CHAPTER VII.

FIVE YEARS OF ILLNESS AND THE MESMERIC RECOVERY.

Almost immediately after the publication of _Deerbrook_ Harriet

started for a Continental tour. She was to escort an invalid cousin to

Switzerland, and afterwards to travel through Italy with two other

friends. But her illness became so severe by the time that she reached

Venice that the remainder of the journey had to be abandoned. Under

medical advice, a couch was fitted up in the travelling carriage, and

upon it, lifted in and out at every stage, she returned to England and

was conveyed to her sister's at Newcastle-on-Tyne. In the autumn of

that same year (1839) she took up her abode in Front street,

Tynemouth, in order to remain under the medical care of her

brother-in-law, Mr. Greenhow of Newcastle.

Her physical sufferings during the next five years were very severe,

and almost incessant. She could not go out of the house, and

alternated only between her bed in one room and her couch in another.

From her sick-room window she overlooked a narrow space of down, the

ruins of the priory, the harbor with its traffic, and the sea. On the

farther side of the harbor she could discern through the telescope a

railroad, a spreading heath, and, on the hills which bounded the view,

two or three farms. To this outlook she, whose life had been hitherto

spent so actively, and in the midst of such a throng of society, found

herself confined for a term of five years. At the same time her pain

was so great that she was compelled to take opiates daily. "I have

observed, with inexpressible shame, that with the newspaper in my

hand, no details of the peril of empires, or of the starving miseries

of thousands, could keep my eye from the watch before me, or detain my

attention one second beyond the time when I might have my opiate. For

two years, too, I wished and intended to dispense with my opiate for

once, to try how much there was to bear, and how I should bear it; but

I never did it, strong as was the shame of always yielding. I am

convinced that there is no more possibility of becoming inured to

acute agony of body, than to paroxysms of remorse--the severest of

moral pains. A familiar pain becomes more and more dreaded, instead of

becoming more lightly esteemed in proportion to its familiarity. The

pain itself becomes more odious, more oppressive, more feared in

proportion to the accumulation of experience of weary hours, in

proportion to the aggregate of painful associations which every

visitation revives."[9]

[9] _Life in the Sick-Room._

Some indication of what she endured in those weary years is given in

this quotation. If we had to rely upon the inferences to be drawn from

the amount of work which she did in her sick-room, we should naturally

suppose the suffering not to have been very great; for she produced,

in the midst of her illness, as much and as noble work as we look for

from the most active persons in ordinary health.

The first business of the sick-room life was to write both an article

for publication, and a number of letters of personal appeal to

friends, on behalf of Oberlin College, an institution which was being

founded in America for the education of persons of color of both

sexes, and of the students who had been turned out of Lane College for

their advocacy of anti-slavery principles.

The next undertaking was another novel; or, rather, a history,

imaginatively treated, of the negro revolution in San Domingo.

Toussaint L'Ouverture, the leader of the revolution and the president

of the black Republic of Hayti, was the hero of this story. _The Hour

and the Man_, as a mere novel, is vastly superior to _Deerbrook_.

Harriet wrote it, however, rather as a contribution to the same

anti-slavery cause for which she had written her preceding article,

believing that it would be useful to that cause to show forth the

capacity and the high moral character which had been displayed by a

negro of the blackest shade when in possession of power. The work was

begun in May, 1840, and published in November of the same year.

Lord Jeffrey, in a familiar private letter to Empson, his successor in

the editorship of the _Edinburgh Review_, wrote thus of _The Hour and

the Man_:--

I have read Harriet's first volume, and give in my adhesion to her

Black Prince with all my heart and soul. The book is really not

only beautiful and touching, but _noble_; and I do not recollect

when I have been more charmed, whether by very sweet and eloquent

writing and glowing description, or by elevated as well as tender

sentiments.... The book is calculated to make its readers better,

and does great honor to the heart as well as the talent and fancy

of the author. I would go a long way to kiss the hem of her

garment, or the hand that delineated this glowing and lofty

representation of purity and noble virtue. And she must not only

be rescued from all debasing anxieties about her subsistence, but

placed in a station of affluence and honor; though I believe she

truly cares for none of these things. It is sad to think that she

suffers so much, and may even be verging to dissolution.

