The Chairman and Librarian, Messrs. Hallam and Bain, proceeded in October to England for the purchase of books, most of which arrived here in January. The Week for December 13th last says of the books selected, that they "would make the mouth water of every bibliophile in the country." While I am writing these lines they are being catalogued and arranged for use, and the Free Library of Toronto will become an accomplished fact, almost simultaneously with the publication of these "Reminiscences."
CHAPTER LXIX.
Postscript.
After having spent the greater part of half a century in various public capacities—after having been the recipient of nearly every honorary distinction which it was in the power of my fellow-citizens to confer—there now remains for me no further object of ambition, unless to die in harness, and so escape the taunt—
"Unheeded lags the veteran on the stage."
Three times have I succeeded in gaining a position of reasonable competence; and as often—in 1857, 1860 and 1876—the "great waterfloods" have swept over me, and left me to begin life anew. It is too late now, however, to scale another Alp, so let us plod on in the valley, watching the sunshine fading away behind the mountains, until the darkness comes on; and aye singing—
"Night is falling dark and silent, Starry myriads gem the sky; Thus, when earthly hopes have failed us, Brighter visions beam on high."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Since writing the above, I find in Scribner's Monthly for November 1880, the following notice of my uncle, which forms a sad sequel to a long career of untiring enthusiasm in the service of his fellow-creatures. It is the closing paragraph of an article headed "Bordentown and the Bonapartes," from the pen of Joseph B. Gilder:
"It yet remains to say a few words of Dr. John Isaac Hawkins—civil engineer, inventor, poet, preacher, phrenologist and 'mentor-general to mankind,'—who visited the village towards the close of the last century, married and lived there for many years; then disappeared, and, after a long absence, returned a gray old man, with a wife barely out of her teens. 'This isn't the wife you, took away, doctor,' some one ventured to remark. 'No,' the blushing girl replied, 'and he's buried one between us.' The poor fellow had hard work to gain a livelihood. For a time, the ladies paid him to lecture to them in their parlours; but when he brought a bag of skulls, and the heart and windpipe of his [adopted] son preserved in spirits, they would have nothing more to do with him. As a last resort, he started the 'Journal of Human Nature and Human Progress,' his wife 'setting up' for the press her husband's contributions in prose and rhyme. But the 'Journal' died after a brief and inglorious career. Hawkins claimed to have made the first survey for a tunnel under the Thames, and he invented the 'ever-pointed pencil,' the 'iridium-pointed gold pen,' and a method of condensing coffee. He also constructed a little stove with a handle, which he carried into the kitchen to cook his meals or into the reception-room when visitors called, and at night into his bedroom. He invented also a new religion, whose altar was erected in his own small parlour, where Dr. John Isaac Hawkins, priest, held forth to Mrs. John Isaac Hawkins, people. But a shadow stretched along the poor man's path from the loss of his only [adopted] son—'a companion in all of his philosophical researches,' who died and was dissected at the early age of seven. Thereafter the old man wandered, as 'lonely as a cloud,' sometimes in England, sometimes in America; but attended patiently and faithfully by his first wife, then by a second, and finally by a third, who clung to him with the devotion of Little Nell to her doting grandfather."