Though far advanced in years, I take as lively an interest as ever in passing events. I regret that I shall not live to know the result of the expedition to determine the currents of the ocean, the distance of the earth from the sun determined by the transits of Venus, and the source of the most renowned of rivers, the discovery of which will immortalise the name of Dr. Livingstone. But I regret most of all that I shall not see the suppression of the most atrocious system of slavery that ever disgraced humanity—that made known to the world by Dr. Livingstone and by Mr. Stanley, and which Sir Bartle Frere has gone to suppress by order of the British Government.
The Blue Peter has been long flying at my foremast, and now that I am in my ninety-second year I must soon expect the signal for sailing. It is a solemn voyage, but it does not disturb my tranquillity. Deeply sensible of my utter unworthiness, and profoundly grateful for the innumerable blessings I have received, I trust in the infinite mercy of my Almighty Creator. I have every reason to be thankful that my intellect is still unimpaired, and, although my strength is weakness, my daughters support my tottering steps, and, by incessant care and help, make the infirmities of age so light to me that I am perfectly happy.
I have very little more to add to these last words of my Mother's Recollections. The preceding pages will have given the reader some idea—albeit perhaps a very imperfect one—of her character and opinions. Only regarding her feelings on the most sacred of themes, is it needful for me to say a few words. My mother was profoundly and sincerely religious; hers was not a religion of mere forms and doctrines, but a solemn deep-rooted faith which influenced every thought, and regulated every action of her life. Great love and reverence towards God was the foundation of this pure faith, which accompanied her from youth to extreme old age, indeed to her last moments, which gave her strength to endure many sorrows, and was the mainspring of that extreme humility which was so remarkable a feature of her character.
At a very early age she dared to think for herself, fearlessly shaking off those doctrines of her early creed which seemed to her incompatible with the unutterable goodness and greatness of God; and through life she adhered to her simple faith, holding quietly and resolutely to the ultimate truths of religion, regardless alike of the censure of bigots or the smiles of sceptics. The theories of modern science she welcomed as quite in accordance with her religious opinions. She rejected the notion of occasional interference by the Creator with His work, and believed that from the first and invariably He has acted according to a system of harmonious laws, some of which we are beginning faintly to recognise, others of which will be discovered in course of time, while many must remain a mystery to man while he inhabits this world. It was in her early life that the controversy raged respecting the incompatibility of the Mosaic account of Creation, the Deluge, &c., with the revelations of geology. My mother very soon accepted the modern theories, seeing in them nothing in any way hostile to true religious belief. It is singular to recall that her candid avowal of views now so common, caused her to be publicly censured by name from the pulpit of York Cathedral. She foresaw the great modifications in opinion which further discoveries will inevitably produce; but she foresaw them without doubt or fear. Her constant prayer was for light and truth, and its full accomplishment she looked for confidently in the life beyond the grave. My mother never discussed religious subjects in general society; she considered them far too solemn to be talked of lightly; but with those near and dear to her, and with very intimate friends, whose opinion agreed with her own, she spoke freely and willingly. Her mind was constantly occupied with thoughts on religion; and in her last years especially she reflected much on that future world which she expected soon to enter, and lifted her heart still more frequently to that good Father whom she had loved so fervently all her life, and in whose merciful care she fearlessly trusted in her last hour.
My mother's old age was a thoroughly happy one. She often said that not even in the joyous spring of life had she been more truly happy. Serene and cheerful, full of life and activity, as far as her physical strength permitted, she had none of the infirmities of age, except difficulty in hearing, which prevented her from joining in general conversation. She had always been near-sighted, but could read small print with the greatest ease without glasses, even by lamp-light. To the last her intellect remained perfectly unclouded; her affection for those she loved, and her sympathy for all living beings, as fervent as ever; nor did her ardent desire for and belief in the ultimate religious and moral improvement of mankind diminish. She always retained her habit of study, and that pursuit, in which she had attained such excellence and which was always the most congenial to her,—Mathematics—delighted and amused her to the end. Her last occupations, continued to the actual day of her death, were the revision and completion of a treatise, which she had written years before, on the "Theory of Differences" (with diagrams exquisitely drawn), and the study of a book on Quaternions. Though too religious to fear death, she dreaded outliving her intellectual powers, and it was with intense delight that she pursued her intricate calculations after her ninetieth and ninety-first years, and repeatedly told me how she rejoiced to find that she had the same readiness and facility in comprehending and developing these extremely difficult formulæ which she possessed when young. Often, also, she said how grateful she was to the Almighty Father who had allowed her to retain her faculties unimpaired to so great an age. God was indeed loving and merciful to her; not only did He spare her this calamity, but also the weary trial of long-continued illness. In health of body and vigour of mind, having lived far beyond the usual span of human life, He called her to Himself. For her Death lost all its terrors. Her pure spirit passed away so gently that those around her scarcely perceived when she left them. It was the beautiful and painless close of a noble and a happy life.
My mother died in sleep on the morning of the 29th Nov., 1872. Her remains rest in the English Campo Santo of Naples.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] "Darwinism in Morals," &c.