The History Of The Last Trial By Jury For Atheism In England Part 11

'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 pa.s.sed 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 editors.h.i.+p 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 th.o.r.n.y, 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 a.s.sured 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 grat.i.tude, but I will at least a.s.sure 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 t.i.tle 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.

CHAPTER IV. AFTER THE LIBERATION

On rejoining my colleagues of the _Oracle of Reason_, I proceeded to issue an address to our readers. The substance of it, which was as follows, comprises some additional facts of my prison experience:--

'My Friends,--It is now six months since cut and hacked, "I fell," not merely in the language of the parable but literally, "among thieves." Of those who caused that contact, I am afraid I must say, as William Hutton said of an untoward sweetheart--"There was little love between us at first, and heaven has been pleased to decrease it on a further acquaintance." Christians profess to draw men to Jesus with "cords of love," but were it not for their judicious foresight in telling us that they axe "cords of love," few would find it out.

'To friends in Gloucester,* Cheltenham, Birmingham, London,** and other places, I owe many thanks for what has been contributed for my support, and for that of my family, during my imprisonment.

* To Gloucester two special acknowledgments are due. First to a young lady, the niece of the Innkeeper, in whose house I resided, when awaiting Trial, both at the sessions and a.s.sises. With no other knowledge of me than these occasions afforded, and with no prepossession in favour of my opinions, but simply from that generous sympathy women often display, she frequently brought me refreshments to the gaol, and was a medium of communication with my friends, and often answered inquiries of my family which the restrictions of the gaol sometimes rendered it impossible for me even to know. In the romance of incident, she afterwards became the wife of my friend Mr. Chilton. The other instance was that of Mrs. Price, a woman in humble circ.u.mstances, who, during the latter part of my imprisonment, brought me dinner every Sunday. Both Mrs. Price and her husband were utterly unknown to me.

** At the time of the death of Madeline, Mrs. Ralph Thomas, of London, sent to Mrs. Holyoake 3, subscribed by herself and personal friends.

For their attentions I believe no thanks were asked and none are wished.

Yet I am concerned to make acknowledgments, because a man always values highly the kindness he does not expect. When the words were spoken which led to my prosecution, I expected that the cautious would think that I had gone "too far"--that the prudent would think that I had been too rash--that my friends would be afraid for me, and that the timid would be afraid for themselves. But I held with Polydamus, that

To speak his thoughts is every freeman's right-- In peace and war, in council and in fight.

'And, what I regarded as greater than my right, I felt it to be my duty. Besides, my honour was concerned. I could not descend to that disingenuousness I had often counselled others to scorn. Hence, in the course I took, I did not think it necessary to calculate consequences; a man's true concern is with his principles, and not with his fate. I pretended to no public virtue, and I laid claim to no praise--I did no more than every man ought to do. That doing so little has been so rewarded by the exertions of many friends for my protection, I must be pleased--but had nothing been done, I trust I should have found pride in penury and satisfaction under neglect, in the reflection that I had discharged my duty and preserved consistency.

'When my memorial to Sir James Graham was returned to the magistrates for their opinion, they came to me, and Mr. Bransby Cooper stormed out with great violence--"You were sent here, sir, for punishment, and you have nothing else to expect. I consider you worse than the greatest felon in the gaol; you have been guilty of the most atrocious crime a man can possibly commit. I have told Sir James Graham what you deserve."

I knew that these magistrates were Christians. I was told they were gentlemen, but I thought them furies.*

* Yet such is the inconsistency of the Christian character when allied to a generous nature, that Mr. Bransby Cooper who, as a Christian, behaved with so much rudeness, had just before given instruction to the turnkeys to treat me with respect, with a view to save me from less harshness from other officials than that which, in other moods, he so plentifully inflicted on me himself.

'The prison diet was bread, gruel, and potatoes. On two days in each week boiled rice was subst.i.tuted for potatoes; and after I had been in prison nine weeks I was, by the rules, allowed a small portion of salt beef on Thursdays and Sundays. As this fare is deemed in Gloucesters.h.i.+re a famous specific for the cure of atheism, it may not be out of place to explain its virtues. The gruel was little remarkable for its delicate flavour and little celebrated for its nutritious qualities, and known by the luxurious cognomen of "skilly." The rice had a blue cast, a saline taste, and a slimy look. The beef I could not often taste, seldom chew, and never digest--I should say it was rather _leather_ mode than _a la mode_. The whole of the food could only be taken by a ploughman's appet.i.te, and only be digested by a navigator's stomach.

