railway, and it was at first doubtful whether the scheme would ever be
carried out. Many 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 witness before a parliamentary committee, and was closely cross-
examined as to the possibilities of his plan. In those days, even after
the 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 prejudice
and obstruction, and they were sure to conquer in the long run. The line
was resurveyed 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 authorizing 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 L1000 a year. George might now fairly consider himself
entitled to the honours of an Esquire.