‘There is something divine in the thought that genius preserves from degradation, were it but true; but Savage tells us it was not true for him; Sheridan confirms the avowal, and Byron seals it with terrible proof.
‘You never probably knew a Cecil Chamberlayne. If you had known such a one you would feel that Lewes has rather subdued the picture than overcharged it; you would know that mental gifts without moral firmness, without a clear sense of right and wrong, without the honourable principle which makes a man rather proud than ashamed of honest labour, are no guarantee from even deepest baseness.
‘I have received the Dublin University Magazine. The notice is more favourable than I had anticipated; indeed, I had for a long time ceased to anticipate any from that quarter; but the critic does not strike one as too bright. Poor Mr. James is severely handled; you, likewise, are hard upon him. He always strikes me as a miracle of productiveness.
‘I must conclude by thanking you for your last letter, which both pleased and instructed me. You are quite right in thinking it exhibits the writer’s character. Yes, it exhibits it unmistakeably (as Lewes would say). And whenever it shall be my lot to submit another MS. to your inspection, I shall crave the full benefit of certain points in that character: I shall ever entreat my first critic to be as impartial as he is friendly; what he feels to be out of taste in my writings, I hope he will unsparingly condemn. In the excitement of composition, one is apt to fall into errors that one regrets afterwards, and we never feel our own faults so keenly as when we see them exaggerated in others.
‘I conclude in haste, for I have written too long a letter; but it is because there was much to answer in yours. It interested me. I could not help wishing to tell you how nearly I agreed with you. — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Bell.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘April 5th, 1849.
‘My dear Sir, — Your note was very welcome. I purposely impose on myself the restraint of writing to you seldom now, because I know but too well my letters cannot be cheering. Yet I confess I am glad when the post brings me a letter: it reminds me that if the sun of action and life does not shine on us, it yet beams full on other parts of the world — and I like the recollection.
‘I am not going to complain. Anne has indeed suffered much at intervals since I last wrote to you — frost and east wind have had their effect. She has passed nights of sleeplessness and pain, and days of depression and languor which nothing could cheer — but still, with the return of genial weather she revives. I cannot perceive that she is feebler now than she was a month ago, though that is not saying much. It proves, however, that no rapid process of destruction is going on in her frame, and keeps alive a hope that with the renovating aid of summer she may yet be spared a long time.
‘What you tell me of Mr. Lewes seems to me highly characteristic. How sanguine, versatile, and self-confident must that man be who can with ease exchange the quiet sphere of the author for the bustling one of the actor! I heartily wish him success; and, in happier times, there are few things I should have relished more than an opportunity of seeing him in his new character.
‘The Cornhill books are still our welcome and congenial resource when Anne is well enough to enjoy reading. Carlyle’s Miscellanies interest me greatly. We have read The Emigrant Family. The characters in the work are good, full of quiet truth and nature, and the local colouring is excellent; yet I can hardly call it a good novel. Reflective, truth-loving, and even elevated as is Alexander Harris’s mind, I should say he scarcely possesses the creative faculty in sufficient vigour to excel as a writer of fiction. He creates nothing — he only copies. His characters are portraits — servilely accurate; whatever is at all ideal is not original. The Testimony to the Truth is a better book than any tale he can write will ever be. Am I too dogmatical in saying this?
‘Anne thanks you sincerely for the kind interest you take in her welfare, and both she and I beg to express our sense of Mrs. Williams’s good wishes, which you mentioned in a former letter. We are grateful, too, to Mr. Smith and to all who offer us the sympathy of friendship.
‘Whenever you can write with pleasure to yourself, remember Currer Bell is glad to hear from you, and he will make his letters as little dreary as he can in reply. — Yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
It was always a great trouble to Miss Wheelwright, whose friendship, it will be remembered, she had made in Brussels, that Charlotte was monopolised by the Smiths on her rare visits to London, but she frequently came to call at Lower Phillimore Place.
TO MISS LÆTITIA WHEELWRIGHT
‘Haworth, Keighley, December 17th, 1849.
