Miss Martineau's.
"I can write to you now, dear E——, for I am away from home) and relieved, temporarily, at least, by change of air and scene, from the heavy burden of depression which, I confess, has for nearly three months been sinking me to the earth. I never shall forget last autumn! Some days and nights have been cruel; but now, having once told you this, I need say no more on the subject. My loathing1 of solitude2 grew extreme; my recollection of my sisters intolerably poignant3. I am better now. I am at Miss Martineau's for a week. Her house is very pleasant, both within and without; arranged at; all points with admirable neatness and comfort. Her visitors enjoy the most perfect liberty; what she claims for herself she allows them. I rise at my own hour, breakfast alone (she is up at five, takes a cold bath, and a walk by starlight, and has finished breakfast and got to her work by seven o'clock). I pass the morning in the drawing-room—she, in her study. At two o'clock we meet—work, talk, and walk together till five, her dinner-hour, spend the evening together, when she converses4 fluently and abundantly, and with the most complete frankness. I go to my own room soon after ten,—she sits up writing letters till twelve. She appears exhaustless in strength and spirits, and indefatigable5 in the faculty6 of labour. She is a great and a good woman; of course not without peculiarities7, but I have seen none as yet that annoy me. She is both hard and warm-hearted, abrupt9 and affectionate, liberal and despotic. I believe she is not at all conscious of her own absolutism. When I tell her of it, she denies the charge warmly; then I laugh at her. I believe she almost rules Ambleside. Some of the gentry10 dislike her, but the lower orders have a great regard for her. . . . I thought I should like to spend two or three days with you before going home, so, if it is not inconvenient11 to you, I will (D. V.) come on Monday and stay till Thursday. . . . I have truly enjoyed my visit here. I have seen a good many people, and all have been so marvellously kind; not the least so, the family of Dr. Arnold. Miss Martineau I relish12 inexpressibly."
Miss Brontë paid the visit she here proposes to her friend, but only remained two or three days. She then returned home, and immediately began to suffer from her old enemy, sickly and depressing headache. This was all the more trying to bear, as she was obliged to take an active share in the household work,—one servant being ill in bed, and the other, Tabby, aged13 upwards14 of eighty.
This visit to Ambleside did Miss Brontë much good, and gave her a stock of pleasant recollections, and fresh interests, to dwell upon in her solitary15 life. There are many references in her letters to Miss Martineau's character and kindness.
"She is certainly a woman of wonderful endowments, both intellectual and physical; and though I share few of her opinions, and regard her as fallible on certain points of judgment16, I must still award her my sincerest esteem17. The manner in which she combines the highest mental culture with the nicest discharge of feminine duties filled me with admiration18; while her affectionate kindness earned my gratitude19." "I think her good and noble qualities far outweigh20 her defects. It is my habit to consider the individual apart from his (or her) reputation, practice independent of theory, natural disposition21 isolated22 from acquired opinions. Harriet Martineau's person, practice, and character, inspire me with the truest affection and respect."You ask me whether Miss Martineau made me a convert to mesmerism? Scarcely; yet I heard miracles of its efficacy, and could hardly discredit23 the whole of what was told me. I even underwent a personal experiment; and though the result was not absolutely clear, it was inferred that in time I should prove an excellent subject. The question of mesmerism will be discussed with little reserve, I believe, in a forthcoming work of Miss Martineau's; and I have some painful anticipations24 of the manner in which other subjects, offering less legitimate25 ground for speculation26, will be handled."
"Your last letter evinced such a sincere and discriminating27 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 inmates28, 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, philosophical30, political, or religious,—without adopting her theories,—I yet find a worth and greatness in herself, and a consistency31, benevolence32, perseverance33 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 rigidly34 exacting36: 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 excellences38."
"Your account of Mr. A—— tallies39 exactly with Miss M——'s. She, too, said that placidity40 and mildness (rather than originality41 and power) were his external characteristics. She described him as a combination of the antique Greek sage42 with the European modern man of science. Perhaps it was mere37 perversity43 in me to get the notion that torpid44 veins45, and a cold, slow-beating heart, lay under his marble outside. But he is a materialist46: he serenely47 denies us our hope of immortality48, and quietly blots50 from man's future Heaven and the Life to come. That is why a savour of bitterness seasoned my feeling towards him.
"All you say of Mr. Thackeray is most graphic51 and characteristic. He stirs in me both sorrow and anger. Why should he lead so harassing52 a life? Why should his mocking tongue so perversely53 deny the better feelings of his better moods?"
