"There is no _theory_ of a God, of an author of Nature, of an origin of the universe, which is not utterly repugnant to my faculties; which is not (to my feelings) so irreverent as to make me blush; so misleading as to make me mourn."
Yet Dr. Martineau wrote of his sister and her friend in terms which seemed, to the public, of studied insult and disparagement, which, in educated society, would be called brutal. It was merely spiritual malignity, of which I had in former years sufficient experience to render me a connoisseur in it.
All the while Dr. Martineau had heresies of his own to answer for, yet he wrote words of his sister which no woman of self-respect could condone, unless withdrawn. During her long illness of twenty years Dr. Martineau, her brother, never wrote to her nor addressed one word of sympathy to one who had loved him so well. He had told the world that the "subtle, all-penetrating spirit of Christ has an inspiring nobleness philosophy cannot reach, nor science, nor nature impart." Then how came Dr. Martineau to miss it? The nobleness of mind of his illustrious sister all the world knew--before the world knew him--and Mr. Atkinson was a gentleman of as pure a life and of as good a position in society as Dr. Martineau himself. O Theology, into what crookedness dost thou twist the straightest minds! I have seen in a "Life of Dr. Martineau" that Professor Newman assented to what Dr. Martineau wrote of his sister. This fact I ought not to withhold from the reader.
But Mr. Newman only knew what Dr. Martineau told him.
Mr. Atkinson was the son of a London architect who left him an income which enabled him to devote himself to philosophy, which was his taste. He was personally conversant, as visitor or guest, with a wide range of distinguished thinkers and writers of his time. He was full of curious knowledge and notable sayings gathered in that opportune intercourse. With a mind devoid of prejudice, he looked on scientific discoveries as a veteran and seasoned spectator. No new idea surprised him, no expression of thoughtful opinion awakened in him resentment. He cared only for truth, in whatever form or quarter it appeared. He had none of the indifference of the arm-chair philosopher, but aided struggling opinion to assert itself. Once I was his guest in Boulogne. To my surprise I was the only passenger in the packet boat The quay of Boulogne was deserted. At Hughes's Hotel I was the only guest in the dining-room. On inquiring the reason, I learned that Gilbert a'Beckett had died a few days before of diphtheria, and that Douglas Jerrold had left for England since. Mr. Atkinson, not expecting me, had gone for a day's sea trip to Calais. On his return we spent pleasant hours at a cafe. He had no idea of leaving the hotel where he had rooms. Some years later Mr. Atkinson died in Boulogne, where he had resided many years. Personally he was tall, of good presence and refined manners. He was clean shaven, and might be taken for an Evangelical Bishop. Save a mobile expression, his face was as shadowless as one of Holbein's portraits. The object of his letters to Miss Martineau was to ascertain if there could be found a real basis of a science of mind. The common idea in those days was that mind was a "vital spark" which shone at will--originating without conditions--acting of its own caprice and obeying no law. Only the theological spirit could see harm in this investigation.