder poor Edward felt 
 crushed indeed when he got back once more to 
 his lonely shoemaker's bench and fu'eless fire- 
 side, lie was very lonely until his wife and 
 children came. But when the carrier generously 
 brought them back free (with that kindliness 
 which the poor so often show to the poor), and 
 the home was occupied once more, and the fire 
 
THOMAS EDlVAIiP, SHOKMAk'E/^. 18 1 
 
 li^lU(j(l, he I'cit as if life niiiL;ht slill be worth 
 hvin^", at least for his wife and children. So he 
 went hack to his trade as heartily as he nii<4ht, 
 and worked at it well and successfully. For it 
 is to be noted, that though Thomas Edward 
 was so assiduous a naturalist and collector, he 
 was the best hand, too, at makin^i;" first-class 
 shoes in all IJanff The !:;-ootl workman is 
 j^'enerally the best man at whatever he under- 
 takes. Certainly the best man is almost always 
 a in'ood workman at his own trade. 
 
 But of course he made no more natural his- 
 tory collections ? Not a bit of it. Once a 
 naturalist, always a naturalist. Edward set to 
 work once more, nothinc,^ daunted, and by next 
 spring- he was out everywhere with his c;iin, 
 exactly as before, rc[)lacinj:^ the sold collection 
 as fast as ever his hand was able. 
 
 By this time lubvard bei^^an to make a few 
 ^ood fri'.nds. Several mai^istrates for the 
 county si-ned a paper for him, statin;^' that 
 they knew him to be a naturalist, and no 
 poacher; and on presentin<;* this paper to the 
 gamekeepers, he was ^'cnerally allowed to pursue 
 his researches wherever lie liked, and shoot 
 any birds or animals he needed for his new 
 museum. Soon after his return from Aber- 
 deen, too, he made the ac(iuaintance of a 
 neiLrhbourinci' Scotch minister, Mr. Smith of 
 Alonquliitter, who [)roved a very kind and use- 
 ful friend to him. Mr. Smith Avas a brother 
 naturalist, and he had books — tho.e precious 
 books- which he lent Edwruxl freely; and there 
 
1 82 lUOGRAPIIIES 01- WORKIKCr MUX. 
 
 for tlu: first time tlic bhucinakcr zciuloij'ist 
 learned the .sclc:iuilic naine^i of many amoni;" 
 the birds and animals witl- \vho.:e lives and 
 hpbits he h:id \;vv\\ so loncf familiar. Another 
 tliin''' the f^ood minister did for his shoemaker 
 friend : he constantly beL^'C'ed lilm to write to 
 scientific journals the results of his observa- 
 tions in natural histor}*. At first Ed\v;ird was 
 very timid ; he didn't li'.e to appear in print ; 
 thou_L;]it his L';rammar and style wouldn't b-e 
 good enou_iL;'h ; fou;;ht shy of the proposal alt')- 
 oether. IJut at last Edward made up his mind 
 to conlriI)ute a few notes to the Jnxujpliirc 
 youiiial, and from th:it he v^ent on slowly to 
 other papers, until at last he came to be one 
 of the niost valued occasional writers for several 
 of the leading" scientific p)erIodicals in liliv.^land. 
 Unfortunately, science doesn't p:iy. All this 
 work was done for love only; aiid I'Alward's 
 only reward was the [pleasure he himself de- 
 rived from tluis jotting down the f^cts lu! had 
 observed about the beautiful creatures le lovcd 
 so well. 
 
 Soon Mr. Smith induced t;;e indefatigable 
 shoemaker to send a few papcni on the birds 
 and beasts to tlie Zoolarist. Readers beci'an 
 to percci\e that these contributions were sent 
 by a mr.n of the right sort — a man who didn't 
 nierely read V\liat other men had said about 
 the creatures in books, but who watched their 
 ways on his own account, and linew all about 
 their habits and manners in their own honuis. 
 Othicr friends now bc'an to interest them- 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SIIOKMAKKK. 1K3 
 
 seh'cs in him ; and lulward ubtaincd at last, 
 \vhat to a inaii of his tastes must have been 
 ahnost as mucli as nujiicy or position— th(! 
 society (jfpcojjK: who could appreciate him, and 
 could symixathi/e in all that interested him. 
 Mr. .Smith in particular always treated him, 
 sa)'s Dr. vSmilcs, ",l^, one intelligent man treats 
 an(jth(;r." The [)altr\' distinctions of artificial 
 rank were all for'-otten l)etween thriTi, and the 
 two naturalists t;ilked tcv^ether with endless 
 interest about all those lovely creatures that 
 surround us every one on every side, but that 
 so very few pt;ople comparativel)- ha\ e ever 
 eyes to see or hearts to understand. It was 
 a v^.-ry ,L;Teat loss to Edward when Mr. Smith 
 died, in 1854. 
 