'The indirect occasion of my prosecution was the editors.h.i.+p of the _Oracle_. When Mr. Southwell was apprehended no Social Missionary came forward to continue his paper, although many of them were better qualified to do so than myself. Socialism had always attached great importance to freedom of expression, and Socialism's advocates had been styled "apostles of freethought." Knowing this, I felt that it would be a dishonourable reflection should any one refuse personally to support what he was known publicly to approve. Had Mr. Fleming been placed in Mr. Southwell's situation, and had he been of opinion that I could have defended his violated liberty by taking his place, I should have edited the _New Moral World_ as cheerfully as I did the _Oracle of Reason_.

When I speak of "freedom of speech" and "liberty for all," I know of no distinction between myself and those who differ from me--I see with an equal eye the Atheist and the Christian, the violent and the gentle, the dogmatic and the modest.

'That is true of Christianity which has been said of Catholicism, "Humane individuals may express their abhorrence of the sentiments of persecution--bodies of men, sections of the church itself, nay many of the dignitaries may abjure them, and protest that they have never acted upon them, nor ever will enforce them--yet all this will not avail to give a discerning man the smallest security for his liberty, his property, or his life; for as long as those intolerant decrees remain upon the statute book, they can at any time be revived." It therefore behoves everyone to set a guard over that liberty, for the loss of which no religion will ever compensate. The conviction should be permanent that Christianity is a fearful thing. But bad men may laud it--mistaken men may contend that there is some good in it--unthinking men may give currency to its terms--and weak men may connive at its delusions, but we ought to regard with different sentiments a system which tramples upon the feelings of humanity and the principles of liberty. Let us then secure the antidote--free expression of opposite opinion. Shall it be said that we are content to wear mental fetters? When Protestants, who dare never think without the Bible and Prayer Book, have shaken off the iron despotism of Catholicism--when Methodists and even Ranters have refused to submit their thoughts to be cut down to the Procrustean bed of conventional opinion--let not Christians mock at Freethinking pusillanimity and deride us as holders of craven principles. Not only for ourselves but for others are our exertions demanded. What patrimony has the poor man but his free thoughts? Industry will not save him from chill penury's grip, nor virtue from the poor-house grave--let us then preserve and perfect the humble inheritance of those who have no other.'*

In prison it is not _safe_ to make complaints. You are too much in the power of those around you to escape reprisals of a serious kind, but this did not deter me from what I conceived to be a duty, and which might make the future easier for others who might follow me in the same way. Besides the endeavours I had made within the prison, with a view to tolerable treatment, I addressed, on my release, the following letter to the editor of the _Cheltenham Free Press_--

'Mr. Editor,--As prisons and prison discipline have lately occupied much public attention, I am induced to offer to your notice a little recent experience in such matters. What I have written, I intended to have stated to a public meeting, but suffering from debility, which makes me glad to avoid excitement, I seek the calmer medium of your paper.

'I speak of Gloucester County Gaol. I believe the prison inspector is of opinion that the rules of that place are "_harsh and cruel_." Now, should a prisoner seek a partial exemption from their operation, the process he goes through is very curious. He applies to a turnkey--the turnkey answers, "my duty is determinate and my province clear; I cannot do it." Probably, he refers the prisoner to the surgeon. The surgeon is seen--he refers him to the governor, the governor refers him to the visiting magistrates--they reply, "we have no power to grant the request, Sir James Graham only can do that." Sir James Graham is memorialised, who, as is usual, answers, "The visiting magistrates best know what is proper--I only grant what they recommend." Any further application to them would be construed into a wilful annoyance, and the prisoner is fortunate who can sit down like Sterne's happy man--pleased he knows not why, and contented he knows not wherefore. Of course I blame no one, for there is no one to blame, and this const.i.tutes the beauty of the system.**

* Revised and abridged from the _Oracle_.

** It seemed to me useful to make applications for what I wanted in writing. It prevented mistakes, and afterwards admitted of proof. The governor used to come to me and say, 'Now, Holyoake, it is of no use sending this memorial.

