CHAPTER XI.

THE LAST YEARS.

Harriet Martineau had never gone the right way to work to become rich

by literature. She had not chosen her subjects with a view to the mere

monetary success she might attain, and, not infrequently, she had

displayed a rare generosity in her pecuniary affairs. In April, 1867,

she was plunged into perplexity about the means of living, by the

temporary failure of the Brighton Railway to pay its dividends. After

all her work, she had but little to lose. She had from investments in

the preference stock of that railway L230 per annum, and she had only

L150 yearly from all other sources. Such was the fortune saved, after

labors such as hers, through a long life of industry and thrift. There

was a beautiful contest between the inmates of that home, when the

trouble came, as to which of them should begin to make the necessary

sacrifices involved in economizing. Miss Jane Martineau and the maid

Caroline were each ready with their offers, and the invalid mistress

of the house was with difficulty induced to continue her wine and

dinner ale, while she declared, with a brave assumption of

carelessness, that she should be rather glad than otherwise to be rid

of seeing the _Times_ daily and getting the periodic box of books from

"Mudie's." It is touching to note how she tried to lightly pass off

this sacrifice of current literature, when one knows that reading was

the chief solace of her lonely and suffering days. Her family

intervened, however, to prevent any such deprivations, and by-and-by

the company resumed payment of its dividends.

In 1868, she received a generous offer, which touched her very deeply.

Mr. J. R. Robinson, of the _Daily News_, proposed to her that there

should be a reprint of the several biographical sketches which she had

contributed to the paper during her connection with it; and he offered

to take all the trouble and responsibility of putting the volume

through the press, while leaving to her the whole of the profits. She

had not even supposed that the copyright in the biographies which she

had written for the paper from time to time, upon the occasions of the

deaths of eminent persons, remained her property. Mr. Robinson had the

satisfaction of assuring her that the proprietors held her at liberty

to reproduce these writings, and, with that comrade's generosity which

is not altogether rare among journalists, her kind friend devoted

himself to securing her a good publisher, and editing the volume,

_Biographical Sketches_, for her benefit. These vignettes well

deserved re-production. She had had more or less personal acquaintance

with nearly every one of the forty-six eminent persons of whom she

treated; and the portraits which she sketched were equally vivid and

impartial. The work was received by the public with an enthusiasm

which repaid Mr. Robinson for his generous efforts. It was reprinted

in America; and it is now in its fourth English edition.

The last occasion upon which she was to give her powers and her

influence to a difficult but great public work must now be mentioned.

It was the final effort of her career. Marked as that life had been

all through by devotedness to public duty, she never before was

engaged in a task so painful and difficult, or one which, upon mere

personal grounds, she might more strongly have desired to evade. But

at near seventy years old, and so enfeebled that she had thought her

work quite finished, she no more hesitated to come to the front under

fire when it became necessary, than she had done in those active

younger days when combat may have had its own delights.

The subject was an Act of Parliament passed in 1869, having reference

to certain police powers over women in various large towns. "In our

time, or in any other," wrote Mrs. Martineau, "there never was a

graver question." It was clear to her that if women "did not insist

upon the restoration of the most sacred liberties of half the people

of England, men alone would never do it;" and she wrote four letters

on the subject to the _Daily News_, as powerful, as sensible, as free

from cant of any kind, as clear in the appreciation of facts, and as

definite and able in the presentation of them, as anything she had

ever written. She wrote, also, and signed an "Appeal to the Women of

England" upon the subject, where her name headed the list of signers,

whilst that of Florence Nightingale came next. Two such women,

venerated not less for the intellectual capacity and practical wisdom

than for the devoted benevolence that they had shown in their long

lives, were well able to arouse and lead the moral sense of the

womanhood of England in this crisis. Other respected names were soon

added to theirs, but it would not be easy to over-estimate the value

of the self-sacrificing, brave action, at the most critical moment, of

these two great and honorable women.

Besides writing articles, and appeals, and signing documents which

were placarded as election posters in some great towns, Mrs. Martineau

helped that cause in the way told in the following letter to Mr.

Atkinson:

May 21st, 1871.

One pleasant thing has happened lately. I _longed_ for money for a

public object [repeal of the acts in question], and, unable to do

better, worked a chair, and had it beautifully made up. It was

produced at a great evening party in, London, and seized upon and

vehemently competed for, and it has actually brought fifty

guineas! In the middle of the night it occurs to me what a thing

it is to give fifty guineas--so much as I had longed for money to

give that fund. I was asked for a letter of explanation and

statement to go with the chair, and, of course, did it by that

post.

Work for this cause formed the most keen and active interest of her

latest years. In this she thought and labored constantly. She gave her

name and support to other objects, but only quietly. Amongst other

things she was a member of the Women's Suffrage Society; and she was a

subscriber to the movement for the medical education of women.

In all public affairs, indeed, her interest remained keen and unabated

to the very last, as the letters for which I am indebted to Mr.

Atkinson, and which I am to quote, will abundantly show. These letters

will indicate, too, something of the quiet course of her now uneventful

daily life. Sick and weary as she was, it will be seen that literature

and politics, the public welfare, and the concerns of her household's

inmates, still occupied her thoughts and her pen.

LETTERS TO MR. ATKINSON.

August 24, 1870.

... I am as careful as possible to prevent anyone losing sleep on

my account, and being disturbed at meals, or failing in air,

exercise and pleasure. If these regular healthy habits of my

household become difficult, we are to have a trained nurse at once.

This is settled. I am disposed to think, myself, that the last

stage will be short, probably the end sudden.

The tone of this last sentence is no affectation. "She used to talk

about her death as if it meant no more than going into the next room,"

said one who knew her in these years.

September 10, 1870.

... I am not sure whether you have read Dr. Bence Jones's _Life

and Letters of Faraday_. I have been thankful, this last week,

for the strong interest of that book, which puts Continental

affairs out of my head for hours together. The first half volume

is rather tiresome--giving us four times as much as necessary of

the uncultivated youth's early prosing on crude moralities, etc.

It is quite right to give us _some_ of this, to show from how low

a point of thought and style he rose up to his perfection of

expression as a lecturer and writer; but a quarter of the early

stuff would have been enough for that. The succeeding part, for

hundreds of pages, is the richest treat I have had for many a

day. I can only distantly and dimly follow the scientific

lectures and writings; but I understand enough of sympathy; and

the disclosures of the moral nature of the man is perfectly

exquisite. I have never known, and have scarcely dreamed of, a

spirit and temper so thoroughly uniting the best attributes of

the sage and the child.

