In _Eastern Life, Past and Present_, published in 1848, Miss Martineau first allowed it to be seen that an important change had taken place in her opinions on theology. This was in some measure due to the influence of Mr. Henry G. Atkinson, with whom she became acquainted during her recovery from her long illness, and who remained her dearest friend until her death. Her next work was _Household Education_, followed, in 1850, by her important HISTORY OF THE THIRTY YEARS’ PEACE. In January, 1851, appeared _Letters on the Laws of Man’s Nature and Development_, the joint production of herself and Mr. Atkinson. In this book her new opinions were distinctly stated. The work was received with horror by the orthodox press. An article on the subject in the Prospective Review, by Dr. James Martineau, caused a breach between the brother and sister.
Miss Martineau published soon after an introductory volume to the HISTORY OF THE PEACE. In November, 1853, appeared her translation of Comte’s ‘Positive Philosophy.’ At this time she contributed frequently to periodicals. In the autumn of 1852 she visited Ireland, writing while there a series of letters to the Daily News, which were reprinted in a volume at the end of the year. In 1854 she prepared a _Complete Guide to the Lakes_.
Toward the end of this year her health failed. Early in 1855 it was the verdict of her physicians that she was suffering from enlargement and enfeeblement of the heart, and that her life would probably not be long. Under this impression her AUTOBIOGRAPHY was rapidly written. She never left Ambleside again; but, contrary to expectation, lived on for twenty-one years. She continued to write leaders for the Daily News--to which she is said to have contributed in all over sixteen hundred political articles--and papers and pamphlets on various subjects of public interest. A volume of _Sketches from Life_ was issued in 1856, and in 1859 appeared _England and Her Soldiers_, written in aid of the army work of Florence Nightingale.
In 1868 a number of _Biographical Sketches_, originally published in the Daily News, were collected in a volume. Before this time she had been obliged, by increasing illness, to lay aside her literary work. She had suffered a severe blow, in 1864, in the death of her niece, Maria, her faithful companion and nurse. Another niece, Jane, undertook to fill the vacant place. Miss, or rather _Mrs._ Martineau, as she preferred to be called in her later years, was calm and cheerful to the last. She died on the 27th of June, 1876. A tumor of slow growth was found to have been the real cause of death.
Probably no one ever lived of whom more varied opinions were entertained. One saw her as harsh, dry, and egotistical; another as tender, full of humor, self-sacrificing, carried away by noble enthusiasms. Wit had its fling at this singular figure. Hartley Coleridge said of her, aptly, that she was “a monomaniac about _every_ thing.” “After all, she is a trump!” exclaims George Eliot. It is sufficiently certain that she was Quixotic, in a noble sense, and disinterested. In need, she refused a pension; she vaunted rather than suppressed unpopular opinions; a descendant of the Huguenots, and herself without religion, she gallantly broke a lance with Charlotte Brontë for the Roman Catholics; and he must be prejudiced indeed who could refuse the tribute of admiration to her dogged, steady, soldier-like determination.
“Hail to the steadfast soul, Which, unflinching and keen, Wrought to erase from its depth Mist and illusion and fear! Hail to the spirit which dared Trust its own thoughts, before yet Echoed her back by the crowd! Hail to the courage which gave Voice to its creed, ere the creed Won consecration from time!”[1]
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[Sidenote: Repressed and morbid childhood.]
