In this manner, applauded on all sides, beloved and respected, did the Principal Librarian retire from the position he had gained step by step by hard and uninterrupted labour. Still the memory of the past clung to him—still he would have devoted, had it been possible, his waning physical and mental strength to the internal and external workings of that Institution upon which he had so persistently set his heart. His own words bear witness to the affection he retained for the vicinity of his past efforts:—“I have got,” wrote he, “a house. It is in a very unfashionable quarter, though very respectable, near here, being 31, Bloomsbury Square.” So it was that he still desired to linger with his memories and experiences within sight of the building which had cost him so much in brain and body, and those who read these pages may easily conceive how far his thoughts were interwoven with his expressions.
We have endeavoured faithfully to detail the circumstances of this eventful life, until the time arrived when, succumbing to the stern dictates of nature, Panizzi was compelled to retire behind those scenes which his presence had so long graced.
When the actor or the author departs from the boards where his production or his acting has delighted audiences, how acute is the grief of parting with his admirers! Who does not remember the almost ominous words of the late Charles Dickens, when, at the last of his readings, he made use of the remarkable expression, From these garish lights I vanish now for evermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, and affectionate farewell? These words—though, of course, not exactly applicable to the present case—may be strained so far as to indicate the deep feeling with which a different, but not less successful, contributor to public requirements was severing himself from labours which had been to him pre-eminently a “labour of love,” and may justly be cited as implying the same affectionate remembrance of his fellow-workers and those who appreciated his undoubtedly great abilities. In addition to a faithful recital of facts and an unprejudiced view of the career of the chosen subject of any memoir, a biographer owes somewhat more to his readers. No life is worth recounting unless it affords an example worth following, or unless it is acknowledged at the first to have been set forth for some other specific purpose, either as mere matter for history, or as the life of one whose errors were so great that it is thought advisable to reproduce them as a warning to future would-be evil-doers.
Nothing appertains to the present biography but an intent to put before the world a man who, under the most adverse circumstances and with the most beneficial intentions, by sheer perseverance and by unflinching energy, attained the object of his heart’s desire—a desire that has redounded to his lasting praise.
No words of our own shall be used. Let those of Dean Milman be quoted as our justification for what has been already said of the subject of our memoir. On the 5th of February, 1866, writing from the “Deanery of St. Paul’s,” he used these words:—“As to his (Panizzi’s) public services, his long and most careful connection with the British Museum cannot be more fully or justly appreciated than by yourself” (this letter was addressed to Sir R. I. Murchison), “and I am sure that we should entirely agree on this subject. Above all, the great national gift of the Reading-Room, the envy and admiration of Europe, is, as you well know, almost his entire creation, from the original design to the most minute detail—from the dome to the inkstands and bookshelves.”
Those who knew Dean Milman will acknowledge the worth of a testimonial thus given by such a man to the value of Panizzi’s labours.
Yet it is not here that we must stop short; an unbiassed account has been rendered of his difficulties at the outset of his career, never resting he persevered in his onward journey where ordinary men would have resigned the effort. His own national misfortunes were enough to occupy his time and thoughts; yet he found opportunities to attend to all business that pressed upon his attention.
These are the facts and uncontrovertible facts; and the details upon which we have fully entered must excite admiration for the man who could thus concentrate his mind upon duties of the most onerous description, and yet, when occasion required, be found able and willing to befriend a cause which was unquestionably as dear to his heart as any other—viz., the liberty, freedom, and happiness of his own beloved Italy.
No undue exaltation of Panizzi is intended on the part of the biographer; wherever such may seem to be attributed, it is from no personal panegyric of his own.
Numerous letters might be adduced corroborative of the estimation in which the deceased was held—letters whose signature place their contents beyond suspicion; but they are withheld lest a charge of adulation should be laid at the author’s door, that charge he has studiously endeavoured to avoid.