James Watt: A Private Life

1819, Heathfield Hall, Handsworth

The models remain in order, and while they remain in order I am not yet beaten by the room. That is how the day must begin, and how it has begun for a considerable number of years now. The papers lie where I placed them. The smaller engine stands nearest the window because light still serves me there for a little while longer, and the condenser drawing is kept flat, not because I expect to improve it at this late hour, but because folded paper suggests closure and I have no patience with closures not yet earned. My fingers are slower now and the hand shakes at the wrong moments, chiefly when a line must be exact, and the stairs bargain with me in a manner I dislike, but such things are local hindrances. The greater danger is surrendering time too soon, letting the old mechanical history be settled by men who came in at the profit and not at the leakage, or by those younger admirers who look at a finished engine and think the whole matter moved cleanly from idea to iron. It did not. There was always another defect waiting, another expense, another delay, and often if one acted quickly enough one could still save the whole affair from ruin, though now I know less certainly whether that feeling belonged to truth or to fear moving too fast to be examined.