there. There he lost his beloved son Harry; then his wife departed; and
trials which exceeded even these put his Christian acquiescence to the
fullest proof. To an intimate friend he writes, "From how much trouble
has my wife been relieved! She had a great mind, but the events that
have taken place since her death would have affected her deeply. My
trials, now towards the close of life, are as great as I can bear,
though I doubt not that a wise and good Providence overrules all events,
and I have daily a more habitual respect to it. Nothing else could
support me.... We are frail, imperfect beings, and our faith is at best
but weak, and requires to be strengthened by reading and reflection. I
never omit reading, and I do it with more satisfaction than ever, a
considerable portion of scripture every day, and by this means my mind
is much relieved."
This is not the device of the devotee, the refuge of the disappointed
man, who takes to religion as the only resource left him. This is the
declaration of a philosopher, whose youth and whose riper years were
given to the close study of the book which was now the pillow of his
age.
I know not how it may appear to persons less familiarized than myself
with the spirit of the man and the eloquent moderation of his language,
but I have always regarded the letter on the death of his son Harry as
an exquisite revelation of a healthy mind in sorrow:--
"TO THE REV. T. LINDSEY.
"Northumberland, Dec. 17, 1795.
"Dear Friend,
"I think that, in my last of the 7th instant, I mentioned Harry's
being indisposed, in consequence, we imagined, of his attending his
limekiln in the night. It proved to be a more serious illness than
we or the physician imagined. He grew worse till the 11th, when he
died, it is now almost certain, of an inflammation and mortification
of the stomach. Having had little or no apprehension of danger till
near the time of his death, the shock, you may suppose, was very
great; and, being the first event of the kind, I am affected more
than I thought I should have been, though I have unspeakable
consolation in believing that nothing can befall us without the
appointment of the best of Beings, and that we shall meet our
departed children and friends in a better state.
"He had recovered from an ague which was common in this part of the
country this summer; but, after this, he had frequent colds from
exposing himself to cold and wet, and not taking proper care of
himself afterward, which certainly laid the foundation of his
subsequent and last illness.
"Had he been bred a farmer, he could not have been more assiduous
than he was. He was admired by everybody for his unremitting labour,
as well as good judgment, in the management of his business, though
only eighteen years old. With respect to his ardour in his pursuits,
he was more like what I was at his age than any of my children,
though our objects were very different. He was strictly virtuous,
and was uncommonly beloved by all that worked under him; and it was
always said that he was better served than any other farmer in this
country. He had a sense of honour and generosity which, I am sorry
to say, is not common here. I hope, therefore, that he had the
foundation of something in his character on which a good
superstructure may be raised hereafter. We thought his temper, and
even his looks, altered for the worse by the severe illness he had
at Hackney; but it is remarkable, that some time before his death
(as his mother, who never left him, says), and very visibly
afterward, he had the same sweet, placid, and even cheerful
countenance that he had when he was young; much like that of his
sister, whom, at that time, he greatly resembled. I never saw the
countenance of a dead person so pleasing; and so it continued till
he was buried. Even this seemingly trifling circumstance gives me
much satisfaction. I know you and Mrs. Lindsey will excuse my
writing so much about myself and family. I could not write so much
to anybody else.
* * * * *
"My wife is much affected, as you will suppose, by the death of
Harry; but, at the same time, discovers proper fortitude. By her
constant attendance upon him she has made herself ill, but seems to
be getting better."[8]
Footnote 8: Rutt's Life, Correspondence, and Works of Priestley,
vol. i., part ii., p. 327.
This is the man whom Johnson dared to execrate. At a chymical lecture he
knit his brows, and was displeased with the lecturer for citing so often
the discoveries of Dr. Priestley. When excuse was made that chymical
lectures could not be faithfully given without citing Priestley's
discoveries, "Well," said the moral Johnson, "I suppose we must give
even the devil his due." Thus may even great men revile greater,
denouncing those to whom it would be well for them to kneel.
