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Charlotte Brontë and Her Circle by Clement King Shorter
CHAPTER XIV: WILLIAM SMITH WILLIAMS In picturing the circle which surrounded Charlotte Bronte through her brief career, it is of the utmost importance that a word of recognition should be given, and that in no half-hearted manner, to Mr. William Smith Williams, who, in her later years, was Charlotte Bronte's most intimate correspondent. The letters to Mr. Williams are far and away the best that Charlotte wrote, at least of those which have been preserved. They are full of literary enthusiasm and of intellectual interest. They show Charlotte Bronte's sound judgment and good heart more effectually than any other material which has been placed at the disposal of biographers. They are an honour both to writer and receiver, and, in fact, reflect the mind of the one as much as the mind of the other. Charlotte has emphasised the fact that she adapted herself to her correspondents, and in her letters to Mr. Williams we have her at her very best. Mr. Williams occupied for many years the post of 'reader' in the firm of Smith & Elder. That is a position scarcely less honourable and important than authorship itself. In our own days Mr. George Meredith and Mr. John Morley have been 'readers,' and Mr. James Payn has held the same post in the firm which published the Bronte novels. Mr. Williams, who was born in 1800, and died in 1875, had an interesting career even before he became associated with Smith & Elder. In his younger days he was apprenticed to Taylor & Hessey of Fleet Street; and he used to relate how his boyish ideals of Coleridge were shattered on beholding, for the first time, the bulky and ponderous figure of the great talker. When Keats left England, for an early grave in Rome, it was Mr. Williams who saw him off. Hazlitt, Leigh Hunt, and many other well-known men of letters were friendly with Mr. Williams from his earliest days, and he had for brother-in-law, Wells, the author of _Joseph and his Brethren_. In his association with Smith & Elder he secured the friendship of Thackeray, of Mrs. Gaskell, and of many other writers. He attracted the notice of Ruskin by a keen enthusiasm for the work of Turner. It was he, in fact, who compiled that most interesting volume of _Selections from the writings of John Ruskin_, which has long gone out of print in its first form, but is still greatly sought for by the curious. In connection with this volume I may print here a letter written by John Ruskin's father to Mr. Williams, and I do so the more readily, as Mr. Williams's name was withheld from the title-page of the _Selections_. TO W. S. WILLIAMS DENMARK HILL, 25_th November_, 1861. 'MY DEAR SIR,--I am requested by Mrs. Ruskin to return her very sincere and grateful thanks for your kind consideration in presenting her with so beautifully bound a copy of the _Selections_ from her son's writings; and which she will have great pleasure in seeing by the side of the very magnificent volumes which the liberality of the gentlemen of your house has already enriched our library with. 'Mrs. Ruskin joins me in offering congratulations on the great judgment you have displayed in your _Selections_, and, sending my own thanks and those of my son for the handsome gift to Mrs. Ruskin,--I am, my dear sir, yours very truly, 'JOHN JAMES RUSKIN.' What Charlotte Bronte thought of Mr. Williams is sufficiently revealed by the multitude of letters which I have the good fortune to print, and that she had a reason to be grateful to him is obvious when we recollect that to him, and to him alone, was due her first recognition. The parcel containing _The Professor_ had wandered from publisher to publisher before it came into the hands of Mr. Williams. It was he who recognised what all of us recognise now, that in spite of faults it is really a most considerable book. I am inclined to think that it was refused by Smith & Elder rather on account of its insufficient length than for any other cause. At any rate it was the length which was assigned to her as a reason for non-acceptance. She was told that another book, which would make the accredited three volume novel, might receive more favourable consideration. Charlotte Bronte took Mr. Williams's advice. She wrote _Jane Eyre_, and despatched it quickly to Smith & Elder's house in Cornhill. It was read by Mr. Williams, and read afterwards by Mr. George Smith; and it was published with the success that we know. Charlotte awoke to find herself famous. She became a regular correspondent with Mr. Williams, and not less than a hundred letters were sent to him, most of them treating of interesting literary matters. One of Mr. Williams's daughters, I may add, married Mr. Lowes Dickenson the portrait painter; his youngest child, a baby when Miss Bronte was alive, is famous in the musical world as Miss Anna Williams. The family has an abundance of literary and artistic association, but the father we know as the friend and correspondent of Charlotte Bronte. He still lives also in the memory of a large circle as a kindly and attractive--a singularly good and upright man. Comment upon the following letters is in well-nigh every case superfluous. TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_February_ 25_th_ 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--I thank you for your note; its contents moved me much, though not to unmingled feelings of exultation. Louis Philippe (unhappy and sordid old man!) and M. Guizot doubtless merit the sharp lesson they are now being taught, because they have both proved themselves men of dishonest hearts. And every struggle any nation makes in the cause of Freedom and Truth has something noble in it--something that makes me wish it success; but I cannot believe that France--or at least Paris--will ever be the battle-ground of true Liberty, or the scene of its real triumphs. I fear she does not know "how genuine glory is put on." Is that strength to be found in her which will not bend "but in magnanimous meekness"? Have not her "unceasing changes" as yet always brought "perpetual emptiness"? Has Paris the materials within her for thorough reform? Mean, dishonest Guizot being discarded, will any better successor be found for him than brilliant, unprincipled Thiers? 'But I damp your enthusiasm, which I would not wish to do, for true enthusiasm is a fine feeling whose flash I admire wherever I see it. 