As soon as the sentence was pronounced, I was taken to the ceils under
the court. Captain Mason, the governor, said there was another prisoner
to go down besides me and Adams. It was a case of felony. He said 'Would
I go with him?' i replied 'I would not.' He then asked if I 'objected to
go with Adams.' That I cheerfully agreed to, and, handcuffed with Adams,
I walked down to the gaol. Having taken nothing since morning but a
little raspberry vinegar, with which Mr. Carlile supplied me, I began
to feel weak, but nothing was offered me except a little warm water, for
which I asked, and this, with a very hard and bitter apple, constituted
my supper. The transition from the excitement of the court to the
darkness and coolness of the night-cell, made me feel as if going into a
well, and my supper not serving to compose me, I continued restless till
the morning.
Next day I felt so weak that I could scarcely stand upright. About
twelve o'clock Mr. Bransby Cooper and the Rev. Samuel Jones came round.
When Mr. Cooper saw me, he said, 'Why, Holyoake, I did not know you
yesterday.'
'Why, sir?'
'You did not seem to be the same person you were before.'
'In what respect was I different?'
'Before you were so gentle and submissive, but yesterday there was so
much _hauteur_ about you.'
I answered, 'Here I had to endure your authority; in court I had to
defend my character and liberty. It was my turn yesterday, it is yours
again to-day.'
About the middle of the first day's imprisonment I was startled by the
sonorous voice of the street cryer, passing near the walls of the gaol,
crying with a loud voice--'Howitt's correct list of all the cast, quit,
and condemned;' and specifying, with marked emphasis, far above that
bestowed on two cases of _wilful murder_, the case of George Jacob
Holyoake, for uttering certain Blasphemous words against God, and of and
concerning the Christian Religion.' The above words and specification
are to be found in the said 'Correct List,' which a turnkey bought for
me at my request, and which I still have. On the second morning after
my sentence, I was sitting by the (very little) fire in the common room,
contemplating, with very critical air, a can of somewhat indifferent
gruel, which I had not the slightest disposition to eat, when the prayer
bell rung, which did not at all improve my temper. Where the gaol was
situated, I enjoyed such a propinquity to dock bells, basin bells,
cathedral bells, and gaol bells, that had I been inclined to _rebel_,
it would have chimed in with the others. Upon the aforesaid prayer bell
ringing, all my fellow-prisoners made a rapid escape. I could not tell
what had become of them. Over my head was a large grating, for the
convenience of gaolers overlooking the room. Down this grating there
came a tremendous voice, shouting 'Holyoake! Holyoake! Holyoake!' The
voice belonged to Ogden, a man whom Carlyle would have delighted to
honour. Nature made him for a gaoler. Looking up, I said 'What do you
want?'
'Did you not hear that bell?'
'Yes,' I said; 'what of that?'
'All the other prisoners are gone to prayers.'
'Well, let the poor devils go, if they like it.'
'I can't be talked to in this way,' he roared out, in his surliest
tones; 'you must go.'
'I am afraid that is a mistake of yours.'
'Don't you know where you are?'
'Yes; I'm in Gloucester Gaol, sitting over a can of very bad gruel.'
'Don't you know you are a prisoner?' 'Oh! yes; I am quite sensible of
it.'
'Well, you must do as the others do, and you must go to prayers.'
'Then you must carry me.'
'I'll report you to the clergyman.'
'Give the clergyman my compliments, and say I'm not coming to prayers.'
He stalked away with the air of one whose dignity was greatly outraged.
During the time of this colloquy prayers were suspended, and the
clergyman was waiting my arrival in order to begin. As soon as prayers
were well over, an order came for me--'The clergyman wanted me.'
'Well, Mr. Holyoake,' he said, when I met him, 'how is it you did not
come to prayers?'
I answered, 'You cannot expect me to come to prayers; you imprison me
here on the ground that I do not believe in a God, and then you would
take me to chapel to pray to one. I cannot prevent your imprisoning me,
but I can prevent your making me a hypocrite, and must.'
'But if you attended the ordinances of grace, it might lead you to
believe in the Christian religion.'
'I should be very sorry for that.'
'Really me--how can you say so, sir?'
'Because I should be very sorry to treat those who differ from me as you
treat me.'
'You do not understand us. It is not you we persecute--it is your
opinions.'
'Then I wish you would imprison my opinions, and not me.' Here he
turned to refresh himself by looking at the rules for the regulation
of prisoners in Gloucester gaol. He resumed--'But you must attend
prayers--it's the rule of the gaol.' 'I must do what I must do, I know;
but, if I do that, I must be carried into chapel every morning, and that
will not edify the remainder of your congregation. What can I do if
I go? I could not say, "O Lord, I have erred and strayed like a lost
sheep." You see yonder gratings? I'm not likely to err and stray, for
the next six months, beyond those bars.' 'Ah! that is not what we mean.'
'Then what do you mean? Can I join with those men in saying, "O Lord,
who hath given us grace with one accord to make our common supplications
unto thee," when I shall make no supplications, unless I am forced to
it? You know the prisoners only go because the turnkey is behind them?'
Then I showed him the passage, 'We have done those things which we ought
not to have done,' &c, and asked him what I had done, or had the chance
of doing, wrong, since I came there? At this he was puzzled a little,
and he at last answered--
'Ah! but we think there is a divine influence in prayer, which might
operate upon you.'