October 18, 1870.

I had my envelope directed yesterday, but was prevented writing,

and in the evening came your welcome letter. I am glad to know

_when_ you mean to leave your quarters; and every line from

France is interesting.

I wonder whether you remember a night in London when dear Mrs.

Reid and you and I were returning in her carriage from Exeter

Hall and the _Messiah_. I was saying that that sacred drama

reminded me of Holy Philae, and the apotheosis of Osiris, and how

the one was as true as the other, with its "Peace on earth, and

good-will to men," so false a prophesy, etc., etc. Whereupon Mrs.

Reid said, plaintively (of the _Messiah_), "I believe it all at

the time," but she did not set up any pretense of the promises

having been fulfilled. It does not seem as if Christendom had got

on very much since the world said, "See how these Christians love

one another!" I seem to have got to a new state of mind about

war, or I may perhaps forget the emotions of youth; but I seem

never before to have felt the horror, disgust, shame--in short,

misery--that the spectacle of this war creates now. I am reading

less and less in the newspapers; for the truth is, I cannot

endure it. There is no good in any _hopeless_ spectacle; and for

France, I am, like, most people, utterly hopeless.... By selling

themselves for twenty years to the worst and meanest man in

Europe, the people of France have incurred destruction; and

though most of us knew this all the time, we do not suffer the

less from the spectacle now.... I suppose the French will have no

alternative but peace in a little while; but, when all that is

settled, internal strife and domestic ruin will remain ahead. The

truth is, the _morale_ of the French is corrupted to the core.

All habit of integrity and sincerity is apparently lost; and when

a people prefers deception to truth, vain-glory to honor, passion

to reason--all is over. I will leave it, for it is a terrible

subject. I must just say that I believe and know that there _are_

French citizens--a very few--who understand the case, but they

are as wretched as they necessarily must be. But "the gay,

licentious, proud," the pleasure-loving, self-seeking

aristocracy, and the brutally ignorant rural population, must

entirely paralyze the intelligent, an honest few scattered in

their midst. But I must leave all this.

The only news we have is of the royal marriage (Princess Louise)

which pleases everybody. It is a really great event--as a sign

politically, and as a fact socially and morally. After the

Queen's marriage, I wrote repeatedly on behalf of repealing the

Royal Marriage Act _then_, while there could be no invidious

appearance in it. The present chaotic condition of Protestant

princedoms in Germany may answer the purpose almost as well as a

period of abeyance. Any way, the relaxation seems a wise and

happy one.

My items of news are small in comparison, but not small to me;

especially that a happy idea struck me lately, of trying a spring

mattress as a means of obtaining sleep of some continuance. I

have ventured upon getting one; and, after four nights, there is

no doubt of my being able to sleep longer, and with more loss of

consciousness than for a very long time. Last night I once slept

three hours with only one break. Otherwise, I go on much the

same. There is one objection to these beds which healthy people

are unaware of--that so much more strength is required to move in

bed, from want of _purchase_. This is a trouble, but the

advantages far outweigh it.

Dear Jenny comes home to-morrow evening, all the better, I am

assured, for three weeks at the sea, in breeze and sun, and all

manner of beauty of land and sea (at Barmouth, and with a merry

party of young people). And here is a game basket, arrived from

parts unknown, with a fine hare, two brace of partridges, and a

pheasant. A savory welcome for Jenny! Cousin Mary has been more

good and kind than I can say. She stays for Jenny, and leaves us

on Friday. I must not begin upon Huxley, Tyndall, and Evans, whom

I have been reading. Much pleasure to you, dear friend, in your

closing weeks.

Yours ever,

H. MARTINEAU.

The sleepless nights repeatedly mentioned in these letters were a

source of great suffering to her in these latest years; under medical

advice she tried smoking as a means of procuring better rest, with

some success. She smoked usually through the chiboque which she had

brought home with her from the East, and which she had there learned

to use, as she relates with her customary simplicity and directness

in the appendix to _Eastern Life_: "I found it good for my health,"

she says there, "and I saw no more reason why I should not take it

than why English ladies should not take their glass of sherry at

home--an indulgence which I do not need. I continued the use of my

chiboque for some weeks after my return, and then only left it off

because of the inconvenience." When health and comfort were to be

promoted by it, she resumed it. Her nights were, nevertheless, very

broken, and frequent allusions occur in her letters to the suffering

of sleeplessness, with its concomitant of drowsiness in the day-time.

The next letter is on trivial topics, truly; but is none the less

valuable for the unconscious record which it affords of her domestic

character. The anxiety for her household companion's enjoyment, the

delight in the kindness that the young folk had shown to each other

and to the poor Christmas guests, the pleasure in the happiness of

other people, are all characteristic features which are of _no

trivial_ consequence.

AMBLESIDE, Jan. 2, '71.

I am so sorry for the way you are passing from the old year to

the new that I cannot help saying so. I ought to be anything but

sorry, considering what good you are doing--essential,

indispensable good; but you must be so longing for your own

quiet, warm home, and the friends around it, that I heartily wish

you were there.... As for me, my business is to promote, as far

as possible, the cheerfulness of my household. There really has

been much fun,--and yet more sober enjoyment, throughout this

particular Christmas. In my secret mind I am nervously anxious

about Jenny to whom cold is a sort of poison; but, when she had

once observed that there was much less cold here than at home, or

anywhere else that she could be, I determined to say no more, and

to make the best of it. She said it for my sake, I know (the only

reason for her ever speaking of herself), and I frankly received

it as a comfortable saying. She is getting on better than any of

us expected, and she has been thoroughly happy in exercising our

hospitalities.... Jenny's brother Frank came for three days at

Christmas; and Harriet made herself housekeeper and secretary,

and made Jenny the guest, to set her wholly at liberty for her

brother. It was quite a pretty sight--they were all so happy!

There was a kitchen party on Christmas Day; by far the best we

ever had; for Frank did the thing thoroughly--read a comic tale,

taught the folk games, played off the snapdragons, and finally

produced boxes of new and strange crackers, which spat forth the

most extraordinary presents! All the guests and the servants were

in raptures with him. The oldest widow but one vowed that "she

did not know _when_ she had seen such a gentleman"--which I think

very probable. They came to dinner at noon, and stayed till past

10 P.M. Think of spending those ten hours entirely in the two

kitchens, and having four meals, in the time! My nieces, _and

nephews were_ tired! So was I, though I had only the

consciousness of the occasion.... All this is so good for Jenny!

and she will like the quiet and leisure that will follow....