Even the morose and ungracious Carlyle, writing to Emerson of this

book, is obliged to say "It is beautiful as a child's heart; and in so

shrewd a brain!" While Florence Nightingale declares that she "can

scarcely refrain from thinking of it as the greatest of historical

romances."

The allusion in the latter part of Lord Jeffrey's letter was to a

proposal just then made to give Harriet Martineau one of the Civil

List literary pensions. This idea had been mooted first during the

progress of her _Illustrations_, and again after her return from

America; but upon each occasion she had stated privately that she

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

over the five busy but suffering years, the work of which has now been

recorded, and see what were the physical conditions under which that

work was executed.

Her health had been declining gradually from 1834 to 1839; there was a

slow but a marked deterioration in strength, and her spirits became

depressed. In April of the latter year, when she undertook a

continental journey the fatigue of travelling suddenly aggravated her

condition; and in Venice, early in June, she was compelled to consult

a physician, Dr. Nardo. She was found to be suffering from a tumor,

with enlargement and displacement of an important organ, all this

causing great internal pain, accompanied by frequent weakening

hemorrhages. She was carried back to England by easy stages, and lying

on a couch, and reached Newcastle-on-Tyne at the end of July, 1839.

She stayed for some time at the house in that town of her eldest

sister, and then was removed only nine miles off, in order that her

brother-in-law, Mr. T. M. Greenhow, F.R.C.S., might undertake the

medical care of her case. Until October, she persevered in taking

walking exercise; but the pain, sickness and breathlessness which

accompanied this were so distressing, that soon after her removal to

Tynemouth she ceased to go out of doors, or even to descend the

stairs.

Mr. Greenhow's prescriptions were confined at first to opiates, and

other medicines to alleviate symptoms. The opiates were not taken in

excess--as, indeed, the books written in the period would conclusively

prove. The patient's suffering was so great, however, that extreme

recourse to such palliatives might have been forgiven. She could not

raise the right leg; and could neither sit up for the faintness which

then ensued, nor lie down with ease because of the pain in her back.

"She could not sleep at night till she devised a plan of sleeping

under a basket, for the purpose of keeping the weight of the

bed-clothes from her; and even then she was scared by horrors all

night, and reduced by sickness during the day. This sickness increased

to such a degree that for two years she was extremely low from want of

food."

At the end of two years, that is to say, in September, 1841, Sir

Charles Clarke, M.D., was called in consultation; and he prescribed

iodine, remarking at the same time that, in his view, such a case as

hers was practically incurable, and admitting that he "had tried

iodine in an infinite number of such cases, and never knew it avail."

For the next _three years_ Miss Martineau took three grains per

diem of iodide of iron. It relieved the sickness; but up to April,

1844 (two and a half years from the commencement of its

administration), Mr. Greenhow did not pretend that any improvement in

the physical condition had taken place. In that month, as he

afterwards said, he believed he found a slight change, "but he was not

sure"; and, if any, it was very trifling. The patient, on her part,

was quite convinced that her state then was in no way altered.

More than once different friends--amongst them Lord Lytton, Mr.

Hallam, and the Basil Montagus--had urged her to try mesmerism; but

she had thought it due to her relative to give his orthodox medicines

the fullest trial, before taking herself out of his hands in such a

way. In June, 1844, however, Mr. Greenhow himself suggested that she

should be mesmerized. Of course, so advised, she consented to make the

trial. A Mr. Hall, brought by Mr. Greenhow, accordingly mesmerized her

for the first time on June 22d, 1844, and again on the following day.

The patient thought she experienced some relief, but did not feel

quite sure. "On occasion of a perfectly new experience, scepticism and

self-distrust are strong."[11] The next day, however, set her doubts at

rest. Mr. Hall was unable to come to her, and she asked her maid to

make the passes in his stead.