'Not in this place,' I answered, 'where it is so much contradicted by
your practice. I will agree to this, that when on Sundays you preach,
and I may hear something new, I will come.'
He ended the colloquy after a very Christian manner, by saying, 'Well,
if you don't come to prayers, you shall be locked up.'
I answered, 'Well, sir, give your orders.' I need scarcely say this was
done, in one form or other, to the end of my imprisonment. Sometimes
I was locked in my sleeping cell, but generally in the day room; but
I found it more agreeable than the litany, and I never asked for any
alteration. I went to chapel only on Sunday (the preaching day), but
never to the week-day prayers.
Offensive regulations were often sought to be applied to me. One was
an attempt to make me wear the prison dress. I said I preferred my
own clothes. The answer was, the rules were imperative, and they must
enforce them. I inquired whether they had any spare time on their hands,
for it would be necessary to dress me every morning. My answer was
reported to the magistrates, and I heard no more of the project.
Out of doors much is said against passive resistance, but in prison it
is the only resistance possible, and is often very effective, If you
speak or act, you are at the mercy of those in whose power you are. Take
any aggressive step and your gaoler knocks you down, or locks you up in
a moment. But if you simply will not do a thing, if without bluster or
bravado you leave it to them to make you do it, or to do it themselves,
they often find it of rather awkward accomplishment. To carry me
to prayers or to dress me every morning was far more offensive and
troublesome to them than breaking my head, so they left me alone.
Old Mr. Jones, the magistrate, paid me frequent visits. One day he took
me to the door, and pointing upwards, asked, 'did I not see there
proofs sufficient of the existence of a God?' I answered, that 'when the
boundless expanse of the skies had been before me I had been unable to
think so, and now the few square feet, which the high walls of the gaol
permitted me to see, were still less likely to inspire me with that
conviction.'
A little reflection ought to have shown these gentlemen, who made these
appeals to me, that the time and place were both inauspicious in which
to address to me such interrogatories. Indeed it was offensive, and on
more than one occasion I told them, that having undertaken to compel my
acquiescence with them by imprisonment, I could never divest myself of
the conviction that it was superfluous to pretend to win me by argument.
The last visit Mr. Jones paid was to read me a psalm. As on my trial I
had complained of the discourtesy of their calling me a fool, the old
man was particularly anxious to justify himself. He found what seemed to
him a favourable opportunity in the circumstance that a German scholar
had at this time published a new translation of the Psalms of David. As
I had spoken favourably of German theologians, he concluded that this
one would have weight with me. He brought down the book, summoned the
whole class of prisoners, and we stood twelve or eighteen in a row.
Proclaiming attention, he said he wished to read to us, and particularly
to me, the 14th Psalm. Reading aloud the first verse where David
observes 'the fool hath said in his heart there is no God,' Mr. Jones
said, 'Now, Holyoake, you complained that we called you a fool--you
see David says you are a fool.' The old man looked round with an air of
triumph, which was considerably moderated when I gently but distinctly
observed that 'I no more liked rudeness in the mouth of David than
in the mouth of a magistrate.' My fellow-prisoners glanced around in
consternation at my audacity, and expected to hear me ordered into the
dark cell, but old Mr. Jones turned round, shut up his book, and walked
away without saying a word, and I never saw him afterwards.
The next day I wrote to the Board of Magistrates to say that 'if
visiting magistrates continued to question me before other prisoners,
where the discipline of the gaol forbade adequate reply, I should refuse
to answer.' In future I was always called out by myself and spoken with
alone.
Before my trial the same Mr. Jones told me that my friend, Mr. Richard
Carlile, had died in London a very horrible death, recanting all his
principles before he expired, and urged me to take warning by his
example and do the same. Shortly after Mr. Jones was surprised to meet
Mr. Carlile in the corridor of the gaol bringing me refreshments, which
his experience assured him I needed. And it was not the least part of
my pride on the day of my trial that he sat near me from morning till
night, encouraging me by his presence, and assisting me by his wisdom.
After my conviction he vindicated me assiduously through the press,
addressed to me public letters, and wrote to Justice Erskine and Sir
Robert Peel, threatening to renew his former war against the Church if
my situation was not ameliorated--a very curious species of recantation
it must be confessed, but a fair sample of the usual death-bed 'scenes'
which the pulpits relate.
My company as a prisoner was not of a very agreeable kind, I had to
listen to recitals of depravity such as I never heard before, and do
not wish to hear again. But this was not all. Sometimes a companion was
filthy as well as wicked. One man sent in among us had the itch, and
before I found it out he had held me by the wrists in some accidental
wrestle--which misfortune might have subjected me to a taste of prison
discipline which few will be able to imagine.
When the surgeon finds that a prisoner has this disease he makes no
remark, but shortly after, the man is called out by the turnkey, whom
he has to follow through various corridors to remote cells at the top
of the gaol, near the gallows. Upon entering one, he is told to take
off his clothes. As soon as he is in a state of nudity, his clothes
are taken away, and locked up. He is then shown a cask filled with
brimstone, grease, and other mixture, of the consistence of pitch,
and quite as offensive to the sight. With this he is made to smear
his entire person over; when this is done, he is left locked up in the
place. All he finds about him is a bed on which are two blankets, in
which hundreds, smeared as he is, have lain before. When no longer able
to endure the cold, he may lie in this place. Thick and chilly, these
disgusting coverings adjust themselves to the body when softened by the
warmth, where, without caution, the liquid will run into the eyes and
the mouth. Here he remains some days and eats the uncut food which is
brought to him as well as he can with his filthy fingers.