For some time, whenever she was well enough in health and spirits, she had been employing herself upon Villette; but she was frequently unable to write, and was both grieved and angry with herself for her inability. In February, she writes as follows to Mr. Smith:—
"Something you say about going to London; but the words are dreamy, and fortunately I am not obliged to hear or answer them. London and summer are many months away: our moors54 are all white with snow just now, and little redbreasts come every morning to the window for crumbs55. One can lay no plans three or four months beforehand. Besides, I don't deserve to go to London; nobody merits a change or a treat less. I secretly think, on the contrary, I ought to be put in prison, and kept on bread and water in solitary confinement—without even a letter from Cornhill—till I had written a book. One of two things would certainly result from such a mode of treatment pursued for twelve months; either I should come out at the end of that time with a three-volume MS. in my hand, or else with a condition of intellect that would exempt56 me ever after from literary efforts and expectations."
Meanwhile, she was disturbed and distressed57 by the publication of Miss Martineau's "Letters," etc.; they came down with a peculiar8 force and heaviness upon a heart that looked, with fond and earnest faith, to a future life as to the meeting-place with those who were "loved and lost awhile."
"Feb. 11th, 1851.
"My dear Sir,—Have you yet read Miss Martineau's and Mr. Atkinson's new work, 'Letters on the Nature and Development of Man'? If you have not, it would be worth your while to do so.
"Of the impression this book has made on me, I will not now say much. It is the first exposition of avowed58 atheism59 and materialism60 I have ever read; the first unequivocal declaration of disbelief in the existence of a God or a future life I have ever seen. In judging of such exposition and declaration, one would wish entirely61 to put aside the sort of instinctive62 horror they awaken63, and to consider them in an impartial64 spirit and collected mood. This I find it difficult to do. The strangest thing is, that we are called on to rejoice over this hopeless blank—to receive this bitter bereavement65 as great gain—to welcome this unutterable desolation as a state of pleasant freedom. Who COULD do this if he would? Who WOULD do it if he could?
"Sincerely, for my own part, do I wish to find and know the Truth; but if this be Truth, well may she guard herself with mysteries, and cover herself with a veil. If this be Truth, man or woman who beholds66 her can but curse the day he or she was born. I said, however, I would not dwell on what I thought; I wish to hear, rather, what some other person thinks,—some one whose feelings are unapt to bias67 his judgment. Read the book, then, in an unprejudiced spirit, and candidly68 say what you think of it. I mean, of course, if you have time—NOT OTHERWISE."
And yet she could not bear the contemptuous tone in which this work was spoken of by many critics; it made her more indignant than almost any other circumstance during my acquaintance with her. Much as she regretted the publication of the book, she could not see that it had given any one a right to sneer70 at an action, certainly prompted by no worldly motive71, and which was but one error—the gravity of which she admitted—in the conduct of a person who had, all her life long, been striving, by deep thought and noble words, to serve her kind.
"Your remarks on Miss Martineau and her book pleased me greatly, from their tone and spirit. I have even taken the liberty of transcribing72 for her benefit one or two phrases, because I know they will cheer her; she likes sympathy and appreciation73 (as all people do who deserve them); and most fully74 do I agree with you in the dislike you express of that hard, contemptuous tone in which her work is spoken of by many critics."
Before I return from the literary opinions of the author to the domestic interests of the woman, I must copy out what she felt and thought about "The Stones of Venice".
"'The Stones of Venice' seem nobly laid and chiselled75. How grandly the quarry76 of vast marbles is disclosed! Mr. Ruskin seems to me one of the few genuine writers, as distinguished77 from book-makers, of this age. His earnestness even amuses me in certain passages; for I cannot help laughing to think how utilitarians78 will fume79 and fret80 over his deep, serious (and as THEY will think), fanatical reverence81 for Art. That pure and severe mind you ascribed to him speaks in every line. He writes like a consecrated82 Priest of the Abstract and Ideal.
"I shall bring with me 'The Stones of Venice'; all the foundations of marble and of granite83, together with the mighty84 quarry out of which they were hewn; and, into the bargain, a small assortment85 of crotchets and dicta—the private property of one John Ruskin, Esq."