I am more alive and far less suffering than in the great heats of

autumn. Your slips and cuttings are very interesting, and I am

very thankful for them. More of them when (or if) my head is

worth more. Of course we shall hear when you get home. May it be

soon!

Yours ever, dear friend,

H. MARTINEAU.

AMBLESIDE, March 6, '71.

_We_ are in a queer state just now. Gladstone turns out _exactly_

as I expected. I once told some, who are his colleagues now, that

he would do some very fine deeds--give us some separate measures

of very great value, and would do it in an admirable manner; but

that he would show himself incapable of governing the country.

For two years he did the first thing; and now, this third year,

he is showing the expected incapacity. Were there ever such means

thrown away as we see this session? Probably you are out of the

way of hearing the whole truth of the situation, and I cannot go

into it here. Suffice it, that Gladstone totters (and three or

four more), and that several departments are in such a mess and

muddle that one hardly sees how they are to be brought straight

again; and all this without the least occasion! One matter, in

which I feel deep interest, and on which I have acted, is

prospering, and we have the Government at our disposal; so that

we hope they will remain in office till we have secured what we

want; but the more we have to do with Ministers, the weaker we

find them. And Gladstone is not only weak as a reasoner (with all

his hair-splitting), but ignorant in matters of political

principle.

The next letter is very characteristic and perfectly true to her

state of mind with regard to flatterers:

May 21, '71.

And now you will want to know how Miss ---- and we fared this day

week. We (she and I) were together only three-quarters of an

hour; and for part of that time I was too much exhausted to

benefit much. My impression is that she is not exactly the person

for the invalid room. But I may be utterly wrong in this. I might

be misled by the fatiguing sort of annoyance of overpraise--of

worship in fact. I don't want to be ungracious about what my

books were to her in her childhood and youth; I am quite ready to

believe her sincere in what she said. But not the less is it bad

taste. It must be bad taste to expatiate on that one topic which

it is most certain that the hearer cannot sympathize in. Also, I

have much doubt of her being accurate in her talk. There is a

random air about her statements, and she said two or three things

that certainly were mistakes, more or less. These things, and a

general smoothness in her talk, while she was harsh about some of

the ---- were what I did not quite like. As for the rest, she was

as kind as possible; and not only kind to me, but evidently with

a turn that way, and a habit of it in regard to children and

friends....

June 11, '71.

... Of all odd things, Dean Stanley and Lady Augusta have been,

by way of a trip, to Paris, from last Monday to Saturday. How

_can_ they! One would think nothing could take one there but some

strong call of duty. The least that one must read and hear is

enough to make one's heart ache, and to spoil one's sleep, and to

disfigure life till one does not wish to look at it any more. I

do long to have done with it. I believe it is the first occasion

in my life of my having felt hopeless of any destiny, individual

or national.... How badly our public affairs are going! Gladstone

& Co, are turning out exactly as many of us foresaw. The thing

nearest my heart (repeal of the acts above alluded to), and more

important than all other public questions, will do well. It is, I

believe, secure, in virtue of an amount of effort and devotedness

never surpassed. You know what I mean. I rest upon that

achievement--a vital aim with me and others for many years--with

satisfaction and entire hopefulness, but in all other directions

the prospect is simply dreary. In that one case, we, who shall

have achieved the object, have saved Ministers from themselves,

and from evil councillors. Wherever they have, this year, trusted

their own wisdom and resources, they have failed, or see that

they must fail. They would have been _out_ since early in April,

but for want of a leader on the Conservative side; and they still

make their party dwindle till there will be no heart or energy

left in the Liberal ranks--lately so strong and ardent! They may

be individually clever; but they cannot govern the country. This

is eminently the case with Gladstone; and it may serve as the

description of the group. I shall not dare to ask the Arnolds

about such matters--so thoroughly did they assume, when they went

away, that all must be right with "William" and Co. in the

Cabinet.

Nov. 5, '71.

... Mrs. Grote seems to like to open her feelings to me, as a

very old friend of hers and her husband's. Did I tell you that

she sent me--to put me in possession of her state--her private

diary, from the first day of her alarm about her husband's health

to the day she sent it? It was more interesting than I can say;

but it brought after it something more striking still. Some

half-century ago, Jeremy Bentham threw upon paper some thoughts

on the operation of natural religion on human welfare, or

_ill-fare_. His MSS. were left to Mrs. Grote (or portions of

them), and those papers were issued by the Grotes under the

title, "_Analysis of the Influence of Natural Religion_, etc.

etc., by Philip Beauchamp." It is a tract of 142 pp. It is the

boldest conceivable effort at fair play; and in this particular

effect, it is most striking. At the outset, all attempts to

divide the "abuses" of religion from other modes of operation are

repudiated at once; and the claim is so evidently sound that the

effect of the exposure is singular. Well! of course the tendency

of the exposition is to show that the absolute darkness of the

Unseen Life supposed must produce a demoralizing effect, and

destroy ease of mind. There is something almost appalling in the

unflinching representation of the mischief of the spirit of fear,

of its torment, and of its damaging effects in creating a habit

of adulation, in perverting the direction of our desires, in

corrupting our estimate of good and evil, in leaving us, in

short, no chance of living a healthy and natural life, but

rather, making cowards, liars, and selfish rascals of us all. I

can't go on, being tired; and you will be thinking, as you read,

that this is only the old story--of the mischiefs and miseries of

superstition. But there is something impressive in the cheerful

simplicity with which Bentham tells us his opinion of the sort of

person recommended to us for a master under the name of God, and

with which he warns us all of the impossibility of our being good

or happy under such a Supreme Being. In looking at the table of

contents, and seeing the catalogue he gives of evil effects of

belief in the barest scheme of Natural Religion, one becomes

aware, as if for the first time, of the atmosphere of falsehood

against which we ought to have recoiled all our lives since

becoming capable of thought.

Dec. 30, '71.