Never was poor mortal cursed with a more beggarly nervous system. The long hours of indigestion by day and nightmare terrors are mournful to think of now.... Sometimes the dim light of the windows, in the night, seemed to advance till it pressed upon my eyeballs, and then the windows would seem to recede to an infinite distance. If I laid my hand under my head on the pillow, the hand seemed to vanish almost to a point, while the head grew as big as a mountain. Sometimes I was panic-struck at the head of the stairs, and was sure I could never get down; and I could never cross the yard to the garden without flying and panting, and fearing to look behind, because a wild beast was after me. The starlight sky was the worst; it was always coming down, to stifle and crush me, and rest upon my head. I do not remember any dread of thieves or ghosts in particular; but things as I actually saw them were dreadful to me; and it now appears to me that I had scarcely any respite from the terror. My fear of persons was as great as any other.... Our house was in a narrow street; and all its windows, except two or three at the back, looked eastwards. It had no sun in the front rooms, except before breakfast in summer. One summer morning I went into the drawing-room, which was not much used in those days, and saw a sight which made me hide my face in a chair, and scream with terror. The drops of the lustres on the mantel-piece, on which the sun was shining, were somehow set in motion, and the prismatic colors danced vehemently on the walls. I thought they were alive--imps of some sort; and I never dared go into that room alone in the morning, from that time forward. I am afraid I must own that my heart has beat, all my life long, at the dancing of prismatic colors on the wall.
It is evident enough that my temper must have been very bad. It seems to me now that it was downright devilish, except for a placability which used to annoy me sadly. My temper might have been early made a thoroughly good one, by the slightest indulgence shown to my natural affections, and any rational dealing with my faults; but I was almost the youngest of a large family, and subject, not only to the rule of severity to which all were liable, but also to the rough and contemptuous treatment of the elder children, who meant no harm, but injured me irreparably. I had no self-respect, and an unbounded need of approbation and affection. My capacity for jealousy was something frightful.... I tried for a long course of years--I should think from about eight to fourteen--to pass a single day without crying. I was a persevering child; and I know I tried hard, but I failed.
HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1877.
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[Sidenote: Spartan training.]
The first words of encouragement she ever received, came to her in the guise of severity. She was suffering from a fly having got into her eye. “Harriet,” said the mother, firmly grasping her for the operation, “I know that you have resolution, and you must stand still till I get it out.” Thus conjured, the startled, nervous little creature never stirred till the obstruction was removed. And was she, the trembling little one, “with cheeks pale as clay,” “flat white forehead, over which the hair grew low,” “eyes hollow,--eyes light, large, and full, generally red with crying,--a thoroughly scared face,”--was _she_, then, _resolute_? She ran to the great gateway, near the street, and beckoned to a playmate, to tell her what her mother had said. “Is _that_ all you have made me come to hear?” It was the first encouraging word she had ever heard, and she could find no one with whom to share the new joy. Till now she had never thought herself worth anything whatever.
MARIA WESTON CHAPMAN: ‘Memorials of Harriet Martineau.’ (‘Autobiography,’ _vol. ii._)
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[Sidenote: Early religious feeling.]
Intensely religious I certainly was from a very early age. The religion was of a bad sort enough, as might be expected from the urgency of my needs; but I doubt whether I could have got through without it. I pampered my vain-glorious propensities by dreams of divine favor, to make up for my utter deficiency of self-respect; and I got rid of otherwise incessant remorse by a most convenient confession and repentance, which relieved my nerves without at all, I suspect, improving my conduct.... While I was afraid of everybody I saw, I was not in the least afraid of God.... The Sundays began to be marked days, and pleasantly marked, on the whole. I do not know why crocuses were particularly associated with Sunday at that time, but probably my mother might have walked in the garden with us some early spring Sunday. My idea of heaven was of a place gay with yellow and lilac crocuses. My love of gay colors was very strong.... The Octagon Chapel at Norwich [Unitarian], has some curious windows in the roof; not skylights, but letting in light indirectly. I used to sit staring up at those windows, and looking for angels to come for me and take me to heaven, in sight of all the congregation,--the end of the world being sure to happen while we were at chapel. I was thinking of this, and of the hymns, the whole of the time, it now seems to me. It was very shocking to me that I could not pray at chapel. I believe that I never did in my life. I prayed abundantly when I was alone, but it was impossible to do it in any other way, and the hypocrisy of appearing to do so was a long and sore trouble to me.