Part 1

# Pen-portraits of literary women : $b by themselves and others, Volume 2 (of 2) ### By Unknown

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PEN-PORTRAITS OF

LITERARY WOMEN

BY THEMSELVES AND OTHERS

EDITED BY

HELEN GRAY CONE

AND

JEANNETTE L. GILDER

_WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES BY THE FORMER_.

VOL. II.

CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, 739 & 741 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.

COPYRIGHT, 1887, By O. M. DUNHAM.

Press W. L. Mershon & Co., Rahway, N. J.

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

HARRIET MARTINEAU, 11

AURORE DUDEVANT (GEORGE SANDS), 59

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 93

MARGARET FULLER (OSSOLI), 131

CHARLOTTE BRONTË, } EMILY BRONTË, } 179

MARIAN EVANS CROSS (GEORGE ELIOT), 245

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

1802-1876.

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

Harriet Martineau was born at Norwich, on the 12th of June, 1802. The Martineau family were descendants of Huguenot refugees. Harriet’s father, Thomas Martineau, was a Norwich manufacturer; Elizabeth Rankin was the maiden name of her mother, who is described as “a true Northumbrian woman.” Harriet was the sixth child in a family of eight. Her childhood was sickly, repressed, and unhappy. “My life has had no spring,” she wrote long afterwards. At eleven years of age she was sent to the school of a Mr. Perry, who laid a solid foundation for her education. About two years later Mr. Perry left Norwich, and Harriet’s education was then carried on at home under visiting masters. At fourteen she was sent to a Bristol boarding school, where she stayed fifteen months. After this, her keen appetite for knowledge led her to carry on her studies at home, despite much discouragement. Like other young women of that day, she was expected to “spend a frightful amount of time in sewing,” and at one period could only steal the hours for intellectual work from her sleep.

She had begun to be deaf at eight years old, and at eighteen had almost entirely lost the sense of hearing. This was a bitter trial to her. In 1822, when she was twenty, an attachment arose between herself and a Mr. Worthington, a student for the Unitarian ministry, and the friend of her brother (afterward Dr. James Martineau). Worthington was poor, and her family refused to sanction a formal engagement. Three years of waiting and suspense followed. In June, 1826, Thomas Martineau died. The financial crisis of the winter of 1825 had left him comparatively poor, and he could only provide in his will “a bare maintenance” for his wife and daughters. By this time Mr. Worthington had completed his studies, and obtained a position; and the Martineau family, under these altered conditions, permitted Harriet to enter into an engagement with him. The unfortunate young man, however, was seized with a brain fever, which left him mentally shattered, and toward the close of the year 1826 he died.

Harriet’s literary career had already begun with certain contributions to the Monthly Repository, a Unitarian magazine. In 1823 she had published, anonymously, a small volume of _Devotional Exercises_, and in 1826 a book of _Addresses, Prayers, and Hymns_. In the comparative poverty to which she was now reduced, she took up her pen with a will, but for some time with little result. She supplied anonymous short stories to a publisher named Houlston, and wrote for him a tale called _Principle and Practice_, and a sequel thereto. She contributed, without payment, to the Repository and wrote, on commission, a _Life of Howard_, for which she never received the remuneration promised.

In June, 1829, the old Norwich house, in which, after their father’s death, her brother Henry had remained a partner, became bankrupt. As Mrs. Martineau and her daughters had been dependent on the profits of the factory for the payment of their small income, they were now left utterly without support. The other sisters became teachers; Harriet worked with her needle by day, and wrote by night. She continued her contributions to the Repository, for a compensation of £15 a year; and wrote for this periodical a story called _The Hope of the Hebrews_, which was so highly praised among the Unitarians that Mr. W. J. Fox, the editor, advised her to publish a volume of such stories. She did so, and it was moderately successful. She took part in a competition for three prizes offered by a Unitarian association “for the best essays designed to convert Roman Catholics, Jews, and Mohammedans, respectively, to Unitarianism.” She won all three of the prizes, thus gaining twenty-five guineas, and much honor in the sect. In the same year, 1830, she wrote the long story, _Five Years of Youth_, and a volume called _Traditions of Palestine_.

All this work, done with wonderful perseverance, under great disadvantages, was presented to a limited public only, and has long since been forgotten. But in the autumn of the year 1831 she conceived the idea of presenting, in the shape of popular tales, the principles of political economy. She persisted in this idea, notwithstanding the steady refusal of the London publishers to have anything to do with the scheme; she went to London to push the matter personally; and at last succeeded in making an arrangement, on iron terms, with Mr. Charles Fox, the brother of the editor of the Repository. To the great surprise of this gentleman, and the calm satisfaction of the author, the first numbers of ILLUSTRATIONS OF POLITICAL ECONOMY met with immediate and immense success. The first tale was published in February, 1832, and Harriet Martineau became famous at once.