[11] This and the succeeding quotations are from her "Letters

on Mesmerism," published in the _Athenaeum_, 1845.

Within one minute, the twilight and phosphoric lights appeared;

and in two or three more a delicious sensation of ease spread

through me--a cool comfort, before which all pain and distress

gave way, oozing out, as it were, at the soles of my feet. During

that hour, and almost the whole evening, I could no more help

exclaiming with pleasure than a person in torture crying out with

pain. I became hungry, and ate with relish for the first time for

five years. There was no heat, oppression, or sickness during the

_seance_, nor any disorder afterwards. During the whole evening,

instead of the lazy, hot ease of opiates, under which pain is felt

to lie in wait, I experienced something of the indescribable

sensations of health, which I had quite lost and forgotten.

Her dear friend during all the years that remained to her--Mr. Henry

G. Atkinson[12]--had just come into her life. His interest in her case

was enlisted by their mutual friend, Basil Montagu; and Mr. Atkinson

undertook to direct the mesmeric treatment by correspondence.

Margaret, the maid, continued the mesmerism till September, and then

Mr. Atkinson induced his friend Mrs. Montague Wynyard, the young widow

of a clergyman, to undertake the case. "In pure zeal and benevolence

this lady came to me, and has been with me ever since. When I found

myself able to repose on the knowledge and power (mental and moral) of

my mesmerist the last impediments to my progress were cleared away and

I improved accordingly."

[12] As this friendship had a profound influence upon

Harriet's after thought and work, some description of Mr.

Atkinson seems in place; and I need offer that gentleman no

apology for merely quoting what has appeared in print before

about him. Margaret Fuller wrote thus of him in a private

letter, in 1846:--

"Mr. Atkinson is a man about thirty, in the fullness of

his powers, tall and finely formed, with a head for

Leonardo to paint; mild and composed, but powerful and

sagacious; he does not think, but perceives and acts. He

is intimate with artists, having studied architecture

himself as a profession; but has some fortune on which he

lives. Sometimes stationary and acting in the affairs of

other men; sometimes wandering about the world and

learning; he seems bound by no tie, yet looks as if he

had relatives in every place."--_Memoirs of Margaret

Fuller_, by Emerson.

On December the 6th Mr. Greenhow found his patient quite well, and

about to leave the place of her imprisonment, and start on a series of

friendly visits. He declared, notwithstanding, that firstly, her

_physical condition_ was not essentially different from what it had

been all through; secondly, that the change in her _sensations_ arose

from the iodine suddenly and miraculously becoming more effective, and

not from mesmerism.

Such is the medical history, so interesting to all physiological

students and to all sufferers of the same class, of Harriet

Martineau's five years' illness and recovery. My business is simply to

state facts, and I need not here undertake any dissertation upon

mesmerism. It is sufficient to add that only those who are unaware of

the profundity of our ignorance (up to the present day) about the

action of the nervous system, and still more about what _life_

really is, can be excused for rash jeering and hasty incredulity in

such a case as this.

Harriet Martineau knew that she was well again, and it seemed to her a

clear duty to make as public as possible the history of how her

recovery had been brought about. She did so by six letters to the

_Athenaeum_; and these were reprinted in pamphlet form. Mr. Greenhow

was thereupon guilty of one of the most serious professional faults

possible. He also published an account of _The Case of Miss H. M._, in

a shilling pamphlet, giving the most minute and painful details of her

illness, and respecting no confidence that had been reposed in his

medical integrity. The result of this conduct on his part was that his

patient felt herself compelled to break off all future intercourse

with a man capable of such objectionable action.

It may be added here that the cure was a permanent one.[13] She enjoyed

ten years of health so good that she declared it taught her that in no

previous period of her life had she ever been well. It may be as well

to say that she never wavered in her assurance that her cure was

worked by mesmerism, and that the cure was complete. All dispute about

her firm conviction on this point may be set at rest by the following

extracts from

LETTERS TO MR. ATKINSON.

