“When I became a member of the Political Economy Club, I soon marked a questionable assumption there—viz., that whatever is in accordance with the laws of political economy is necessarily right and expedient, and vice versâ. Question on this point happened to be raised one evening by a remark from a member that the position maintained on one side in the debate then going on was hostile to general happiness; the answer to which was, not that the objector was mistaken, but that the objection was irrelative; seeing that the aim of political economy was not the general happiness, but the wealth of nations. I took the liberty to point out that while political economists might, of course, define their science as they pleased, they must remember that under such restriction its unaided conclusions could not claim to guide legislative action; since it was at least conceivable, and perhaps not improbable, that in certain cases the course most tending to a nation’s wealth might differ from that most tending to its weal. I am much inclined to think that neglect of this distinction is amongst the causes which have at different times brought this important science into discredit, led the world to regard its professors as hard—nay, heartless—and in a measure invalidated their plea that they are not inventors, but only discoverers; that they create no laws, but merely set forth the logic of facts. So far, however, as I can observe in my retirement, such distinction is in the way to acquire recognition.”
He took a strong interest in politics; and no long time before his death he was heard to say that he should gladly live two or three years longer, that he might see how the arrangements made under the Treaty of Berlin would work. It was, however, in watching the operations of the Post Office that his chief interest still lay. I remember how I called upon him one day about eighteen months before his death. On my coming into his room he turned with a smile of pleasure to his son, who happened to be present, and said, “Has your cousin heard of the discovery?” I pricked up my ears, and at once thought of some curious old family record that might have been found hidden away in an old chest or cupboard. “This year,” he continued, with proud exultation, “the postal revenue is larger than the revenue produced by the income tax. I was quite startled to find this out.” Many years earlier he had written to tell his brother how he had met Garibaldi. “On Thursday (April 21, 1864) Caroline (Lady Hill) and I dined at Fishmongers’ Hall ‘to meet Garibaldi.’ I was a little afraid of the undertaking; but I enjoyed the meeting, and am, to say the least, none the worse for it. I had some conversation with Garibaldi about the state of the Italian Post Office; but it was evident that he felt but little interest in the matter. There is something very pleasing, not to say fascinating, in his appearance and manner.” Mr. M. D. Hill replied, “I was very glad to hear you were able to go to the Fishmongers’, and very much amused to find that you consulted Garibaldi on Italian Penny Postage. When you go to heaven, I foresee that you will stop at the gate to inquire of St. Peter how many deliveries they have per day, and how the expense of postal communication between heaven and the other place is defrayed.”
When, by the establishment of School Boards, primary education was so widely extended, he foresaw at once the effect that would be thereby produced on the postal revenue. “Is there,” he wrote, “in addition to the moral, intellectual, and commercial benefits more directly aimed at, any set-off to this increased expense? For this I naturally turn to its effect on the number of letters, which will obviously be enlarged by diffusion of the power to write and read; though the extent to which this will operate is at present matter for conjecture rather than for estimate. I hold it, however, not quite impossible that in this manner the outlay will eventually repay itself, though I am by no means so sanguine as to expect so rich a result.” That knowledge might be more readily brought within the reach of all, he was eager to see a reform of what, to use his own words, “is grossly misnamed orthography.” “For myself,” he writes, “I frankly confess that I have always made it a practice to have a spelling dictionary at hand, and have not infrequently to turn to its pages. My education must, then, it will be said, have been defective! True enough! but of how many has the education been more defective! And even in those who have attained proficiency, how great has been the sacrifice of time else applicable to beneficial study!”
While his mind thus constantly turned to any subject that in any way bore on his great plan, he found, unhappily, much that distressed him in the government of the Post Office. He grieved over the changes that after his retirement were too often made in disregard of the great principles on which he had steadily acted.[253] More than once he addressed warnings to the government. But at the very close of his Journal he records,[254] “I have made myself seriously ill—having brought on renewed threats of apoplexy—by what I have already done.” He could do no more. He had lifted up his voice, and lifted it up in vain. There was happily another side to this sad picture. Wrong-doings and blunders he could often forget, while he contemplated the perfection with which the great machine still worked, though there was no master-hand to govern it. He had the delight, too, of watching his plan as it spread from country to country. “In some respects,” to quote the words that Mr. Gladstone used on his death, “his lot was one peculiarly happy even as among public benefactors; for his great plan ran like wildfire through the civilised world, and never perhaps was a local invention (for such it was) and improvement applied in the lifetime of its author to the advantage of such vast multitudes of his fellow-creatures.” He had aimed at doing something for the world, and he lived to know that his success had been far greater than his hopes, and that the world was not ungrateful.
In the quiet course of his private life there is but little on which I shall dwell. Each year saw his range narrowed more and more till at last he was confined to one floor. In an interesting paper, which he drew up in the summer of 1874, he thus describes the state of his health:—
“Some description of my present illness, and of the causes thereof, may perhaps prove useful to young persons who may be inclined to follow a career with energy beyond their strength.
“My present position is this:—The ordinary state of my health does not prevent considerable enjoyment of life, provided that I take certain precautions and observe certain rules which experience has dictated, and, further, that I am not disturbed by others; but herein lies the difficulty. To control myself is easy enough, but effectually to control others is beyond my power.
“Under the former head, I find that any kind of locomotion, except within certain narrow limits, invariably proves hurtful—producing pain in the head, a feeling of incapacity for self-guidance, and, if persisted in, downright vertigo—the most perfect rest during some hours being necessary to restore me to the normal state. It is more than five years since I was in a railway-carriage, and I dare not venture on a further trial, even could I get to the stations, which, with a few unimportant exceptions, are beyond my reach; my drives, even under the most favourable circumstances, being limited to twenty or, at the utmost, to twenty-five minutes. Soon after its completion I managed to reach the Holborn Viaduct; but the Thames Embankment and the new Post Office I have never seen. As to walking, a few yards to and from the carriage is all that I can attempt. In my own rooms, indeed, and in an adjoining balcony constructed for the purpose, I am able, at certain hours, neither long after nor shortly before a meal, to pace a little every day. The restriction is not owing to any lack of muscular strength, but simply to the painful effect on my head.”
It was, he says, so far back as the year 1839 that he could trace the first indications of this coming inability to walk. It had grown upon him till, about the year 1868, he fell into the state which he has thus described, from which he never recovered. “This is the more remarkable,” he adds, “because, when a young man, I was the best walker of the brotherhood, and could ‘do’ my thirty miles a day for, I believe, any number of days in succession.” He managed, nevertheless, for many years to dine with the Royal Society Club.
“I cannot explain, fully at least, why I can visit one club and not the others, the distance from home being practically the same for all. One reason, no doubt, is the pleasure and excitement afforded by meeting men of eminence whose conversation greatly interests me. Another, the rest and reinvigoration resulting from the dinner; and lastly, and perhaps chiefly, that the meetings are so frequent as to admit of my selecting days when the weather, my health, and all other circumstances are favourable.”