Harriet had long considered that one reason for the very slow advancement of civilization was that men had ever busied themselves with supernatural concerns; and in fearsome endeavors to make themselves secure for another world had neglected this.  Man had tried to make peace with the skies instead of peace with his neighbor.  She also thought she saw clearly that right living was one thing, and a belief in theological dogma another.  That these things sometimes go together, she of course admitted, but a belief in a “vicarious atonement” and a “miraculous conception” she did not believe made a man a gentler husband, a better neighbor or a more patriotic citizen.  Man does what he does because he thinks at the moment it is the best thing to do.  And if you could make men believe that peace, truth, honesty and industry were the best standards to adopt—­bringing the best results—­all men would adopt them.

There are no such things as reward and punishment, as these terms are ordinarily used:  there are only good results and bad results.  We sow, and reap what we have sown.

Miss Martineau had long believed these things, but Comte proved them—­proved them in six ponderous tomes—­and she set herself the task to simplify his philosophy.

There is one point of attraction that Comte’s thought had for Harriet Martineau that I have never seen mentioned in print—­that is, his mental attitude on the value of love in a well-ordered life.

In the springtime of his manhood, Auguste Comte, sensitive, confiding, generous, loved a beautiful girl.  She did not share his intellectual ambitions, his divine aspiration:  she was only a beautiful animal.  Man proposes, but is not always accepted.  She married another, and Comte was disconsolate—­for a day.

He pondered the subject, read the lives of various great men, talked with monks and sundry friars gray, and after five years wrote out at length the reasons why a man, in order to accomplish a far-reaching and splendid work, must live the life of a celibate.  “To achieve,” said Comte, “you must be married to your work.”

Comte lived for some time content in this philosophy, constantly strengthening it and buttressing it against attack; for we believe a thing first and skirmish for our proof afterward.  But when past forty, and his hair was turning to silver, and crow’s-feet were showing themselves in his fine face, and when there was a halt in his step and his laughter had died away into a weary smile, he met a woman whose nature was as finely sensitive and as silkenly strong as his own.  She had intellect, aspiration, power.  She was gentle, and a womanly woman withal; his best mood was matched by hers, she sympathized with his highest ideal.

They loved and they married.

The crow’s-feet disappeared from Comte’s face, the halt in his step was gone, the laugh returned, and people said that the silver in his hair was becoming.