Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (611 page)

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
September
13
th
, 1849.

‘My dear Sir, — I want to know your opinion of the subject of this proof-sheet.  Mr. Taylor censured it; he considers as defective all that portion which relates to Shirley’s nervousness — the bite of the dog, etc.  How did it strike you on reading it?

 
‘I ask this though I well know it cannot now be altered.  I can work indefatigably at the correction of a work before it leaves my hands, but when once I have looked on it as completed and submitted to the inspection of others, it becomes next to impossible to alter or amend.  With the heavy suspicion on my mind that all may not be right, I yet feel forced to put up with the inevitably wrong.

‘Reading has, of late, been my great solace and recreation.  I have read J. C. Hare’s
Guesses at Truth
, a book containing things that in depth and far-sought wisdom sometimes recall the
Thoughts
of Pascal, only it is as the light of the moon recalls that of the sun.

‘I have read with pleasure a little book on
English Social Life
by the wife of Archbishop Whately.  Good and intelligent women write well on such subjects.  This lady speaks of governesses.  I was struck by the contrast offered in her manner of treating the topic to that of Miss Rigby in the
Quarterly
.  How much finer the feeling — how much truer the feeling — how much more delicate the mind here revealed!

‘I have read
David Copperfield
; it seems to me very good — admirable in some parts.  You said it had affinity to
Jane Eyre
.  It has, now and then — only what an advantage has Dickens in his varied knowledge of men and things!  I am beginning to read Eckermann’s
Goethe
— it promises to be a most interesting work.  Honest, simple, single-minded Eckermann!  Great, powerful, giant-souled, but also profoundly egotistical, old Johann Wolfgang von Goethe!  He
was
a mighty egotist — I see he was: he thought no more of swallowing up poor Eckermann’s existence in his own than the whale thought of swallowing Jonah.

‘The worst of reading graphic accounts of such men, of seeing graphic pictures of the scenes, the society, in which they moved, is that it excites a too tormenting longing to look on the reality.  But does such reality now exist?  Amidst all the troubled waters of European society does such a vast, strong, selfish, old Leviathan now roll ponderous!  I suppose not. — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

 
TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
March
19
th
, 1850.

‘My dear Sir, — The books came yesterday evening just as I was wishing for them very much.  There is much interest for me in opening the Cornhill parcel.  I wish there was not pain too — but so it is.  As I untie the cords and take out the volumes, I am reminded of those who once on similar occasions looked on eagerly; I miss familiar voices commenting mirthfully and pleasantly; the room seems very still, very empty; but yet there is consolation in remembering that papa will take pleasure in some of the books.  Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness — it has no taste.

‘I hope Mrs. Williams continues well, and that she is beginning to regain composure after the shock of her recent bereavement.  She has indeed sustained a loss for which there is no substitute.  But rich as she still is in objects for her best affections, I trust the void will not be long or severely felt.  She must think, not of what she has lost, but of what she possesses.  With eight fine children, how can she ever be poor or solitary! — Believe me, dear sir, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
April
12
th
, 1850.

‘My dear Sir, — I own I was glad to receive your assurance that the Calcutta paper’s surmise was unfounded.
 
  It is said that when we
wish
a thing to be true, we are prone to believe it true; but I think (judging from myself) we adopt with a still prompter credulity the rumour which shocks.

‘It is very kind in Dr. Forbes to give me his book.  I hope Mr. Smith will have the goodness to convey my thanks for the present.  You can keep it to send with the next parcel, or perhaps I may be in London myself before May is over.  That invitation I mentioned in a previous letter is still urged upon me, and well as I know what penance its acceptance would entail in some points, I also know the advantage it would bring in others.  My conscience tells me it would be
 
the act of a moral poltroon to let the fear of suffering stand in the way of improvement.  But suffer I shall.  No matter.

‘The perusal of
Southey’s Life
has lately afforded me much pleasure.  The autobiography with which it commences is deeply interesting, and the letters which follow are scarcely less so, disclosing as they do a character most estimable in its integrity and a nature most amiable in its benevolence, as well as a mind admirable in its talent.  Some people assert that genius is inconsistent with domestic happiness, and yet Southey was happy at home and made his home happy; he not only loved his wife and children
though
he was a poet, but he loved them the better
because
he was a poet.  He seems to have been without taint of worldliness.  London with its pomps and vanities, learned coteries with their dry pedantry, rather scared than attracted him.  He found his prime glory in his genius, and his chief felicity in home affections.  I like Southey.

