Immediately after reading Miss Martineau's book on America, Margaret
felt bound in honor to write her a letter, the magnanimity of which is
brought out in full relief, by contrast with the expressions already
given of her affectionate regard. Extracts from this letter, recorded
in her journals, come here rightfully in place:--
'On its first appearance, the book was greeted by a volley
of coarse and outrageous abuse, and the nine days' wonder
was followed by a nine days' hue-and-cry. It was garbled,
misrepresented, scandalously ill-treated. This was all of
no consequence. The opinion of the majority you will find
expressed in a late number of the North American Review. I
should think the article, though ungenerous, not more so than
great part of the critiques upon your book.
'The minority may be divided into two classes: The one,
consisting of those who knew you but slightly, either
personally, or in your writings. These have now read your
book; and, seeing in it your high ideal standard, genuine
independence, noble tone of sentiment, vigor of mind and
powers of picturesque description, they value your book very
much, and rate you higher for it.
'The other comprises those who were previously aware of these
high qualities,--and who, seeing in a book to which they
had looked for a lasting monument to your fame, a degree
of presumptuousness, irreverence, inaccuracy, hasty
generalization, and ultraism on many points, which they did
not expect, lament the haste in which you have written, and
the injustice which you have consequently done to so important
a task, and to your own powers of being and doing. To this
class I belong.
'I got the book as soon as it came out,--long before I
received the copy endeared by your handwriting,--and
devoted myself to reading it. I gave myself up to my natural
impressions, without seeking to ascertain those of others.
Frequently I felt pleasure and admiration, but more frequently
disappointment, sometimes positive distaste.
'There are many topics treated of in this book of which I am
not a judge; but I do pretend, even where I cannot criticize
in detail, to have an opinion as to the general tone of
thought. When Herschel writes his Introduction to Natural
Philosophy, I cannot test all he says, but I cannot err about
his fairness, his manliness, and wide range of knowledge. When
Jouffroy writes his lectures, I am not conversant with all his
topics of thought, but I can appreciate his lucid style and
admirable method. When Webster speaks on the currency, I do
not understand the subject, but I do understand his mode of
treating it, and can see what a blaze of light streams from
his torch. When Harriet Martineau writes about America, I
often cannot test that rashness and inaccuracy of which I hear
so much, but I can feel that they exist. A want of soundness,
of habits of patient investigation, of completeness, of
arrangement, are felt throughout the book; and, for all
its fine descriptions of scenery, breadth of reasoning, and
generous daring, I cannot be happy in it, because it is not
worthy of my friend, and I think a few months given to ripen
it, to balance, compare, and mellow, would have made it so. * *
'Certainly you show no spirit of harshness towards this
country in general. I think your tone most kindly. But many
passages are deformed by intemperance of epithet. * * Would
your heart, could you but investigate the matter, approve such
overstatement, such a crude, intemperate tirade as you have
been guilty of about Mr. Alcott,--a true and noble man,
a philanthropist, whom a true and noble woman, also a
philanthropist, should have delighted to honor; whose
disinterested and resolute efforts, for the redemption of poor
humanity, all independent and faithful minds should sustain,
since the "broadcloth" vulgar will be sure to assail them; a
philosopher, worthy of the palmy times of ancient Greece;
a man whom Carlyle and Berkely, whom you so uphold, would
delight to honor; a man whom the worldlings of Boston hold
in as much horror as the worldlings of ancient Athens did
Socrates. They smile to hear their verdict confirmed from
the other side of the Atlantic, by their censor, Harriet
Martineau.
'I do not like that your book should be an abolition book. You
might have borne your testimony as decidedly as you pleased;
but why leaven the whole book with it? This subject haunts us
on almost every page. It _is_ a great subject, but your book
had other purposes to fulfil.
'I have thought it right to say all this to you, since I felt
it. I have shrunk from the effort, for I fear that I must
lose you. Not that I think all authors are like Gil Bias'
archbishop. No; if your heart turns from me, I shall still
love you, still think you noble. I know it must be so trying
to fail of sympathy, at such a time, where we expect it. And,
besides, I felt from the book that the sympathy between us is
less general than I had supposed, it was so strong on several
points. It is strong enough for me to love you ever, and I
could no more have been happy in your friendship, if I had not
spoken out now.'