That learned and eminent foreigner,—for Dr. Priestley never became a naturalized citizen of the United States,—died at Northumberland in Pennsylvania, at an advanced age, on the 6th day of February 1804.
The scanty remnant of life that yet remained to the great American Astronomer and Mathematician, was neither uselessly, nor altogether unpleasantly employed. In this interval of time, short as it was, such portions of it as afforded him some respite from sickness and pain, were either devoted to the society of his family and friends, or occupied in study. From these sources of rational enjoyment, be derived much comfort; and the solace he drew from them, was greatly heightened by the endearing attentions, which, amidst the rapid decline of his health and strength, he experienced, in an eminent degree, in the bosom of his affectionate family and some surrounding relatives. He was fully sensible of the approaching crisis of his disease; and he appeared to be quite prepared to meet the awful stroke, with the fortitude which a retrospective view of a well-spent life would naturally inspire; as well as with the resignation, which an entire confidence in the goodness, the wisdom, and the mercy of his omnipotent Creator, taught him to be a duty. His elevated conceptions of the Deity, together with his decided belief of the immortality of the soul, according at the same time with the doctrines of a pure religion, animated him with the stedfast hope of an happy futurity, worthy of a Christian and a Philosopher. His intimate knowledge of the sublimest works of creation, rendered him highly sensible of the wisdom and power of the Great Supreme; while that knowledge, aided by the lights furnished by the Christian dispensation, led him to ascribe suitable attributes to the Author of Nature,—a Being infinitely good, as well as perfect: for, as he once familiarly expressed himself,[[298]] he was “firmly persuaded, that we are not at the disposal of a Being, who has the least tincture of ill-nature, or requires any in us.”[[299]]
It is an observation of a judicious biographer,[[A]] that “nothing can awaken the attention, nothing affect the heart of man, more strongly, than the behaviour of eminent personages in their last moments; in that only scene of life where we are all sure, later or sooner, to resemble them.” The writer of these Memoirs feels a sort of pensive gratification, in having it in his power to announce the manner in which the great American Astronomer deported himself, during the closing scene of his life: The following information on this head, was communicated by the writer’s brother, Professor Barton, the deceased’s nephew and friend,—for some years, also, his family-physician; and who, in his medical capacity, attended him in the whole of his last illness.
“The last visit I ever received from Mr. Rittenhouse was about the middle of June, 1796. He called at my humble habitation in Fifth street, to inquire about my health, and to learn from me the result of the experiments and inquiries in which he knew I was, at this time engaged, concerning the mode of generation and gestation of our opossum, an animal to whose economy and manners he had himself paid some attention, and whose history he justly considered one of the most interesting in the whole range of zoology.
“It was on this occasion, that our excellent friend first informed me, that he had received a diploma from the Royal Society. He observed, with a tone of voice and with a certain expression of countenance, which were not calculated to afford me any pleasure, “that a few years ago, such a mark of respect from that illustrious body would have been received by him with pleasure and with pride.”
“In fact, Mr. Rittenhouse, now and for some months past, was strongly impressed with the idea, that his career of usefulness and virtue was nearly at an end. He had several times, during the preceding part of the spring and summer, intimated to me (and doubtless to others of his friends) his impressions on this head. In what precise condition of his system, whether physical or intellectual, these impressions were founded, I have only been able to form a distant, and unsatisfactory conjecture.
“A few days after this interview, viz. on the 22d of June, I was sent for to visit Mr. Rittenhouse. I found him in his garden, where he loved to walk, and soon learned that he laboured under a severe attack of cholera, accompanied, however, with more fever than we generally find with this disease; and with a great increase of that violent pain and sense of oppression at the region of his stomach, to which he had been subject for at least thirty years. Notwithstanding his age, the debility of his system, and the unfavourable state of the season, I ventured to flatter myself, that the attack would not prove mortal. On the following day, however, finding him no better, but rather worse, I requested permission to call in the aid of another physician; and having mentioned the name of Dr. Adam Kuhn, that gentleman accordingly visited our friend, in company with me, during the remainder of his illness.
His febrile symptoms being very urgent, it was thought necessary to bleed our patient; and notwithstanding his great and habitual repugnance to the practice on former occasions, he now readily consented to the operation, on condition that I would perform it myself. The blood which was drawn, exhibited a pretty strong inflammatory crust; and the operation seemed to give him a temporary relief from his pain. Soon after this, his strength gradually declined; and on the third day of his illness, it was but too obvious, that our illustrious relative was soon to be separated from his friends. He expired without a struggle, and in the calmest manner, ten minutes before two o’clock on the morning of Sunday the 26th, in the presence of his youngest daughter, Mrs. Waters, and myself. His excellent wife, who had ever been assiduous in her attention on her husband, both in sickness and in health, had retired from his chamber about two hours before, unable to support the awful scene of expiring genius and virtue.
“There can be no doubt, I think, that Mr. Rittenhouse, from the first invasion of his disease, or at least from the day when he was confined to his bed or room, entertained but little hopes of his recovery. He signed his will in my presence. He discovered no more solicitude about his situation, than it is decorous and proper in every good or great man to feel, when in a similar situation. During the greater part of his illness, he manifested the most happy temperament of mind: and it was only in the last hour or two of his life, that his powerful intellects were disturbed by a mild delirium. About eight hours before he died, the pain in the region of his stomach being unusually severe, a poultice composed of meal and laudanum was applied to the part. In less than two hours after the application, I called to see him, and upon asking him if he did not feel easier, he calmly answered, in these memorable words, which it is impossible for me to forget,—for they were the last he ever distinctly uttered, and they make us acquainted with the two most important features in his religious creed,—“Yes, you have made the way to God easier!”