Such is the description of a process of cure (as I gathered from
several whose experience I heard narrated), to which I might have been
subjected, if, when I discovered pustules on my wrists similar to those
on the infected man, I had not kept from the observation of the surgeon
while they remained. My habit of daily ablution, and some medicine I
procured, saved me from more than temporary discomfort. I need scarcely
add, that had such a cure been attempted on me, I should have had to
be carried to the place, and the application must have been effected by
force.
After some weeks' imprisonment, and when I had had sufficient
opportunity of noticing the disposition of the authorities, and
estimating the treatment to which I was to be subjected, I addressed the
following, slightly abridged--
Memorial of George Jacob Holyoake, prisoner for Blasphemy* In Gloucester
County Gaol, to Sir James Graham, her Majesty's Secretary of State.
Sir,--At the recent Gloucester Assizes your memorialist was sentenced by
Mr. Justice Erskine to six months' imprisonment for the alleged offence
of blasphemy.
Since that period he has been confined in the common gaol and fed on
convict gruel, bread, rice, and potatoes. It is true your memorialist
is allowed the privilege of purchasing, to some extent, better food,
but his imprisonment renders this privilege valueless, without the
assistance of friends, upon whom are the claims of his family left
dependent by his incarceration.
Under these circumstances your memorialist applied to the surgeon of the
gaol for other diet; by the surgeon he was referred to the governor;
by the governor to the visiting magistrates, and by the visiting
magistrates back to e surgeon, who subsequently has _recommended_,
though not prescribed, better diet: but from the recommendation of
it, your memorialist concludes that in that gentleman's opinion it
is necessary. Two other surgeons whom your memorialist consulted on
entering his prison warned him that a generous diet was absolutely
requisite, and the decay of your memorialist's health is a testimony of
its truth.
He prays for other regulations than those under which he sees visitors.
They have always to stand, sometimes to talk through the bars of a gate,
and are permitted to stay but a few minutes. As your memorialist is far
from his friends, these rules continually prevent him seeing them, and
receiving those attentions to his wants he otherwise would.
He wishes permission to remain up in an evening until the hour of the
debtors' retiring (9 o'clock), or at least to be allowed the use of
a light in his cell, in which he is confined from twelve to fourteen
hours, and during the winter he will be so shut up sixteen hours and a
half. Thus much time will be lost your memorialist could employ upon
a little mathematical speculation.** which would afford him the
gratification of contributing himself to the support of his family.
* I always said 'Prisoner for Blasphemy' in all my
communications, and directed my friends so to address me, to
which the magistrates objected. But if I was to be written
to at a gaol, I preferred to be known as a prisoner for
opinion rather than as a prisoner for crime.
** Mentioned to prevent the supposition on the part of Sir
James that the time would be employed in writing blasphemy,
which would be fatal to the application.
As every newspaper sent your memorialist is retained by the governor,
your memorialist prays the liberty of reading them.
The visiting magistrates have said they should have no objection to
grant what your memorialist asks, had they the power; and hence he prays
the exercise of your authority on his behalf.
As custom attaches little weight to the opinion of a prisoner, it
becomes not your memorialist to speak of his own case, but trusts he
may with propriety refer to it as one in which he believes will be found
little that is aggravated. Seduced in the warmth of debate to express
his honest opinion on a religious question, young and inexperienced, he
took not the hypocrite's crooned path, nor the dissembler's hidden way,
but unwarily uttered language disingenuousness would have concealed
or art have polished, and became in consequence the ready victim of
Christianity. Criminal without intention, punishment brings with it
no consciousness or guilt, and hence that which in other circumstances
would be light, is, in his, a bitter infliction.
George Jacob Holyoake.
Sir James gave me permission to remain up till 9 o'clock after I had
been three months in prison. But for the concession it required an
effort to be grateful, for it was a permission to remain up without fire
and without light. For unless I could pay for fire and light, I had to
go without. Whether Sir James Graham intended this, I have no means of
knowing; he probably expected that the magistrates would not interpret
his order as a privilege to sit up in the cold and in the dark, which
would be a greater punishment than going to bed. But they did put this
construction upon it. As Sir James did not mention fire and light, they
refused to supply them.
Mathematical studies were impossible, for the authorities also refused
to allow me my instruments, lest I should commit suicide with them; but
I had provided for that, as every man should who goes to gaol. There was
just width enough in my cell to admit of the heavy iron bed-frame being
raised on one end. By marking a circle round one of the legs, which I
did with a fragment of stone, I determined the place on which the leg
would fall when the frame was pulled down. My head once placed on that
spot, the great weight of the frame would have sent the narrow leg
through the brain, and death must have been instantaneous. I am no
friend of suicide, and had a thousand reasons for living; but I had
not been long in gaol before I saw many things to which none but the
degraded or the weak would submit--and lest they should come to my turn,
I provided against them.
About this time an event occurred in my family which converted my
imprisonment into an unexpected bitterness. Against that 'love abroad
which means spite (or indifference) at home,' I early set my face.
