To the best of my recollection, I waited ten days from the day of publication, before I had another line from the publisher. My mother, judging from his ill-humor, inferred that he had good news to tell: whereas I supposed the contrary. My mother was right; and I could now be amused at his last attempts to be discouraging, in the midst of splendid success. At the end of those ten days, he sent with his letter a copy of my first number, desiring me to make, with all speed, any corrections I might wish to make, as he had scarcely any copies left. He added that the demand led him to propose that we should now print two thousand. A postscript informed me that since he wrote the above, he had found that we should want three thousand. A second postscript proposed four thousand, and a third, five thousand. The letter was worth having, now it had come. There was immense relief in this; but I remember nothing like intoxication--like any painful reaction whatever. I remember walking up and down the grass-plot in the garden (I think it was on the tenth of February), feeling that my cares were over. And so they were. I think I may date my release from pecuniary care from that tenth of February, 1832. HARRIET MARTINEAU: ‘Autobiography.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: Manner of life in London.] Her course in London was as follows: She wrote in the morning, rising, and making her own coffee, at seven, and going to work immediately after breakfast, until two. From two till four she saw visitors. Having an immense acquaintance, she declined undertaking to make morning calls; but people might call upon her any afternoon. She was charged with vanity about this arrangement; but, with the work on her hands and the competition for her company, she really could not do differently. Still, Sydney Smith suggested a better plan; he told her she should “hire a carriage and engage an inferior authoress to go round in it and drop the cards!” After any visitors left, she went out for her daily “duty walk,” and returned to glance over the newspapers, and to dress for dinner. Almost invariably she dined out, her host’s or some other friend’s carriage being commonly sent to fetch her. One or two evening parties would conclude the day, unless the literary pressure was extreme, in which case she would sometimes write letters after returning home. During the whole time of writing her series, she was satisfied with from five to six hours’ sleep out of the twenty-four, and though she was not a teetotaller, but drank wine at dinner, still she took no sort of stimulant to help her in her work. MRS. FENWICK MILLER: ‘Harriet Martineau.’ * * * * * [Sidenote: Carlyle’s first impression of her.]