There are some who are as blind to Priestley's merits as Johnson,
without half his excuse. Before I went to America I was aware that the
Unitarians there, who ought to know everything about the apostle of
their faith who took refuge in their country, were so far in the dark
about him, as that they misapprehended his philosophy, and
misrepresented its tendencies in a way and to a degree which seemed
irreconcilable with the means of information within their reach. I knew
that Dr. Channing's celebrated note on Priestley remained unretracted,
though rebuked on the spot[9] with much spirit and tenderness by a then
young divine, who better understood the Christian sage. I knew that the
tendency of this sect in America to lean upon authority, with some other
causes, must indispose them to do justice to Priestley. But, till I was
among them, I had no idea that it was possible for those of them who
were not ignorant of the character of the philosopher to allow their
fear and dislike of some of his convictions to render them so insensible
as they are to the majesty of the man. They themselves would deny the
insensibility, and point to this and that testimony to Priestley being a
well-meaning man, which may be found in their publications. But facts
show what the insensibility is. Dr. Channing speaks of him now in a tone
of patronage, admitting that he is under obligations to him for one or
two detached sermons which breathe the true spirit. Another clergyman
puts forth a small volume of selections from Priestley's works, with an
apologetical preface, which states, that whatever Priestley's doctrines
and writings may have been as a whole, there are portions which may be
picked out for people to profit by. Such facts show that the character
and mission of the man are not understood. Priestley was, above most
men, one who came at a right point of time to accomplish a particular
service; to break up the reliance on authority in matters of opinion and
conscience, and insensibly to show, in an age when prejudice and denial
were at fierce war, how noble and touching is the free, and fervent, and
disinterested pursuit of truth. His character is to everlasting; but his
writings are, for the most part, suitable to only a particular position
of affairs, a critical social state. Those who, like the Americans, are
unprepared for--alienated from--his philosophy, and who are remarkable
for their dependance on authority in matters of opinion, cannot possibly
sympathize with Priestley's convictions, and a full appreciation of him
ought not to be expected of them. But they had better, in such a
position of circumstances, let his works alone. It is not necessary or
desirable that they should study writings to which no impulse of
sympathy or admiration leads them; but it is most desirable that they
should not speak and write apologetically and patronisingly of one of
the largest-minded and most single-hearted of sages. In the transition
which the religious and philosophical society of America has to make
from reliance on authority to a state of individual research and
conviction, the philosopher may or may not yet become an apostle to
them. In their present condition he cannot be so. The warmest friends of
both see that it cannot be so. They only desire that his reputation
should be left unvisited as his remains; and that, while no traveller is
drawn aside from his path to seek the philosopher's tomb, no
presumptuous hand should offer to endorse his merits, or push the claims
to partial approbation of one who was created to command reverent
discipleship; reverent discipleship in the pursuit of truth, if not in
the reception of doctrine.
Footnote 9: In the "Christian Disciple."
The first point of my travels fixed in my intentions was the retreat of
Priestley, and my pilgrimage thither was accomplished within a few weeks
after I landed. From Pittsburg we crossed the Alleghanies by the road
through Ebensburg, and in four days reached Youngmanstown, eighteen
miles from Northumberland. We breakfasted at Lewisburg on the 11th of
November, and were very glad to leave behind us the most fretful stage
company we were shut up with in all our travels. We crossed the
Susquehanna in peace and quiet; and could freely enjoy our meditations,
as every mile brought us nearer the philosopher's resting-place. I wish
I could communicate to others of his disciples the harmony between the
scenery and the man which now exists, and ever will exist, in my own
mind. Priestley himself wrote, "I do not think there can be, in any part
of the world, a more delightful situation than this and the
neighbourhood;" and I revolved this in my thoughts as I gazed upon the
broad, shoaly, and gleamy river bordered with pines, and the swelling
hills and sloping fields which sometimes intervened between us and the
river. The morning was one of lustrous clouds and mild gleams, and the
whole scene was of the tranquil character, and dressed in the soft light
which is most accordant with the mood of those traversing the scenery
with such reasons as mine. I was full of stronger emotions than when I
found myself in sight of the spray of Niagara. There is nothing so
sanctifying as the ideal presence of the pure in spirit; and not all the
thronging images of what Niagara had witnessed since the earliest
worship of an extinct race was paid there, before the ancient empires of
the earth were heard of, affected me so much as the thought of the sage
who came hither to forgive his enemies and hope all things for the
world, in the midst of his hourly privations and daily regrets.