Between me and Eleanor, my wife, there always existed an understanding
as to the risks I ran in my free speaking. Whatever consequences fell
upon my own head alone, I had myself only to please in incurring: but
those which affected others, I had no right to invoke, without their
consent--and this consent I always sought from my wife, in any special
case which arose. At our marriage, Eleanor very well understood that
my life somewhat resembled a soldier's, and that it would often include
duties and dangers not compatible with perennial fireside comfort Nor
did she object to this, and I have had the sweet fortune always to be
left to do whatever I should have done, had I been single and childless.
On my saying, on the imprisonment of Mr. Southwell, first editor of the
_Oracle_, that it was my duty to take his place, Eleanor replied--'Do
what it seems your duty to do, and I and the children will take care
of ourselves as well as we can. When they grow up, I trust they will
contemplate with little satisfaction any advantage they might have
enjoyed at the expense of their father's duty. We can leave them no
riches, but we may at least leave them a good example, and an unsoiled
name.'
It was therefore that when I came to leave home, to go to my trial, all
was calm and cheerful as usual, though there was much around to suggest
uneven thoughts. On that day no one came to accompany me or to spend an
hour of solace with those from whom I parted. Had there been a single
friend present to have made up the appearance of society after I was
gone, the loneliness would have been less bitter. As I left the house I
heard that cry break forth which had been suppressed that it might
not sadden my departure. Before I had proceeded far up Windsor Street,
Ashted, I was arrested by Madeline's silvery voice calling 'good bye,
dada,' and turning round I saw her large bright, black eyes (which every
body praised) peering like two stars round the lintel of the door. I am
glad I did not then know that I should never hear that voice again, nor
see those bright eyes any more. To turn the attention of mankind in an
atheistical direction may do harm to some. The propagation of all
new views does harm, more or less. As in commercial speculations much
capital is sunk before any returns come in, so in the improvement of
the people, you sacrifice some old feeling which is good, before the
new opinion, which is better, can be created. But all the new opinions
I have at any time imbibed have never produced so much harm in me as
the prudential doctrines of Political Economy. The doctrine that it is
disreputable in the poor to have children, is salutary, no doubt--but
it requires to be enforced under limitation. To regard the existence
of your little ones as an expense, and the gentle love of children as
a luxury in which you cannot indulge without reproach, is to sour life,
dry up affection, and blight those whose tender years should be passed
in a perpetual smile of joy. To look into the face of your child and
feel that the hand of death, which shall hush that gentle voice, pale
those rosy cheeks, and quench those animated eyes--is a political
blessing, is horrible. I look back with mute terror on the day when I
was under the influence of those feelings. I cannot dwell upon it. I
would burn all the books of Political Economy I ever read (and I think
it the science of many blessings) if I could feel once more on my knee
the gentle hand of my child from whom I parted that day, too stoical to
shed a tear.
After a few weeks of my imprisonment had passed away, hint--words came
of Madeline's failing health. Out of some money sent by my private
friends, John Fowler and Paul Rodgers, of Shefield, to buy better food
than the gaol afforded, I saved a guinea and sent it to Birmingham to
purchase Madeline a winter cloak--it was spent in buying her a coffin.
Though of perfect health and agility, she was one of those children
who require entire preservation from exposure, want, or fatigue. On ten
shillings per week, which was all that the Anti-Persecution Union could
provide, this could not be done, as Eveline, then in arms, left her
mother no opportunity of increasing that small income. Cold succeeded
cold, when want of more means caused them all to go to live in a house
ill ventilated, and where several were ill of fever, which soon attacked
Madeline.
Mr. Chilton sent me several intimations to prepare for the worst, should
it happen. But I could not believe in the worst happening, and indeed
I had yet to realise what the worst implied. At length one morning
the heavy corridor door grated on its harsh hinges, and the morose
turnkey--fit messenger of misery--put a letter into my hand. As it had
been, as usual, broken open--for there is no feeling, not even that of
affection and death, respected in a gaol--Ogden knew its contents,
and in justice to him I must say he endeavoured, as well as one whose
ability lay in his moroseness could, to speak a word of apology and
sympathy. The strangeness and awkwardness of the attempt drew my
attention to the fatal black border, which gave me sensations such as I
never received before and never shall again, for the first death of one
dear to you, like that of the first love, brings with it a feeling which
is never repeated. I remember that some prisoner came and covered me
with a coat, for I had walked into the yard without one. Captain Mason
and two friends came round, but I could not speak to them. He addressed
a few words to me, but I turned away.
Then Madeline had died the death of the poor; she had perished among the
people who know neither hope nor comfort, a pledge that I shall never
forsake those with whose sad destiny one so dear to me is linked. Though
in the death of poverty there is nothing remarkable, though hundreds
of children are daily killed off in the same way, yet parents unused to
this form of calamity find in it, the first time, a bitterness which can
never be told. The ten shillings per week income of the family was made
up by small subscriptions by some who knew me, and by a few outside
who happened to think useful the course I had taken. One or two friends
whose professions had beforetime been profuse, Eleanor met. They were
cold, or to her they seemed so. She thought they feared a continued
acquaintance might lay them under some tax to contribute to her support.