'The little note inclosed in yours is from a French lady, who asks my consent to the translation of _Jane Eyre_ into the French language. I thought it better to consult you before I replied. I suppose she is competent to produce a decent translation, though one or two errors of orthography in her note rather afflict the eye; but I know that it is not unusual for what are considered well-educated French women to fail in the point of writing their mother tongue correctly. But whether competent or not, I presume she has a right to translate the book with or without my consent. She gives her address: Mdlle B--- {373} W. Cumming, Esq., 23 North Bank, Regent's Park. 'Shall I reply to her note in the affirmative? 'Waiting your opinion and answer,--I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully, 'C. BELL.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_February_ 28_th_, 1848. 'DEAR SIR,--I have done as you advised me respecting Mdlle B---, thanked her for her courtesy, and explained that I do not wish my consent to be regarded in the light of a formal sanction of the translation. 'From the papers of Saturday I had learnt the abdication of Louis Philippe, the flight of the royal family, and the proclamation of a republic in France. Rapid movements these, and some of them difficult of comprehension to a remote spectator. What sort of spell has withered Louis Philippe's strength? Why, after having so long infatuatedly clung to Guizot, did he at once ignobly relinquish him? Was it panic that made him so suddenly quit his throne and abandon his adherents without a struggle to retain one or aid the other? 'Perhaps it might have been partly fear, but I daresay it was still more long-gathering weariness of the dangers and toils of royalty. Few will pity the old monarch in his flight, yet I own he seems to me an object of pity. His sister's death shook him; years are heavy on him; the sword of Damocles has long been hanging over his head. One cannot forget that monarchs and ministers are only human, and have only human energies to sustain them; and often they are sore beset. Party spirit has no mercy; indignant Freedom seldom shows forbearance in her hour of revolt. I wish you _could_ see the aged gentleman trudging down Cornhill with his umbrella and carpet-bag, in good earnest; he would be safe in England: John Bull might laugh at him but he would do him no harm. 'How strange it appears to see literary and scientific names figuring in the list of members of a Provisional Government! How would it sound if Carlyle and Sir John Herschel and Tennyson and Mr. Thackeray and Douglas Jerrold were selected to manufacture a new constitution for England? Whether do such men sway the public mind most effectually from their quiet studies or from a council-chamber? 'And Thiers is set aside for a time; but won't they be glad of him by-and-by? Can they set aside entirely anything so clever, so subtle, so accomplished, so aspiring--in a word, so thoroughly French, as he is? Is he not the man to bide his time--to watch while unskilful theorists try their hand at administration and fail; and then to step out and show them how it should be done? 'One would have thought political disturbance the natural element of a mind like Thiers'; but I know nothing of him except from his writings, and I always think he writes as if the shade of Bonaparte were walking to and fro in the room behind him and dictating every line he pens, sometimes approaching and bending over his shoulder, _pour voir de ses yeux_ that such an action or event is represented or misrepresented (as the case may be) exactly as he wishes it. Thiers seems to have contemplated Napoleon's character till he has imbibed some of its nature. Surely he must be an ambitious man, and, if so, surely he will at this juncture struggle to rise. 'You should not apologise for what you call your "crudities." You know I like to hear your opinions and views on whatever subject it interests you to discuss. 'From the little inscription outside your note I conclude you sent me the _Examiner_. I thank you therefore for your kind intention and am sorry some unscrupulous person at the Post Office frustrated it, as no paper has reached my hands. I suppose one ought to be thankful that letters are respected, as newspapers are by no means sure of safe conveyance.--I remain, dear sir, yours sincerely, 'C. BELL.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_May_ 12_th_, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--I take a large sheet of paper, because I foresee that I am about to write another long letter, and for the same reason as before, viz., that yours interested me. 'I have received the _Morning Chronicle_, and was both surprised and pleased to see the passage you speak of in one of its leading articles. An allusion of that sort seems to say more than a regular notice. I _do_ trust I may have the power so to write in future as not to disappoint those who have been kind enough to think and speak well of _Jane Eyre_; at any rate, I will take pains. But still, whenever I hear my one book praised, the pleasure I feel is chastened by a mixture of doubt and fear; and, in truth, I hardly wish it to be otherwise: it is much too early for me to feel safe, or to take as my due the commendation bestowed. 'Some remarks in your last letter on teaching commanded my attention. I suppose you never were engaged in tuition yourself; but if you had been, you could not have more exactly hit on the great qualification--I had almost said the _one_ great qualification--necessary to the task: the faculty, not merely of acquiring but of imparting knowledge--the power of influencing young minds--that natural fondness for, that innate sympathy with, children, which, you say, Mrs. Williams is so happy as to possess. He or she who possesses this faculty, this sympathy--though perhaps not otherwise highly accomplished--need never fear failure in the career of instruction. Children will be docile with them, will improve under them; parents will consequently repose in them confidence. Their task will be comparatively light, their path comparatively smooth. If the faculty be absent, the life of a teacher will be a struggle from beginning to end. No matter how amiable the disposition, how strong the sense of duty, how active the desire to please; no matter how brilliant and varied the accomplishments; if the governess has not the power to win her young charge, the secret to instil gently and surely her own knowledge into the growing mind intrusted to her, she will have a wearing, wasting existence of it. To _educate_ a child, as I daresay Mrs. Williams has educated her children, probably with as much pleasure to herself as profit to them, will indeed be impossible to the teacher who lacks this qualification. But, I conceive, should circumstances--as in the case