Priestley, loaded with glory, was modest enough to be astonished at his good fortune, and at the multitude of beautiful facts, which nature seemed to have revealed to him alone. He forgot that her favours were not gratuitous, and if she had so well explained herself, it was because he had known how to oblige her to do so by his indefatigable perseverance in questioning her, and by the thousand ingenious means he had taken to snatch her answers from her.
Others carefully hide that which they owe to chance; Priestley seemed to wish to ascribe all his merit to fortuitous circumstances, remarking, with unexampled candour, how many times he had profited by them, without knowing it, how many times he was in possession of new substances without having perceived them; and he never dissimulated the erroneous views which sometimes directed his efforts, and from which he was only undeceived by experience. These confessions did honour to his modesty, without disarming jealousy. Those to whom their own ways and methods had never discovered anything called him a simple worker of experiments, without method and without an
object "it is not astonishing," they added, "that among so many trials and combinations, he should find some that were fortunate." But real natural philosophers were not duped by these selfish criticisms.
Many encomiums like the preceding—yes, a thousandfold—could easily be gathered if necessary to show the regard and confidence held for this remarkable man to whom America is truly very deeply indebted.
Some years ago the writer paid a visit to the God's Acre of Northumberland. He arrived after dark and was conveyed to the sacred place in an automobile. Soon the car stopped. Its headlights illuminated the upright flat stone which marked the last resting place of the great chemist, and in that light not only was the name of the sleeper clearly read but the less distinct but legible epitaph:
Return unto thy rest, O my soul, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee. I will lay me down in peace and sleep till I wake in the morning of the resurrection.
Pondering on these lines there slowly returned to mind the words of Franklin's epitaph,
—Franklin, who, years before, had encouraged and aided the noble exile, who was ever mindful of the former's goodness to him:
The Body
of
Benjamin Franklin
Printer
(Like the cover of an old book
Its contents torn out
And stript of its lettering and gilding)
Lies here food for Worms
But the work shall not be lost
For it will (as he believed) appear
once more
In a new and more elegant Edition
Revised and corrected
by
The Author