‘My dear Lætitia, — I have just time to save the post by writing a brief note. I reached home safely on Saturday afternoon, and, I am thankful to say, found papa quite well.
‘The evening after I left you passed better than I expected. Thanks to my substantial lunch and cheering cup of coffee, I was able to wait the eight o’clock dinner with complete resignation, and to endure its length quite courageously, nor was I too much exhausted to converse; and of this I was glad, for otherwise I know my kind host and hostess would have been much disappointed. There were only seven gentlemen at dinner besides Mr. Smith, but of these, five were critics — a formidable band, including the literary Rhadamanthi of the Times, the Athenæum, the Examiner, the Spectator, and the Atlas: men more dreaded in the world of letters than you can conceive. I did not know how much their presence and conversation had excited me till they were gone, and then reaction commenced. When I had retired for the night I wished to sleep; the effort to do so was vain — I could not close my eyes. Night passed, morning came, and I rose without having known a moment’s slumber. So utterly worn out was I when I got to Derby, that I was obliged to stay there all night.
‘The post is going. Give my affectionate love to your mamma, Emily, Fanny, and Sarah Anne. Remember me respectfully to your papa, and — Believe me, dear Lætitia, yours faithfully,
‘C. Brontë.’
Miss Wheelwright’s other sisters well remember certain episodes in connection with these London visits. They recall Charlotte’s anxiety and trepidation at the prospect of meeting Thackeray. They recollect her simple, dainty dress, her shy demeanour, her absolutely unspoiled character. They tell me it was in the Illustrated London News, about the time of the publication of Shirley, that they first learnt that Currer Bell and Charlotte Brontë were one. They would, however, have known that Shirley was by a Brussels pupil, they declared, from the absolute resemblance of Hortense Moore to one of their governesses — Mlle. Hausse.
At the end of 1849 Miss Brontë and Miss Martineau became acquainted. Charlotte’s admiration for her more strong-minded sister writer was at first profound.
TO JAMES TAYLOR
‘January 1st, 1850.
‘My dear Sir, — I am sorry there should have occurred an irregularity in the transmission of the papers; it has been owing to my absence from home. I trust the interruption has occasioned no inconvenience. Your last letter evinced such a sincere and discriminating admiration for Dr. Arnold, that perhaps you will not be wholly uninterested in hearing that during my late visit to Miss Martineau I saw much more of Fox How and its inmates, and daily admired, in the widow and children of one of the greatest and best men of his time, the possession of qualities the most estimable and endearing. Of my kind hostess herself I cannot speak in terms too high. Without being able to share all her opinions, philosophical, political, or religious, without adopting her theories, I yet find a worth and greatness in herself, and a consistency, benevolence, perseverance in her practice such as wins the sincerest esteem and affection. She is not a person to be judged by her writings alone, but rather by her own deeds and life — than which nothing can be more exemplary or nobler. She seems to me the benefactress of Ambleside, yet takes no sort of credit to herself for her active and indefatigable philanthropy. The government of her household is admirably administered; all she
does is well done, from the writing of a history down to the quietest female occupation. No sort of carelessness or neglect is allowed under her rule, and yet she is not over strict nor too rigidly exacting; her servants and her poor neighbours love as well as respect her.
‘I must not, however, fall into the error of talking too much about her, merely because my own mind is just now deeply impressed with what I have seen of her intellectual power and moral worth. Faults she has, but to me they appear very trivial weighed in the balance against her excellencies.
‘With every good wish of the season, — I am, my dear sir, yours very sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
Meanwhile the excitement which Shirley was exciting in Currer Bell’s home circle was not confined to the curates. Here is a letter which Canon Heald (Cyril Hall) wrote at this time: —
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘Birstall, near Leeds,
‘8th January 1850.
