2203. Harriet Martineau to EBB
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 12, 51–55.
Ambleside
Febry 8th [1846] [1]
Dear Miss Barrett,
Here I come at last, with my news of our Happy Valley. And it is such a day that I shall be wishing for you to see the valley when I go out, on finishg this, & walk round one of our two commonest circuits. As I look out now, there are the highest peaks glittering in a rose tinted snow,—the lower ranges red & brown, with dark hollows, & the lake blue & breezy, & the wild ducks scudding over it. The rocky promontories with their tall & graceful fir clumps are a perpetual delight to my eye, in all seasons; & now especy, when in the evgs the slender moon hangs over the finest of them, & the brightest of planets casts its trail of light on the waters. But, beautiful as the view is here, & grateful as one might be to pass one’s life in a house wh has such windows, I much prefer the view from my own cottage. The lake is there seen only from afar, & thro’ trees; a streak of blue in summer, & a slip of bright mirror let into the landscape in winter: but Wansfell rises so nobly,—its woods running along its hollows, & Ambleside nestles so charmingly under it & the stretch of meadows to the South, & the paradisy valley to the west, with its streamlets leapg down Loughrigg, & the Rotha[y] rushing & winding at once, & the rocky knotts & noble clumps of trees make up such a picture that I daily wonder at my own bliss in being permitted to live with such a heaven before my eyes. And soon now shall I be living there. Next month, my maids & I hope to be inhabiting the upper rooms. Yesy, I sent in a couple of chairs, & tomorrow I shall put in a dust pan & brush,—signs of habitation! The reason of them is that there are to be fires kept every day now; & my good Jane (from Tynemouth) is to have the charge thereof, I going to help her to make the blinds & kitchen linen &c, & to keep down the dust, for the varnishg (for I choose to have no paint, except in the offices.) The drive & terrace have been finished this last week, & some of my larches are in. The rest of the planting will be done this week, we hope. I can’t afford to spend any thing on gardeng—the little I can spare being all wanted for planting. But Jane & I can make something pretty with our own hands, I am persuaded, & this very year, of the tempting slopes & platforms & quarry. The little quarry has yielded the stones for the terrace wall; & now it offers a pretty shelter for delicate plants, & has a western aspect. We mean to hang it all with ivies, & honeysuckles & roses, & tuft it with ferns, & then we will see what it shall guard. I have a beautiful southern exposure for fruit trees....
Evg/ Here entered a neighbour of mine,—that rare sort of person, a happy governess—to challenge me for a walk. And O! how I have walked today! She & I went to my cottage; & afterwds I went alone for a glorious scramble up Wansfell, whence I had a superb view into three valleys, & over the whole of Windermere. My walks have an additional interest now. I peep & pry every where to find what I can help myself with for my rocks & nooks & slopes. In a few days, my field will be empty of carts &c, & given over to me; & then, Archy Davy [2] & his mother & I go, with our trowels & baskets, up into the woods, & along the brooks, to get ivies, & wood anemones & primroses, & such ferns as I never saw before, & pansies, & such foxgloves as Wordsworth cherishes, pinning them up against the wall,—for they break down with their own beauty.– But I won’t write more of my place,—except just to say that we hope to be in before April. I assure you that gay as is my delight in it, the plan is a very serious & even solemn one to me. It is my desire to keep up that union of practical domestic life with literary labour wh has been such a blessing to me ever since I held the pen: but I feel pretty confident that much work (authorship) of a kind very serious & important to myself will be done on that spot where I so lately sat on the grass, & resolved there to pitch my tent. I have a horror of a mere booklife;—or a life of books & society. I like & need to have some express & daily share in somebody’s comfort: & I trust to find much peace & satisfaction as a housekeeper, in making my maids happy, & perhaps a little wiser,—in receivg overworked or delicate friends & relations to rest in my paradise, & in that sort of strenuous handwork wh I like better than authorship. I am fond of making & mending, I never let any body mend my stockings, gloves &c,—like making preserves, gingerbread & custards, cleaning pictures, gardening &c &c. And across all these things, I see a pleasant prospect of congenial work. Tomorrow I begin on a new series of “the Playfellow”: & this is all I wd promise for this year. <Next year a novel.> [3] In the summer, some of my family & friends are coming to see me, & we must be under the open sky all day. In the autumn, I must tear myself away from my paradise for a few weeks, to see some of my brothers & sisters, & visit friends in & near town. About Novbr I may be in town, choosing that dead time on purpose. I ought to wish that you may not be there; & indeed I do wish it. Of course I cannot understand any thing of the painful circumss of disappointmt you refer to; but I hope their influence may not extend into another season, but that you may be able to leave town,—able in health & in oppory How much better you seem to show me you are! Surely almost every thing may be hoped for you now,—perhaps even that you may one day sit on my terrace, with old Wordsworth stretched by your side, playg with a flower, & discoursing of things great or