As spring drew on, the depression of spirits to which she was subject began to grasp her again, and "to crush her with a day- and night-mare." She became afraid of sinking as low as she had done in the autumn; and to avoid this, she prevailed on her old friend and schoolfellow to come and stay with her for a few weeks in March. She found great benefit from this companionship,—both from the congenial society in itself, and from the self-restraint of thought imposed by the necessity of entertaining her and looking after her comfort. On this occasion, Miss Brontë said, "It will not do to get into the habit offrom home, and thus temporarily evading86 an running away oppression instead of facing, wrestling with and conquering it or being conquered by it."
I shall now make an extract from one of her letters, which is purposely displaced as to time. I quote it because it relates to a third offer of marriage which she had, and because I find that some are apt to imagine, from the extraordinary power with which she represented the passion of love in her novels, that she herself was easily susceptible87 of it.
"Could I ever feel enough for ——, to accept of him as a husband? Friendship—gratitude—esteem—I have; but each moment he came near me, and that I could see his eyes fastened on me, my veins ran ice. Now that he is away, I feel far more gently towards him, it is only close by that I grow rigid35, stiffening88 with a strange mixture of apprehension89 and anger, which nothing softens90 but his retreat, and a perfect subduing91 of his manner. I did not want to be proud, nor intend to be proud, but I was forced to be so. Most true it is, that we are over-ruled by One above us; that in His hands our very will is as clay in the hands of the potter."
I have now named all the offers of marriage she ever received, until that was made which she finally accepted. The gentle-man referred to in this letter retained so much regard for her as to be her friend to the end of her life; a circumstance to his credit and to hers.
Before her friend E—— took her departure, Mr. Brontë caught cold, and continued for some weeks much out of health, with an attack of bronchitis. His spirits, too, became much depressed92; and all his daughter's efforts were directed towards cheering him.
When he grew better, and had regained93 his previous strength, she resolved to avail herself of an invitation which she had received some time before, to pay a visit in London. This year, 1851, was, as every one remembers, the time of the great Exhibition; but even with that attraction in prospect94, she did not intend to stay there long; and, as usual, she made an agreement with her friends, before finally accepting their offered hospitality, that her sojourn95 at their house was to be as quiet as ever, since any other way of proceeding96 disagreed with her both mentally and physically97. She never looked excited except for a moment, when something in conversation called her out; but she often felt so, even about comparative trifles, and the exhaustion98 of reaction was sure to follow. Under such circumstances, she always became extremely thin and haggard; yet she averred99 that the change invariably did her good afterwards.
Her preparations in the way of dress for this visit, in the gay time of that gay season, were singularly in accordance with her feminine taste; quietly anxious to satisfy her love for modest, dainty, neat attire100, and not regardless of the becoming, yet remembering consistency, both with her general appearance and with her means, in every selection she made.
"By the bye, I meant to ask you when you went to Leeds, to do a small errand for me, but fear your hands will be too full of business. It was merely this: in case you chanced to be in any shop where the lace cloaks, both black and white, of which I spoke69, were sold, to ask their price. I suppose they would hardly like to send a few to Haworth to be looked at; indeed, if they cost very much, it would be useless, but if they are reasonable and they would send them, I should like to see them; and also some chemisettes of small size (the full woman's size don't fit me), both of simple style for every day and good quality for best.". . . ."It appears I could not rest satisfied when I was well off. I told you I had taken one of the black lace mantles101, but when I came to try it with the black satin dress, with which I should chiefly want to wear it, I found the effect was far from good; the beauty of the lace was lost, and it looked somewhat brown and rusty103; I wrote to Mr. ——, requesting him to change it for a WHITE mantle102 of the same price; he was extremely courteous104, and sent to London for one, which I have got this morning. The price is less, being but 1 pound 14s.; it is pretty, neat and light, looks well on black; and upon reasoning the matter over, I came to the philosophic29 conclusion, that it would be no shame for a person of my means to wear a cheaper thing; so I think I shall take it, and if you ever see it and call it 'trumpery105' so much the worse."