of your daughters--compel a young girl notwithstanding to adopt a governess's profession, she may contrive to _instruct_ and even to instruct well. That is, though she cannot form the child's mind, mould its character, influence its disposition, and guide its conduct as she would wish, she may give lessons--even good, clear, clever lessons in the various branches of knowledge. She may earn and doubly earn her scanty salary as a daily governess. As a school-teacher she may succeed; but as a resident governess she will never (except under peculiar and exceptional circumstances) be happy. Her deficiency will harass her not so much in school-time as in play-hours; the moments that would be rest and recreation to the governess who understood and could adapt herself to children, will be almost torture to her who has not that power. Many a time, when her charge turns unruly on her hands, when the responsibility which she would wish to discharge faithfully and perfectly, becomes unmanageable to her, she will wish herself a housemaid or kitchen girl, rather than a baited, trampled, desolate, distracted governess. 'The Governesses' Institution may be an excellent thing in some points of view, but it is both absurd and cruel to attempt to raise still higher the standard of acquirements. Already governesses are not half nor a quarter paid for what they teach, nor in most instances is half or a quarter of their attainments required by their pupils. The young teacher's chief anxiety, when she sets out in life, always is to know a great deal; her chief fear that she should not know enough. Brief experience will, in most instances, show her that this anxiety has been misdirected. She will rarely be found too ignorant for her pupils; the demand on her knowledge will not often be larger than she can answer. But on her patience--on her self-control, the requirement will be enormous; on her animal spirits (and woe be to her if these fail!) the pressure will be immense. 'I have seen an ignorant nursery-maid who could scarcely read or write, by dint of an excellent, serviceable, sanguine, phlegmatic temperament, which made her at once cheerful and unmoveable; of a robust constitution and steady, unimpassionable nerves, which kept her firm under shocks and unharassed under annoyances--manage with comparative ease a large family of spoilt children, while their governess lived amongst them a life of inexpressible misery: tyrannised over, finding her efforts to please and teach utterly vain, chagrined, distressed, worried--so badgered, so trodden on, that she ceased almost at last to know herself, and wondered in what despicable, trembling frame her oppressed mind was prisoned, and could not realise the idea of ever more being treated with respect and regarded with affection--till she finally resigned her situation and went away quite broken in spirit and reduced to the verge of decline in health. 'Those who would urge on governesses more acquirements, do not know the origin of their chief sufferings. It is more physical and mental strength, denser moral impassibility that they require, rather than additional skill in arts or sciences. As to the forcing system, whether applied to teachers or taught, I hold it to be a cruel system. 'It is true the world demands a brilliant list of accomplishments. For 20 pounds per annum, it expects in one woman the attainments of several professors--but the demand is insensate, and I think should rather be resisted than complied with. If I might plead with you in behalf of your daughters, I should say, "Do not let them waste their young lives in trying to attain manifold accomplishments. Let them try rather to possess thoroughly, fully, one or two talents; then let them endeavour to lay in a stock of health, strength, cheerfulness. Let them labour to attain self-control, endurance, fortitude, firmness; if possible, let them learn from their mother something of the precious art she possesses--these things, together with sound principles, will be their best supports, their best aids through a governess's life. 'As for that one who, you say, has a nervous horror of exhibition, I need not beg you to be gentle with her; I am sure you will not be harsh, but she must be firm with herself, or she will repent it in after life. She should begin by degrees to endeavour to overcome her diffidence. Were she destined to enjoy an independent, easy existence, she might respect her natural disposition to seek retirement, and even cherish it as a shade-loving virtue; but since that is not her lot, since she is fated to make her way in the crowd, and to depend on herself, she should say: I will try and learn the art of self-possession, not that I may display my accomplishments, but that I may have the satisfaction of feeling that I am my own mistress, and can move and speak undaunted by the fear of man. While, however, I pen this piece of advice, I confess that it is much easier to give than to follow. What the sensations of the nervous are under the gaze of publicity none but the nervous know; and how powerless reason and resolution are to control them would sound incredible except to the actual sufferers. 'The rumours you mention respecting the authorship of _Jane Eyre_ amused me inexpressibly. The gossips are, on this subject, just where I should wish them to be, _i.e._, as far from the truth as possible; and as they have not a grain of fact to found their fictions upon, they fabricate pure inventions. Judge Erle must, I think, have made up his story expressly for a hoax; the other _fib_ is amazing--so circumstantial! called on the author, forsooth! Where did he live, I wonder? In what purlieu of Cockayne? Here I must stop, lest if I run on further I should fill another sheet.--Believe me, yours sincerely, 'CURRER BELL. '_P.S._--I must, after all, add a morsel of paper, for I find, on glancing over yours, that I have forgotten to answer a question you ask respecting my next work. I have not therein so far treated of governesses, as I do not wish it to resemble its predecessor. I often wish to say something about the "condition of women" question, but it is one respecting which so much "cant" has been talked, that one feels a sort of repugnance to approach it. It is true enough that the present market for female labour is quite overstocked, but where or how could another be opened? Many say that the professions now filled only by men should be open to women also; but are not their present occupants and candidates more than numerous enough to answer every demand? Is there any room for female lawyers, female doctors, female engravers, for more female artists, more authoresses? One can see where the evil lies, but who can point out the remedy? When a woman has a little family to rear and educate and a household to conduct, her hands are full, her vocation is evident; when her destiny isolates her, I suppose she must do what she can, live as she can, complain as little, bear as much, work as well as possible. This is not high theory, but I believe it is sound practice, good to put into execution while philosophers and legislators ponder over the better ordering of the social system. At the same time, I conceive that when patience has done its utmost and industry its best, whether in the case of women or operatives, and when both are baffled, and pain and want triumph, the sufferer is free, is entitled, at last to send up to Heaven any piercing cry for relief, if by that cry he can hope to obtain succour.