 In the year i-\vS the untirinc;' shoemaker had 
 g'athered his third and kii)t collection, the finest 
 and best of all. I'))- this time he had become 
 an expert stuffer of L>irds, and a L;'ond preserver 
 of fisli and flowers. lUit his licaUh was now 
 bcginninr;- to fail. He was forty-four, and he 
 had used his constitution very severeK*, .L^oini^' 
 out at ni'>'hts in cold and wet, and cheatiiiLi' 
 himself of sleep durini^' the natural hours ot 
 rest and recuperation. riap[)il\', durinc^ all 
 these years, he had resisted the advice of his 
 Scotch labouring;" friends, to take out whisky 
 with him on his niL;htl)' excursions. He never 
 took a drop of it, at home or abroad. If he 
 had done so, lie himself believed, he could not 
 have stood the cold, the damp, and tlie expo- 
 sure in liie way he did. His food was chielly 
 
iH pjnaRAPfrrr.s of ivoRk'rxo AfEX. 
 
 oalincal-ciikc ; his drink was \vatL'r. " S(>inc- 
 tiinrs, ulu.-n I coiiUl alloixl it," lie sa\ s, " iny 
 wife; l)()il(!(l an ci^u^ or two, and tlusc were my 
 on! ixurics." lie liad a lar-c faniiU', and tlu; 
 cask (A providinLj for tlicni was quite; cnoni^li 
 for his slender means, without leaving- much 
 margin for beer or whisky. 
 
 l)Ut the Ix.'st constitution won't stand i)riva- 
 tion and exi)osure for ever. l>y-and-by lulward 
 fell ill, and had a fever, lie was ill for a 
 month, and when he came round ai^ain the 
 doctor told him that he must at once oive up 
 his nii'htlv wanderim''. This was a real and 
 serious blow to })o()r Mdward ; it was askin^Li" 
 him to j^i\e up his one real i)leasure and 
 interest in life. All \.\v.\ happiest moments he 
 had ever known were those which he had spent 
 in the woods and iields, or amoni^ the lonely 
 mountains with the falcons, and the herons, 
 and the |)ine-martens, and the ermines. All 
 this delightful life he was now told he must 
 abandon for ever. Nor was that all. Illness 
 costs mone)'. While a man is carniniL^ nothinLi", 
 he is running up a doctor's j^ill. Edward now 
 saw that he must at last fall f)ack upon his 
 savini^s bank, as he rightly called it — his loved 
 and cherished collection of Banffshire animals. 
 He had to draw u|)on it heavily. Forty cases 
 of birds were sold ; and Edward now knew 
 that he would never be able to replace the 
 specimc:ns he had parted Avith. 
 
 Still, his endless patience wasn't }"et ex- 
 haustc'd. No more of wandering- l)y night, to 
 
TJiOMAS KDIVARD, SI/OE.U.IA'/-/?. i9 
 
 b'j sure, ii[K)n inooi* or full, <;un in liaiul, chasing- 
 lh(.' merlin or the polecat to its hidt.Uii lair ; 
 no more of Ioiil;' watchin;^- after th(-' snowy owl 
 or the l(jiiL;--taik:cl titinouse .iihoiil;' the fro/eii 
 winter woods; but there reniaiiiecl one almost 
 imtrietl field on which Edward could expend 
 his remainiuL;' eneri^y, and in which he was 
 to do better work for science than in all the 
 rest — the sea. 
 
 This new field he beL;an to culti\ate in a 
 novel and ingenious way. lie ii^ot toL;ether 
 all the old broken pails, p(;ts, pans, and kc-ttles 
 he could find in the nei^hbtjurhood, filled them 
 with straw or bits of rai;', and then sank them 
 with a hea\')' stone into tlu^ rocky pools that 
 abound alonij- that weatherdjeat('n coast. A 
 rope was tic:d to one eml, by which he could 
 raise them again ; and oncc! a month Ik; used 
 to go his rounds to visit these very primitive 
 but effectual sea-tra[)S. Lots of living things 
 had meanwhile congregated in the safe nests 
 thus provided for them, and ICdward sorted 
 them all over, taking home with him all the 
 newer or more valuable specimens. In this 
 way he was enabled to make several additions 
 to our knowledge of the living things that 
 inhabit the sea off the north-east coast of Scot- 
 land. 
 
