harmony, concurred in sanctioning the Separate system, if the Boston
Prison Discipline Society had not raised a persistent note of discord,
which has gone on with a most unmusical _crescendo_. As the solitary
champion of an imperfect system which the world is renouncing, it
has contended with earnestness, which has often become prejudice,
and with insensibility to accumulating facts, which was injustice.
With frankness, as with sorrow, we allude to the sinister influence
it has exercised over this question, particularly throughout the
Northern States. But the truth which has been proclaimed abroad need
not be delicately minced at home. We do not join with the recent
English writer, who, among many harsher suggestions, speaks of the
"misrepresentation," the "trickery," the "imposture"[124] of the
Society or its agent,--nor with Moreau-Christophe, who says, "_La
Société des Prisons à Boston a juré haine à mort au système de
Philadelphie_";[125] for we know well the honesty and sincere interest
in the welfare of prisoners which animate its Secretary, and we feel
persuaded that he will gladly abandon the deadly war which he wages
against the Separate system, when he sees it as it is now regarded by
the science and humanity of the civilized world. But we feel that his
exertions, which in some departments of Prison Discipline have been
productive of incalculable good, for which his memory will be blessed,
on this important question have done harm. In his Reports he has never
failed to present all the evil of the Separate system, particularly
as administered in Philadelphia, sometimes even drawing upon his
imagination for facts, while he has carefully withheld the testimony in
its favor. This beneficent system and its meritorious supporters are
held up to obloquy, and the wide circle that confided implicitly in his
Reports are consigned to darkness with regard to its true character and
its general reception abroad.
[124] Adshead, pp. 127, 129.
[125] Revue Pénitentiaire, Tom. II. p. 589.
One of the most strenuous advocates of the Separate system at the
present moment, whose work of elaborate argument and detail now lies
before us, is Suringar, called sometimes the Howard of Holland, who
had signalized himself by previous opposition to it. He says, "I am
now completely emancipated from my former error. This error I do not
blush to confess openly. The same change has been wrought in the
opinions of Julius in Prussia, of Crawford in England, of Bérenger
and Demetz in France, and of all men of good faith, who are moved, in
their researches, only by the suggestions of conscience, unswayed by
prejudice or pride of opinion." Perhaps in these changes of opinion the
Secretary of the Boston Prison Discipline Society may find an example
which he will not be unwilling to follow; and it may be for us to
welcome him as a cordial fellow-laborer in the conscientious support of
what he has for a long period most conscientiously attacked.
From this rapid survey it will be seen that our convictions and
sympathies are with the Separate system. Nothing in Prison Discipline
seems clearer than the general duty of removing prisoners from the
corrupting influence of association, even though silent. But we are not
insensible to the encouragement and succor which prisoners might derive
from companionship with those struggling like themselves. It was a wise
remark of the English Professor, that "students are the best professors
to each other"; and the experience of Mrs. Farnham, the matron of
the female convicts at Sing-Sing, shows that this same principle is
not without its effect even among classes of convicts. Perhaps the
Separate system might be modified, so as to admit instruction and labor
together, in a small class, selected after a probationary period of
separation, as specially worthy of this indulgence and confidence. Such
a modification was contemplated and recommended by Mr. Livingston, and
would seem to find favor with Von Raumer in his recent work on America.
This privilege can be imparted to those only who have shown themselves
so exemplary that their society seems to be uncontaminating. But it
remains to be seen whether there is any subtile alchemy by which their
purity may be determined, so as to justify a departure from the general
rule of separation.
Finally, we would commend this subject to the attention of all. In
the language of Sir Michael Foster, a judge of eminence in the last
century, "No rank or condition of life, no uprightness of heart, no
prudence or circumspection of conduct, should teach any man to conclude
that he may not one day be deeply interested in these researches."
There are considerations of self-interest which may move those who
do not incline to labor for others, unless with ultimate advantage
to themselves. But all of true benevolence, and justly appreciating
the duties of the State, will join in effort for the poor prisoner,
deriving from his inferior condition new motives to action, that it may
be true of the State, as of law, that the very least feels its care,
as the greatest is not exempt from its power. In the progress of an
enlightened Prison Discipline, it may be hoped that our penitentiaries
will become in reality, if not in name, Houses of Reformation, and that
convicts will be treated with scrupulous regard for their well-being,
physical, moral, and intellectual, to the end, that, when they are
allowed to mingle again with society, they may feel sympathy with
virtue and detestation of vice, and, when wiser, may be better men.