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_June_ 2, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--I snatch a moment to write a hasty line to you, for it makes me uneasy to think that your last kind letter should have remained so long unanswered. A succession of little engagements, much more importunate than important, have quite engrossed my time lately, to the exclusion of more momentous and interesting occupations. Interruption is a sad bore, and I believe there is hardly a spot on earth, certainly not in England, quite secure from its intrusion. The fact is, you cannot live in this world entirely for one aim; you must take along with some single serious purpose a hundred little minor duties, cares, distractions; in short, you must take life as it is, and make the best of it. Summer is decidedly a bad season for application, especially in the country; for the sunshine seems to set all your acquaintances astir, and, once bent on amusement, they will come to the ends of the earth in search thereof. I was obliged to you for your suggestion about writing a letter to the _Morning Chronicle_, but I did not follow it up. I think I would rather not venture on such a step at present. Opinions I would not hesitate to express to you--because you are indulgent--are not mature or cool enough for the public; Currer Bell is not Carlyle, and must not imitate him. 'Whenever you can write to me without encroaching too much on your valuable time, remember I shall always be glad to hear from you. Your last letter interested me fully as much as its two predecessors; what you said about your family pleased me; I think details of character always have a charm even when they relate to people we have never seen, nor expect to see. With eight children you must have a busy life; but, from the manner in which you allude to your two eldest daughters, it is evident that they at least are a source of satisfaction to their parents; I hope this will be the case with the whole number, and then you will never feel as if you had too many. A dozen children with sense and good conduct may be less burdensome than one who lacks these qualities. It seems a long time since I heard from you. I shall be glad to hear from you again.--Believe me, yours sincerely, 'C. BELL.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS 'HAWORTH, _June_ 15_th_, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--Thank you for your two last letters. In reading the first I quite realised your May holiday; I enjoyed it with you. I saw the pretty south-of-England village, so different from our northern congregations of smoke-dark houses clustered round their soot-vomiting mills. I saw in your description, fertile, flowery Essex--a contrast indeed to the rough and rude, the mute and sombre yet well-beloved moors over-spreading this corner of Yorkshire. I saw the white schoolhouse, the venerable school-master--I even thought I saw you and your daughters; and in your second letter I see you all distinctly, for, in describing your children, you unconsciously describe yourself. 'I may well say that your letters are of value to me, for I seldom receive one but I find something in it which makes me reflect, and reflect on new themes. Your town life is somewhat different from any I have known, and your allusions to its advantages, troubles, pleasures, and struggles are often full of significance to me. 'I have always been accustomed to think that the necessity of earning one's subsistence is not in itself an evil, but I feel it may become a heavy evil if health fails, if employment lacks, if the demand upon our efforts made by the weakness of others dependent upon us becomes greater than our strength suffices to answer. In such a case I can imagine that the married man may wish himself single again, and that the married woman, when she sees her husband over-exerting himself to maintain her and her children, may almost wish--out of the very force of her affection for him--that it had never been her lot to add to the weight of his responsibilities. Most desirable then is it that all, both men and women, should have the power and the will to work for themselves--most advisable that both sons and daughters should early be inured to habits of independence and industry. Birds teach their nestlings to fly as soon as their wings are strong enough, they even oblige them to quit the nest if they seem too unwilling to trust their pinions of their own accord. Do not the swallow and the starling thus give a lesson by which man might profit? 'It seems to me that your kind heart is pained by the thought of what your daughter may suffer if transplanted from a free and indulged home existence to a life of constraint and labour amongst strangers. Suffer she probably will; but take both comfort and courage, my dear sir, try to soothe your anxiety by this thought, which is not a fallacious one. Hers will not be a barren suffering; she will gain by it largely; she will "sow in tears to reap in joy." A governess's experience is frequently indeed bitter, but its results are precious: the mind, feeling, temper are there subjected to a discipline equally painful and priceless. I have known many who were unhappy as governesses, but not one who regretted having undergone the ordeal, and scarcely one whose character was not improved--at once strengthened and purified, fortified and softened, made more enduring for her own afflictions, more considerate for the afflictions of others, by passing through it. 