 The fishermen also heli)cd him not a little, 
 by giving him many rare kinds of fish or refuse 
 from their nets, which he duly examined and 
 classified. As a rule, the hardy men who go 
 on the smacks ha\'e a profound contem[)t fnr» 
 
iS6 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN. 
 
 natural history, and will not be tempted, even 
 by offers of money, to assist those whom they 
 consider as haU^-daft o^entlefolk in what seems 
 to them a perfectly useless and almost cliildlsh 
 amusement. But it was different with Tarn 
 Edward, tlie strang-e shoemaker whom they all 
 knew so well ; if he wanted fish or rubbish for 
 his neat collection in the home-made glass 
 cases, why, of course he could have them, and 
 welcome. .So they brought him rare sand- 
 suckers, and blue-striped wrasse, and saury 
 pike, and gigantic cuttle-fish, four feet long, to 
 his heart's content. Edward's daughters were 
 now also old enough to help him in his scientific 
 studies. They used to v/citch for the clearing 
 of the nets, and pick out of the refuse what- 
 ever tlicy thought would interest or please 
 their father. But the fish themselves were 
 Edward's greatest lielpers and assistants. As 
 Dr. vSmiles quaintly puts it, they were the best 
 of all possible dredgers. I lis daughters used 
 to secure him as many stomachs as possible, 
 and from their contents he picked out an im- 
 mense number of beautiful and valuable speci- 
 mens. The bill of fare of the cod cdone 
 comprised an incredible variety oi small crabs, 
 shells, shrimps, sea-mice, star-fish, jelly-fish, sea 
 anemones, eggs, and zoophytes. AH these went 
 to swell Edward's new collection of marine 
 animals. 
 
 To identify and name so many small and 
 little-known creatures w^as a very difficult task 
 frr the poor shoemaker, with so few books, 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SIIOEMAKKR, iS; 
 
 and no opportunities for visitin;^" museums and 
 learned societies. But his industry and in- 
 genuity managed to surmount all obstacles. 
 Naturalists everywhere arc very wIllinLT to aid 
 and instruct one another ; especially arc the 
 highest authorities almost always eager to give 
 every help and encouragement in their power 
 to local amateurs. Edward used to wait till 
 he had collected a batch of specimens of a 
 single class or order, and then he would send 
 them by post to learned men in different parts 
 of the country, Vvho named them for him, and 
 sent them back with some information as to 
 their proper place in the classification of the 
 group to v/hich they belonged. I^dr. Spencc 
 Bate of Plymouth is the greatest living authority 
 on crustaceans, such as the lobsters, shrimps, 
 sea-lleas, and hermit crabs ; and to him Edward 
 sent all the cjueer crawling things of that de- 
 scription that he found in his original sea-traps. 
 Mr. Couch, of Polpcrro in Cornwall, was equally 
 versed in the true backboned fishes ; and to 
 him Edward sent any doubtful niidges, or 
 gurnards, or gobies, or whiffs. So numerous 
 are the animals and plants of tlie sea-shore, 
 even in the north of Scotland alone, that if one 
 were to make a complete list of all Edward's 
 finds it Vv'ould occupy an entire book almost as 
 lar<Tfe as this volume. 
 
 Naturalists now began to help Edward in 
 another way, the way that he most needed, by 
 kind presents of books, especially their own 
 writiiv^s- - a kind of i^ift which cost them 
 
iSS BIOGRAPHIES OF WORKING MEN 
 
 notliiiv^-, but was Avorth to him a very £;rcat 
 deal. ]Mr. Newman, the editor of the Zoologist 
 paper, was one of his most useful correspon- 
 dents, and p^avc him several excellent books 
 on natural history/. ]\Ir. Bate made him a 
 still more coveted present— a microscope, with 
 which he could examine several minute animals, 
 too small to be looked at by the naked eye. 
 The same good friend also gave him a little 
 pocket-lens (or magnifying glass) for use on the 
 sea-shore. 
 
 As Edward w^ent on, his knowledge increased 
 rapidly, and his discoveries fully kept pace with 
 it. The wretchedly paid Ijanff shoemaker was 
 now corresponding familiarly with half the most 
 eminent men of science in the kingdom, and 
 was a valued contributor to all the" most im- 
 portant scientific journals. Several new animals 
 which he had discovered were named in his 
 honour, and frequent references were made to 
 him in printed works of the first importance. 
 It occurred to Mr. Couch and Mr. Bate, there- 
 fore, both of whom were greatly indebted to 
 the working-man naturalist for specimens and 
 information, that Edward ought to be elected 
 a member of some leading scientific society. 
 There is no such body of greater distinction 
 in the world of science than the Linnean 
 Society ; and of this learned institution Edward 
 was duly elected an associate in 1866. The 
 honour was one which he had richly deserved, 
 and which no doubt he fully appreciated. 
 