In November she came to live in London. She was received as a lion in society, but abated no jot of her labor, producing every month a number of from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and fifty pages. On the completion of her _Illustrations_, two years after her coming to London, she travelled for two years in America, where she displayed, by her affiliation with the Abolitionists, no little moral courage. She returned to England in August, 1836, and turned her recent experiences to account in writing, during the next six months, a three-volume work called _Society in America_, for the first edition of which she received £900. This was followed by her _Retrospect of Western Travel_, which was sold for £600. She contributed to various magazines; produced in 1838 a work called _How to Observe in Morals and Manners_, and also some little books ordered by the Poor-Law Commissioners for a series of ‘Guides to Service.’

She began her novel, _Deerbrook_, in June, 1838, and visited Scotland in August and September. _Deerbrook_ appeared in the spring. It is generally considered her weakest work.

At this time Mrs. Martineau, who was becoming blind, Harriet’s brother, Henry, and an invalid aunt, were all dependent upon Harriet for support. Her anxiety and over-work led to a serious illness. She started for a tour of the Continent after publishing _Deerbrook_, but on reaching Venice, became so ill that she was obliged to return to England. She was taken, in the autumn of 1839, to Tynemouth, where she remained for the next five years under the care of her brother-in-law, a physician named Greenhow. This was a period of great suffering, but her intellectual activity was not suspended. _The Hour and the Man_, a historical romance, appeared in November, 1840; and early in 1841, _The Playfellow_, a series of children’s stories, containing the famous _Crofton Boys_; in 1843, _Life in the Sick-Room_, published anonymously, but generally recognized at once; and numerous stories and articles in aid of various causes. In 1841 she refused, on principle, Lord Melbourne’s offer of a pension of £150 per annum. In 1843 her friends presented her with a testimonial of £1,400.

In June of the following year she consented to try mesmeric treatment. In December she was so much better as to be enabled to leave Tynemouth. For the next ten years she enjoyed perfect health. With characteristic enthusiasm, she published the Athenæum, and subsequently in pamphlet form, six _Letters on Mesmerism_, detailing this wonderful cure. This open declaration of her faith in mesmerism led to a breach with Mr. Greenhow.

Miss Martineau now purchased land near Ambleside, and took lodgings in the village, during the winter of 1845-6, to superintend the building of a house according to her own plans. Here she wrote her _Forest and Game Law Tales_. In the spring she took possession of her home, called “The Knoll.” After writing a story for the young, _The Billow and the Rock_, she started with some friends for the East, in the autumn of 1846, returning in October, 1847. Her life at “The Knoll” was beneficent and busy. She engaged in farming, on a very small scale, and wrote on the subject a book called _Health, Husbandry and Handicraft_.

In _Eastern Life, Past and Present_, published in 1848, Miss Martineau first allowed it to be seen that an important change had taken place in her opinions on theology. This was in some measure due to the influence of Mr. Henry G. Atkinson, with whom she became acquainted during her recovery from her long illness, and who remained her dearest friend until her death. Her next work was _Household Education_, followed, in 1850, by her important HISTORY OF THE THIRTY YEARS’ PEACE. In January, 1851, appeared _Letters on the Laws of Man’s Nature and Development_, the joint production of herself and Mr. Atkinson. In this book her new opinions were distinctly stated. The work was received with horror by the orthodox press. An article on the subject in the Prospective Review, by Dr. James Martineau, caused a breach between the brother and sister.

Miss Martineau published soon after an introductory volume to the HISTORY OF THE PEACE. In November, 1853, appeared her translation of Comte’s ‘Positive Philosophy.’ At this time she contributed frequently to periodicals. In the autumn of 1852 she visited Ireland, writing while there a series of letters to the Daily News, which were reprinted in a volume at the end of the year. In 1854 she prepared a _Complete Guide to the Lakes_.

Toward the end of this year her health failed. Early in 1855 it was the verdict of her physicians that she was suffering from enlargement and enfeeblement of the heart, and that her life would probably not be long. Under this impression her AUTOBIOGRAPHY was rapidly written. She never left Ambleside again; but, contrary to expectation, lived on for twenty-one years. She continued to write leaders for the Daily News--to which she is said to have contributed in all over sixteen hundred political articles--and papers and pamphlets on various subjects of public interest. A volume of _Sketches from Life_ was issued in 1856, and in 1859 appeared _England and Her Soldiers_, written in aid of the army work of Florence Nightingale.

In 1868 a number of _Biographical Sketches_, originally published in the Daily News, were collected in a volume. Before this time she had been obliged, by increasing illness, to lay aside her literary work. She had suffered a severe blow, in 1864, in the death of her niece, Maria, her faithful companion and nurse. Another niece, Jane, undertook to fill the vacant place. Miss, or rather _Mrs._ Martineau, as she preferred to be called in her later years, was calm and cheerful to the last. She died on the 27th of June, 1876. A tumor of slow growth was found to have been the real cause of death.