This she could never bear. Offering her hand to one who did not take
it, she went home, and nothing induced her to subject herself to such
suspicion any more. A quick and enduring sense of independence, which no
privation could disturb, was an attribute in her character I had always
admired, and this dreadful form of its operation I have never been able
to censure. The Roman mother put on the armour of her son as he went
out, and saw him brought home dead from the fight without weakness: but
in that case, the strife of arms, the glory of victory, the sublimity
of duty, and the applause of the senate, were so many supports to the
mother's heroism; but harder far is it for a mother to bend over her
child day by day and night after night, and see relentless death eat
like a canker into the bud of the damask cheek of beauty, and be too
poor to snatch it from the tomb--and this with no trumpet note, no clang
of arms to drown the dying scream, no incense of glory to raise
the sinking heart, no applause of a generous people to reward the
sacrifice--without one soul near who could penetrate to the depth of
that desolation, and utter those words of sympathy which is all which
humanity can do to soothe in the face of death. There were indeed those
near who might have done so, but some could not comprehend this grief,
and others, for reasons of Political Economy, 'did not see the good of
regret' at a child dying, and they will learn from these pages for the
first time that these wounds existed which, after eight years, are still
fresh.
There are homesteads that have witnessed deeds That battle fields, with
all their bannered pomp, Have little to compare with. Life's great play
May, so it have an actor great enough, Be well performed upon a humble
stage.
'My dada's coming to see me,' Madeline exclaimed on the night of her
death, with that full, pure, and thrilling tone which marked her when
in health. 'I am sure he is coming to night, mama,' and then remembering
that that could not be, she said 'write to him, mama, he will come to
see me;' and these were the last words she uttered--and all that remains
now is the memory of that cheerless, tireless room, and the midnight
reverberation of that voice which I would give a new world to hear
again.
For her father, he was debating in incoherence the vain proposition as
to whether he could prevail on the Governor to let him go home for
one night to smooth and watch over that dying pillow, and he would
cheerfully and gratefully have expiated the privilege by six or twelve
months' additional imprisonment.
O liberty! whom the nations welcome with triumphant shouts, Whom all to
whom the world owes its progress have worshipped--over how many graves
hast thou walked! Rising with the morning's dawn, making all people
radiant with thy presence, the poet thrills as thy chariot is borne on
the tarn's golden beams, and he hails thee as a goddess, and blesses
thee as a bride, and sings of thy triumphs and benefactions! But those
who serve thee--who make their lives a sad and desert waste that thy
pathway through the world may be unobstructed--who kneel to thee in
their dungeon-churches and pour out the incense of life's young warm
blood at gibbet-altars: they know thee by thy gory garments dripping
with the blood of the father and the tear of the orphan, and the
desolation which precedes thy progress. The anthems of thy march are
hollow voices from Siberia's mines, and Vinceanes' cells--the wail of
women under the Russian knout, the groans of Konarski and the whistle
of bullets which slay the Bandiera and Blum--thy trophies are the fresh
graves of Hungary and Rome, thy throne is on a hecatomb of earth's
noblest and bravest sons. Yet art thou still sacred in the eyes of man.
Queen of Genius and Progress! emblem of that suffering through which
Humanity is purified and developed! Thou hast trodden on the grave of
my child, and I worship then still, although thou mayst yet tread on my
own.
Yes, though I neither hope--for that would be presumptuous--nor expect
it, seeing no foundation, I shall be pleased to find a life after this.
Not a life where those are punished who were unable to believe without
evidence, and unwilling to act in spite of reason--for the prospect of
annihilation is pleasanter and more profitable to contemplate: not a
life where an easy faith is regarded as 'easy virtue' is regarded
among some men--but a life where those we have loved and lost here are
restored to us again--for there, in that Hall where those may meet who
have been sacrificed in the cause of duty--where no gross, or blind, or
selfish, or cruel nature mingles, where none sit but those whom human
service and endurance have purified and entitled to that high company,
Madeline will be a Hebe. Yes, a future life, bringing with it the
admission to such companionship, would be a noble joy to contemplate.
But Christianity has no such dream as this.
On making arrangements for the burial, at the Birmingham Cemetery,
the clerk asked whether they should provide a Minister, or whether the
friends of the deceased would do so? The answer was--'A minister was not
desired. 'Then I presume,' the clerk observed, 'you mean that you will
provide one yourselves?' The answer again was, 'we do not require one at
all. Please send the beadle merely.'
On the day of the interment the beadle attended as requested. He was
instructed to conduct the burial party direct to the grave; and not into
the chapel, which he did without remark: and when the coffin, plain but
pretty, without tinsel or angels, was lowered, each threw a bouquet
of flowers in, and when the grave was made up they returned home. Thus
Madeline was buried, as became her innocence and her fate, without
parade, without priest, or priestly ceremony. Had hesitation been
displayed, or previous inquiries been made as to whether what was done
could have been permitted, no question but that a priest would have
been inflicted, as at the grave of Carlile and others--for Christianity,
always officious and rude to the dissentient, is never more so than
when opposition is paralysed by agony on the bed of death, or hushed in
speechless sadness by the side of the grave.