... I go off rapidly as a correspondent; there is no use blinking

the fact. I am so slow and write so badly! and leave off _too_

tired. Oddly enough, this very week one of the _Daily News_

authorities has been uttering a groaning longing for my pen in

the service of that paper, as of old. The occasion is a short

letter of mine in last Thursday's paper, which you may have

seen.[25] If so, you will see that I had no choice. W. E. Forster

was at Fox How; and I got Jenny to carry the volume of Brougham

(vol. iii. p. 302) to consult Forster and Arnolds about what I

should do, W. E. Forster being in the same line of business with

my father, and a public man--man of the world. He was clear: it

was impossible to leave my father under a false imputation of

having failed. And when my letter appeared, he was delighted with

it; so are those of my family that I have heard from; and, above

all, _Daily News_ editors. They hope and believe it will excite

due distrust of Brougham's representations, and encourage others

to expose his falsehoods. His suppressions are as wonderful as

his disclosures; _e.g._ the very important crisis in his career,

known by the name of the "Grey Banquet" at Edinburgh, he cuts

completely out of the history of the time--perverting Lord

Durham's story as well as his own. I can see how the false story

of me and mine got made; but enough of that--especially if you

have _not_ seen the letter in the _Daily News_. Forster is kindly

and quiet, but he is altered. He is now--the Courtier!--and odd

sort of one, with much Quaker innocence and prudence in it; but

of a sort which leaves me no hope of _his_ handling of his

Education measure. There will be such a fight! and the

Nonconformists are right, and know that they are. You will

probably see _that_ achieved--a real National Education

established, secular and compulsory.

[25] Refuting a statement made in Lord Brougham's

_Autobiography_ that her father had failed in business.

The Ambleside surgeon, who had undertaken, in acccordance with Harriet

Martineau's will, to prepare and transmit her skull and brain to Mr.

Atkinson, died in the year 1872. The following letter shows that the

progress of time had in no way diminished her willingness to leave her

head for scientific investigation:

AMBLESIDE, April 23, '72.

(Shakespere's birthday and Wordsworth's death-day.)

DEAR FRIEND,

I am not writing about poets to-day, nor about any "play" topic,

nor anything gay, or pretty, or amusing. I write on business only.

When you heard of Mr. Shepherd's death, you must, I should think,

have considered what was to be done in regard to fulfilling the

provision of my will about skull and brain. It is to inform you

of this that I write.

Mr. Shepherd's assistant and successor is _Mr. William Moore

King_, a young man who is considered very clever, and is

certainly very kind, gentlemanly, simple in mind and manners,

and married to a charming girl (grand-daughter of Martin, the

artist). Jenny has known them for two years, having called on

their arrival. I had seen him twice before this last week. I

wrote to him the other day, to ask him to give me half an hour

for confidential conversation; and he came when I was quite alone

for the morning.

I told him the whole matter of the provision in my will, and of

Mr. Shepherd's engagement, in case of his surviving me in

sufficient vigor to keep his word. Mr. King listened anxiously,

made himself master of the arrangement, and distinctly engaged to

do what we ask, saying that it was so completely clear between us

that we need never speak of it again.

I may add that Mr. King has shown me the letters in which Mrs.

Martineau made the necessary arrangements with him for his task. Mr.

Atkinson was, however, now residing out of England, and not in a

position to usefully accept the bequest, so he intimated his desire

to be freed from his promise to undertake the examination of his

friend's brain. A codicil was added to Harriet Martineau's will,

therefore, revoking the provision about this matter.

The next quotation shows how little the long prospect of death had

changed her expectations and desires about things supernatural:--

November 19, '72.

I mean to try to do justice to what I think and believe, by

avowing the satisfaction I truly feel with my release from

selfish superstition and trumpery self-regards, and with the calm

conclusions of my reason about what to desire and expect in the

position in which each one of us mysterious human beings finds

him or herself. It is all we have to do now (such as you and I),

to be satisfied with the conditions of the life we have left

behind us, and fearless of the death which lies before us. Nobody

will ever find me craving the "glory and bliss" which the

preachers set before us, and pray that we may obtain. Some of

them are very good and kind, I know; but they will never create

any longing of the sort in me. But why should I scribble on in

this way to you? Perhaps because our new Evangelical curate has

written me almost the worst and silliest letter of this sort that

I ever saw. Enough of him then! But I have left myself no room or

strength for other matters this time. I wanted to tell you about

the effect--according to my experience--of a second reading of

_Adam Bede_, Miss Evans' first great novel. A singular mind is

hers, I should think, and truly wonderful in power and scope. Her

intellectual power and grace attract and win people of very high

intellectual quality.

Miss Jane Martineau was at this time in very delicate health, and,

after long fluctuations of hope and fear, was compelled to leave her

aunt for the winter and go to a warmer climate. Mrs. Martineau's

letters show how cruel was her anxiety for "my precious Jenny," and

are filled with expressions of her feelings about the state of her

beloved young companion. All this is, of course, too personal for

quotation, but a perusal of it amply confirms the accounts of her

domestic affection, and the warmth and sensitiveness of her heart.

The loss of her niece from her side ultimately compelled the

engagement of a companion, Miss Goodwin, a young lady who became as

much attached to Harriet Martineau as did all others who came in

close relationship with her in those years.

May 10th, '73.

... The great event to me and my household is, that Caroline--my

dear maid and nurse--has seen Jenny.... It was such a pouring out

on both sides. It would have almost broken Jenny's heart not to

have seen this very dear friend of ours, when only half an hour

off. All her longing is to be by my side again. I never

discourage this; but I don't believe it can come to pass....

Everybody is kind and helpful; and our admiration of Miss Goodwin

ever increases.

AMBLESIDE, Sept. 7th, '73.

DEAR FRIEND,

I am not ungrateful nor insensible about your treating me with

letters, whether I reply or not. You may be sure I _would_ write

if I could. But you know I cannot, and why. At times I really

indulge in the hope and belief that the end is drawing near, and

then again, if I compare the present day with a year ago, it

seems as if there was no very great change. I still do not make

mistakes--or only in trifling slips of memory common enough at

seventy. Still I have no haunting ideas, no delusions, no

fears,--except that vague sort of misgiving that occurs when it

becomes a fatigue to talk, and to move about, and to plan the

duties of the day. Yet aware as I am of the character of the

change in me, and confident as I still am of not making a fool of

myself till I alter further, I now seldom or never (almost never)

feel _quite_ myself. I have told you this often lately; but I

feel as if it would not be quite honest to omit saying it while

feeling it to be the most prominent experience of my life at this

time. It is not always easy to draw the line as to what one

should tell in such a case. On the one hand, I desire to avoid

all appearance of weak and tiresome complaining of what cannot be

helped; and on the other, I do wish not to appear unaware of my

failures. I am sure you understand this, and can sympathize in

the anxiety about keeping the balance honest. There have been

heart-attacks now and then lately, which have caused digitalis

and belladonna to be prescribed for me; and this creates a hope

that the general bodily condition is declining in good proportion

to the brain weakening.... Miss ---- and her naval partner remind

me of the pair in the novel that I have read eleven times--Miss

Austen's _Persuasion_--unequalled in interest, charm and truth

(to my mind). There is a hint there of the drawback of

separation; but yet,--who would have desired anything for Anne

Elliot and her Captain Wentworth but that they should marry? I am

now in the middle of Miss Thackeray's _Old Kensington_--reading

it with much keen pleasure, and some satisfaction and surprise.