Abrupt wooded rocks dignify the river banks near the town; and nothing
can be much more beautiful than the situation of the place, in the fork
of the Susquehanna. The town itself, however, would delight an
improvement-hater. It has scarcely advanced at all since Priestley's
time. Some of the inhabitants complain that this stagnation is owing to
the want of enterprise among their capitalists; but there would be
enterprise there as elsewhere, if there was an average prospect of
reward. Others allege that the place is not healthy. It is certainly
subject to fever and ague, but the causes are thought to be removable.
Sunbury, on the other shore of the eastern branch of the river, is a
rival, a thriving competitor of Northumberland, but the growth of
neither is to be compared with that of most American towns. The only
interest connected with Northumberland still is its being Priestley's
city of refuge.
We were hospitably received at the clean little inn, and I presently
discovered that our hostess could give me more information about
Priestley than anybody else in the place. Her father had been intimately
acquainted with the philosopher; had been his confidant in his latest
and severest trials; and she herself remembered him well, and could
relate many little incidents which delighted me as giving life to
objects that were before my eyes. No words can convey the passionate
admiration, the devoted love with which this good lady spoke of him. A
power went out of him which melted his enemies, and converted those who
came with hatred into his presence; and it exalted the love of his
friends to the highest pitch that human affection can reach. "All that
I have formerly said of Dr. Priestley is nonsense," declared a stiff
religious bigot after an accidental interview with the philosopher. "I
have now seen him for myself, and you must let me see more of him." Our
good hostess told me how unequalled his preaching was, so simple, and
earnest, and tender, quite unlike any other person's preaching, and his
looks so bright: she dwelt on his goodness to his neighbours, and how
inexhaustible were his charities; so thoughtful, so steady, so
perpetual. She laughed again at the remembrance of his childlike gayety,
bursting out in the midst of his heart-soreness, and declared that he
was never long depressed; he was so sure that all was right in reality,
that he could never be dismayed at its seeming otherwise for a time. She
remembered that "he was much thought of when he first came," yet she
never felt afraid of him. She was present at the only time when he was
seen wholly overcome with grief, and will never forget the oppression of
heart, the anguish of seeing tears streaming down his face when no one
could do anything to help him. But her recollections of him are chiefly
joyous; of his eagerness about his philosophical pursuits; the cheerful
tone of his preaching; his sympathy with young people. Never was a
lovelier picture of old age given--of its virtues, nor, alas! of its
privileges--than by this affectionate observer. Her testimony is
confirmed by every other that exists. I saw the gentleman who was with
him when he received his Voltaic pile, and who told me how eagerly he
pointed out the wire dissolving, and made his friend take a shock in his
forefinger. All who conversed with him mentioned that his feelings
became more sensitive towards the end of his life; his eyes were
frequently seen to glisten in conversation, and he smiled oftener. A
gentleman, now well known as an unbeliever of the last degree of
bigotry, who shrinks with as much hatred and fear from the very mention
of religion as persons of an opposite character from infidelity, bore a
singular testimony to the state of Priestley's mind in his latter days.
This gentleman was observing to me that it was strange, considering how
irritable Priestley's temper was by nature, and that he died of a
harassing and depressing disease, that he was eminently placid during
the last few months of his life. I observed that his religion was of a
sustaining nature, being no superstition, but a firmly-grounded,
long-tried faith; and that the natural explanation of his tranquillity
was, that he was in a thoroughly religious state of mind. "Religious!
bless me, no!" cried the gentleman; "he was always very cheerful
whenever I saw him."