As it would only be painful to Mrs. Holyoake, I never wished her to
visit me; but after the death of Madeline she desired it, and she
brought little 'Eveline' (a name given to her in lieu of her own because
of its similarity to Madeline.) On this occasion Mr. Bransby Cooper sent
to say that the magistrates' Committee-room, an elegant and cheerful
apartment, should be at my service, at Mrs. Holyoake's visit. Mr. Cooper
was the first of the magistrates to send a message of condolence on the
death of Madeline, and in this instance his kindness was delicate and
generous. As on the day Mrs. Holyoake came the magistrates happened to
hold a meeting in it, an apology was sent me, and the Lodge placed at my
service. No turnkey was sent in, and I was permitted to see my friends
with an air of perfect freedom. My sister Caroline, who was one of the
party, brought me a present of wine and cigars. As both were forbidden
by the rules of the gaol, I declined to touch them. As I was trusted
without restraint, I was doubly anxious to respect a liberty so
generously conceded. Had they set a watch over me, I should have had
less scruple, and perhaps have thought it a merit to defeat their
suspicions.
Captain Mason, the governor, was a study--a type of the gentleman,
official, and conventional, whose qualities were instructive. Bland,
imperturbable, civil, and firm, he was never weak and never rude.
Among the uneducated, all decisive action is announced in commotion or
bluster. The gentleman is never in a hurry, never in a contention. If
you annoy him, are rude to him, impose upon him, or menace him, perhaps
he quietly indicates his opinion of the impropriety, perhaps his
resolution is taken without. He avoids you. His defence is prevention.
Renewal of offence, renewal of intercourse, chance of altercation or
repetition, is simply impossible. Such was Captain Mason. I watched
his manners with pleasure--he governed the gaol like a drawing room,
excepting that the _desserts_ were not quite the same. I saw rude
men baffled, they could not make out how. Possibly he had nerves and
sensibility, but these articles were not in common use. They were kept
under lock and key, and never brought out in the routine of official
duties. As blandly and courteously as he wished me good morning, he
would have conducted me to the gallows, had instruction to that effect
reached him. He would have apologised for the inconvenience, but he
would have hung me while I was saying 'pray don't mention it.'
Excepting in one transaction our intercourse was unruffled. When I
had left the gaol, a prisoner (the Master of a Post Office) the
only gentleman on my side of the prison, addressed to me a letter of
accusation against the governor--an act which made me a participator
in his sentiments. As it passed through the governor's hands, he wrote
under the name the crime and sentence of the writer--a brief and bitter
retort. I reenclosed the letter to the writer with a note to Captain
Mason, observing that on leaving the gaol I had expressed to him the
only opinion I entertained of him, and I should regard it as unmanly to
be a party to reproaches which I did not see reason to address to him in
person. He wrote me back, with a soldier's honourable frankness, that 'I
had always behaved honourably in my intercourse with him, and he did not
believe I would do an unmanly thing.'
The exceptional transaction with the Captain referred to was this.
One of my fellow-prisoners was an epileptic man, whose ignorance and
irritability, more than any crime, had led to his imprisonment. As I
kept a sort of school in our common room, and taught a few things to
those about me who were disposed to learn, I had become interested in
Upton, a humble and unhappy man, who learned at grammar anxiously. Some
nights he would fall out of bed in an epileptic fit, and lie groaning
on the stone floor for an hour or more together. It was in vain that
we shouted to the turnkeys. They who can hear a man think of escaping,
cannot hear when he breaks his neck. Upton representing that a little
tobacco, to which he had been accustomed, would save him from the
frequency of these fits, I procured him some. Smoking it one day in a
corner, in a paper pipe made for the purpose out of one of my letters,
the governor came upon him through a side door. Upon being asked how
he procured it, he answered, 'From a man who had just come in from the
Sessions.' This the governor did not believe. At night Ogden made
an immense speech at me, in which that luminous functionary inserted
several elephantine hints, to the effect that he knew the source whence
the aforesaid tobacco came. It was a treat to hear Ogden hint; it was
like a hippopotamus putting his paw out, or kicking a man down stairs.
As soon as I could get to speak to Upton, I prevailed upon him to allow
me to write to the governor, tell him the truth, and take the blame upon
myself, reminding Upton that a good man might be surprised into a lie,
but only a bad man would persist in one. The retaliation of the governor
was refined and vindictive. Instead of ordering me into a dark cell
on bread and water for two or three days, which was the authorised
punishment, he ordered two gates to be locked between me and my
visitors, so that those who spoke were obliged to shout to me. This he
continued, with slight variation, to the end of my imprisonment. This
deprived me of the pleasure of seeing ladies who called, as I would
never consent to see them under circumstances of so much humiliation.
Captain Mason had had previous proof that my professions might be
trusted. When first imprisoned, the reader perhaps remembers I was
kept (though on my way home after a journey) a fortnight while the
magistrates played at bail. When at length they signified their
intention of accepting it, Captain Mason took me, through the city, to
Bransby Cooper's house, where the bail-deed was to be completed. On our
way I asked him if it would be necessary for me to take an oath, before
my own bond could be accepted, as I should object to take an oath? He
turned round and replied--'Why, Holyoake, as you don't believe in any of
the Gods, you could have no objection to swear by them all.' I explained
to him that if the Magistrate would regard my oath as a mere ceremony,
by which I rendered myself liable to penalties in case of violated truth
or failure in my bond, I would take the oath readily, if all the Gods of
the Pantheon were in it: but if it were regarded as a profession of my
religious faith, I would not take it. It was better that I should go
back to gaol, than to make a profession of belief which would mislead
others. I told Mr. Cooper the same when we reached his house. He,
however, said my signature would do.