‘Dear Ellen, — Fame says you are on a visit with the renowned Currer Bell, the “great unknown” of the present day. The celebrated Shirley has just found its way hither. And as one always reads a book with more interest when one has a correct insight into the writer’s designs, I write to ask a favour, which I ought not to be regarded presumptuous in saying that I think I have a species of claim to ask, on the ground of a sort of “poetical justice.” The interpretation of this enigma is, that the story goes that either I or my father, I do not exactly know which, are part of “Currer Bell’s” stock-in-trade, under the title of Mr. Hall, in that Mr. Hall is represented as black, bilious, and of dismal aspect, stooping a trifle, and indulging a little now and then in the indigenous dialect. This seems to sit very well on your humble servant — other traits do better for my good father than myself. However, though I had no idea that I should be made a means to amuse the public, Currer Bell is perfectly welcome to what she can make of so unpromising a subject. But I think I have a fair claim in return to be let into the secret of the company I have got into. Some of them are good enough to tell, and need no Œdipus to solve the riddle. I can tabulate, for instance, the Yorke family for the Taylors, Mr. Moore — Mr. Cartwright, and Mr. Helstone is clearly meant for Mr. Robertson, though the authoress has evidently got her idea of his character through an unfavourable medium, and does not understand the full value of one of the most admirable characters I ever knew or expect to know. May thinks she descries Cecilia Crowther and Miss Johnston (afterwards Mrs. Westerman) in two old maids.
‘Now pray get us a full light on all other names and localities that are adumbrated in this said Shirley. When some of the prominent characters will be recognised by every one who knows our quarters, there can be no harm in letting one know who may be intended by the rest. And, if necessary, I will bear Currer Bell harmless, and not let the world know that I have my intelligence from head-quarters. As I said before, I repeat now, that as I or mine are part of the stock-in-trade, I think I have an equitable claim to this intelligence, by way of my dividend. Mary and Harriet wish also to get at this information; and the latter at all events seems to have her own peculiar claim, as fame says she is “in the book” too. One had need “walk . . . warily in these dangerous days,” when, as Burns (is it not he?) says —
‘A chield’s among you taking notes,
And faith he’ll prent it.’ —
‘Yours sincerely,
‘W. M. Heald.
‘Mary and Harriet unite with me in the best wishes of the season to you and C — - B — -. Pray give my best respects to Mr. Brontë also, who may have some slight remembrance of me as a child. I just remember him when at Hartshead.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘February 2nd, 1850.
‘My dear Sir, — I have despatched to-day a parcel containing The Caxtons, Macaulay’s Essays, Humboldt’s Letters, and such other of the books as I have read, packed with a picturesque irregularity well calculated to excite the envy and admiration of your skilful functionary in Cornhill. By-the-bye, he ought to be careful of the few pins stuck in here and there, as he might find them useful at a future day, in case of having more bonnets to pack for the East Indies. Whenever you send me a new supply of books, may I request that you will have the goodness to include one or two of Miss Austen’s. I am often asked whether I have read them, and I excite amazement by replying in the negative. I have read none except Pride and Prejudice. Miss Martineau mentioned Persuasion as the best.
‘Thank you for your account of the First Performance. It was cheering and pleasant to read it, for in your animated description I seemed to realise the scene; your criticism also enables me to form some idea of the play. Lewes is a strange being. I always regret that I did not see him when in London. He seems to me clever, sharp, and coarse; I used to think him sagacious, but I believe now he is no more than shrewd, for I have observed once or twice that he brings forward as grand discoveries of his own, information he has casually received from others — true sagacity disdains little tricks of this sort. But though Lewes has many smart and some deserving points about him, he has nothing truly great; and nothing truly great, I should think, will he ever produce. Yet he merits just such successes as the one you describe — triumphs public, brief, and noisy. Notoriety suits Lewes. Fame — were it possible that he could achieve her — would be a thing uncongenial to him: he could not wait for the solemn blast of her trumpet, sounding long, and slowly waxing louder.
‘I always like your way of mentioning Mr. Smith, because my own opinion of him concurs with yours; and it is as pleasant to have a favourable impression of character confirmed, as it is painful to see it dispelled. I am sure he possesses a fine nature, and I trust the selfishness of the world and the hard habits of business, though they may and must modify him disposition, will never quite spoil it.