'Should your daughter, however, go out as governess, she should first take a firm resolution not to be too soon daunted by difficulties, too soon disgusted by disagreeables; and if she has a high spirit, sensitive feelings, she should tutor the one to submit, the other to endure, _for the sake of those at home_. That is the governess's best talisman of patience, it is the best balm for wounded susceptibility. When tried hard she must say, "I will be patient, not out of servility, but because I love my parents, and wish through my perseverance, diligence, and success, to repay their anxieties and tenderness for me." With this aid the least-deserved insult may often be swallowed quite calmly, like a bitter pill with a draught of fair water. 'I think you speak excellent sense when you say that girls without fortune should be brought up and accustomed to support themselves; and that if they marry poor men, it should be with a prospect of being able to help their partners. If all parents thought so, girls would not be reared on speculation with a view to their making mercenary marriages; and, consequently, women would not be so piteously degraded as they now too often are. 'Fortuneless people may certainly marry, provided they previously resolve never to let the consequences of their marriage throw them as burdens on the hands of their relatives. But as life is full of unforeseen contingencies, and as a woman may be so placed that she cannot possibly both "guide the house" and earn her livelihood (what leisure, for instance, could Mrs. Williams have with her eight children?), young artists and young governesses should think twice before they unite their destinies. 'You speak sense again when you express a wish that Fanny were placed in a position where active duties would engage her attention, where her faculties would be exercised and her mind occupied, and where, I will add, not doubting that my addition merely completes your half-approved idea, the image of the young artist would for the present recede into the background and remain for a few years to come in modest perspective, the finishing point of a vista stretching a considerable distance into futurity. Fanny may feel sure of this: if she intends to be an artist's wife she had better try an apprenticeship with Fortune as a governess first; she cannot undergo a better preparation for that honourable (honourable if rightly considered) but certainly not luxurious destiny. 'I should say then--judging as well as I can from the materials for forming an opinion your letter affords, and from what I can thence conjecture of Fanny's actual and prospective position--that you would do well and wisely to put your daughter out. The experiment might do good and could not do harm, because even if she failed at the first trial (which is not unlikely) she would still be in some measure benefited by the effort. 'I duly received _Mirabeau_ from Mr. Smith. I must repeat, it is really _too_ kind. When I have read the book, I will tell you what I think of it--its subject is interesting. One thing a little annoyed me--as I glanced over the pages I fancied I detected a savour of Carlyle's peculiarities of style. Now Carlyle is a great man, but I always wish he would write plain English; and to imitate his Germanisms is, I think, to imitate his faults. Is the author of this work a Manchester man? I must not ask his name, I suppose.--Believe me, my dear sir, yours sincerely, 'CURRER BELL.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_June_ 22_nd_, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--After reading a book which has both interested and informed you, you like to be able, on laying it down, to speak of it with unqualified approbation--to praise it cordially; you do not like to stint your panegyric, to counteract its effect with blame. 'For this reason I feel a little difficulty in telling you what I think of _The Life of Mirabeau_. It has interested me much, and I have derived from it additional information. In the course of reading it, I have often felt called upon to approve the ability and tact of the writer, to admire the skill with which he conducts the narrative, enchains the reader's attention, and keeps it fixed upon his hero; but I have also been moved frequently to disapprobation. It is not the political principles of the writer with which I find fault, nor is it his talents I feel inclined to disparage; to speak truth, it is his manner of treating Mirabeau's errors that offends--then, I think, he is neither wise nor right--there, I think, he betrays a little of crudeness, a little of presumption, not a little of indiscretion. 'Could you with confidence put this work into the hands of your son, secure that its perusal would not harm him, that it would not leave on his mind some vague impression that there is a grandeur in vice committed on a colossal scale? Whereas, the fact is, that in vice there is no grandeur, that it is, on whichever side you view it, and in whatever accumulation, only a foul, sordid, and degrading thing. The fact is, that this great Mirabeau was a mixture of divinity and dirt; that there was no divinity whatever in his errors, they were all sullying dirt; that they ruined him, brought down his genius to the kennel, deadened his fine nature and generous sentiments, made all his greatness as nothing; that they cut him off in his prime, obviated all his aims, and struck him dead in the hour when France most needed him. 'Mirabeau's life and fate teach, to my perception, the most depressing lesson I have read for years. One would fain have hoped that so many noble qualities must have made a noble character and achieved noble ends. No--the mighty genius lived a miserable and degraded life, and died a dog's death, for want of self-control, for want of morality, for lack of religion. One's heart is wrung for Mirabeau after reading his life; and it is not of his greatness we think, when we close the volume, so much as of his hopeless recklessness, and of the sufferings, degradation, and untimely end in which it issued. It appears to me that the biographer errs also in being too solicitous to present his hero always in a striking point of view--too negligent of the exact truth. He eulogises him too much; he subdues all the other characters mentioned and keeps them in the shade that Mirabeau may stand out more conspicuously. This, no doubt, is right in art, and admissible in fiction; but in history (and biography is the history of an individual) it tends to weaken the force of a narrative by weakening your faith in its accuracy. TO W. S. WILLIAMS CHAPTER COFFEE-HOUSE, IVY LANE, '_July_ 8_th_, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--Your invitation is too welcome not to be at once accepted. I should much like to see Mrs. Williams and her children, and very much like to have a quiet chat with yourself. Would it suit you if we came to-morrow, after dinner--say about seven o'clock, and spent Sunday evening with you? 