"Do you know that I was in Leeds on the very same day with you—last Wednesday? I had thought of telling you where I was going, and having your help and company in buying a bonnet106, etc., but then I reflected this would merely be making a selfish use of you, so I determined107 to manage or mismanage the matter alone. I went to Hurst and Hall's for the bonnet, and got one which seemed grave and quiet there amongst all the splendours; but now it looks infinitely108 too gay with its pink lining109. I saw some beautiful silks of pale sweet colours, but had not the spirit nor the means to launch out at the rate of five shillings per yard, and went and bought a black silk at three shillings after all. I rather regret this, because papa says he would have lent me a sovereign if he had known. I believe, if you had been there, you would have forced me to get into debt. . . . I really can no more come to B—— before I go to London than I can fly. I have quantities of sewing to do, as well as household matters to arrange, before I leave, as they will clean, etc., in my absence. Besides, I am grievously afflicted110 with headache, which I trust to change of air for relieving; but meantime, as it proceeds from the stomach, it makes me very thin and grey; neither you nor anybody else would fatten111 me up or put me into good condition for the visit; it is fated otherwise. No matter. Calm your passion; yet I am glad to see it. Such spirit seems to prove health. Good-bye, in haste.
"Your poor mother is like Tabby, Martha and Papa; all these fancy I am somehow, by some mysterious process, to be married in London, or to engage myself to matrimony. How I smile internally! How groundless and improbable is the idea! Papa seriously told me yesterday, that if I married and left him he should give up housekeeping and go into lodgings112!"
I copy the following, for the sake of the few words describing the appearance of the heathery moors in late summer.
TO SYDNEY DOBELL, ESQ.
"May 24th, 1851.
"My dear Sir,—I hasten to send Mrs. Dobell the autograph. It was the word 'Album' that frightened me I thought she wished me to write a sonnet113 on purpose for it, which I could not do.
"Your proposal respecting a journey to Switzerland is deeply kind; it draws me with the force of a mighty Temptation, but the stern Impossible holds me back. No! I cannot go to Switzerland this summer.
"Why did the editor of the 'Eclectic' erase114 that most powerful and pictorial115 passage? He could not be insensible to its beauty; perhaps he thought it profane116. Poor man!
"I know nothing of such an orchard-country as you describe. I have never seen such a region. Our hills only confess the coming of summer by growing green with young fern and moss117, in secret little hollows. Their bloom is reserved for autumn; then they burn with a kind of dark glow, different, doubtless, from the blush of garden blossoms. About the close of next month, I expect to go to London, to pay a brief and quiet visit. I fear chance will not be so propitious118 as to bring you to town while I am there; otherwise, how glad I should be if you would call. With kind regards to Mrs. Dobell,—Believe me, sincerely yours,
C. BRONTË."
Her next letter is dated from London.
"June 2nd.
"I came here on Wednesday, being summoned a day sooner than I expected, in order to be in time for Thackeray's second lecture, which was delivered on Thursday afternoon. This, as you may suppose, was a genuine treat to me, and I was glad not to miss it. It was given in Willis' Rooms, where the Almacks balls are held—a great painted and gilded119 saloon with long sofas for benches. The audience was said to be the cream of London society, and it looked so. I did not at all expect the great lecturer would know me or notice me under these circumstances, with admiring duchesses and countesses seated in rows before him; but he met me as I entered—shook hands—took me to his mother, whom I had not before seen, and introduced me. She is a fine, handsome, young-looking old lady; was very gracious, and called with one of her grand-daughters next day.
"Thackeray called too, separately. I had a long talk with him, and I think he knows me now a little better than he did: but of this I cannot yet be sure; he is a great and strange man. There is quite a furor120 for his lectures. They are a sort of essays, characterised by his own peculiar originality and power, and delivered with a finished taste and ease, which is felt, but cannot be described. Just before the lecture began, somebody came behind me, leaned over and said, 'Permit me, as a Yorkshireman, to introduce myself.' I turned round—saw a strange, not handsome, face, which puzzled me for half a minute, and then I said, 'You are Lord Carlisle.' He nodded and smiled; he talked a few minutes very pleasantly and courteously121.
"Afterwards came another man with the same plea, that he was a Yorkshireman, and this turned out to be Mr. Monckton Milnes. Then came Dr. Forbes, whom I was sincerely glad to see. On Friday, I went to the Crystal Palace; it is a marvellous, stirring, bewildering sight—a mixture of a genii palace, and a mighty bazaar122, but it is not much in my way; I liked the lecture better. On Saturday I saw the Exhibition at Somerset House; about half a dozen of the pictures are good and interesting, the rest of little worth. Sunday—yesterday—was a day to be marked with a white stone; through most of the day I was very happy, without being tired or over-excited. In the afternoon, I went to hear D'Aubigne, the great Protestant French preacher; it was pleasant—half sweet, half sad—and strangely suggestive to hear the French language once more. For health, I have so far got on very fairly, considering that I came here far from well."
