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 pa.s.sion with which W. E. Forster said to me, "I had rather be d.a.m.ned than annihilated." If he once felt five minutes" d.a.m.nation, 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 G.o.d 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 pet.i.tioners, 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 rec.u.mbent 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 ill.u.s.tration 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 ant.i.thesis 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sumes 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 ign.o.bler 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.
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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 s.e.x. 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 G.o.dwin, who was a philosopher, can only be conjectured. She was a force in literature and in the enfranchis.e.m.e.nt 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.
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"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 t.i.tle 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 s.p.a.ce. Her biography should be read by all in search of entertainment."--_Professor Woods in Sat.u.r.day 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 n.o.ble 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._
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RACHEL.
By Mrs. NINA H. KENNARD.
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"_Rachel_, by Nina H. Kennard, is an interesting sketch of the famous woman whose pa.s.sion 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 book is written, and welcome it to a place among the minor biographies; and because there is nothing else so good, the volume is indispensable to library and study."--_Boston Evening Traveller._
"Another life of the great actress Rachel has been written. It forms part of the "Famous Women Series," which that firm is now bringing out, and which already includes eleven volumes. Mrs. Kennard deals with her subject much more amiably than one or two of the other biographers have done. She has none of those vindictive feelings which are so obvious in Madame B."s narrative of the great tragedienne. On the contrary, she wants to be fair, and she probably is as fair as the materials which came into her possession enabled her to be. The endeavor has been made to show us Rachel as she really was, by relying to a great extent upon her letters.... A good many stories that we are familiar with are repeated, and some are contradicted. From first to last, however, the sympathy of the author is ardent, whether she recounts the misery of Rachel"s childhood, or the splendid alt.i.tude to which she climbed when her name echoed through the world and the great ones of the earth vied in doing her homage. On this account Mrs.
Kennard"s book is a welcome addition to the pre-existing biographies of one of the greatest actresses the world ever saw."--_N.Y. Evening Telegram._