‘Can you give me any information respecting Sheridan Knowles? A few lines received from him lately, and a present of his George Lovel, induce me to ask the question. Of course I am aware that he is a dramatic writer of eminence, but do you know anything about him as a man?
‘I believe both Shirley and Jane Eyre are being a good deal read in the North just now; but I only hear fitful rumours from time to time. I ask nothing, and my life of anchorite seclusion shuts out all bearers of tidings. One or two curiosity-hunter have made their way to Haworth Parsonage, but our rude hill and rugged neighbourhood will, I doubt not, form a sufficient barrier to the frequent repetition of such visits. — Believe me, yours sincerely,
‘C. Brontë.’
The most permanent friend among the curiosity-hunters, was Sir James Kay-Shuttleworth, who came a month later to Haworth.
TO MISS ELLEN NUSSEY
‘March 1st, 1850.
‘Dear Ellen, — I scribble you a line in haste to tell you of my proceedings. Various folks are beginning to come boring to Haworth, on the wise errand of seeing the scenery described in Jane Eyre and Shirley; amongst others, Sir J. K. Shuttleworth and Lady S. have persisted in coming; they were here on Friday. The baronet looks in vigorous health; he scarcely appears more than thirty-five, but he says he is forty-four. Lady Shuttleworth is rather handsome, and still young. They were both quite unpretending. When here they again urged me to visit them. Papa took their side at once — would not hear of my refusing. I must go — this left me without plea or defence. I consented to go for three days. They wanted me to return with them in the carriage, but I pleaded off till to-morrow. I wish it was well over.
‘If all be well I shall be able to write more about them when I come back. Sir J. is very courtly — fine-looking; I wish he may be as sincere as he is polished. — In haste, yours faithfully,
‘C. B.’
TO W. S. WILLIAMS
‘March 16th, 1850.
‘My dear Sir, — I found your letter with several others awaiting me on my return home from a brief stay in Lancashire. The mourning border alarmed me much. I feared that dread visitant, before whose coming every household trembles, had invaded your heart
h and taken from you perhaps a child, perhaps something dearer still. The loss you have actually sustained is painful, but so much less painful than what I had anticipated, that to read your letter was to be greatly relieved. Still, I know what Mrs. Williams will feel. We can have but one father, but one mother, and when either is gone, we have lost what can never be replaced. Offer her, under this affliction, my sincere sympathy. I can well imagine the cloud these sad tidings would cast over your young cheerful family. Poor little Dick’s exclamation and burst of grief are most naïve and natural; he felt the sorrow of a child — a keen, but, happily, a transient pang. Time will, I trust, ere long restore your own and your wife’s serenity and your children’s cheerfulness.
‘I mentioned, I think, that we had one or two visitors at Haworth lately; amongst them were Sir James Kay-Shuttleworth and his lady. Before departing they exacted a promise that I would visit them at Gawthorpe Hall, their residence on the borders of East Lancashire. I went reluctantly, for it is always a difficult and painful thing to me to meet the advances of people whose kindness I am in no position to repay. Sir James is a man of polished manners, with clear intellect and highly cultivated mind. On the whole, I got on very well with him.
‘His health is just now somewhat broken by his severe official labours; and the quiet drives to old ruins and old halls situate amongst older hills and woods, the dialogues (perhaps I should rather say monologues, for I listened far more than I talked) by the fireside in his antique oak-panelled drawing-room, while they suited him, did not too much oppress and exhaust me. The house, too, is very much to my taste, near three centuries old, grey, stately, and picturesque. On the whole, now that the visit is over, I do not regret having paid it. The worst of it is that there is now some menace hanging over my head of an invitation to go to them in London during the season — this, which would doubtless be a great enjoyment to some people, is a perfect terror to me. I should highly prize the advantages to be gained in an extended range of observation, but I tremble at the thought of the price I must necessarily pay in mental distress and physical wear and tear. But you shall have no more of my confessions — to you they will appear folly. — Yours sincerely,
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 523
