In dress, voice, and manner,
he fell into mere country plainness; lived without the least care
for appearances, the least regret for the past or discontentment
with the present; and when he came to die, died with Stoic
cheerfulness, announcing that he had had a comfortable time and was
yet well pleased to go. One would think there was little active
virtue to be inherited from such a race; and yet in this same
voluntary peasant, the special gift of Fleeming Jenkin was already
half developed. The old man to the end was perpetually inventing;
his strange, ill-spelled, unpunctuated correspondence is full (when
he does not drop into cookery receipts) of pumps, road engines,
steam-diggers, steam-ploughs, and steam-threshing machines; and I
have it on Fleeming's word that what he did was full of ingenuity -
only, as if by some cross destiny, useless. These disappointments
he not only took with imperturbable good humour, but rejoiced with
a particular relish over his nephew's success in the same field.
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