The lady, who accompanied Miss Brontë to the lecture at Thackeray's alluded123 to, says that, soon after they had taken their places, she was aware that he was pointing out her companion to several of his friends, but she hoped that Miss Brontë herself would not perceive it. After some time, however, during which many heads had been turned round, and many glasses put up, in order to look at the author of "Jane Eyre", Miss Brontë said, "I am afraid Mr. Thackeray has been playing me a trick;" but she soon became too much absorbed in the lecture to notice the attention which was being paid to her, except when it was directly offered, as in the case of Lord Carlisle and Mr. Monckton Milnes. When the lecture was ended, Mr. Thackeray came down from the platform, and making his way towards her, asked her for her opinion. This she mentioned to me not many days afterwards, adding remarks almost identical with those which I subsequently read in 'Villette,' where a similar action on the part of M. Paul Emanuel is related.
"As our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he saw and knew me, and lifted his hat; he offered his hand in passing, and uttered the words 'Qu'en dites-vous?'—question eminently124 characteristic, and reminding me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive125 restlessness, that absence of what I considered desirable self-control, which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to ask what I thought, or what anybody thought; but he DID care, and he was too natural to conceal126, too impulsive127 to repress his wish. Well! if I blamed his over-eagerness, I liked his naivete. I would have praised him; I had plenty of praise in my heart; but alas129 I no words on my lips. Who HAS words at the right moment? I stammered130 some lame128 expressions; but was truly glad when other people, coming up with profuse131 congratulations, covered my deficiency by their redundancy."
As they were preparing to leave the room, her companion saw with dismay that many of the audience were forming themselves into two lines, on each side of the aisle132 down which they had to pass before reaching the door. Aware that any delay would only make the ordeal133 more trying, her friend took Miss Brontë's arm in hers, and they went along the avenue of eager and admiring faces. During this passage through the "cream of society," Miss Brontë's hand trembled to such a degree, that her companion feared lest she should turn faint and be unable to proceed; and she dared not express her sympathy or try to give her strength by any touch or word, lest it might bring on the crisis she dreaded134.
Surely, such thoughtless manifestation135 of curiosity is a blot49 on the scutcheon of true politeness! The rest of the account of this, her longest visit to London, shall be told in her own words.
"I sit down to write to you this morning in an inexpressibly flat state; having spent the whole of yesterday and the day before in a gradually increasing headache, which grew at last rampant136 and violent, ended with excessive sickness, and this morning I am quite weak and washy. I hoped to leave my headaches behind me at Haworth; but it seems I brought them carefully packed in my trunk, and very much have they been in my way since I came. . . . Since I wrote last, I have seen various things worth describing; Rachel, the great French actress, amongst the number. But to-day I really have no pith for the task. I can only wish you good-bye with all my heart."
"I cannot boast that London has agreed with me well this time; the oppression of frequent headache, sickness, and a low tone of spirits, has poisoned many moments which might otherwise have been pleasant. Sometimes I have felt this hard, and been tempted137 to murmur138 at Fate, which compels me to comparative silence and solitude for eleven months in the year, and in the twelfth, while offering social enjoyment139, takes away the vigour140 and cheerfulness which should turn it to account. But circumstances are ordered for us, and we must submit."
"Your letter would have been answered yesterday, but I was already gone out before post time, and was out all day. People are very kind, and perhaps I shall be glad of what I have seen afterwards, but it is often a little trying at the time. On Thursday, the Marquis of Westminster asked me to a great party, to which I was to go with Mrs. D——, a beautiful, and, I think, a kind woman too; but this I resolutely141 declined. On Friday I dined at the ——'s, and met Mrs. D—— and Mr. Monckton Milnes. On Saturday I went to hear and see Rachel; a wonderful sight—terrible as if the earth had cracked deep at your feet, and revealed a glimpse of hell. I shall never forget it. She made me shudder142 to the marrow143 of my bones; in her some fiend has certainly taken up an incarnate144 home. She is not a woman; she is a snake; she is the ——. On Sunday I went to the Spanish Ambassador's Chapel145, where Cardinal146 Wiseman, in his archiepiscopal robes and mitre, held a confirmation147. The whole scene was impiously theatrical148. Yesterday (Monday) I was sent for at ten to breakfast with Mr. Rogers, the patriarch-poet. Mrs. D—— and Lord Glenelg were there; no one else:this certainly proved a most calm, refined, and intellectual treat. After breakfast, Sir David Brewster came to take us to the Crystal Palace. I had rather dreaded this, for Sir David is a man of profoundest science, and I feared it would be impossible to understand his explanations of the mechanism149, etc.; indeed, I hardly knew how to ask him questions. I was spared all trouble without being questioned, he gave information in the kindest and simplest manner. After two hours spent at the Exhibition, and where, as you may suppose, I was VERY tired, we had to go to Lord Westminster's, and spend two hours more in looking at the collection of pictures in his splendid gallery."