There are exquisite touches in it; and there is a further

disclosure of power, of genuine, substantial, vital power; but

her mannerism grows on her deplorably, it seems to me. The amount

and the mode of analysis of minds and characters are too far

disproportioned to the other elements to be accepted without

regret, and, perhaps, some fear for the future. But I have not

read half the book yet; and I hope I may have to recall all

fault-finding, and to dwell only on the singular value and beauty

of the picture-gallery she has given us.

An incident of this year's (1873) story, which must not be

overlooked, was an offer of a pension made to Harriet Martineau by

Mr. Gladstone. She had written sadly of her own sufferings in a

letter to Mrs. Grote, which referred also to Mr. Grote's life, and

that lady had published the letter. Mr. Gladstone, in delicate and

friendly terms, intimated to Mrs. Martineau that if pecuniary anxiety

in any way added to her troubles, he would recommend the Queen to

give her one of the literary pensions of the Civil List. She declined

it with real gratitude, partly upon the same grounds which had before

led her to refuse a similar offer, but with the additional reason now

that she would not expose the Queen and the Premier to insult for

showing friendliness to "an infidel."

The next letter is mainly domestic, but I am sure that those spoken

of by name in it will not object to publication of references in

order to show Harriet Martineau in her amiable, considerate household

character:--

December 6, 1873.

DEAR FRIEND,

I will not trouble and pain you by a long story about the cares

and anxieties which make the last stage of my long life hard to

manage and to bear. If I could be quite sure of the end being as

near as one would suppose, I could bear my own share quietly

enough; but it is a different thing watching a younger life going

out prematurely. My beloved Jenny will die, after all, we think,

bravely as she has borne up for two years. The terrible East

winds again got hold of her before she went (so early as

October!) to her winter quarters; and there are sudden and grave

symptoms of dropsy. The old dread of the post has returned upon

me; and I am amazed to find how I can still suffer from fear. I

am quite unfit to live alone--even for a week; yet I mean to

venture it, if necessary. Miss Goodwin _shall_ go (to Leeds) for

Christmas Day, on which the family have always hitherto

assembled. I will not prevent their doing so now. My niece

Harriet (Higginson) was to come, as usual, for a month's holiday

at Christmas; but her mother has lamed herself by a fall, and it

must be doubtful whether she can be left. Parents protest the

dear girl shall come, but she and I wait to see. There is nobody

else; for there is illness in all families, or anxiety about

illness elsewhere. "Well! we shall be on the other side of it

somehow," as people say, and it won't matter much then. My young

cook is wanted on Christmas Day to be a bridesmaid, at

Nottingham. So I have a real reason for giving up the great

Christmas party I have given (in the kitchen) every year till

now. It will be costly giving the people handsome dinners in

their own homes; but the house will be quiet, and to me the day

will be like any other day. It is not now a time for much mirth;

the Arnolds meeting at their mother's grave, my Jenny absent,

from perilous illness, my brain failing, so that I can do nothing

for anybody but by money (and not very much in that way). We are

all disposed to keep quiet--wishing the outside world a "Merry

Christmas."

April 15th, 1874.

I am reading again that marvellous _Middlemarch_, finding I did

not half value it before. It is not a book to issue as a serial.

Yet, read _en suite_, I find it almost more (greater) than I can

bear. The Casaubons set me dreaming all night. Do you ever hear

_any_-thing of Lewes and Miss Evans?

During the whole of the time over which these letters extend Mrs.

Martineau was subject to fainting fits, in any one of which her life

might have ended. It was thus necessary for her to have her maid

sleeping in her bed-room. Caroline, the "dear friend and servant" for

twenty-one years, died early in 1875. Her place was filled by the

younger maid, Mary Anne, whom Caroline had trained. The maid has told

me of her mistress's kindness and readiness to be amused; of the

gentleness of her manner, and the gratitude which she seemed to feel

for all loving tendance. The next letter gives a glimpse of the daily

life from the mistress' pen:--

Dec. 8, '75.

East winds have been abundantly bitter; but this house is

sheltered from the east and north. We do pity the babes and their

mothers in the cottages below; and there is no denying that I am

painfully stupefied by such cold as we have; but my _aides_ and

my maids are all as well and as happy as if we had the making of

the season. It is a daily surprise to me to see how Jenny holds

_out_ and on, without any sort of relapse; yet I _cannot_ rise

above the anxiety which haunts me in the midst of every night and

early morning--dread of hearing that she and Miss Goodwin are ill

with the cold which makes _me_ so ill. By six o'clock I can stay

in bed no longer. My maid and I (in the same room) turn out of

our beds as the clock strikes; she puts a match to the fire, and

goes for my special cup of tea (needed after my bad nights),

while I brush my hair. I take the tea to the window, and look out

for the lights (Fox How usually the first) as they kindle and

twinkle throughout the valley--Orion going down behind Loughrigg

as day is breaking. Then I get on the bed for half an hour's

reading, till the hot water comes up. By that time I am in a

panic about my _aides_; but as soon as I am seated at my little

table ready for breakfast, in come the dear creatures, as gay as

larks, with news how the glass stands, out-door and in. Out-door

(not on the ground) it is somewhere between 32 deg. and 40 deg. at

present; and in my room (before the fire has got up), from 50 deg. to

57 deg.. So now you know what our present life and climate are like.

After dinner--I must end almost before I have begun! But, have

you seen, in any newspaper, the address presented to Carlyle on

his 80th birthday? I had no doubt about subscribing, and my name

is there. I feel great deference for Masson, who asked me; and

though I do not agree with all the ascriptions of the address,

there is enough in which I do heartily agree to enable me to

sign; so I send my sovereign with satisfaction. I shall not see

the medal, not even a bronze one (you know Carlyle's is gold). My

expenses are considerable _at present_ (not always), and I must

not spend on such an object. The way in which the thing was done

is delicate. Instead of overwhelming the old man with a

deputation, the promoters had the packet quietly left at his

door. It would set him weeping for his loneliness,--that his

long-suffering, faithful wife did not witness this crowning

glory. He does love fame (or _did_), and no man would despise

such a tribute as this; but I think he will find it oppressive.

What a change since the day when the _Edinburgh Review_ was

obliged, as Jeffrey said, to decline articles from Carlyle--much

as he wished to aid him--because the readers could not tolerate

C.'s writings! And that was after his now famous "Burns" article

had appeared, and founded his fame in America!