'We shall be truly glad to see you whenever it is convenient to you to call.--I am, my dear sir, yours faithfully, 'C. BRONTE.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS 'HAWORTH, _July_ 13_th_, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--We reached home safely yesterday, and in a day or two I doubt not we shall get the better of the fatigues of our journey. 'It was a somewhat hasty step to hurry up to town as we did, but I do not regret having taken it. In the first place, mystery is irksome, and I was glad to shake it off with you and Mr. Smith, and to show myself to you for what I am, neither more nor less--thus removing any false expectations that may have arisen under the idea that Currer Bell had a just claim to the masculine cognomen he, perhaps somewhat presumptuously, adopted--that he was, in short, of the nobler sex. 'I was glad also to see you and Mr. Smith, and am very happy now to have such pleasant recollections of you both, and of your respective families. My satisfaction would have been complete could I have seen Mrs. Williams. The appearance of your children tallied on the whole accurately with the description you had given of them. Fanny was the one I saw least distinctly; I tried to get a clear view of her countenance, but her position in the room did not favour my efforts. 'I had just read your article in the _John Bull_; it very clearly and fully explains the cause of the difference obvious between ancient and modern paintings. I wish you had been with us when we went over the Exhibition and the National Gallery; a little explanation from a judge of art would doubtless have enabled us to understand better what we saw; perhaps, one day, we may have this pleasure. 'Accept my own thanks and my sister's for your kind attention to us while in town, and--Believe me, yours sincerely, 'CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 'I trust Mrs. Williams is quite recovered from her indisposition.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS 'HAWORTH, _July_ 31_st_, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--I have lately been reading _Modern Painters_, and I have derived from the work much genuine pleasure and, I hope, some edification; at any rate, it made me feel how ignorant I had previously been on the subject which it treats. Hitherto I have only had instinct to guide me in judging of art; I feel more as if I had been walking blindfold--this book seems to give me eyes. I _do_ wish I had pictures within reach by which to test the new sense. Who can read these glowing descriptions of Turner's works without longing to see them? However eloquent and convincing the language in which another's opinion is placed before you, you still wish to judge for yourself. I like this author's style much: there is both energy and beauty in it; I like himself too, because he is such a hearty admirer. He does not give Turner half-measure of praise or veneration, he eulogises, he reverences him (or rather his genius) with his whole soul. One can sympathise with that sort of devout, serious admiration (for he is no rhapsodist)--one can respect it; and yet possibly many people would laugh at it. I am truly obliged to Mr. Smith for giving me this book, not having often met with one that has pleased me more. 'You will have seen some of the notices of _Wildfell Hall_. I wish my sister felt the unfavourable ones less keenly. She does not _say_ much, for she is of a remarkably taciturn, still, thoughtful nature, reserved even with her nearest of kin, but I cannot avoid seeing that her spirits are depressed sometimes. The fact is, neither she nor any of us expected that view to be taken of the book which has been taken by some critics. That it had faults of execution, faults of art, was obvious, but faults of intention or feeling could be suspected by none who knew the writer. For my own part, I consider the subject unfortunately chosen--it was one the author was not qualified to handle at once vigorously and truthfully. The simple and natural--quiet description and simple pathos are, I think, Acton Bell's forte. I liked _Agnes Grey_ better than the present work. 'Permit me to caution you not to speak of my sisters when you write to me. I mean, do not use the word in the plural. Ellis Bell will not endure to be alluded to under any other appellation than the _nom de plume_. I committed a grand error in betraying his identity to you and Mr. Smith. It was inadvertent--the words, "we are three sisters" escaped me before I was aware. I regretted the avowal the moment I had made it; I regret it bitterly now, for I find it is against every feeling and intention of Ellis Bell. 'I was greatly amused to see in the _Examiner_ of this week one of Newby's little cobwebs neatly swept away by some dexterous brush. If Newby is not too old to profit by experience, such an exposure ought to teach him that "Honesty is indeed the best policy." 'Your letter has just been brought to me. I must not pause to thank you, I should say too much. Our life is, and always has been, one of few pleasures, as you seem in part to guess, and for that reason we feel what passages of enjoyment come in our way very keenly; and I think if you knew _how_ pleased I am to get a long letter from you, you would laugh at me. 'In return, however, I smile at you for the earnestness with which you urge on us the propriety of seeing something of London society. There would be an advantage in it--a great advantage; yet it is one that no power on earth could induce Ellis Bell, for instance, to avail himself of. And even for Acton and Currer, the experiment of an introduction to society would be more formidable than you, probably, can well imagine. An existence of absolute seclusion and unvarying monotony, such as we have long--I may say, indeed, ever--been habituated to, tends, I fear, to unfit the mind for lively and exciting scenes, to destroy the capacity for social enjoyment. 'The only glimpses of society I have ever had were obtained in my vocation of governess, and some of the most miserable moments I can recall were passed in drawing-rooms full of strange faces. At such times, my animal spirits would ebb gradually till they sank quite away, and when I could endure the sense of exhaustion and solitude no longer, I used to steal off, too glad to find any corner where I could really be alone. Still, I know very well, that though that experiment of seeing the world might give acute pain for the time, it would do good afterwards; and as I have never, that I remember, gained any important good without incurring proportionate suffering, I mean to try to take your advice some day, in part at least--to put off, if possible, that troublesome egotism which is always judging and blaming itself, and to try, country spinster as I am, to get a view of some sphere where civilised humanity is to be contemplated. 