y, but, like most
boys full of animal spirits, he was very fond of fun and play, and
sometimes of mischief. Dr. Bruce relates that an old Killingworth
labourer, when asked by Robert, on one of his last visits to Newcastle,
if he remembered him, replied with emotion, "Ay, indeed! Haven't I paid
your head many a time when you came with your father's bait, for you were
always a sad hempy?"

The author had the pleasure, in the year 1854, of accompanying Robert
Stephenson on a visit to his old home and haunts at Killingworth. He had
so often travelled the road upon his donkey to and from school, that
every foot of it was familiar to him; and each turn in it served to
recall to mind some incident of his boyish days. His eyes glistened when
he came in sight of Killingworth pit-head. Pointing to a humble
red-tiled house by the road-side at Benton, he said, "You see that
house--that was Rutter's, where I learnt my A B C, and made a beginning
of my school learning. And there," pointing to a colliery chimney on the
left, "there is Long Benton, where my father put up his first
pumping-engine; and a great success it was. And this humble clay-floored
cottage you see here, is where my grandfather lived till the close of his
life. Many a time have I ridden straight into the house, mounted on my
cuddy, and called upon grandfather to admire his points. I remember the
old man feeling the animal all over--he was then quite blind--after which
he would dilate upon the shape of his ears, fetlocks, and quarters, and
usually end by pronouncing him to be a 'real blood.' I was a great
favourite with the old man, who continued very fond of animals, and
cheerful to the last; and I believe nothing gave him greater pleasure
than a visit from me and my cuddy."

On the way from Benton to High Killingworth, Mr. Stephenson pointed to a
corner of the road where he had once played a boyish trick upon a
Killingworth collier. "Straker," said he, "was a great bully, a coarse,
swearing fellow, and a perfect tyrant amongst the women and children. He
would go tearing into old Nanny the huxter's shop in the village, and
demand in a savage voice, 'What's ye'r best ham the pund?' 'What's floor
the hunder?' 'What d'ye ax for prime bacon?'--his questions often ending
with the miserable order, accompanied with a tremendous oath, of 'Gie's a
penny rrow (roll) an' a baubee herrin!' The poor woman was usually set
'all of a shake' by a visit from this fell