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Wilson soon arrived, and, indisposed for business as I was at that moment, and little as I cared for the field or its owner, I forced my attention to the matter in hand, with very creditable determination, and quickly concluded the bargain—perhaps more to the thrifty farmer’s satisfaction than he cared to acknowledge.
He is left on shore, is seized by one of the natives, and carried to a farmer’s house. His reception, with several accidents that happened there. A description of the inhabitants.
Always full of conversation and anecdote, he soon made himself at home in the farmer’s family, and spent with them a few pleasant hours. He was hospitably entertained for the night, and when he left the cottage in the morning, he pressed them to make some charge for his lodging, but they refused to accept any recompense.
The opportunity thus afforded to the former of cultivating his mind by contact with one wiser than himself proved of great value, and in after-life Stephenson gratefully remembered the assistance which, when a humble workman, he had derived from John Wigham, the farmer’s son. His leisure moments thus carefully improved, it will be inferred that Stephenson continued a sober man.
They then went to the farmer’s house, where they were made very welcome, and received the twenty shillings, according to promise, the farmer requesting they would stay the next night by themselves, for he believed his son would have no stomach to go with them, and tell the old woman every thing should be fulfilled according to her will, and they should be satisfied to their content.
Longing to get back to his kindred, his heart yearning for the son whom he had left behind, our engineman took leave of his employers, and trudged back to Northumberland on foot as he had gone. While on his journey southward he arrived late one evening, footsore and wearied, at the door of a small farmer’s cottage, at which he knocked, and requested shelter for the night.
Just as they came near the farmer’s house, George saw, on before him, a ragged little boy, much smaller than Rollo, who was walking along barefooted. “There’s Tom,” said George. “Who?” said Rollo. “Tom. See how I will frighten him.” As he said this, George darted forward with his wheelbarrow, and trundled it on directly towards Tom, as if he was going to run over him.
The farmer’s wife, who was a hale, buxom, youngish-looking woman, and had only nine children, brought out chairs and benches. We had some madeira with us, and we made delicious whip-syllabub. The nice, well-baked and wholesome brown loaves, with the milk and cream, were too good for city aldermen, but quite good enough for sailors.
Here I counted my chickens before they were hatched, for I have now served three years over my time, and here I am, with not much a day, except the good farmer’s forty pounds, to keep myself, my wife and a child. You see,” said he, “how I am obliged to keep close hauled, and can’t afford to sport my figure on shore as some of you do.
Of less moment which were in my first copy, for fear of being censured as tedious and trifling, whereof travellers are often, perhaps not without justice, accused. A description of the farmer’s daughter. The author carried to a market-town, and then to the metropolis. The particulars of his journey.
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