trivial, as may happen. I have written freely to you of our wealth of delights here,—partly because I know by experience that such images yield refreshmt to the prisoner, & yet more with a strong new hope that the day is not far distant when you will enjoy many of these pleasures yourself. — I have never for a moment wondered, as you suppose, that you have not tried Mesmerism. Yours was a case in wh I did not think it right to urge it: & tho’ I imagine that in your present condition it might probably be exactly the best means of restoring you completely, I wd never urge it, & certainly can never wonder at your reluctance. I think you overrate much the probability of curious mental phenomena occurring. In the vast majority of cases nothing occurs but a felt infusion of strength & ease, with, pretty often, sleep: but the cases of an ulterior experience are comparatively very few. If I were by your side, I believe you wd let me mesmerize you: & I believe you wd thereupon quietly, & from day to day, grow strong: & that that wd be all: & that objectors wd say there was nothing in it, & you wd have improved just the same without it. —I won’t write more now about Mesm, except just to say that we all—except the physician’s family [4] —are seeing & learning more & more continually, & believg that the researches of Reichenbach, Gregory, Pacini [5] & other scientific men are penetratg to the secret of the nature of the influence & also, that I have been intrusted by the Archbp of Dublin [6] with some papers of his on the nature & morale of Mesm, & the objections of those who fear supernaturalism in it. These papers may be shown to any body I please, on a clear promise that no copy shall be taken. They have already been a long round, & have given great satisfaction to some whom they concerned.
The Wordsworths are in affliction just now. His only brother died a few days ago; & a nephew here is dying; & they have bad accounts from their sick daughter-in-law in Italy. [7] But, as you can well conceive, he can lose himself completely in any interesting subject of thought, so as to forget his griefs. His mind is always completely full of the thing that may be in it: & there he was on Wedy, his face all gloom & tears at two o’clock from the tidings of his brother’s death recd an hour before, & lo! at three, he was all animation, discussg the rationale of my extraory discourses (in the mesmeric state)—his mind so wholly occupied that he was quite happy for the time. He is very interestg—merely as an old poet, without Wordsworthianism,—to those who have seen him oftener than once or twice. His mind must always have been essentially liberal; but now it is more obviously & charmingly so than I understand it used to appear. The mildness of age has succeeded to what used to be thought a rather harsh particularity of opinion & manners. His conversn can never be anticipated. Sometimes he flows on in the utmost grandeur that ever you can conceive,—leaving a strong impression of inspiration. At other times, we blush & are annoyed at the extremity of bad taste with wh he pertinaciously dwells on the most vexatious & vulgar trifles. The first mood is all informed & actuated by knowledge of Man; the other a strange & ludicrous proof of his want of knowledge of men. I, deaf, can hardly conceive how he, with eyes & ears, & a heart wh leads him to converse with the poor in his incessant walks, can be so unaware of their moral state. I dare say you need not be told how sensual vice abounds in rural districts. Here it is flagrant beyd any thing I ever cd have looked for: & here, while every justice of the peace is filled with disgust, & every clergyn with (almost) despair at the drunkenness, quarrelling & extreme licentiousness with women,—here is dear good old Wordsworth for ever talking of rural innocence, & deprecating any intercourse with towns, lest the purity of his neighbours shd be corrupted! He little knows what elevation, selfdenial & refinemt accrue in towns from the superior cultivation of the people. The virtues of the people here are also of a sort different, we think, from what he supposes. The people are very industrious, thrifty, prudent, & so well off as to be liberal in their dealings. They pride themselves on doing their work capitally; & in this point of honour, they are exemplary.
You know W’s worldly affairs are most comfortable in his old age. His wife is perfectly charming, & the very angel he shd have to tend him. His life is a most serene & happy one, on the whole: & while all goes methodically, he is happy & cheery & courteous & benevolent,—so that one cd almost worship him. But, to secure this, every body must be punctual, & the fire must burn bright, & all go orderly,—as his angel takes care that every thing shall, as far as depends on her. He goes every day to Miss Fenwick, [8] (he always needs some such daily object,—& she is the worthiest possible)—gives her a smacking kiss, & sits down before her fire to open his mind. Think what she could tell, if she survives him! He does me the honour (to my amazemt, & to his great honour) to be fond of me: but I see less of them than I shall do when I get to the Knoll;—I don’t ask him to come so far as my lodggs, & so only meet him in compy, or when I call at the Mount; & then only hear him when he talks expressly to me. So I miss a good deal. I feel a growing love & tenderness for him, but cannot yet quite thoroughly connect—incorporate—him with his works;—cannot yet feel him to be so great as they. But I shall ere long, if we live, & he takes to coming to my cottage. —I have not ½ done; but I must stop for this time. God bless you, dear friend. Write when you can & like.
