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But Harriet’s lover was poor in purse and his family was likewise poor, and the thrifty Martineaus vigorously opposed the mating. In fact, Harriet’s mother hooted at it and spoke of it with scorn; and Harriet answered not back, but hid her love away in her heart–biding the time when her lover should make for himself a name and a place, and have money withal to command the respect of even mill-owners.

So the days passed, and the months went by, and three years counted themselves with the eternity that lies behind. Harriet’s lover had indeed proved himself worthy. He had worked his way through college, had been graduated at the Divinity School, and his high reputation for character and his ability as a speaker won for him at once a position to which many older than he aspired. He became the pastor of the Unitarian Church at Manchester–and this was no small matter!

Now Norwich, where the Martineaus lived, is a long way from Manchester, where Harriet’s lover preached, or it was then, in stagecoach times. It cost money, too, to send letters.

And there was quite an interval once when Harriet sent several letters, and anxiously looked for one; but none arrived.

Then word came that the brilliant young preacher was ill; he wished to see his betrothed. She started to go to him, but her parents opposed such an unprecedented thing. She hesitated, deferred her visit–intending soon to go at all hazards–hoping all the while to hear better news.

Word came that Harriet’s lover was dead. Soon after this the Martineau mills, through various foolish speculations, got into a bad way. Harriet’s father found himself with more debts than he could pay; his endeavors to buffet the storm broke his health–he gave up hope, languished and died.

Mrs. Martineau and the family were thus suddenly deprived of all means of support. The boys were sent to work in the mills, and the two older girls, having five sound senses each, found places where they could do housework and put money in their purses. Harriet Martineau stayed at home and kept house. She also studied, read and wrote a little–there was no other way!

* * * * *

Six years passed, and the name of Harriet Martineau was recognized as a power in the land. Her “Illustrations of Political Economy” had sold well up into the hundred thousands. The little stories were read by old and young, rich and poor, learned and unlearned. Sir Robert Peel had written Harriet a personal letter of encouragement; Lord Brougham had paid for and given away a thousand copies of the booklets; Richard Cobden had publicly endorsed them; Coleridge had courted the author; Florence Nightingale had sung her praises, and the Czar of Russia had ordered that “all the books of Harriet Martineau’s found in Russia shall be destroyed.” Besides, she had incurred the wrath of King Philippe of France, who after first lavishly praising her and ordering the “Illustrations” translated into French, to be used in the public schools, suddenly discovered a hot chapter entitled, “The Error Called the Divine Right of Kings,” and although Philippe was only a “citizen-king” he made haste to recall his kind words.

And I wish here to remark in parentheses that the author who has not made warm friends and then lost them in an hour by writing things that did not agree with the preconceived idea of these friends, has either not written well or not been read. Every preacher who preaches ably has two doors to his church–one where the people come in and another through which he preaches them out. And I do not see how any man, even though he be divine, could expect or hope to have as many as twelve disciples and hold them for three years without being doubted, denied and betrayed. If you have thoughts, and honestly speak your mind, Golgotha for you is not far away.