 And yet he was nothing more even now than a 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER. 1S9 
 
 working shoemaker, who was earning not more 
 but less wages even than he once used to do. 
 He had brought up a large family honestly and 
 respectably ; he had paid his way without run- 
 ning into debt ; his children were all growing 
 up ; and he had acquired a wide reputation 
 among naturalists as a thoroughly trustworthy 
 observer and an original worker in many 
 different fields of botany and zoology. But 
 his wages were now only eight shillings a 
 week, and his science had brought him, as 
 many people would say, only the barren honour 
 of being an associate of the Linnean Society, 
 or the respected friend of many among the 
 noblest and greatest men of his country. He 
 began life as a shoemaker, and he remained 
 a shoemaker to the end. '' Had I pursued 
 money," he said, " with half the ardour and per- 
 severance that I have pursued nature, I have 
 no hesitation in saying that by this time I should 
 have been a rich man." 
 
 In 1876, Dr. Smiles, the historian of so many 
 truly great working men, attracted by Edward's 
 remarkable and self-sacrificing life, determined 
 to write the good shoemaker's biography while 
 he was still alive. Edward himself gave Dr. 
 Smiles full particulars as to his early "days and 
 his later struggles ; and that information the 
 genial biographer wove into a delightful book, 
 from which all the facts here related have been 
 borrowed. The " Life of a Scotch Naturalist " 
 attracted an immense deal of attention when 
 it was first published, and led many people, 
 
1 90 BTOGRArilTES OF IVORICING MEN. 
 
 scientiiic or otherwise, to feel a deep interest 
 in the man who had thus made himself poor 
 lor the love of nature. The result was such 
 a spontaneous expression of generous feelino- 
 towards Edward that he was 'enabled to pasi 
 the eyenmg ot his days not only in honour, but 
 calso m substantial ease and comfort. 
 
 And shall we call such a life as this a failure ? 
 bhal we speak of it carelessly as unsuccessful ? 
 Surely not. Edward had lived his life hanpily 
 usefully, and nobly; he had attained the end 
 he set before himself; he had conquered all his 
 difhculties by his indomitable resolution ; and 
 he lived to sec his just reward m the respect 
 and admu-ation of all those whose good opinion 
 was worth the havinr,>-. If he had toiled and 
 moiled all the best do.vs of his life, at some 
 work, perhaps, which did not even benefit in 
 any way his fellow-men ; \{ he had given up all 
 his time to enriching himself anyhow, byVair 
 means or foul; if he had gathered up a n-reat 
 business by crushing out competition and' ab- 
 sorbing to himself the honest livelihood of a 
 dozen other men; xi he had speculated In 
 stocks and shares, and piled up at last a vast 
 lortunc by doubtful transactions, all the world 
 would have said, in its unthinking fashion, that 
 Mr. iidward v;as a wonderfully successful man 
 but success in life does not consist In that only 
 if in that at all. Edward lived for an aim, and 
 that aim he amply attained. He never neo-- 
 ccted his home duties or his regular work- 
 but in his stray moments he found time to' 
 
THOMAS EDWARD, SHOEMAKER. 191 
 
 amass an amount of knowlcd':>"c whicli rendered 
 him the intellectual equal of men whose oppor- 
 tunities and education had been far more fortu- 
 nate than his own. The pleasure he found in 
 his work was the real reward that science eave 
 him. All his life long- he had that pleasure : 
 he saw the fields grow green in spring, the 
 birds build nests in early summer, the insects 
 Hit before his eyes on autumn evenings, the 
 stoat and hare put on their snow-white coat 
 to his delight in winter w^eather. And shall 
 we say that the riches he thus beheld spread 
 ever before him were any less real or less 
 satisfying to a soul like his than the mere 
 worldly wealth that other men labour and strive 
 for ? Oh no. Thomas Edward was one of 
 those who work for higher and better ends than 
 outward show, and verily he had his reward. 
 The monument raised up to that simple and 
 earnest working shoemaker in tlie " Life of a 
 Scotch Naturalist" is one of which any scientific 
 worker in the whole world might well be proud. 
 In his old age, he hal the meed of public 
 encouragement and public recognition, the one 
 thing that the world at large can add to a 
 scientific worker's happiness ; and his name 
 A\'ill be long remembered hereafter, when those 
 of more pretentious but less useful labourers 
 are altogether forgotten. Mow many men 
 whom the world calls successful might gladly 
 have changed places with that " fool to nature," 
 the Danffshire shoemaker ! 
 
rKINTED LY WII.I.IAM CLOWI'.S AMJ SuNS, l.l.M 1 Tl-.D, 
 LONUON' ANU IJI-rcCl.l-.-,, 
 
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