Did you see that the _Times_ death-list showed, in two days last

week, thirty-three deaths of persons over 70, eleven of whom were

over 80? The effect of the cold!

... The sick and aged will die off fast this winter. May I be

one!

January 25, '76.

DEAR OLD FRIEND,

It is time that you were hearing from us of the marked increase

in my illness within the few days since I last reported of

matters of mutual interest. I will not trouble you with

disagreeable descriptions of ailments which admit of no

advantageous treatment. Last week there was, as twice before (and

now again twice), a copious hemorrhage from some interior part,

by which I am much weakened. The cause is not understood; and

what does it matter? I neither know nor much care how it happens

that I find myself sinking more rapidly than hitherto. All I know

is that I am fully satisfied with my share of the interest and

amusement of life, and of the value of the knowledge which has

come to me by means of the brain, which is worth all the rest of

us.

I have not much pain, none very severe, but much discomfort. At

times I _see_ very badly, and _hear_ almost nothing; and then I

recover more or less of both powers. There is so much cramp in

the hands, and elsewhere, that it seems very doubtful whether you

and other friends will hear much from me during the (supposed)

short time that I shall be living. But I do hope you will let me

hear, to the last, of your interests and pursuits, your

friendships and companionships, and prospects of increasing

wisdom. I cannot write more to-day. Perhaps I may become able

another day. My beloved niece Jenny is well; better here than she

would be anywhere else, and more happy in her restoration to her

home with me than I can describe. I could easily show you how and

why my death within a short time may be for the happiness of some

whom I love, and who love me; and if it should be the severest

trial to this most dear helper of my latter days, I am sure she

will bear it wisely and well. It cannot but be the happiest

thought in her mind and heart--what a blessing she has been to my

old age! What have not _you_ been, dear friend! I must not enter

on that now. Jenny observed this morning that old or delicate

people live wonderfully long. True! but I hope my term will be

short, if I am to continue as ill as at present.

The end was, indeed, approaching; and now, when at the worst of her

illness, it so came about that she was asked and consented to do one

last piece of writing for publication. Her young companion, Miss

Goodwin, had translated Pauli's _Simon de Montfort_, and Mr. Truebner,

unaware of course, how ill Mrs. Martineau was, offered to publish the

translation on the condition that she would write an introduction.

She would not refuse this favor to Miss Goodwin, and did the work

with great difficulty. It was characteristic that she should think it

necessary to take the trouble to _read_ the whole MS. before writing

her few pages of introduction.

She was now nearing her seventy-fourth birthday; and the strong

constitution which had worn through so much pain and labor had almost

exhausted its vitality.

Even in these last weeks she could not be idle. Her hands were

cramped, her eyes weak, her sensations of fatigue very hard to bear;

still, she not only continued her correspondence with one or two of

her dearest friends, but also went on with her fancy work. The latter

was now of that easiest kind, requiring least effort of eye and

thought--knitting. She occupied herself with making cot blankets, in

double knitting, for the babies of her young friends; some of them

among her poorer neighbors, whom she had known when they were little

children themselves and she came first to Ambleside, others among

more distant and wealthier couples. She finished one blanket early in

the year 1876, for a baby born in Ambleside in the January, and she

left a second one unfinished when she died.

Babies were an unfailing delight to her, to the end. Her maids knew

that even if she were too ill to see grown-up visitors, a little

child was always a welcome guest, for at least a few moments. Her

letters to children were altogether charming, and so were her ways

with them, and children always loved her with all their wise little

hearts. She was a pleasant old lady, even for them to look at. The

expression of the countenance became very gentle and motherly, when

the strife of working life was laid aside; the eyes were ever kind;

and the mouth loved to laugh, sternly and firmly though it could at

times be compressed. She wore a large cap of delicate lace, and was

dainty about her person, as regarded the fairest cleanliness. Plain

in her youth and middle life, she had now grown into a beautiful old

age--beauty of the kind which such years can gain from the impress on

the features of the high thoughts and elevated emotions of the past,

with patience, lovingness, and serenity in the present.

Patient, loving, and serene the last years of Harriet Martineau were.

Those who lived with her knew less than her correspondents of what

she suffered; for she felt it a duty to tell the absent what they

could not see for themselves of her state; but to her household she

spoke but seldom, comparatively, of her painful sensations, leaving

the matter to their own observation. She could be absorbed to the

last in all that concerned the world and mankind; and she was equally

accessible to the smaller and more homely interests of the quiet

daily life of her inmates. The incidents which go to show what she

was in her domestic circle are but trifling; but what is it that

makes the difference between an intolerable and a venerable old age

(or youth, for the matter of that, in domestic life) except its

conduct about trifles? One who was with her tells of her delight when

a basket of newly-fledged ducklings was brought to her bedside,

before she was up, on St. Valentine's Day in the year of her death,

offering her a doggerel tribute as follows:--

St. Valentine hopes you will not scorn

This little gift on St. Valentine's morn.

We'd have come with the chime of last evening's bells,

But, alas! we could not break our shells!

Then another remembers her amusement when one of her nephews had just

started to go to the coach for London, and the doctor, coming in

unannounced, left his hat on the hall table, which the active servant

seeing, and jumping to the conclusion that Mr. Martineau (travelling

in a felt) had left his high hat behind him, rushed off with it to

the coach-office, half a mile away; so that when the doctor wanted to

go, his hat was off to the coach; and "the old lady did laugh so."

Only a week or two before her death, she was merry enough to ask her

doctor that dreadful punning conundrum about the resemblance between

an ice-cream vender, and an hydrophobic patient--the answer turning

on the legend "Water ices and ice creams" (water I sees, and I

screams)--telling him that it was a _professional_ conundrum. At the

same time she was kind enough to repeat to him the compliments which

a visitor of hers had been paying his baby. This was the lighter side

of the aged woman's life, the more serious aspect of which is shown

in some of her letters to Mr. Atkinson. The last of these letters

must now be given:--

AMBLESIDE, May 19, 1876.

DEAR FRIEND,

Jenny, and also my sister, have been observing that you ought to

be hearing from us, and have offered to write to you. You will

see at once what this means; and it is quite true that I have

become so much worse lately that we ought to guard against your

being surprised, some day soon, by news of my life being closed.

I feel uncertain about how long I _may_ live in my present state.