At the house of his grandson, cashier of the bank at Northumberland, I
saw a delightful portrait of him. It is from a copy of this picture that
the engraving in the "Gallery of Portraits," published by the Society
for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, is taken. The face and air are
worthy of the man; gentle and venerable. The philosopher's house we
found occupied by a judge and his lady, who are Quakers, while their
children are orthodox; but this double difference of religious opinion
does not impair their respect for the former inhabitant of their
dwelling. They preserve with an honourable reverence every vestige of
him and his pursuits. They show the willows that were planted in his
time in the garden, and have preserved the round hole he made in the
window-shutter of his study for the advantage of his optical
experiments, and even the bit of wainscot which he scorched with his
burning glasses. They took me to the corner of the library where he
breathed his last, and to the balustrade on the top of the roof where he
went up to meditate at eventide. It commands a beautiful prospect of the
course of the two branches of the Susquehanna, and of their junction.
Priestley's Hill is so called from its vicinity to the lands held by his
family. It is pleasant to know that he was possessed of abundance during
the last years of his life. His own wants were few, almost all his
expenditure being in charity and in his philosophical pursuits. He had
enough for these, and to settle his sons on good farms. No man bestowed
and accepted money with a better grace than he; his generous English
friends, who had the best reasons for being aware of this, had the
satisfaction of knowing that no pecuniary anxieties mingled with the
trials of his closing years.
The tombs of the three--of Priestley, his excellent wife, and his son
Harry--are in a family graveyard which is on the outskirts of the little
town, and some way from the family residence. It is walled round, and
has an iron gate. I was familiar with the account of Harry's funeral,
written at the time, and could not understand how it happened that he
lay in this place. It is clear, from the testimony of persons on the
spot, that his body had never been moved; and as the place of interment
is described as being woodland, we must suppose that the bare place
where he lies was within the verge of the forest in 1795. A resident in
the neighbourhood wrote thus: "I attended the funeral to the lonely
spot, and there I saw the good old father perform the service over the
grave of his son. It was an affecting sight, but he went through it with
fortitude, and, after praying, addressed the attendants in a few words,
assuring them that, though death had separated them here, they should
meet again in another and a better world."
How little did I think when, some years ago, I read and reread the
narrative of Harry's death--striving to extract from it something more,
and yet something more to throw light on the character of father and
son--that I should stand by that very grave and plant a rose upon it!
Few feet have wandered that way, and no hands seem to be busied about
those graves; but I was thankful to have been there among the first of
many pilgrims who will yet see the spot. For another pupil of the
philosopher's, whose homage I carried with my own, I planted a snowberry
on Priestley's grave. When that other and I were infants, caring for
nothing but our baby plays, this grave was being dug for one who was to
exert a most unusual influence over our minds and hearts, exercising our
intellects, and winning our affections like a present master and parent,
rather than a thinker who had passed away from the earth. Here I now
stood by his grave, listening to tales which seemed as fresh as if he
were living and walking yesterday, instead of having been wept before I
knew any of the meanings of tears.
The inscription on Priestley's tomb is singularly inappropriate: "Return
unto thy rest, O my soul, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.
I will lay me down in peace, and sleep until I awake in the morning of
the resurrection." Phrases from the Old Testament and about the soul on
the grave of Priestley!
