Harriet Martineau
would not be willing to accept it. She replied from Tynemouth to the
same effect to Mr. Hutton, who wrote to inquire if she would now be
thus assisted. Her objection was, in the first place, one of
principle; she disapproved of the money of the people being dispensed
in any pensions at the sole will of the Ministry, instead of being
conferred directly by the representatives of the people. Her second
reason was, that after accepting she would feel herself bound to the
Ministers, and would be understood by the public to be so bound, and
would thus suffer a loss of both freedom and usefulness during
whatever life might remain to her. Lord Melbourne, a few months later,
in July, 1841, made her an explicit offer of a pension of L150 per
annum, and her answer to the Minister was substantially the same as to
her friend. She said that while taxation was levied so unequally, and
while Parliament had no voice in the distribution of pensions, she
would rather receive public aid from the parish, if necessary, than as
a pensioner. She added an earnest plea that all influential persons
who held themselves indebted on public grounds to any writer, would
show that gratitude by endeavoring to make better copyright
arrangements and foreign treaties, so as to secure to authors the
full, due and independent reward of their efforts.
The rare (perhaps mistaken) generosity of this refusal can only be
appreciated by bearing in mind that she had invested a large part of
her earnings a few years before in a form from which she was now
receiving no return. During her illness she was really in want of
money, so far as to have to accept assistance from relatives. For
her charities she partly provided by doing fancy-work, sending
subscriptions both in this form and in the shape of articles for
publication to the anti-slavery cause in America.
In the early part of 1841 she began a series of four children's
stories, which were published under the general title of _The
Playfellow_. These admirable tales are still amongst the best-known
and most popular of her writings; simple, vivid and interesting, they
are really model children's stories, and it would have been quite
impossible for any reader to imagine that they were written by an
invalid, in constant suffering. _Settlers at Home_ was the first one
written, _The Prince and the Peasant_ came next; then _Feats on the
Fjord_; and, finally, that one from which I quoted largely in an early
chapter, _The Crofton Boys_. By the time the last-named was finished
she was very ill, and believed that she should never write another
book.
Her interest in all public affairs continued, nevertheless, to be as
keen as ever. In 1841 she wrote for publication a long letter to
support the American Anti-Slavery Society under a secession from its
ranks of a number of persons, chiefly clerical, who objected, of all
things, to women being allowed to be members of the society! Another
piece of work which she did for the public benefit was by a course of
correspondence, full of delicate tact, to personally reconcile Sir
Robert Peel and Mr. Cobden, and so to pave the way for the amicable
work of the two statesmen in the repeal of the Corn Laws.
In 1843, some of her friends who knew her circumstances, and that she
had refused a pension, collected money to present her with a
testimonial. L1,400, thus obtained, was invested for her benefit in
the Terminable Long Annuities, and a considerable sum besides was
expended in a present of plate. The Ladies Lambton (the eldest of
whom, as Countess of Elgin, was afterwards one of her warmest friends)
went over to Tynemouth to use the plate with her for the first time,
and "it was a testimonial fete."
It was about this time, too, that the personal acquaintance, destined
to become an intimate association in work, between Harriet Martineau
and Florence Nightingale was commenced. Miss Martineau's younger
sister Ellen had been governess in Miss Nightingale's family.
Sick-nursing occupied Florence Nightingale's hands and heart long
before the Crimean War made her famous, and Harriet Martineau was one
of the sick to whom she ministered in those earlier days.
Towards the end of 1843, Harriet's mind had accumulated a store of
thoughts and feelings which imperatively pressed to be poured forth.
She wrote then, in about six weeks, her volume of essays, _Life in
the Sick-Room_. The book was published under the pseudonym of "An
Invalid," but was immediately attributed to her on all hands. It is a
most interesting record of the high thoughts and feelings by which so
melancholy an experience as years of suffering, of an apparently
hopeless character, can be elevated, and made productive of benefit to
the sufferer's own nature. Incidentally there is much wise counsel in
the volume for those who have the care of invalids of this class.
Amidst the many expressions of admiration and interest which this work
drew forth, the following is perhaps most worthy of preservation
because of the source whence it came. Mr. Quillinan, Wordsworth's
son-in-law, wrote as follows to his friend, Henry Crabbe Robinson, on
December 9, 1843:--
Mr. Wordsworth, Mrs. Wordsworth and Miss Fenwick have been quite
charmed, affected, and instructed by the invalid's volume....
Mrs. Wordsworth, after a few pages were read, at once pronounced
it to be Miss Martineau's production, and concluded that you
knew all about it and caused it to be sent hither. In some of
the most eloquent parts it stops short of their wishes and
expectations: but they all agree that it is _a rare book_, doing
honor to the head and heart of your able and interesting friend.