'I smile at you again for supposing that I could be annoyed by what you say respecting your religious and philosophical views; that I could blame you for not being able, when you look amongst sects and creeds, to discover any one which you can exclusively and implicitly adopt as yours. I perceive myself that some light falls on earth from Heaven--that some rays from the shrine of truth pierce the darkness of this life and world; but they are few, faint, and scattered, and who without presumption can assert that he has found the _only_ true path upwards? 'Yet ignorance, weakness, or indiscretion, must have their creeds and forms; they must have their props--they cannot walk alone. Let them hold by what is purest in doctrine and simplest in ritual; _something_, they _must_ have. 'I never read Emerson; but the book which has had so healing an effect on your mind must be a good one. Very enviable is the writer whose words have fallen like a gentle rain on a soil that so needed and merited refreshment, whose influence has come like a genial breeze to lift a spirit which circumstances seem so harshly to have trampled. Emerson, if he has cheered you, has not written in vain. 'May this feeling of self-reconcilement, of inward peace and strength, continue! May you still be lenient with, be just to, yourself! I will not praise nor flatter you, I should hate to pay those enervating compliments which tend to check the exertions of a mind that aspires after excellence; but I must permit myself to remark that if you had not something good and superior in you, something better, whether more _showy_ or not, than is often met with, the assurance of your friendship would not make one so happy as it does; nor would the advantage of your correspondence be felt as such a privilege. 'I hope Mrs. Williams's state of health may soon improve and her anxieties lessen. Blameable indeed are those who sow division where there ought to be peace, and especially deserving of the ban of society. 'I thank both you and your family for keeping our secret. It will indeed be a kindness to us to persevere in doing so; and I own I have a certain confidence in the honourable discretion of a household of which you are the head.--Believe me, yours very sincerely, 'C. BRONTE.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_October_ 18_th_, 1848. 'MY DEAR SIR,--Not feeling competent this evening either for study or serious composition, I will console myself with writing to you. My malady, which the doctors call a bilious fever, lingers, or rather it returns with each sudden change of weather, though I am thankful to say that the relapses have hitherto been much milder than the first attack; but they keep me weak and reduced, especially as I am obliged to observe a very low spare diet. 'My book, alas! is laid aside for the present; both head and hand seem to have lost their cunning; imagination is pale, stagnant, mute. This incapacity chagrins me; sometimes I have a feeling of cankering care on the subject, but I combat it as well as I can; it does no good. 'I am afraid I shall not write a cheerful letter to you. A letter, however, of some kind I am determined to write, for I should be sorry to appear a neglectful correspondent to one from whose communications I have derived, and still derive, so much pleasure. Do not talk about not being on a level with Currer Bell, or regard him as "an awful person"; if you saw him now, sitting muffled at the fireside, shrinking before the east wind (which for some days has been blowing wild and keen over our cold hills), and incapable of lifting a pen for any less formidable task than that of writing a few lines to an indulgent friend, you would be sorry not to deem yourself greatly his superior, for you would feel him to be a poor creature. 'You may be sure I read your views on the providence of God and the nature of man with interest. You are already aware that in much of what you say my opinions coincide with those you express, and where they differ I shall not attempt to bias you. Thought and conscience are, or ought to be, free; and, at any rate, if your views were universally adopted there would be no persecution, no bigotry. But never try to proselytise, the world is not yet fit to receive what you and Emerson say: man, as he now is, can no more do without creeds and forms in religion than he can do without laws and rules in social intercourse. You and Emerson judge others by yourselves; all mankind are not like you, any more than every Israelite was like Nathaniel. '"Is there a human being," you ask, "so depraved that an act of kindness will not touch--nay, a word melt him?" There are hundreds of human beings who trample on acts of kindness and mock at words of affection. I know this though I have seen but little of the world. I suppose I have something harsher in my nature than you have, something which every now and then tells me dreary secrets about my race, and I cannot believe the voice of the Optimist, charm he never so wisely. On the other hand, I feel forced to listen when a Thackeray speaks. I know truth is delivering her oracles by his lips. 'As to the great, good, magnanimous acts which have been performed by some men, we trace them up to motives and then estimate their value; a few, perhaps, would gain and many lose by this test. The study of motives is a strange one, not to be pursued too far by one fallible human being in reference to his fellows. 'Do not condemn me as uncharitable. I have no wish to urge my convictions on you, but I know that while there are many good, sincere, gentle people in the world, with whom kindness is all-powerful, there are also not a few like that false friend (I had almost written _fiend_) whom you so well and vividly described in one of your late letters, and who, in acting out his part of domestic traitor, must often have turned benefits into weapons wherewith to wound his benefactors.--Believe me, yours sincerely, 'C. BRONTE.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_April_ 2_nd_, 1849. 'MY DEAR SIR,--My critics truly deserve and have my genuine thanks for the friendly candour with which they have declared their opinions on my book. Both Mr. Williams and Mr. Taylor express and support their opinions in a manner calculated to command careful consideration. In my turn I have a word to say. You both of you dwell too much on what you regard as the _artistic_ treatment of a subject. Say what you will, gentlemen--say it as ably as you will--truth is better than art. Burns' Songs are better than Bulwer's Epics. Thackeray's rude, careless sketches are preferable to thousands of carefully finished paintings. Ignorant as I am, I dare to hold and maintain that doctrine. 