One day I concluded a dialogue with my chaplain upon the principle
of reciprocation, i. e. of retorting his language upon himself, and,
I think, not without utility, for he never afterwards fell into that
insensible arrogance of speech so common among pastors. On the occasion
referred to, he began--'Are you really an atheist, Mr. Holyoake?'
'Really I am.'
'You deny that there is a God?'
'No; I deny that there is sufficient reason to believe that there is
one.'
'I am very glad to find that you have not the temerity to say that there
is no God.'
'And I am very sorry to find that you have the temerity to say there is
one. If it be absurd in me to deny what I cannot demonstrate, is it not
improper for you to avert so dogmatically what you cannot prove?'
'Then where would you leave the question of atheism?'
'Just where it leaves us both. 'It is a question of probability.' 'Ah!
the probabilities in favour of atheism are very few.'
'How know you that? Did you ever examine the question without prejudice,
or read that written in its favour without fear? Those who dare not look
at all never see far.'
'But if the atheist has so much on his side, why does he not make it
known? We do not keep back our evidences.'
'Has the atheist an equal opportunity with you? Is it generous in you
to taunt him with lack of evidence, when you are prepared to punish its
production?'
'The reason is that your principles are so horrible; as Robert Hall has
said, 'Atheism is a bloody and ferocious system.'
'Permit me, sir, to return that gentle speech--to tell you that your
principles are horrible, and that Christianity is a bloody and ferocious
system.'
'Really I am shocked to hear you speak so dreadfully of Christianity.'
'Why should you be shocked to hear what you are not shocked to say?'
'But atheism is so revolting.' 'But Christianity is so revolting.'
'How dangerous is it for atheism to corrupt the minds of children.'
'How pernicious is it for Christian doctrines to corrupt the thoughts of
infancy.'
'But you are only asserting.'
'Are you doing otherwise? I sometimes think that Christians would be
more respectful in their speech if the same language could be applied to
them with impunity which they apply to others.'
'But, my dear sir, the language of the atheist is so shocking to
Christian feeling.'
'And, my dear sir, has it never occurred to you that the language of the
Christian is shocking to atheistical feeling?'
'Atheists have a right to their opinions, I allow, but not to publish
them.'
'I shall think you speak reasonably when you permit the same rule to be
applied to the Christian.'
'But you really cannot be an atheist?'
'And you say this who have been a party to imprisoning me here for being
one! If you believe yourself, go and demand my liberation.'
'Ah! when you come to die you will wish that you were a Christian.'
'Can it be that I shall wish to hold a creed that I distrust--one
that leads me to deny another the liberty I claim for myself? If to be
capable of looking back with satisfaction on conduct like this is to be
a Christian, may I never die the death of the righteous, and may my last
end never be like his.'
As the general treatment pursued towards me did not work an satisfactory
conversion, some attempts were made by gentler means. Taken one day
into a sleeping cell for privacy, one who had the power to fulfil his
promises passed in review the casualties of a life like mine, and asked
whether I had not better change it. Thinking I was seduced by some
attraction which belonged to my position, he suggested how fickle a
thing was popularity, and how soon the applause of friends might die
away, or change with the growth or refinement of my conviction, into
suspicion or even hate. Had I not better accept the editorship of a
paper, where I should not be required to contradict, but merely to avoid
advocating my views? Had I not better accept a school in a retired part
of the country---a girls' school also might be given to Mrs. Holyoake,
and our joint incomes would ensure competence, respectability, and
usefulness? I answered, 'I think you have mistaken me. The opinions I
defended are also my convictions; and thinking them useful, it seems my
duty to propagate them, and the discharge of this duty is more serious
in my eyes than you suppose; nor do the inducements you picture exist.
Do you not see that I am nearly friendless? I am without even the
attentions of those from whom I have some right to expect it. Except
Mr. Farn, Mr. Watts, and Mr. Campbell, none of my colleagues among the
Social Missionaries have written me a friendly word. The editor of the
_New Moral World_, upon whose protection I have some claim, has written
no word in my favour. The only public defence for which I am indebted
has come from strange papers, and unknown men. Even Mr. Owen, the
advocacy of whose opinions involved me in this prosecution, he who
occupied the largest share of my veneration, has not even recognised my
existence by a single line. This affair may have made some noise, but
I am not so young as to mistake noise for popularity, nor so weak as
to think popularity the one thing needful. Popularity, is to be won by
those who can flatter the public, but that estimation which is alone
worth having is only to be won by the service of the people, and that is
not the work of youth but of life. That which you call my cause is yet
in an infantine state. It has no attractions but the rude ones of daring
and truth. It requires to be divested of antagonism, and developed in
its relations to political and social interests and personal character.
This must be the work of time, and judging from the present, it will
be a work of difficult and precarious effort. At present we number no
public friends of wealth or influence. We have every thing to gain--yet
the comparative affluence you offer would be a canker to my peace, while
it was the price of duty evaded. My self-chosen faith, presumptuous
and thorny, will be sweeter to walk. It is enough that you see I am not
misled by its attractions. Now I tread these floors with a proud step,
and meet your eye with unblenched brow, because it is necessary to show
you that in defence of my opinions I feel neither fear nor guilt--but
when I walk from this place into the wilderness of the world, my steps
will falter and my face will pale, because my path will lie over the
grave of my child.'