In the promotion of this cause, the city of Boston at this moment
occupies a position of signal advantage. It has determined to erect a
new county jail, and the plans are still under consideration. It is
easy to perceive that the plan it adopts and the system of discipline
it recognizes will become an example. No narrow prejudice and no
unworthy economy should prevent the example from being such as becomes
a city of the wealth, refinement, and humanity of Boston. It is a
common boast, that her schools and various institutions of beneficence
are the best in the world. The prison about to be erected should share
this boast. _Let it be the best in the world._ Let it be the model
prison, not only to our own country, but to other countries. The rule
of separation, considered of such importance among the ripe convicts of
the penitentiary, is of greater necessity still in a prison which will
receive before trial both innocent and guilty. From the first moment he
is touched by the hand of the law, the prisoner should be cut off from
all association, by word or sight, with fellow-prisoners. The State,
as his temporary guardian, mindful of his weakness, owes him this
protection and this means of reformation.
The _absolute separation_ of prisoners, so that they can neither see,
hear, nor touch each other, is the pole-star of Prison Discipline. It
is the Alpha, or beginning, as the reformation of the offender is the
Omega, or the end. It is this principle, when properly administered,
which irradiates with heavenly light even the darkness of the
dungeon, driving far away the intrusive legion of unclean thoughts,
and introducing in their vacant place the purity of religion, the
teachings of virtue, the solace of society, and the comfort of hope.
In this spirit let us build our prisons. The jail will no longer be a
charnel-house of living men; the cell will cease to be the tomb where
is buried what is more precious than the body,--a human soul. From
their iron gates let us erase that doom of despair,
"All hope abandon, ye who enter in,"
and inscribe words of gentleness, encouragement, love.
THE EMPLOYMENT OF TIME.
LECTURE BEFORE THE BOSTON LYCEUM, DELIVERED IN THE FEDERAL STREET
THEATRE, FEBRUARY 18, 1846.
"I have lost a day," was the exclamation of the virtuous Roman
Emperor,--"for on this day I have done no good thing." The Arch of
Titus still stands midway between the Forum and the Colosseum, and the
curious traveller discerns the golden candlesticks of conquered Judæa
sculptured on its marble sides; but this monument of triumph, and the
memory it perpetuates of the veteran legions of Rome and the twenty
cohorts of allies before whose swords the sacred city yielded its life
in terrible fire and blood, give not to the conqueror such true glory
as springs from these words,--destined to endure long after the arch
has crumbled to dust, and when the triumph it seeks to perpetuate has
passed from the minds of men. That day was not lost. On no day wast
thou so great or beneficent as when thou gavest this eternal lesson
to man. Across the ages it still reaches innumerable hearts, even as
it penetrated the friendly bosoms that throbbed beneath its first
utterance. The child learns it, and receives a new impulse to labor and
goodness. There are few, whether old or young, who do not recognize it
as more than a victory.
If I undertake to dwell on the suggestions of this theme, it is because
it seems to me especially appropriate to the young, at whose request
I have the honor of appearing before you. My subject is the Value of
Time, and the way in which it may be best employed. I shall attempt
nothing elaborate, but simply gather together illustrations and
examples, which, though trite and familiar, will at least be practical.
* * * * *
The value of time is one of our earliest lessons, taught at the
mother's knee, even with the alphabet,--"_S_ is a sluggard,"--confirmed
by the maxims of Poor Richard, printed at the end of almanacs, and
stamped on handkerchiefs,--further enforced by the examples of the
copy-book, as the young fingers first learn to join words together
by the magical art of writing. Fable comes in aid of precept, and
the venerable figure of Time is depicted to the receptive, almost
believing, imagination of childhood, as winged, and also bald on the
top and back of the head, with a single tuft of hair on the forehead,
signifying that whoso would detain it must seize it by the forelock.
With such lessons and pictures the child is trained. Moralist,
preacher, and poet also enforce these teachings; and the improvement of
time, the importance of industry, and the excellence of labor become
commonplaces of exhortation.