Probably no one ever lived of whom more varied opinions were entertained. One saw her as harsh, dry, and egotistical; another as tender, full of humor, self-sacrificing, carried away by noble enthusiasms. Wit had its fling at this singular figure. Hartley Coleridge said of her, aptly, that she was “a monomaniac about _every_ thing.” “After all, she is a trump!” exclaims George Eliot. It is sufficiently certain that she was Quixotic, in a noble sense, and disinterested. In need, she refused a pension; she vaunted rather than suppressed unpopular opinions; a descendant of the Huguenots, and herself without religion, she gallantly broke a lance with Charlotte Brontë for the Roman Catholics; and he must be prejudiced indeed who could refuse the tribute of admiration to her dogged, steady, soldier-like determination.

“Hail to the steadfast soul, Which, unflinching and keen, Wrought to erase from its depth Mist and illusion and fear! Hail to the spirit which dared Trust its own thoughts, before yet Echoed her back by the crowd! Hail to the courage which gave Voice to its creed, ere the creed Won consecration from time!”[1]

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Repressed and morbid childhood.]

Never was poor mortal cursed with a more beggarly nervous system. The long hours of indigestion by day and nightmare terrors are mournful to think of now.... Sometimes the dim light of the windows, in the night, seemed to advance till it pressed upon my eyeballs, and then the windows would seem to recede to an infinite distance. If I laid my hand under my head on the pillow, the hand seemed to vanish almost to a point, while the head grew as big as a mountain. Sometimes I was panic-struck at the head of the stairs, and was sure I could never get down; and I could never cross the yard to the garden without flying and panting, and fearing to look behind, because a wild beast was after me. The starlight sky was the worst; it was always coming down, to stifle and crush me, and rest upon my head. I do not remember any dread of thieves or ghosts in particular; but things as I actually saw them were dreadful to me; and it now appears to me that I had scarcely any respite from the terror. My fear of persons was as great as any other.... Our house was in a narrow street; and all its windows, except two or three at the back, looked eastwards. It had no sun in the front rooms, except before breakfast in summer. One summer morning I went into the drawing-room, which was not much used in those days, and saw a sight which made me hide my face in a chair, and scream with terror. The drops of the lustres on the mantel-piece, on which the sun was shining, were somehow set in motion, and the prismatic colors danced vehemently on the walls. I thought they were alive--imps of some sort; and I never dared go into that room alone in the morning, from that time forward. I am afraid I must own that my heart has beat, all my life long, at the dancing of prismatic colors on the wall.

It is evident enough that my temper must have been very bad. It seems to me now that it was downright devilish, except for a placability which used to annoy me sadly. My temper might have been early made a thoroughly good one, by the slightest indulgence shown to my natural affections, and any rational dealing with my faults; but I was almost the youngest of a large family, and subject, not only to the rule of severity to which all were liable, but also to the rough and contemptuous treatment of the elder children, who meant no harm, but injured me irreparably. I had no self-respect, and an unbounded need of approbation and affection. My capacity for jealousy was something frightful.... I tried for a long course of years--I should think from about eight to fourteen--to pass a single day without crying. I was a persevering child; and I know I tried hard, but I failed.

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1877.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Spartan training.]

The first words of encouragement she ever received, came to her in the guise of severity. She was suffering from a fly having got into her eye. “Harriet,” said the mother, firmly grasping her for the operation, “I know that you have resolution, and you must stand still till I get it out.” Thus conjured, the startled, nervous little creature never stirred till the obstruction was removed. And was she, the trembling little one, “with cheeks pale as clay,” “flat white forehead, over which the hair grew low,” “eyes hollow,--eyes light, large, and full, generally red with crying,--a thoroughly scared face,”--was _she_, then, _resolute_? She ran to the great gateway, near the street, and beckoned to a playmate, to tell her what her mother had said. “Is _that_ all you have made me come to hear?” It was the first encouraging word she had ever heard, and she could find no one with whom to share the new joy. Till now she had never thought herself worth anything whatever.

MARIA WESTON CHAPMAN: ‘Memorials of Harriet Martineau.’ (‘Autobiography,’ _vol. ii._)

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Early religious feeling.]