‘I have likewise read one of Miss Austen’s works —
Emma
— read it with interest and with just the degree of admiration which Miss Austen herself would have thought sensible and suitable.  Anything like warmth or enthusiasm — anything energetic, poignant, heart-felt is utterly out of place in commending these works: all such demonstration the authoress would have met with a well-bred sneer, would have calmly scorned as
outré
and extravagant.  She does her business of delineating the surface of the lives of genteel English people curiously well.  There is a Chinese fidelity, a miniature delicacy in the painting.  She ruffles her reader by nothing vehement, disturbs him by nothing profound.  The passions are perfectly unknown to her; she rejects even a speaking acquaintance with that stormy sisterhood.  Even to the feelings she vouchsafes no more than an occasional graceful but distant recognition — too frequent converse with them would ruffle the smooth elegance of her progress.  Her business is not half so much with the human heart as with the human eyes, mouth, hands, and feet.  What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly, it suits her to study; but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen
 
seat of life and the sentient target of death — this Miss Austen ignores.  She no more, with her mind’s eye, beholds the heart of her race than each man, with bodily vision, sees the heart in his heaving breast.  Jane Austen was a complete and most sensible lady, but a very incomplete and rather insensible (
not senseless
) woman.  If this is heresy, I cannot help it.  If I said it to some people (Lewes for instance) they would directly accuse me of advocating exaggerated heroics, but I am not afraid of your falling into any such vulgar error. — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
November
9
th
, 1850.

‘My dear Sir, — I have read Lord John Russell’s letter with very great zest and relish, and think him a spirited sensible little man for writing it.  He makes no old-womanish outcry of alarm and expresses no exaggerated wrath.  One of the best paragraphs is that which refers to the Bishop of London and the Puseyites.  Oh! I wish Dr. Arnold were yet living, or that a second Dr. Arnold could be found!  Were there but ten such men amongst the hierarchs of the Church of England she might bid defiance to all the scarlet hats and stockings in the Pope’s gift.  Her sanctuaries would be purified, her rites reformed, her withered veins would swell again with vital sap; but it is not so.

‘It is well that
truth
is
indestructible
— that ruin cannot crush nor fire annihilate her divine essence.  While forms change and institutions perish, “
truth
is great and shall prevail.”

‘I am truly glad to hear that Miss Kavanagh’s health is improved.  You can send her book whenever it is most convenient.  I received from Cornhill the other day a periodical containing a portrait of Jenny Lind — a sweet, natural, innocent peasant-girl face, curiously contrasted with an artificial fine-lady dress.  I
do
like and esteem Jenny’s character.  Yet not long since I heard her torn to pieces by the tongue of detraction — scarcely a virtue left — twenty odious defects imputed.

‘There was likewise a most faithful portrait of R. H. Home, with his imaginative forehead and somewhat foolish-looking
 
mouth and chin, indicating that mixed character which I should think he owns.  Mr. Home writes well.  That tragedy on the
Death of Marlowe
reminds me of some of the best of Dumas’ dramatic pieces. — Yours very sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY

‘
January
, 1851.

‘Dear Ellen, — I sent yesterday the
Leader
newspaper, which you must always send to Hunsworth as soon as you have done with it.  I will continue to forward it as long as I get it.

‘I am trying a little Hydropathic treatment; I like it, and I think it has done me good.  Inclosed is a letter received a few days since.  I wish you to read it because it gives a very fair notion both of the disposition and mind; read, return, and tell me what you think of it.

‘Thackeray has given dreadful trouble by his want of punctuality.  Mr. Williams says if he had not been helped out with the vigour, energy, and method of Mr. Smith, he must have sunk under the day and night labour of the last few weeks.

‘Write soon.

‘C. B.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
July
21
st
, 1851.

‘My dear Sir, — I delayed answering your very interesting letter until the box should have reached me; and now that it is come I can only acknowledge its arrival: I cannot say at all what I felt as I unpacked its contents.  These Cornhill parcels have something of the magic charm of a fairy gift about them, as well as of the less poetical but more substantial pleasure of a box from home received at school.  You have sent me this time even more books than usual, and all good.

‘What shall I say about the twenty numbers of splendid engravings laid cozily at the bottom?  The whole Vernon Gallery brought to one’s fireside!  Indeed, indeed I can say nothing, except that I will take care, and keep them clean, and send them back uninjured. — Believe me, yours sincerely,

‘C. Brontë.’

 
TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘
November
6
th
, 1851.

‘My dear Sir, — I have true pleasure in inclosing for your son Frank a letter of introduction to Mrs. Gaskell, and earnestly do I trust the acquaintance may tend to his good.  To make all sure — for I dislike to go on doubtful grounds — I wrote to ask her if she would permit the introduction.  Her frank, kind answer pleased me greatly.

‘I have received the books.  I hope to write again when I have read
The Fair Carew
.  The very title augurs well — it has no hackneyed sound. — Believe me, sincerely yours,

‘C. Brontë.’

TO W. S. WILLIAMS

‘Haworth,
May
28
th
, 1853.

‘My dear Sir, — The box of books arrived safely yesterday evening, and I feel especially obliged for the selection, as it includes several that will be acceptable and interesting to my father.

‘I despatch to-day a box of return books.  Among them will be found two or three of those just sent, being such as I had read before —
i.e.
, Moore’s
Life and Correspondence
, 1st and 2nd vols.; Lamartine’s
Restoration of the Monarchy
, etc.  I have thought of you more than once during the late bright weather, knowing how genial you find warmth and sunshine.  I trust it has brought this season its usual cheering and beneficial effect.  Remember me kindly to Mrs. Williams and her daughters, and, — Believe me, yours sincerely,