I can only follow the judgment of unprejudiced observers; and I

see that my household believe the end to be not far off. I will

not trouble you with disagreeable details. It is enough to say

that I am in no respect better, while all the ailments are on the

increase. The imperfect heart-action immediately affects the

brain, causing the suffering which is worse than all other evils

together,--the horrid sensation of not being quite myself. This

strange, dreamy _non-recognition of myself_ comes on every

evening, and all else is a trifle in comparison. But there is a

good deal more. Cramps in the hands prevent writing, and most

other employment, except at intervals. Indications of dropsy have

lately appeared: and after this, I need not again tell you that I

see how fully my household believe that the end is not far off.

Meantime I have no cares or troubles beyond the bodily uneasiness

(which, however, I don't deny to be an evil). I cannot think of

any future as at all probable, except the "annihilation" from

which some people recoil with so much horror. I find myself here

in the universe,--I know not how, whence, or why. I see

everything in the universe go out and disappear, and I see no

reason for supposing that it is not an actual and entire death.

And for _my_ part, I have no objection to such an extinction. I

well remember the passion with which W. E. Forster said to me, "I

had rather be damned than annihilated." If he once felt five

minutes' damnation, he would be thankful for extinction in

preference. The truth is, I care little about it any way. Now

that the event draws near, and that I see how fully my household

expects my death, pretty soon, the universe opens so widely

before my view, and I see the old notions of death and scenes to

follow to be so merely human--so impossible to be true, when one

glances through the range of science--that I see nothing to be

done but to wait without fear or hope, or ignorant prejudice, for

the expiration of life. I have no wish for further experience,

nor have I any fear of it. Under the weariness of illness I long

to be asleep; but I have not set my mind in any state. I wonder

if all this represents your notions at all. I should think it

does, while yet we are fully aware how mere a glimpse we have of

the universe and the life it contains.

Above all, I wish to escape from the narrowness of taking a mere

human view of things, from the absurdity of making God after

man's own image, etc.

But I will leave this, begging your pardon for what may be so

unworthy to be dwelt on. However, you _may_ like to know how the

case looks to a friend under the clear knowledge of death being

so near at hand. My hands are cramped and I must stop. My sister

is here for the whole of May, and she and Jenny are most happy

together. Many affectionate relations and friends are willing to

come if needed (the Browns among others), if I live beyond July.

You were not among the Boulogne theological petitioners, I

suppose. I don't know whether you can _use_----there? I was very

thankful for your last, though I have said nothing about its

contents. If I began _that_, I should not know how to stop.

So good-bye for to-day, dear friend!

Yours ever,

H. M.

The internal tumor which was the prime cause of her malady (an

entirely different kind of thing, however, from that which she

suffered from at Tynemouth), had long been the source of great

inconvenience, compelling her to descend the stairs backwards, and to

spend much time in a recumbent position. The post mortem examination

made by her medical attendant, at the request of her executors, two

days after she died, revealed the fact that this tumor was the true

cause of her sufferings. She never knew it herself. Relying on the

statement of the eminent men whom she consulted in 1855, that it was

the heart that was affected, she accepted that as her fate. It was,

however, the slow growth of a "dermoid cyst" which made her linger

till such an age, through the constant suffering of twenty-one

preceding years.

In the early part of June, 1876, she had an attack of bronchitis, and

though medical treatment subdued this speedily, it exhausted her

strength greatly. From about the 14th of that month--two days after

her seventy-fourth birthday--she was confined to her room, but still

rose from bed. On the 24th she was too ill to get up. Then drowsiness

gradually increased and in a little while she sank quietly into a

dreamy state, in which she seemed to retain consciousness when

aroused, but was too weak to either take food or to speak. At last,

on the 27th of June, 1876, just as the summer sunset was gilding the

hills that she knew and loved so well, she quietly and peacefully

drew her last breath, and entered into eternal rest.

Truly her death--not only the last moments, but the long

ordeal--might stand for an illustration of the saying of the wise men

of old--"Keep innocency, and take heed unto the thing that is right,

for _that_ shall bring a man peace at the last."

She was buried amidst her kindred, in the old cemetery of Birmingham;

and upon the tombstone, where it stands amidst the smoke, there is no

inscription beyond her name and age, and the places of birth and death.

More was, perhaps, needless. Her works, and a yet more precious

possession, her character remain. Faults she had, of course--the

necessary defects of her virtues. Let it be said that she held her own

opinions too confidently--the uncertain cannot be teachers. Let it be

said that her personal dislikes were many and strong--it is the

necessary antithesis of powerful attachments. Let it be said that her

powers of antagonism at times were not sufficiently restrained--how,

without such oppugnancy, could she have stood forth for unpopular

truths? Let all that detractors can say be said, and how much remains

untouched!

In the paths where Harriet Martineau trod at first almost alone, many

women are now following. Serious studies, political activity, a share

in social reforms, an independent, self-supporting career, and freedom

of thought and expression, are by the conditions of our age, becoming

open to the thousands of women who would never have dared to claim them

in the circumstances in which she first did so. In a yet earlier age

such a life, even to such powers as hers, would have been impossible.

As it was, she was only a pioneer of the new order of things inevitable

under the advance of civilization and knowledge. The printing-press,

which multiplies the words of the thinker; the steam-engine, which both

feeds the press and rushes off with its product, and the electric

telegraph, which carries thought around the globe, make this an age in

which mental force assumes an importance which it never had before in

the history of mankind. Mind will be more and more valued and

cultivated, and will grow more and more influential; and the condition

and status of women must alter accordingly. Some people do not like

this fact; and no one can safely attempt to foresee all its

consequences; but we can no more prevent it than we can return to

hornbooks, or to trial by ordeal, or to the feudal tenure of land, or

to any other bygone state of social affairs. More and more it will grow

customary for women to study such subjects as Harriet Martineau

studied; more commonplace will it constantly become for women to use

all their mental faculties, and to exert every one of their powers to

the fullest extent in the highest freedom. What, then, have we to wish

about that which is inevitable, except that the old high womanly

standard of moral excellence may be no whit lowered, but may simply be

carried into the wider sphere of thought and action?

It may do much, indeed, for us that we have had such a pioneer as

Harriet Martineau. It is not only that she lived so that all worthy

people, however differing from her in opinion, respected and honored

her--though that is much. It is not only that she has settled, once for

all, that a woman can be a political thinker and a teacher from whom

men may gladly receive guidance--though that is much. But the great

value of her life to us is as a splendid example of the moral qualities

which we should carry into our widest sphere, and which we should

display in our public exertions.

