Francis Jackson Garrison, William Lloyd Garrison, 1805-1879; the story of his life told by his children: volume 4

[225] people, may jointly lead the nations towards a nobler civilization, true liberty, and lasting peace. We shall ever remember, Sir, that to your labors much of our success is due. And as the memories of the early founders of our national liberty and greatness are to-day cherished equally by Britain and America, so in the future, we believe, shall your name, and the names of your noble coadjutors, be held in honor by both branches of the Anglo-Saxon race.

With these demonstrations Mr. Garrison's public labors ended for a season, greatly to his relief, for he was much worn by the excitement and fatigue of so much talking, both in public and in private. On his way North he had had little recreation—a glimpse of York Minster and a visit¹ to Melrose Abbey and Abbotsford being his chief² diversions–and he had hoped now to make a trip through the Highlands with his companions; but the weather was rainy and unpropitious, and that had to be abandoned. A visit to the English Lake District was also relinquished for the same reason, and because it would have been an aggravation to go there and not see Harriet Martineau, whose ill-health rendered it doubtful whether she could receive them. Naturally, she was one of the first persons to whom Mr. Garrison wrote on his arrival in London, and several letters were interchanged by them.

Harriet Martineau to W. L. Garrison.

The Knoll, Ambleside, June 19, 1867.

³ My dear friend:

Your letter has moved me deeply. I could write sheets full; but, if I write at all, it must be very briefly, and I do wish to write with my own hand. After the months and years that my mind has been full of you, and my sympathy has been all awake and alive, as you were passing through the experience of success, after such a struggle, it seems strange to send you such a note as this must be. But I am not better, and I must be content to do only what I can.

It seems to my companion (my dear niece Jane) and myself that I ought to tell you the case about your coming (as it regards us) precisely as it appears to us. You must then judge for yourself what to do. I need not say that no amount of