'You must not expect me to give up Malone and Donne too suddenly--the pair are favourites with me; they shine with a chastened and pleasing lustre in that first chapter, and it is a pity you do not take pleasure in their modest twinkle. Neither is that opening scene irrelevant to the rest of the book, there are other touches in store which will harmonise with it. 'No doubt this handling of the surplice will stir up such publications as the _Christian Remembrancer_ and the _Quarterly_--those heavy Goliaths of the periodical press; and if I alone were concerned, this possibility would not trouble me a second. Full welcome would the giants be to stand in their greaves of brass, poising their ponderous spears, cursing their prey by their gods, and thundering invitations to the intended victim to "come forth" and have his flesh given to the fowls of the air and the beasts of the field. Currer Bell, without pretending to be a David, feels no awe of the unwieldy Anakim; but--comprehend me rightly, gentlemen--it would grieve him to involve others in blame: any censure that would really injure and annoy his publishers would wound himself. Therefore believe that he will not act rashly--trust his discretion. 'Mr. Taylor is right about the bad taste of the opening apostrophe--that I had already condemned in my own mind. Enough said of a work in embryo. Permit me to request in conclusion that the MS. may now be returned as soon as convenient. 'The letter you inclosed is from Mary Howitt. It contained a proposal for an engagement as contributor to an American periodical. Of course I have negatived it. When I _can_ write, the book I have in hand must claim all my attention. Oh! if Anne were well, if the void Death has left were a little closed up, if the dreary word _nevermore_ would cease sounding in my ears, I think I could yet do something. 'It is a long time since you mentioned your own family affairs. I trust Mrs. Williams continues well, and that Fanny and your other children prosper.--Yours sincerely, 'C. BRONTE.' TO W. S. WILLIAMS '_July_ 3_rd_, 1849. 'MY DEAR SIR,--You do right to address me on subjects which compel me, in order to give a coherent answer, to quit for a moment my habitual train of thought. The mention of your healthy-living daughters reminds me of the world where other people live--where I lived once. Theirs are cheerful images as you present them--I have no wish to shut them out. 'From all you say of Ellen, the eldest, I am inclined to respect her much. I like practical sense which works to the good of others. I esteem a dutiful daughter who makes her parents happy. 'Fanny's character I would take on second hand from nobody, least of all from her kind father, whose estimate of human nature in general inclines rather to what _ought_ to be than to what _is_. Of Fanny I would judge for myself, and that not hastily nor on first impressions. 'I am glad to hear that Louisa has a chance of a presentation to Queen's College. I hope she will succeed. Do not, my dear sir, be indifferent--be earnest about it. Come what may afterwards, an education secured is an advantage gained--a priceless advantage. Come what may, it is a step towards independency, and one great curse of a single female life is its dependency. It does credit both to Louisa's heart and head that she herself wishes to get this presentation. Encourage her in the wish. Your daughters--no more than your sons--should be a burden on your hands. Your daughters--as much as your sons--should aim at making their way honourably through life. Do not wish to keep them at home. Believe me, teachers may be hard-worked, ill-paid, and despised, but the girl who stays at home doing nothing is worse off than the hardest-wrought and worst-paid drudge of a school. Whenever I have seen, not merely in humble, but in affluent homes, families of daughters sitting waiting to be married, I have pitied them from my heart. It is doubtless well--very well--if Fate decrees them a happy marriage; but, if otherwise, give their existence some object, their time some occupation, or the peevishness of disappointment and the listlessness of idleness will infallibly degrade their nature. 'Should Louisa eventually go out as a governess, do not be uneasy respecting her lot. The sketch you give of her character leads me to think she has a better chance of happiness than one in a hundred of her sisterhood. Of pleasing exterior (that is always an advantage--children like it), good sense, obliging disposition, cheerful, healthy, possessing a good average capacity, but no prominent master talent to make her miserable by its cravings for exercise, by its mutiny under restraint--Louisa thus endowed will find the post of governess comparatively easy. If she be like her mother--as you say she is--and if, consequently, she is fond of children, and possesses tact for managing them, their care is her natural vocation--she ought to be a governess. 'Your sketch of Braxborne, as it is and as it was, is sadly pleasing. I remember your first picture of it in a letter written a year ago--only a year ago. I was in this room--where I now am--when I received it. I was not alone then. In those days your letters often served as a text for comment--a theme for talk; now, I read them, return them to their covers and put them away. Johnson, I think, makes mournful mention somewhere of the pleasure that accrues when we are "solitary and cannot impart it." Thoughts, under such circumstances, cannot grow to words, impulses fail to ripen to actions. 'Lonely as I am, how should I be if Providence had never given me courage to adopt a career--perseverance to plead through two long, weary years with publishers till they admitted me? How should I be with youth past, sisters lost, a resident in a moorland parish where there is not a single educated family? In that case I should have no world at all: the raven, weary of surveying the deluge, and without an ark to return to, would be my type. As it is, something like a hope and motive sustains me still. I wish all your daughters--I wish every woman in England, had also a hope and motive. Alas! there are many old maids who have neither.--Believe me, yours sincerely, 'C. BRONTE.' | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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