She cared for nothing before the truth; her efforts to discover it were

earnest and sincere, for she spared no pains in study and no labor in

thought in the attempt to form her opinions correctly. Having found

what she must believe to be a right cause to uphold, or a true word to

speak, no selfish consideration intruded between her and her duty. She

could risk fame, and position, and means of livelihood, when necessary,

to unselfishly support and promulgate what she believed it to be

important for mankind to do and believe. She longed for the well-being

of her kind; and so unaffectedly and honestly that men who came under

her influence were stimulated and encouraged by her to share and avow

similar high aims. Withal, those who lived with her loved her; she was

a kind mistress, a good friend, and tender to little children; she was

truly helpful to the poor at her gates, and her life was spotlessly

pure.

Is not this what we should all strive to be? Shall we not love

knowledge, and use it to find out truth; and place outspoken fidelity

to conscience foremost amongst our duties; and care for the progress of

our race rather than for our own fame; shall we not be truthful, and

honest, and upright--and, to this end, brave--in public as in private

life; and shall we not seek so to bear ourselves that men shall shrink

from owning their ignobler thoughts and baser shifts to us, but shall

never fear to avow high aims and pure deeds, while yet we retain our

womanly kindness and all our domestic virtues unchanged? All this we

may know that we can be and do, if we will; for we have seen it

exemplified in the life of Harriet Martineau.

_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._

_Famous Women Series._

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT.

BY

ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL.

One volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price $1.00.

"So far as it has been published, and it has now reached its ninth

volume, the Famous Women Series is rather better on the whole than the

English Men of Letters Series. One had but to recall the names and

characteristics of some of the women with whom it deals,--literary

women, like Maria Edgeworth, Margaret Fuller, Mary Lamb, Emily Bronte,

George Eliot, and George Sand; women of the world (not to mention the

other parties in that well-known Scriptural firm), like the naughty

but fascinating Countess of Albany; and women of philanthropy, of

which the only example given here so far is Mrs. Elizabeth Fry,--one

has but to compare the intellectual qualities of the majority of

English men of letters to perceive that the former are the most

difficult to handle, and that a series of which they are the heroines

is, if successful, a remarkable collection of biographies. We thought

so as we read Miss Blind's study of George Sand, and Vernon Lee's

study of the Countess of Albany, and we think so now that we have read

Mrs. Elizabeth Robins Pennell's study of Mary Wollstonecraft, who,

with all her faults, was an honor to her sex. She was not so

considered while she lived, except by those who knew her well, nor for

years after her death; but she is so considered now, even by the

granddaughters of the good ladies who so bitterly condemned her when

the century was new. She was notable for the sacrifices that she made

for her worthless father and her weak, inefficient sisters, for her

dogged persistence and untiring industry, and for her independence and

her courage. The soul of goodness was in her, though she would be

herself and go on her own way; and if she loved not wisely, according

to the world's creed, she loved too well for her own happiness, and

paid the penalty of suffering. What she might have been if she had not

met Capt. Gilbert Imlay, who was a scoundrel, and William Godwin, who

was a philosopher, can only be conjectured. She was a force in

literature and in the enfranchisement of her sisterhood, and as such

was worthy of the remembrance which she will long retain through Mrs.

Pennell's able memoir."--_R. H. Stoddard, in the Mail and Express._

_Sold by all booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price by

the publishers_,

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

BY MRS. F. FENWICK MILLER.

16mo. Cloth. Price $1.00.

"The almost uniform excellence of the 'Famous Women' series is well

sustained in Mrs. Fenwick Miller's life of Harriet Martineau, the

latest addition to this little library of biography. Indeed, we are

disposed to rank it as the best of the lot. The subject is an

entertaining one, and Mrs. Miller has done her work admirably. Miss

Martineau was a remarkable woman, in a century that has not been

deficient in notable characters. Her native genius, and her

perseverance in developing it; her trials and afflictions, and the

determination with which she rose superior to them; her conscientious

adherence to principle, and the important place which her writings

hold in the political and educational literature of her day,--all

combine to make the story of her life one of exceptional interest....

With the exception, possibly, of George Eliot, Harriet Martineau was

the greatest of English women. She was a poet and a novelist, but not

as such did she make good her title to distinction. Much more

noteworthy were her achievements in other lines of thought, not

usually essayed by women. She was eminent as a political economist, a

theologian, a journalist, and a historian.... But to attempt a mere

outline of her life and works is out of the question in our limited

space. Her biography should be read by all in search of

entertainment."--_Professor Woods in Saturday Mirror._

"The present volume has already shared the fate of several of the

recent biographies of the distinguished dead, and has been well

advertised by the public contradiction of more or less important

points in the relation by the living friends of the dead genius. One

of Mrs. Miller's chief concerns in writing this life seems to have

been to redeem the character of Harriet Martineau from the appearance

of hardness and unamiability with which her own autobiography

impresses the reader.... Mrs. Miller, however, succeeds in this volume

in showing us an altogether different side to her character,--a

home-loving, neighborly, bright-natured, tender-hearted, witty,

lovable, and altogether womanly woman, as well as the clear thinker,

the philosophical reasoner, and comprehensive writer whom we already

knew."--_The Index._

"Already ten volumes in this library are published; namely, George

Eliot, Emily Bronte, George Sand, Mary Lamb, Margaret Fuller, Maria

Edgeworth, Elizabeth Fry, The Countess of Albany, Mary Wollstonecraft,

and the present volume. Surely a galaxy of wit and wealth of no mean

order! Miss M. will rank with any of them in womanliness or gifts or

grace. At home or abroad, in public or private. She was noble and

true, and her life stands confessed a success. True, she was literary,

but she was a home lover and home builder. She never lost the higher

aims and ends of life, no matter how flattering her success. This

whole series ought to be read by the young ladies of to-day. More of

such biography would prove highly beneficial."--_Troy Telegram._

_Our publications are for sale by all booksellers, or will be mailed,

post-paid, on receipt of price._

ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.

RACHEL.

By Mrs. NINA H. KENNARD.

One Volume. 16mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00.

"_Rachel_, by Nina H. Kennard, is an interesting sketch of the famous

woman whose passion and genius won for her an almost unrivalled fame

as an actress. The story of Rachel's career is of the most brilliant

success in art and of the most pathetic failure in character. Her

faults, many and grievous, are overlooked in this volume, and the

better aspects of her nature and history are recorded."--_Hartford

Courant._

"The book is well planned, has been carefully constructed, and is

pleasantly written."--_The Critic._

"The life of Mlle. Elisa Rachel Felix has never been adequately told,

and the appearance of her biography in the 'Famous Women Series' of

Messrs. Roberts Brothers will be welcomed.... Yet we must be glad the