The value of time has passed into a proverb,--"Time is money." It is so
because its employment brings money. But it is more. It is knowledge.
Still more, it is virtue. Nor is it creditable to the character of
the world that the proverb has taken this material and mercenary
complexion, as if money were the highest good and the strongest
recommendation. Time is more than money. It brings what money cannot
purchase. It has in its lap all the learning of the Past, the spoils
of Antiquity, the priceless treasures of knowledge. Who would barter
these for gold or silver? But knowledge is a means only, and not an
end. It is valuable because it promotes the welfare, the development,
and the progress of man. And the highest value of time is not even in
knowledge, but in the opportunity of doing good.
Time is opportunity. Little or much, it may be the occasion of
usefulness. It is the point desired by the philosopher where to plant
the lever that shall move the world. It is the napkin in which are
wrapped, not only the talent of silver, but the treasures of knowledge
and the fruits of virtue. Saving time, we save all these. Employing
time to the best advantage, we exercise a true thrift. Here is a wise
parsimony; here is a sacred avarice. To each of us the passing day is
of the same dimensions, nor can any one by taking thought add a moment
to its hours. But though unable to extend their duration, he may swell
them with works.
It is customary to say, "Take care of the small sums, and the large
will take care of themselves." With equal wisdom and more necessity
may it be said, "Watch the minutes, and the hours and days will be
safe." The moments are precious; they are gold filings, to be carefully
preserved and melted into the rich ingot.
Time is the measure of life on earth. Its enjoyment is life itself.
Its divisions, its days, its hours, its minutes, are fractions of this
heavenly gift. Every moment that flies over our heads takes from the
future and gives to the irrevocable past, shortening by so much the
measure of our days, abridging by so much the means of usefulness
committed to our hands. Before the voice which now addresses you shall
die away in the air, another hour will have passed, and we shall all
have advanced by another stage towards the final goal on earth. Waste
or sacrifice of time is, then, waste or sacrifice of life itself: it is
partial suicide.
The moments lost in listlessness or squandered in unprofitable
dissipation, gathered into aggregates, are hours, days, weeks, months,
years. The daily sacrifice of a single hour during a year comes at its
end to thirty-six working days, allowing ten hours to the day,--an
amount of time, if devoted exclusively to one object, ample for the
acquisition of important knowledge, and for the accomplishment of
inconceivable good. Imagine, if you please, a solid month dedicated,
without interruption, to a single purpose,--to the study of a new
language, an untried science, an unexplored field of history, a fresh
department of philosophy, or to some new sphere of action, some labor
of humanity, some godlike charity,--and what visions must not rise of
untold accumulations of knowledge, of unnumbered deeds of goodness! Who
of us does not each day, in manifold ways, sacrifice these precious
moments, these golden hours?
There is a legend of Mohammed which teaches how much may be crowded
into a moment. It is said that he was suddenly taken up by an angel,
and borne beyond the naming bounds of space, where he beheld the
wonders of Heaven and Hell, the bliss of the faithful and the torments
of the damned in measureless variety, and was then returned to the spot
of earth from which he had been lifted,--all in so short a time that
the water had not entirely run out of the pitcher which he let fall
from his hands when he was borne upwards. But actual life furnishes
illustrations of greater point. It is related of a celebrated French
jurist, one of the ornaments of the magistracy, that he composed a
learned and important work in the quarter hours that draggled between
dinner ordered and dinner served. Napoleon directed one of his generals
to move on a battery of the enemy, although reinforcements were in
sight, saying, "It will take them fifteen minutes to reach the point;
I have always observed that these _fifteen minutes_ decide great
battles." In the currents of common life they are often as decisive as
in the heady fight.
It would be easy, from literary and political history, from the lives
of all who have excelled in any way, to accumulate illustrations of the
power of industry. Among those who have achieved what the world calls
greatness, the list might be extended from Julius Cæsar to Napoleon,
whose feats of labor are among the marvels of history. Nor should
we forget Alfred, the father of English civilization, whose better
fame testifies also to the wise employment of time. Our own country,
this very town, furnishes a renowned example in Benjamin Franklin.
