The result was that the man became so exact to his time that in twelve months “there were only six cases of lateness, amounting in the aggregate to eight minutes.”
Confined though he so much was to one room, yet time did not hang on his hands. His eyesight happily remained strong, and he was a great reader. In the pages of a novel for many years he found pleasant repose. Few men, indeed, were more deeply read than he in fiction. Science, too, as I have shown, took up much of his time. Astronomy remained to the last his favourite study. Poetry did not throw her charm over him—at least to any great extent. Yet one day he told me that he had just finished “Paradise Lost.” “Milton,” he said with a smile, “does not, in my opinion, prove his case.” His money accounts he kept with the utmost exactness, even to a late age. Two years before his death he told me that he could not expect to live much longer, for his mental strength was steadily failing. He had been obliged to give up even his account-keeping, which had been a pleasure to him from a very early age. A day or two before, he added with an air of great vexation, he had had to make an entry of money received, and he had entered it as money paid.
Few things pleased him more than to talk over his past life. I find the following record among the notes that I took of his talk. “As he told me this day the story of his youth, and the difficulties that he had overcome, the old man grew eloquent. If his words could have been taken down, they would have read like a chapter of De Foe. I was filled with admiration of his powers.” Nothing touched him more than the memory of some kindness that had been done him. He was grateful to all who had at any time, in any way, helped him; but his gratitude overflowed towards those who had rendered him help in the struggles of his youth. A year before his death he could not be satisfied till he had put on record the names of those who, more than seventy years before, had lent his father money in the time of his greatest straits. The loans had been long since paid off—mainly by the son’s efforts as I have shown—but the memory of these benefactors was not to be suffered to pass away from his father’s family. At no time was his thoughtfulness for others more shown than in the winter of 1876, when he was suddenly struck down by an attack that threatened paralysis. Forgetful of himself at so awful a time, he thought only of others. It so happened that in a few weeks’ time he would have had to make me a certain payment. He remembered that I had been suffering from a long illness, and he feared that I might be put to some inconvenience should payment be delayed. He sent to ask me to let him know at once the amount that would be due, so that he might sign the cheque before his hand was paralysed. During the same attack his son asked him whether he would like to consult one of his nephews—a surgeon in whose skill he had great trust. He had, indeed, he answered, wished to send for him. As, however, his own doctor had not suggested, it, he had not said anything for fear of hurting his feelings. A day or two later he begged me to go and see him. I found him in bed, and very weak. He did not think, he said, that he was dying, but it might be that he really was. It had always been his habit, he added, throughout life to prepare for every contingency, and therefore he wished to see me now. What he said could not, for the present at least, fitly be set before the reader. He showed, however, that in the blow that had thus suddenly fallen upon himself, his feelings and his fears were all for those who had so long been dear to him.
Such a life as this, secluded though it was, could not be free from the losses that are common to the race. The old family group began to grow thin before his eyes. His two elder brothers went first, to be followed before long by his only surviving sister. They, however, had all reached a ripe age. In the death of his eldest daughter, and of more than one of his grandchildren, he felt the far deeper sorrow that comes on the old when they see the young gathered to the grave before them. He would tell with sad pride how one of these little ones had once had the courage to call him to account. The child, who was but three years old, one day when playing with his elder brother, had seen his grandfather give a little dog a slight blow with a switch:—
“The hall being rather dusk, their grandfather did not perceive that the two boys were there, or he would not, in their presence, have struck Trottie. Later in the evening the children came to say good-night, and were leaving the room when he noticed signs of hesitation, followed by a whispered consultation outside the halfclosed door. They were evidently settling which should be spokesman. Probably F., although much the junior, volunteered his services, as, when they re-appeared holding one another by the hand, in a tone of deep solemnity, as befitted the occasion, he said, ‘Grandpapa, why did you beat Trottie?’ The old man was delighted with the child’s courage in thus calling him to account; and, bidding the lads come close to him, reminded them that any noise made his head ache; that, should either of them make any noise, he should never think of beating them, but should ask them to be more careful for the future, well knowing that they would attend to his wishes; but that it would be of no use to talk to Trottie, who must either be kept out of his room altogether, which their grandmamma would not like, or must be taught, by means of the little switch, not to bark there. The boys retired fully satisfied with the explanation.”
