SD1961. Harriet Martineau to John Chapman
As published in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 23, 249–250 (in part).
Ambleside
August 28th / 56
Dear friend
About the Brownings,—I never saw her, & can judge her only by her poems & letters. I have never had any opinion of her reliableness since the memorable discrepancy between her dedication to her Father, & their quarrel immediately afterwards. That showed such utter blindness, together with such excessive demonstrativeness, that from that time I was content to admire, without trusting, or expecting any thing. I am persuaded that she has not the remotest conception of what it is to know any thing, & therefore to (in the highest sense) believe any thing. Much as she prizes her beliefs, belief itself is, in her case, as in that of all substantially ignorant persons, of a low order. Her poetry is, I think, very beautiful in relation to a particular state or stage of mind; but it has no element of durability in it. I was not at all surprised to hear of her first writing “Casa Guidi Windows,” & immediately after worshipping L. Napoleon & his pretty wife. With all this, there is a slight taint of Calvinistic insolence. Her faults are, I entirely believe, from her seclusion from life during some very important years. This not only precluded her having any experience of mankind & life, but caused her to live upon words, & feelings expressed only by words. Under an opposite training,—one of action & observation,—I believe she wd have been a vast genius. As for her husband, I knew him only in his hoity-toity days, twenty years ago; & it wd be hard to judge him by that. His insolence, quarrelsomeness & conceit were then only equalled by Robertson’s; but there was a fine independce, frankness & kindliness about him wh made me hope much from his manhood. His “Paracelsus” I thought, & still think, a marvel: but I find every thing that I have seen of his of late years utterly unreadable,—hard, obscure, abrupt, unmusical,—any thing but poetry. But I have always supposed this my own fault, as indeed, like other old folks, I fondly revert to the great old poets,—the loves of my youth. I have, in my time, been as deep in the metaphysical passion as any body; & I am glad to know what it is: but my likings revert to the ante-metaphysical period in letters, as they penetrate on to the future beyond it in philosophy.– The Brownings’ diversities about “the spirits” however tempt me to say something to you wh I have thought about much & often. I think them both wrong; & I don’t consider you any more in the right. There’s for you! If Robt Browning blankly disbelieves the phenomena, he is simply unaware of the decisive character of the evidence. The “manifestations,” as they are called, are as indubitably real as any established fact in natural history. Mrs B., on the other hand, is irrational when she jumps to the conclusion that the phenomena are occasioned by “spirits.” One can expect nothing else from a woman who does not know what science is, & who has been in one long reverie about “spirits” all her life. As for you,—you are aware, I believe, what I think of your way of regarding the whole subject. It is not enough for the editor of a review, & for a physician, to be liberal on the subject. You regard it as interesting, & even with more or less respect as, in a manner, important. But you are, I think, very far from discerning the bearing of these new facts. You do not see that to yourself the full & deep study of them is an affair of duty of the most stringent pressure. You do not see that the destiny of theology, of moral philosophy, & of the whole science & art of medicine hangs on the true interpretations of the facts manifested by what is called Mesmerism, spirit-rapping, & that whole class. It is pretty clear to all who have really studied these phenomena that the solution will be a physiological one; & we may safely say that all physiological study is below the need & powers of the time wh does not afford a prominent place to these very old, but newly revived phenomena. It is the weak point of the Westminster Review in wiser eyes than mine that, while ungrounded on any philosophy at all, it leans towards one wh is incompatible with existing facts, & wh wholly ignores the most important mine of philosophical facts opened in our day. If you enter on your new profession with no better recognition of this class of physiological truths, your success can be at best only of a superficial & empirical character. The next great physician we have will be he who perceives the value of the facts of his own time, & uses his professional facilities for exploring them.
Let me entreat your attention to a sentence of Mr Hallam’s, in a letter to me of Novbr 1844, when I was recovering by mesmerism, under his hearty encouragement. You know the character of his mind, deliberative & almost sceptical well enough to estimate the weight of such a sentence as this. “I am persuaded that Mesmerism, & some things not mesmerism properly so called, are fragmentary parts of some great new law of the human frame wh we are on the verge of discovering.”
Let me entreat you to ponder this, & to pardon the rude freedom with wh I write. I shd not venture it, but for your singular candour & amiability; nor, as I need not add, without the most earnest desire for your professional adequacy & success.
Froude’s History disgusts us much, amidst all its cleverness & real interest. He might learn from Macaulay (with all his faults) not to obtrude himself & his sensibilities on the reader. In a History this is unpardonable: but the book is a great effort at rehabilitating himself with “the world.” To hear the Arnold women whining over him as “so altered,”—“a very altered man,” affords a good insight into the book & the man. It is a piece of elaborate cant, & to me who knew the passions & the temper, & the guile, & the special quality of receptiveness of the man, it is highly disgusting, while yet I am glad that the new facts have come to light, & am quite sensible of the beauty with wh they are set forth. The critical part of the Westminster review of the book seems to me admirably done,—now I know the text.– The Madges are here, I like her very much. He seems to me that most melancholy specimen of a human being I have seen for long,—empty, lazy, cross (extremely gracious to me, however) self-engrossed & tyrannical: & no set off but a superficial simplicity & grace! How she can endure him, we can’t think:—baulking 7 people of an unequalled view, wh they went to Coniston to see, because he had seen it in former times. He was immovable in refusing to let the horses go! As for the child, (aged 10) she does not like the mountains, & wants to get home, because here they “can’t get fish, nor even grouse;” whereas in London they can have whatever they like!
Maria is charmingly well & happy. <…>
Publication: The Collected Letters of Harriet Martineau, ed. Deborah Anna Logan (London, 2007), 4, 17–18 (as to William Ware).
Manuscript: Boston Public Library.
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