It is sure not to be attended to, and he would so obligingly bestow upon me the treasures of his experience on the futility of the course I was pursuing, that at times it really did seem not only useless--but uncivil to persist. But I used to say, 'Captain Mason, I suppose you are right as to the result. That makes no difference, however, as to my duty; you may put my memorials in the fire, if you like, as soon as I have written them; still I will make the proper application to every officer and every authority, and deliver them to your care, as in duty bound.' I knew the Captain would not burn them--I knew more, I knew he dare not burn them. I knew, also, that each would be duly delivered to the proper party. Further I knew this, that if his dissuasions had deterred me from sending in my complaints, that when I left the prison the authorities would destroy every representation I might make, by saying 'If there had been anything wrong Holyoake would have complained, but as he has not done so, the aggravation he points out could not have existed, or could not have been grievous.' Foreseeing this I provided against it, and disregarding the refusal of my applications, I addressed them all round with scrupulous formality. The result was, that on my liberation I found myself in a position to defy contradiction in any allegations I had to advance; and though I published this letter immediately under the eyes of the magistrates, it was never contradicted.

Should I individualise, it would only be to say, that the governor is a gentleman of some excellent qualities, and some unintelligible conduct; that the surgeon possesses the _suaviter in modo_ without the _fort.i.ter in re_; and that the magistrates are little G.o.ds, who, like Jupiter, thunder oftener than they smile.

'What of health I have, I owe to my friends, who supplied me with such food as my const.i.tution required, for had I been compelled to subsist on the diet of the prison, my health, by this time, would have been quite broken. With the direction of my own medical adviser, I made this representation to the proper authorities at the gaol; I made them to the commissioners who were lately there, and I made them to Sir James Graham;* I therefore conceive that I am justified in repeating them here. The surgeon admitted the necessity of better diet, but referred me to the governor, and he sent me the fruitless round I have described.

Now the province of the governor was the care of my person, and the province of the surgeon the care of my health. The governor ought not to have permitted the reference to him, and the surgeon ought not to have made it. Either the surgeon should have refused my application with decision, or have allowed it with independence. Upon this subject, the commissioners reminded me, "that if the surgeon did not order what was necessary for my health, he was responsible for it." I replied "that I knew this, and that they also knew, that a prisoner, like Beale of Northleach, must die before he could avail himself of such responsibility, and that this was but grave consolation." But of the surgeon I wish to speak impartially, and I gladly admit, that his manner was always very kind, but I complain that his answers were always very indecisive. What he recommended he seldom prescribed, and professed that he must consult the governor when he should have consulted only himself.

This fault may seem little, but its effects are great. In a gaol, the surgeon is the only person who stands between a prisoner and the grave, and it is indispensable that to the quality of humanity those of independence and decision should be joined. The kind of answers to which I have alluded were given to me more than once, and given to others as well as to me. And I again repeat, that had I been without friends, I should have left my prison without health.

* In consequence of these representations some medical gentlemen of the city were brought in to examine me, who p.r.o.nounced my life to be in no danger, and therefore (so it seemed) my health was not regarded as worth improving by better food. Provided I did not make a case fer the House of Commons, that was enough. They appeared to consider themselves as bound to keep me alive and no more.

'Akin to the want of better food, was the want of exercise, and no want of damp. The yard in which I walked was so small, that I always became giddy, through the frequent turnings, before I became refreshed. The governor sometimes permitted the "Fines-Cla.s.s" in which I was, to walk in his garden; but the occasions came seldom and lasted not long--and I was previously so enervated by confinement, that the unusual exercise thus taken, threw me into a slight fever. Generally speaking, the place in which I was confined was miserably humid, and, although I took perpetual care, I had almost a perpetual cold.

'An application for a trivial favour often brought down upon me ruthless treatment. The visiting magistrates would come, and before the other prisoners denounce me as the "worst felon in the gaol, and the most atrocious of criminals." I was directed to ascribe this to the petulance of age and the rancour of orthodoxy; but I thought it proceeded from bad taste and worse feeling.

'From first to last, every newspaper sent me was detained; every letter from me was perused, and every one to me was broken open and read--and the very seals, if they happened to be heterodox, were interdicted. Thus the privacy of affection and friends.h.i.+p were violated, and mind as well as body laid under one restraint.