I remained in the neighbourhood several days, and visited as many of the
philosopher's haunts as I could get pointed out to me; and when I was at
length obliged to resume my journey down the Susquehanna, it was with a
strong feeling of satisfaction in the accomplishment of my object. These
are the places in which to learn what are the real, in distinction from
the comparatively insignificant, objects of regard; of approbation and
hatred; of desire and fear. This was the place to learn what survived
of a well-exercised and much-tried man. He made mistakes; they are
transient evils, for others have been sent to rectify them. He felt
certain of some things still dubious; this is a transient evil, for he
is gone where he will obtain greater clearness; and men have arisen and
will arise to enlighten us, and those who will follow us. He exploded
errors; this was a real, but second-rate good, which would have been
achieved by another, if not by him. He discovered new truths; this is a
real good, and as eternal as truth itself. He made an unusual progress
towards moral perfection; this is the highest good of all, and never
ending. His mistakes will be rectified; the prejudices against him on
their account will die out; the hands that injured him, the tongues that
wounded him, are all, or nearly all, stilled in death; the bitter tears
which these occasioned have long since been all wept. These things are
gone or going by; they have reached, or are tending to the extinction
which awaits all sins and sorrows. What remains? Whatever was real of
the man and of the work given him to do. Whatsoever truth he discovered
will propagate itself for ever, whether the honour of it be ascribed to
him or not. There remain other things no less great, no less real, no
less eternal, to be reckoned among the spiritual treasures of the race;
things of which Priestley, the immortal, was composed, and in which he
manifestly survives; a love of truth which no danger could daunt and no
toil relax; a religious faith which no severity of probation could
shake; a liberality proof against prejudice from within and injury from
without; a simplicity which no experience of life and men could corrupt;
a charity which grew tenderer under persecution and warmer in exile; a
hope which flourished in disappointment and triumphed in the grave.
These are the things which remain, bearing no relation to country or
time; as truly here as there, now as hereafter.
These realities are the inheritance of those who sit at home as well as
of those who wander abroad; yet it may be forgiven to the weak, whose
faith is dimsighted and whose affections crave a visible resting-place,
if they find their sense of privilege refreshed by treading the shores
of the exile's chosen Susquehanna.
PRISONS.
"In the prison of Coldbath Fields, in which the silent system is
believed to be brought to the greatest degree of perfection, under
the management of a highly intelligent and able governor, who has at
his command every possible advantage for working the system, there
were in the year 1836 no less than 5138 punishments 'for talking and
swearing.'"--_Second Report of the Inspectors of Prisons of Great
Britain, 1837._
"Silence and Secrecy!... Do thou thyself but hold thy tongue for one
day; on the morrow how much clearer are thy purposes and duties!
what wreck and rubbish have those mute workmen within thee swept
away, when intrusive noises were shut out!"--_Sartor Resartus._
I have shown in my account of Society in America that, after visiting
several prisons in the United States, I was convinced that the system of
solitary confinement at Philadelphia is the best that has yet been
adopted.[10] So much has been heard in England of the Auburn prison, its
details look so complete and satisfactory on paper, and it is so much a
better system than the English have been accustomed to see followed at
home, that it has a high reputation among us. But I think a careful
survey of the institution on the spot must lessen the admiration
entertained for this mode of punishment.
Footnote 10: "Society in America," part iii., chap. iv.
The convicts are, almost without exception, pale and haggard. As their
work is done either in the open air or in well-ventilated shops, and
their diet is good, their unhealthy appearance is no doubt owing chiefly
to the bad construction of their night-cells. These cells are small and
ill-ventilated, and do not even answer the purpose of placing the
prisoners in solitude during the night. The convicts converse with
nearly as much ease, through the air-pipes or otherwise, at night, as
they do by speaking behind their teeth, without moving the lips, while
at work in the day. In both cases they feel that they are transgressing
the laws of the prison by doing an otherwise innocent and almost
necessary act; a knowledge and feeling most unfavourable to reformation,
and destructive of any conscientiousness which retribution may be
generating in them. Their anxious and haggard looks may be easily
accounted for. They are denied the forgetfulness of themselves and their
miseries which they might enjoy in free conversation; and also the
repose and the shelter from shame which are the privileges of solitary
confinement. Every movement reminds them that they are in disgrace; a
multitude of eyes (the eyes of the wicked, too) is ever upon them; they
can live neither to themselves nor to society, and self-respect is
rendered next to impossible. A man must be either hardened, or restless
and wretched under such circumstances; and the faces at Auburn are no
mystery.