To a local chronicler such a
room is as sacred as that in which Shakespeare was born, and in the
words of Mr. Sam Timmins, "to open the door and look upon the strange
relics there is to stand in the very presence of the mighty dead.
Everything in the room remains just as it was left by the fast failing
hands of the octogenarian engineer. His well-worn, humble apron hangs
dusty on the wall, the last work before him is fixed unfinished in the
lathe, the elaborate machines over which his latest thoughts were spent
are still and silent, as if waiting only for their master's hand again
to waken them into life and work. Upon the shelves are crowds of books,
whose pages open no more to those clear, thoughtful eyes, and scattered
in the drawers and boxes are the notes and memoranda, and pocket-books,
and diaries never to be continued now. All these relics of the great
engineer, the skilful mechanic, the student of science, relate to his
intellectual and public life; but there is a sadder relic still. An old
hair-trunk, carefully kept close by the old man's stool, contains the
childish sketches, the early copy-books and grammars, the dictionaries,
the school-books, and some of the toys of his dearly-beloved and
brilliant son Gregory Watt.
Pages:
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297