Outside his own circle, Death, while it so long passed him by, was very busy. Old friends, men eminent in science or in public life, he saw pass away before him. He once spoke to me with deep feeling of certain old men who, whenever they met him, had always received him with the greatest warmth. Of his friend Colonel Torrens, whom he had known years before as the chairman of the South Australian Commission, he has left the following brief record:—“He was eminent as a writer on political economy, and was one of the founders of the Political Economy Club. He was many years in Parliament, and was chairman of the South Australian Commission when I was secretary. I had known him previously, but this made our acquaintance intimate, and led to a friendship which continued till his death. When on his death-bed, at the age of eighty-four, he wrote me a most affectionate letter, expressing his desire that a connection even then contemplated between his family and mine should be realised; and a year or two later this was done, to the great satisfaction of my wife and myself, by the marriage of my son with one of the Colonel’s granddaughters.” Colonel Torrens, I may add, had early in the century distinguished himself as a brave soldier. His descendants show with pride a sword of honour which was presented to him for his gallant defence of the Island of Anholt.
With all its losses, its seclusion, and its deprivations, the old man’s life was far from being unhappy. He had resources in himself, and he had the never-failing past on which to dwell. His strength failed, and his mind began to lose somewhat of its old vigour. “Yet hath my night of life some memory,” he might well have said. He had, moreover, a hearty love of fame, and he was doubly happy in this, that honours followed him even into his retirement. He passed away from the sight of men, but he was never made to feel that he was forgotten. Now in one grateful acknowledgment, now in another, he was shown that the world was not indifferent to the man who had conferred on it so signal a benefit. In some newspaper, or in some book, would appear from time to time a kindly and generous mention of his services which would warm up his heart even in the chill of age. I am reminded how Johnson, one day in the last summer of his life, “called out with a sudden air of exultation, as the thought started into his mind, ‘O! Gentlemen, I must tell you a very great thing. The Empress of Russia has ordered the ‘Rambler’ to be translated into the Russian language; so I shall be read on the banks of the Wolga.’ Boswell,—‘You must certainly be pleased with this, Sir.’ Johnson—‘I am pleased, Sir, to be sure. A man is pleased to find he has succeeded in that which he has endeavoured to do.’” In like manner Sir Rowland Hill often exulted at the news that his great plan had won yet another triumph on some distant shore.
Fresh honours were done to him in his own country. Birmingham, the town in which he had spent his youth and early manhood, had already set up his statue. A short time before he died he heard that Kidderminster, his birth-place, was going to pay him a like honour. And now, at the very close of his life, the City of London granted him its Freedom. He was far too weak to attend at the Guildhall, in accordance with ancient custom, to receive this high distinction. The Court of Common Council, with a kindness that gave a double grace to the honour that they rendered, appointed a deputation to wait on him at his residence.[255] He received it in his bed-chamber. It was the 6th day of June, 1879, less than three months before his death. “I offer you,” said the City Chamberlain at the conclusion of an eloquent address, “the right hand of fellowship in the name of the Corporation whom we represent, and who deeply regret that they cannot receive you in person, as is their wont on such occasions as the present. We congratulate you that, notwithstanding the ‘labour and sorrow’ inevitable to the weight of eighty-three years, you have been spared to witness the complete triumph of your postal principles, to receive acknowledgments from the State, and honours from your Sovereign. Detractors and obstructors you have outlived, or they only survive to swell the ranks of those who applaud. May your remaining days be consoled by the thought that your name and services can never be forgotten, and may the sunset of your life be brightened by the reflection that you have been permitted to become one of the greatest benefactors of mankind.” It was a touching sight how the old man was moved by this, the last honour, that he was to receive in his life-time from his fellow-countrymen. The tears streamed down his venerable face, and he was scarcely able to utter a word. I stood close by him, and I heard him say, “I cannot listen to it as I ought.” When the address was finished he could only say, “I wish it were in my power to thank you.” His son had to read his answer. More than once he was distressed to see the members standing while their Chamberlain was addressing him. “It would be a relief to me,” he said, “if you would sit down. I cannot bear to see you standing.” This is a trifling matter in itself, but it had its rise in that tender and anxious thoughtfulness for others which I had so often marked in him. Before leaving the house I went once more up to his room, and through the open door gazed at the man whom I had so honoured. I did not venture to break on his repose by going in. He had on his face a look of great peacefulness. That which should accompany old age was indeed on that day seen to accompany him. I never saw him again.
His strength failed daily, and it was soon seen that the end was not far off. In the beginning of July death seemed close at hand, but he rallied once more. Happily his sufferings were at no time very severe. His mind often wandered, and at last he sank into a state of stupor. For hours he lay motionless, giving no signs of life but by his quiet breathing. His aged wife sat holding his beloved hand in hers. He gave one last sign that he was still of this world. He felt for her wedding-ring—that ring which he had put round her finger more than fifty years before. Finding it, he knew whose dear hand it was that he was holding, and with one gentle pressure he showed that the love that he had always borne her from the beginning he bore her to the end. He never moved again. He died on the 27th day of August, in the year 1879. Hitherto this day had always been held a festival in our family; for on it his brother Arthur had, for eighty-one years, kept his birthday.