Yours ever
H.M.
Mr Chorley & I are so kind, you wd be amused. I really doubt whether I shall ever have any quarrels, if I can get people to join in my plan & practice of plain speaking,—in good humour of course.
Publication: RB-EBB, pp. 459–463.
Manuscript: Yale University.
1. The year is provided by Miss Martineau’s reference to the death of William Wordsworth’s younger and only surviving brother, Christopher Wordsworth (1774–1846), who died on 2 February. On that day, before learning of his brother’s death, the poet had written to Henry Crabb Robinson that “my brother Dr W—is dying—The last letter said it was not thought he could survive another 24 hours” (The Letters of William and Dorothy Wordsworth, ed. Alan G. Hill, 2nd ed., Oxford, 1988, vii, 754).
2. Probably Archibald Davy (b. 1834?), the son of John Davy (1790–1868), whose wife was the daughter of Archibald Fletcher. Archibald Davy entered Rugby School in August 1846.
3. Bracketed passage is inserted above the line. No novel by Harriet Martineau appeared in 1847; however, she did contribute a piece entitled “The Lake District” to The Land We Live In: A Pictorial and Literary Sketch-Book of the British Empire (II, 217–256) published by Charles Knight in 1847. The Billow and the Rock, while originally intended as part of a new series of The Playfellow: A Series of Tales, was published later in 1846 as part of Knight’s series of weekly volumes, thus providing the necessary funds for her forthcoming travel abroad (Harriet Martineau’s Autobiography, 1877, II, 271). Various reprints of The Playfellow appeared subsequent to its first publication in 1841, e.g., in 1845 and 1853; however, no new series was ever published.
4. Probably the family of Miss Martineau’s eldest sister, Elizabeth, whose husband, Thomas Michael Greenhow, was the surgeon who had treated Miss Martineau until she began her involvement with mesmerism.
5. Probably Filippo Pacini (1812–83), who rediscovered nerve terminations in 1835. A translation of Baron Carl von Reichenbach’s work on magnetism entitled Abstract of “Researches on Magnetism and on Certain Allied Subjects,” Including A Supposed New Imponderable by William Gregory (1803–58) was published in 1846. Gregory held the Chair of Chemistry at the University of Edinburgh for many years. In the “Preface” to the 2nd edition of Gregory’s Animal Magnetism (1877), William H. Harrison noted that “Professor and Mrs. Gregory were both well acquainted with Harriet Martineau, who wished Professor Gregory to write her biography, and offered to send all the documents and letters necessary for the purpose. He was unable, in the midst of other arduous duties, to undertake the additional responsible work” (p. vi).
6. We have been unable to trace the papers to which Harriet Martineau refers; however, in letter 1959 (note 6), EBB had mentioned to RB that Harriet Martineau counted the Archbishop of Dublin (Richard Whately, 1787–1863) “as a new adherent” to mesmerism.
7. Wordsworth’s eldest son, John, had married Isabella Curwen in 1830. They had gone to Italy in 1843 where their youngest child, Edward, died in 1845 while John Wordsworth was in England. He went to Italy to bring their surviving children back to England, but his wife did not follow him until later in 1846, and she soon returned to Italy where she died in 1848. Wordsworth’s nephew, John (b. 1815, and often referred to as Keswick John), the son of Richard Wordsworth, had been suffering for several years with consumption; he died on 18 August 1846 (Mary Moorman, William Wordsworth, Oxford, 1965, II, 597–600).
8. Isabella Fenwick (1783–1856) was an intimate of the Wordsworth household in the 1830’s and 1840’s. She became a particularly close friend to Wordsworth’s daughter, “Dora,” and helped the poet to accept the fact of his daughter’s marriage to Edward Quillinan in 1841. It was to Miss Fenwick that Wordsworth dictated in 1843 the extended first-person notes and comments on his poems often reprinted with them (George McLean Harper, William Wordsworth: His Life, Works, and Influence, New York, 1916, II, 404–411).
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