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It was also a great pleasure to witness the true and happy life of my friend. I saw there the highest ideas of duty, usefulness, and benevolence carried into daily practice. Miss Martineau took us one morning to see the poet Wordsworth. He lived in a low, old-fashioned stone house, surrounded by laurels, and roses, and fuschias, and other flowers and flowering shrubs.
Martineau, which will still be found here. He in consequence in a second article of the "Prospective" reviewed me afresh; but, in the opening, he first pronounced his sentence in words of deep disapproval against the "Eclipse of Faith."
Presently we came below the bridge to a place where the Indre widens and where the fishing was going on. "Well, Martineau?" she said. "Ah, Madame la comtesse, such bad luck! We have fished up from the mill the last three hours, and have taken nothing."
My gratification, it may be believed, was not small on learning that it had been quoted with approbation in the English Unitarian pulpits; and Miss Martineau told me, when she was in this country, then learning that I was the author, that she, with a friend of hers, had caused it to be printed as a tract for circulation. She would say now that it was in her nonage that she did it.
And that all these fine qualities, which would mostly be described as manly, should exist not in a man but a woman, and in a woman who discharged admirably such feminine duties as fell to her, fills up the measure of our interest in such a character. Harriet Martineau was born at Norwich in 1802, and she died, as we all remember, in the course of the summer of 1876.
Because Belinda Seyffert was in the dicky behind them with her alert interest in their emotions all too thinly and obviously veiled, it seemed more convenient to Sir Richmond and Miss Grammont to talk not of themselves but of Man and Woman and of that New Age according to the prophet Martineau, which Sir Richmond had partly described and mainly invented and ascribed to his departed friend.
She sank down on her knees beside the trestle. "Why have you left me!" she cried. "Oh! Speak to me, my darling! Speak to me, I TELL YOU! Speak to me!" It was a storm of passion, monstrously childish and dreadful. She beat her hands upon the coffin. She wept loudly and fiercely as a child does.... Dr. Martineau drifted feebly to the window. He wished he had locked the door.
Then he noted that she seemed to be very untidily dressed as if she was that rare and, to him, very offensive thing, a woman careless of her beauty. She was short in proportion to her broad figure and her broad forehead. "You are Dr. Martineau?" she said. "He talked of you." As she spoke her glance went from him to the pictures that stood about the room.
In the thirties Harriet Martineau and J.S. Buckingham noted that in Alabama the seed was being strewn as manure on a large scale.
Father Malachi Brennan, P.P. of Carrigaholt, was what I had often pictured to myself as the beau ideal of his caste; his figure was short, fleshy, and enormously muscular, and displayed proportions which wanted but height to constitute a perfect Hercules; his legs so thick in the calf, so taper in the ancle, looked like nothing I know, except perhaps, the metal balustrades of Carlisle bridge; his face was large and rosy, and the general expression, a mixture of unbounded good humour and inexhaustible drollery, to which the restless activity of his black and arched eye brows greatly contributed; and his mouth, were it not for a character of sensuality and voluptuousness about the nether lip, had been actually handsome; his head was bald, except a narrow circle close above the ears, which was marked by a ring of curly dark hair, sadly insufficient however, to conceal a development behind, that, if there be truth in phrenology, bodes but little happiness to the disciples of Miss Martineau.
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