Intensely religious I certainly was from a very early age. The religion was of a bad sort enough, as might be expected from the urgency of my needs; but I doubt whether I could have got through without it. I pampered my vain-glorious propensities by dreams of divine favor, to make up for my utter deficiency of self-respect; and I got rid of otherwise incessant remorse by a most convenient confession and repentance, which relieved my nerves without at all, I suspect, improving my conduct.... While I was afraid of everybody I saw, I was not in the least afraid of God.... The Sundays began to be marked days, and pleasantly marked, on the whole. I do not know why crocuses were particularly associated with Sunday at that time, but probably my mother might have walked in the garden with us some early spring Sunday. My idea of heaven was of a place gay with yellow and lilac crocuses. My love of gay colors was very strong.... The Octagon Chapel at Norwich [Unitarian], has some curious windows in the roof; not skylights, but letting in light indirectly. I used to sit staring up at those windows, and looking for angels to come for me and take me to heaven, in sight of all the congregation,--the end of the world being sure to happen while we were at chapel. I was thinking of this, and of the hymns, the whole of the time, it now seems to me. It was very shocking to me that I could not pray at chapel. I believe that I never did in my life. I prayed abundantly when I was alone, but it was impossible to do it in any other way, and the hypocrisy of appearing to do so was a long and sore trouble to me.

[Sidenote: Finds Milton at seven.]

[Sidenote: Shakespeare at thirteen.]

When I was seven years old, ... I was kept from chapel one Sunday afternoon by some ailment or other. When the house door closed behind the chapel-goers I looked at the books on the table. The ugliest-looking of them was turned down open, and my turning it up was one of the leading incidents of my life. That plain, clumsy, calf-bound volume was ‘Paradise Lost,’ and the common bluish paper, with its old-fashioned type, became as a scroll out of heaven to me. The first thing I saw was “Argument,” which I took to mean a dispute, and supposed to be stupid enough, but there was something about Satan cleaving Chaos which made me turn to the poetry; and my mental destiny was fixed for the next seven years. That volume was henceforth never to be found but by asking me for it, till a young acquaintance made me a present of a little Milton of my own. In a few months, I believe, there was hardly a line in ‘Paradise Lost’ that I could not have instantly turned to. I sent myself to sleep by repeating it; and when my curtains were drawn back in the morning, descriptions of heavenly light rushed into my memory. I think this must have been my first experience of moral relief through intellectual resource. I am sure I must have been somewhat happier from that time forward.... My beloved hour of the day was when the cloth was drawn, and I stole away from the dessert and read Shakespeare by firelight, in winter, in the drawing-room. My mother was kind enough to allow this breach of good family manners; and again, at a subsequent time, when I took to newspaper reading very heartily. I have often thanked her for this forbearance since. Our newspaper was the _Globe_, in its best days, when, without ever mentioning Political Economy, it taught it, and viewed public affairs in its light.... I was all the while becoming a political economist without knowing it, and, at the same time, a sort of walking concordance of Milton and Shakespeare.

[Sidenote: Political Economy at fifteen.]

HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Deafness.]

Her deafness, which was the most commonly known of her deficiencies of sensation, was not her earliest deprivation of a sense. She was never able to smell, that she could remember; and as smell and taste are intimately joined together, and a large part of what we believe to be flavor is really odor, it naturally followed that she was also nearly destitute of the sense of taste. Thus, two of the avenues by which the mind receives impressions from the outer world were closed to her all her life, and a third was also stopped before she reached womanhood.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’ (Famous Women Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers, 1885.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Lack of the sense of taste.]

She had no sense of taste whatever. “Once,” she told me, when I was expressing my pity for this deprivation of hers, “I tasted a leg of mutton, and it was delicious. I was going out, as it happened, that day, to dine, and, I am ashamed to say, that I looked forward to the pleasures of the table with considerable eagerness; but nothing came of it--the gift was withdrawn as suddenly as it came.” The sense of smell was also denied her, as it was to Wordsworth; in his case, too, curiously enough, it was vouchsafed to him, she told me, upon one occasion only. “He once smelled a bean-field and thought it heaven.”

JAMES PAYN: ‘Some Literary Recollections.’ New York: Harper & Bros., 1884.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Practical education.]

“I could make shirts and puddings,” she declares, “and iron, and mend, and get my bread by my needle, if necessary--as it was necessary, for a few months, before I won a better place and occupation with my pen.” During the winter which followed the failure of the old Norwich house she spent the entire daylight hours poring over fancy work, by which alone she could with certainty earn money. But she did not lay aside the sterner implement of labor for that bright little bread-winner, the needle. After dark she began a long day’s literary labor in her own room.

MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Happy result of family loss of income.]

In a very short time, my two sisters at home and I began to feel the blessing of a wholly new freedom. I, who had been obliged to write before breakfast, or in some private way, had henceforth liberty to do my own work in my own way; for we had lost our gentility. Many and many a time since have we said that, but for that loss of money, we might have lived on in the ordinary provincial method of ladies with small means, sewing and economizing, and growing narrower every year; whereas, by being thrown, while it was yet time, on our own resources, we have worked hard and usefully, won friends, reputation and independence, seen the world abundantly, abroad and at home, and, in short, have truly lived instead of vegetated.

* * * * *

[Sidenote: Manner of life during period immediately following.]