Here I pronounce a name which has its own familiar echoes. His early
studies, when a printer's boy,--his singular experience of life in its
extremes,--sounding in childhood all the humilities, as in maturer
years he reached all that was exalted in place,--the truant boy become
a teacher to the nations, and pouring light upon the highest schools of
science and philosophy, touching the throne with hands once blackened
by types and ink,--all this must be present to you. His first and
constant talisman was industry. The autobiography in which he has
recorded his progress in knowledge is a remarkable composition, where
the style flows like a brook of transparent water, without a ripple on
its smooth surface. Perhaps no single book has had greater influence
in quickening labor and the rigid economy of time, overcoming all
obstacles, among those whose early life has been chilled by penury or
darkened by neglect. But we must qualify our praise. It cannot fail
to be regretted that the lessons taught by Franklin are so little
spiritual in their character,--that they are so material, so mundane,
so full of pounds, shillings, and pence. "The Almighty Dollar," now
ruling here with sovereign sway and masterdom, was placed on the throne
by Poor Richard. When shall it be dethroned? When shall the thoughts,
the aspirations, the politics of the land be lifted from the mere greed
of gain, with an appetite that grows by what it feeds on, into the
serene region of inflexible justice and universal benevolence? Could
we imagine the thrift, the worldly wisdom, the practical sense, the
inventive genius of Franklin, softened, exalted, illumined, inspired
by the imagination, the grace, the sensibility, the heavenly spirit
of Channing, we should behold a character under whose influence our
country would advance at once in all spiritual as well as material
prosperity,--where money should not be the "main chance," but truth,
justice, righteousness, drawing in their train all the goods of earth,
and reflecting all the blessings of heaven. Then would time be the best
ally of man, and no day would pass without some good thing done.
Among the contemporaries of Franklin in England, unlike in the
patrician circumstances of his birth, education, and life, most unlike
in his topics of thought and study, but resembling him in the diligence
and constancy of labor marking his career, was Edward Gibbon, author of
the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. He also has
left behind an autobiography,--in style and tone how unlike the simple
narrative of Franklin!--where in living colors are depicted the labors
and delights of a scholar's life. This book has always seemed to me,
more than any other in the English language, calculated to enkindle the
love of learning, and to train the student for its pursuit. Here he
will find an example and guide in the various fields of scholarship,
who will challenge his admiration in proportion as he shares the same
generous aspiration. The autobiographies of Gibbon and Franklin are
complements of each other. They teach the same lesson of labor and
study in different spheres of life and to different classes of minds.
Both have rare excellence as compositions, and constitute important
contributions to that literature which illustrates the employment of
time.
There is another character, of our own age, whose example is, perhaps,
more direct and practical, especially as described by himself: I mean
William Cobbett. To appreciate this example, you must know something of
his long life, from early and inauspicious youth to venerable years,
filled always with labors various, incessant, and Herculean, under
which his elastic nature seemed to rise with renewed strength. He
died in 1835, supposed to be seventy-three years of age, although the
exact date of his birth was never known, and such was the position he
had acquired that he was characterized at that time, even by hostile
pens, as one of the most remarkable men whom England, fertile in
intellectual excellence, ever produced. The lapse of little more than
ten years has begun to obscure his memory. It will be for posterity to
determine whether he has connected his name with those great causes
of human improvement which send their influence to future ages, and
are destined to be the only consideration on which fame hereafter will
be awarded or preserved. But the memory of his labors, and the voice
of encouragement to the poor and lowly which sounds throughout his
writings, must always be refreshing to those whose hopes of future
usefulness are clouded by discouragement and poverty. There can be none
so humble as not to derive succor from his example. He was conscious
even to vanity of his own large powers, and at the close of his long
career surveyed his succession of labors--the hundred volumes from his
sleepless pen, and the wide influence they had exercised--with the
self-gratulation of the miser in counting his stores of gold and silver.
The son of a poor farmer, at the age of twenty he ran away from
the paternal acres, and became for a short time copying-clerk to a
lawyer, but, tiring soon of these duties, he enlisted in the army and
found himself private in a regiment at Chatham, which was ordered to
America. His merit soon raised him to the rank of corporal, and then
of sergeant-major. At this time he saw his future wife and the mother
of his children. The circumstances of this meeting, as described by
himself in his own peculiar style, belong to this picture, while
they illustrate the subject. "When I first saw my wife," he writes,
"she was thirteen years old, and I was within a month of twenty-one.