All I remember farther is that my tempter made a few not unfeeling
remarks, and led me back in silence to my usual cell.
The final efforts for my conversion were on this wise. The Rev. Mr.
Cooper sent for me, a few days before my liberation, and asked me
to follow him to the chapel. Arrived there, he ascended the pulpit,
motioning me to a prisoner's pew without even asking me to be seated. My
neck was stiff with a severe cold, and I was as ill able as ill disposed
to be catechised. I stood leaning on the spikes--not inapt emblems of
such Christian love as I had there been made acquainted with. The good
Chaplain prayed--I did not move. He looked at me to catch my eye--I kept
mine fixed on the spikes. He addressed me--I made no sign. He spoke some
minutes--still I remained motionless. He paused and asked what I thought
of his representations--I answered no word. He seemed to think he
was making a favourable impression. He resumed, and came to another
peroration, and again besought me to answer--still no motion, no word
from me. He began a third time, and touched all serious topics which he
could command, and came again to an elaborate peroration on deathbeds;
and as I remained still silent and immovable, he said, somewhat
perplexed this time, 'Holyoake, won't you speak?' I then answered 'Not
while we occupy these places. Do you not preach to me and place me
here where prisoners stand? I take this to be a ceremony, and not a
conversation.' He walked down from his pulpit and asked me to accompany
him, when he took me into several cells till he found one warmed with
hot air, and asked would I speak with him there on friendly terms? I
answered, 'with pleasure;' and there we conversed for the last time. I
troubled him to repeat his arguments, as I would not admit that I had
attended to a word. When he had done, I briefly assured him that my
experience there had not created in me any desire to be a Christian:
he had brought before me no new evidences, and as it had been found
necessary to enforce those I knew before by penal reasons, the operation
had rather diminished their weight in my estimation.
He professed himself anxious to 'present me with a Bible'--a fact which
I knew was destined to make a figure in the next Gaol Report to the
County Magistrates; I therefore resolved to have one worth acceptance,
or not one at all. When he brought to me the usual prison copy, I
respectfully declined it, I said, a thin copy bound in calf, in pearl
type, with marginal references, would be interesting to me, but the
dumpling-shaped book he offered, I could never endure in my library.
He deliberated--the trade price of the Bible he offered me was
about tenpence, that I desiderated would cost him half a guinea. The
reflection was fatal. The Bible never came, and the evangelical fact
that 'The prisoner George Jacob Holyoake was presented with a copy of
the Holy Scriptures before leaving the gaol, which it is hoped, under
the Divine blessing, will be the means of bringing him to the knowledge
of the truth'--was never recorded.
About this period I saw the magistrates for the last time. There seemed
to be a full Board of them, and Mr. Bransby Cooper was in the chair.
Before withdrawing I addressed Mr. Cooper, and said--'As in a short time
I shall leave this place, I wish, before doing so, to express to you
my sense of the kindness and consideration shown me by you when Mrs.
Holyoake visited me here. It is one of the few things I shall remember
with pleasure when again at liberty. You will not, I fear, believe in
the possibility of one of my opinions feeling gratitude, but I will at
least assure you of it.' The answer he made was a compensation for much
that I had experienced. In that loud voice in which he usually spoke, he
exclaimed--'Yes, I will say this, that I believe you, Holyoake. I don't
believe that you could be a hypocrite.'
One day a magistrate, described to me as the Hon. and Rev, Andrew Sayer,
sent me a copy of Paley's works, requesting my particular attention to
his Natural Theology. 'Did I put into your hands,' I said, addressing
that gentleman, 'an atheistic work, you would tell me of the
contamination you dread; and may I not plead the same risk in perusing
your theistical book? But, as all in the search after truth must venture
through phases of error, I shall not hesitate to comply with your
request; and that you may be certain that I do so, you may, when I have
ended, put to me any question upon the contents you please.' It happened
that my examination resulted in my writing 'Paley Refuted in his Own
Words.' When Mr. Sayer came to ask me what conclusions I had come to
on the books he had lent me, I made this answer to him--* Sir, I
am surprised at your asking me this question. Does it become you, a
clergyman and a magistrate, to ask me to commit crime?'
'What do you mean?' he inquired.
'I mean this,' I replied, 'that in having punished my last expression of
opinion as a crime, by bringing me here, it does not become you to put
religious inquiries to me again.' He seemed confounded; and on this
occasion I showed him, that while Christianity punished as crime the
expression of dissentient opinions, Christians were disqualified from
seeking the state of any man's thoughts with respect to religion. Unless
one volunteers explanations, Christians have plainly no right to demand
them. They put themselves out of the pale of ordinary privilege.
Writing 'Paley Refuted' and the 'Short and Easy Method with the
Saints'--a title suggested by 'Leslie's Short and Easy Method with the
Deist,' another book put into my hands by the authorities--occupied me
till the end of my imprisonment. On the 15th of February, 1843, I was
liberated; and three days after (having paid visits of acknowledgment to
my friends in Gloucester, Cheltenham, and Worcester) I rejoined (what I
might then term the remains of) my family in Birmingham.