[Extract.]

July 6, 1874.

Notices of my mesmeric experience in illness have revived an

anxiety of mine about what may happen when I am gone, if certain

parties should bring up the old falsehoods again, when I am not

here to assert and prove the truth. I don't in the least suppose

you can help me, any more than Mrs. Chapman, whom I have got to

look over a box of papers of mine deposited with her. But I had

rather tell you what is on my mind about it.

I wrote, at Tynemouth, a diary of my case and experience under

the mesmeric experiment (experiment desired and proposed by Mr.

Greenhow himself). _He_ read it when finished, and so did several

of my friends. There are two copies somewhere, for, not wishing to

show certain passages, rather saucy, about the Greenhow prejudices

and behavior, I accepted Mrs. Wynyard's kind offer to copy the

MS., omitting those remarks. Now where are those MSS? I cannot

find them, nor say what I did with them, beyond having a dim

notion that they (or at least Mrs. Wynyard's copy) were put away

into some safe place, to await future chances. I perfectly

remember the look of the packet, and the label on it, etc. When I

remember what was said after reading it, by one of the wisest

people I have known, I am _shocked_ at our inability to find

it. "One must dispute anything being the cause of anything, if one

disputes after reading this statement, that your recovery is due

to mesmerism." And now, while I see false statements of the

"facts," and false references circulating, as at present, I cannot

find my own narrative, written from day to day, and do not know

where to turn next! If I had strength I would turn out all the

papers in my possession, and make sure for myself. Now, dear

friend, do you think you ever saw that statement?

[Extract.]

September 18, 1874.

My malady was absolutely unlike cancer, and it never had any sort

of relation to "malignant" disease. The doctors called it

"indolent tumor--most probably polypus." Don't you remember how,

at that very time, the great dispute on Elliotson's hands was

whether any instance could be adduced of cure of organic disease

by mesmerism? Elliotson was nearly certain, but not quite, of the

cure of a cancer case in his own practice. The doctors were full

of the controversy, and some of them wrote both to me and to Mr.

Greenhow to inquire the nature of my case, whether malignant or

not. Of course we both replied "No." It would be a dreadful

misfortune if now anybody concerned should tell a different story.

Greenhow is still living (aged 82) and all alive; and he would

like nothing better than to get hold of it, and bring out another

indecent pamphlet. If I could but lay hands on the diary of the

case, written at the time, what a security it would be? But I can

nowhere find it. The next best security is turning back to the

statement, "Letters" in the _Athenaeum_ of the autumn of 1844.

Those "Letters" went through two editions when reprinted, after

having carried those numbers of the _Athenaeum_ through three

editions. One would think the narrative must be accessible enough.

Above all things, let there be no mistake in our statements.

It ought to be enough for observers that I had ten years of robust

health after that recovery, walking from sixteen to twenty miles

in a day, on occasion, and riding a camel in the heart of Nubia,

and hundreds of miles on horseback, through Palestine to Damascus,

and back to the Levant.

I have written so much because I could not help it. I shall hardly

do it again. I will add only that the mesmerizing began in June,

1844, and the cure was effected before the following Christmas.

Dear friend,

I am yours ever,

H. M.

[13] I find there is a widespread impression that she

eventually died of the same tumor that she supposed to have

been cured at this time. It should be distinctly stated,

however, that if this were the case, Mr. Greenhow and Sir C.

Clarke were both _utterly_ wrong in their diagnosis in

1840. I have read Mr. Greenhow's _Report of the Case of

Miss H. M._, and the notes of the post-mortem lie before

me--kindly lent me by the surgeon, Mr. King, now of Bedford

Park, who made the autopsy. I find that the organ which Mr.

Greenhow and his consultant both stated to be the seat of the

disease, enlargement and tumor, in 1840, is described as

being found "particularly small and unaffected" after death.