She was the daughter of a sergeant-major of artillery, and I was the
sergeant-major of a regiment of foot, both stationed in forts near the
city of St. John, in the province of New Brunswick. I sat in the same
room with her for about an hour, in company with others, and I made up
my mind that she was the very girl for me. That I thought her beautiful
is certain, for that I had always said should be an indispensable
qualification; but I saw in her what I deemed marks of that sobriety
of conduct of which I have said so much, and which has been by far the
greatest blessing of my life. It was now dead of winter, and of course
the snow several feet deep on the ground, and the weather piercing
cold. It was my habit, when I had done my morning's writing, to go
out at break of day to take a walk on a hill at the foot of which our
barracks lay. In about three mornings after I had first seen her, I
had, by an invitation to breakfast with me, got up two young men to
join me in my walk, and our road lay by the house of her father and
mother. It was hardly light, but she was out on the snow, scrubbing
out a washing-tub. 'That's the girl for me!' said I, when we had got
out of her hearing."[126] To her he plighted faith. After eight years
of service in the army, and his return to England, he obtained his
discharge and married her.
[126] Life, pp. 44, 45.
In 1792 Cobbett came to the United States, living in Philadelphia,
where he was bookseller, publisher, author, and libeller by profession.
As "Peter Porcupine" he is well known. He shot his sharp and malicious
quills at the most estimable characters,--Franklin, Jefferson,
Gallatin, Priestley, and even the sacred name of Washington. A heavy
judgment for libel hanging suspended over him, he fled from America,
and from the justice he had aroused, to commence in England a fresh
career of unquestioned talents, unaccountable inconsistency, and
inexhaustible malignity.
On his arrival in England Cobbett attached himself warmly to the
interests of Mr. Pitt, in whose behalf he wielded for a while his
untiring pen. At the same time he commenced business as bookseller, in
which he soon failed. In politics he showed himself more Tory than the
most Tory. Mr. Windham, in the House of Commons, made the remarkable
declaration, that "he merited a statue of gold."[127] His Letters on
the Treaty of Amiens produced a sensation throughout Europe.[128] The
celebrated Swiss historian, Von Müller, pronounced them more eloquent
than anything since Demosthenes. How transitory is fame! These Letters,
once so much admired, which, with profane force, helped to burst open
the Temple of Janus, happily closed by peace, are now forgotten. I do
not know that they are to be found in any library in this part of the
country.
[127] Speech, August 5, 1803: Hansard, XXXVI. 1679.
[128] Letters to the Right Honorable Lord Hawkesbury and to the Right
Honorable Henry Addington, on the Peace with Buonaparté; to which is
added an Appendix. London, 1802.
It was at this period that he commenced his "Weekly Political
Register," which for more than thirty years was the vehicle of his
opinions and feelings. But the pungent Toryism with which he began his
career was changed into a more pungent Liberalism; from the oil of
Conservatism he passed to the vinegar of Dissent. He saw all things
in a new light, and with unsparing criticism pursued the men he had
recently extolled. His Ishmael pen was turned against every man. He
wrote with the hardihood of a pirate and the ardor of a patriot. At
length he was convicted of libel, and sentenced to pay a fine of a
thousand pounds and to be imprisoned for two years. This severe
incarceration he never forgave or forgot. With thoughts of vengeance
he emerged from his prison to unaccustomed popularity. His "Register,"
into which, as into a seething caldron, he weekly poured the venom of
his pen, reached the unprecedented circulation of one hundred thousand,
an audience greater than was ever before addressed by saint or sinner.
The soul swells in the contemplation of the good that might have been
wrought by a spirit elevated to the high purpose, having access to so
many human hearts. His pen waxing in inveteracy, and himself becoming
daily more obnoxious to the Government, in 1817, by timely flight, he
withdrew from the threatening storm, and sought shelter in the United
States, where he lingered, principally on Long Island, till 1819, when
he wandered back to England, there to renew his strifes and ruffle
again the waters of political controversy. As late as 1831, he was, for
the eighth time in his life, brought into court on a charge of libel.
The veteran libeller, then seventy years of age, defended himself in a
speech which occupied six hours. The jury did not agree,--six being for
conviction and six for acquittal.