Mr. Wordsworth praised it with more unreserve--I may say, with
more _earnestness_--than is usual with him. The serene and
heavenly-minded Miss Fenwick was prodigal of her admiration. But
Mrs. Wordsworth's was the crowning praise. She said--and you
know how she would say it--"I wish I had read exactly such a
book as that years ago!"... It is a _genuine_ and touching
series of meditations by an invalid not sick in mind or
heart.[10]
[10] _Diary and Letters of H. C. Robinson_, vol. iii.,
p. 235.
From one of the letters with which Mr. Henry G. Atkinson has favored
me and my readers, I find that she wrote a chapter for that book,
which undoubtedly must have been of the deepest interest, but which
was not published.
LETTER TO MR. ATKINSON.
[Extract.]
November 19, 1872.
DEAR FRIEND:
... You will feel at once how earnestly
I must be longing for death--I who never loved life, and who would
any day of my life have rather departed than stayed. Well! it can
hardly go on very much longer now. But I do wish it was permitted
to us to judge for ourselves a little how long we ought to carry
on the task which we never desired and could not refuse, and how
soon we may fairly relieve our comrades from the burden of taking
care of us. I wonder whether the chapter I wrote about this for
the "Sick-Room" book will ever see the light. I rather wish it
may, because I believe it utters what many people think and feel.
I let it be omitted from that book because it might perhaps injure
the impression of the rest of the volume; but, so far as I
remember it, it is worth considering, and therefore publishing.
I have made such inquiries as I could (of one of Miss Martineau's
executors and others), but can get no tidings of this missing chapter
on Euthanasia. It was just such a subject--needing for its discussion,
courage, calmness, common sense, and logic, combined with sympathy,
and a high standard of moral beauty and goodness--as she would have
been sure to treat rarely well. There is one passage in _Life in the
Sick-Room_, bearing upon the question; she observes that the great
reason why hopeless invalids so commonly endure on when they are
longing for the rest of insensibility, is the uncertainty as to
whether they may not find themselves still conscious in another state.
Her own history was to supply a stronger reason still against the
irrevocable action being taken upon our rash assumptions that our work
and our usefulness in life are ended. As she truly observed: "No one
knows when the spirits of men begin to work, or when they leave off,
or whether they work best when their bodies are weak, or when they are
strong. Every human creature that has a spirit in him must therefore
be taken care of, and kept alive as long as possible, that his spirit
may do all it can in the world." So she wrote at that very
time--showing how her mind was pondering every view of the subject.
The sentence just quoted is from _Dawn Island_, a little one-hundred
paged story which she wrote in the midst of her suffering, as her
contribution to the funds of the Anti-Corn Law League. It was printed
and sold for the benefit of that league, at the great bazaar of 1845.
After the publication of the "Sick-Room" book, she commenced the
writing of her autobiography--not as it was published afterwards, be
it understood--for she was too ill to make much progress with it, and
soon stopped writing. But she _never_ became too ill to feel and
to show a vivid interest in every cause that had the happiness and
progress of mankind for its object. She kept up an extensive
correspondence with those engaged in the world's work, and such
personal efforts for public objects as those above mentioned she
frequently exerted--sometimes over-exerted--herself to make. Her body
was chained to two small rooms; but her mind, with all its powers and
affections, yet swept freely through the universe. No one would have
been more impatient than she herself of any pretence that she lived
incessantly on a high plane of lofty emotions, where pain ceased to be
felt, or that her care for others was so extraordinary that
self-regard was swallowed up in the depths of altruism. I have quoted
her candid revelations about her sufferings and her opiates, to avoid
the possibility of conveying an impression that she was thus guilty of
hypocrisy or affectation. But the wide interests and the sympathies
with mankind that were the solace of her sick life, and the
inspiration of the work which she did so heavily, and yet so
continuously, amidst her pain, assuredly shall be marked with the
reverence that they merit.
In 1844 the long illness came to an end. Harriet Martineau was
restored to perfect health by means of mesmerism. Such a cure of such
a person could not fail to make a great sensation. Not only had she a
wide circle of personal acquaintances, but she had deeply impressed
the public at large with a sense of her perfect sanity, her calm
common-sense, and her practical wisdom, as well as with a conviction
of her truthfulness and accuracy. Accordingly, as the _Zoist_
(Dr. Elliotson's mesmeric periodical) declared at the time:--
The subject which the critic, a few months since, would not
condescend to notice, has been elevated to a commanding position.
It is the topic with which the daily papers and the weekly
periodicals are filled; in fact, all classes are moved by one
common consent, and mesmerism, from the palace to the smallest
town in the United Kingdom, is the scientific question absorbing
public attention.... The immediate cause of all this activity, is
the publication of the case of Miss Martineau, who, after five
years' incessant suffering and confinement to her couch, is now
well.
I have thought that what needs to be said here of the medical aspect
and course of this period of suffering, and of the final cure, will
best be said consecutively; and, therefore, we will look back briefly