To another friend she writes:—
"——may have told you that I have spent a month in London this summer. When you come, you shall ask what questions you like on that point, and I will answer to the best of my stammering150 ability. Do not press me much on the subject of the 'Crystal Palace.' I went there five times, and certainly saw some interesting things, and the 'coup151 d'oeil' is striking and bewildering enough; but I never was able to get any raptures152 on the subject, and each renewed visit was made under coercion153 rather than my own free will. It is an excessively bustling154 place; and, after all, its wonders appeal too exclusively to the eye, and rarely touch the heart or head. I make an exception to the last assertion, in favour of those who possess a large range of scientific knowledge. Once I went with Sir David Brewster, and perceived that he looked on objects with other eyes than mine."
Miss Brontë returned from London by Manchester, and paid us a visit of a couple of days at the end of June. The weather was so intensely hot, and she herself so much fatigued155 with her London sight-seeing, that we did little but sit in-doors, with open windows, and talk. The only thing she made a point of exerting herself to procure156 was a present for Tabby. It was to be a shawl, or rather a large handkerchief, such as she could pin across her neck and shoulders, in the old-fashioned country manner. Miss Brontë took great pains in seeking out one which she thought would please the old woman. On her arrival at home, she addressed the following letter to the friend with whom she had been staying in London:—
"Haworth, July 1st, 1851.
"My dear Mrs. Smith,—Once more I am at home, where, I am thankful to say, I found my father very well. The journey to Manchester was a little hot and dusty, but otherwise pleasant enough. The two stout157 gentlemen, who filled a portion of the carriage when I got in, quitted it at Rugby, and two other ladies and myself had it to ourselves the rest of the way. The visit to Mrs. Gaskell formed a cheering break in the journey. Haworth Parsonage is rather a contrast, yet even Haworth Parsonage does not look gloomy in this bright summer weather; it is somewhat still, but with the windows open I can hear a bird or two singing on certain thorn-trees in the garden. My father and the servants think me looking better than when I felt home, and I certainly feel better myself for the change. You are too much like your son to render it advisable I should say much about your kindness during my visit. However, one cannot help (like Captain Cuttle) making a note of these matters. Papa says I am to thank you in his name, and offer you his respects, which I do accordingly.—With truest regards to all your circle, believe me very sincerely yours,
C. BRONTË."
"July 8th, 1851.
"My dear Sir,—Thackeray's last lecture must, I think, have been his best. What he says about Sterne is true. His observations on literary men, and their social obligations and individual duties, seem to me also true and full of mental and moral vigour. . . . The International Copyright Meeting seems to have had but a barren result, judging from the report in the Literary Gazette. I cannot see that Sir E. Bulwer and the rest DID anything; nor can I well see what it is in their power to do. The argument brought forward about the damage accruing158 to American national literature from the present piratical system, is a good and sound argument; but I am afraid the publishers—honest men—are not yet mentally prepared to give such reasoning due weight. I should think, that which refers to the injury inflicted159 upon themselves, by an oppressive competition in piracy160, would influence them more; but, I suppose, all established matters, be they good or evil, are difficult to change. About the 'Phrenological Character' I must not say a word. Of your own accord, you have found the safest point from which to view it: I will not say 'look higher!' I think you see the matter as it is desirable we should all see what relates to ourselves. If I had a right to whisper a word of counsel, it should be merely this: whatever your present self may be, resolve with all your strength of resolution, never to degenerate161 thence. Be jealous of a shadow of falling off. Determine rather to look above that standard, and to strive beyond it. Everybody appreciates certain social properties, and likes his neighbour for possessing them; but perhaps few dwell upon a friend's capacity for the intellectual, or care how this might expand, if there were but facilities allowed for cultivation162, and space given for growth. It seems to me that, even should such space and facilities be denied by stringent163 circumstances and a rigid fate, still it should do you good fully to know, and tenaciously164 to remember, that you have such a capacity. When other people overwhelm you with acquired knowledge, such as you have not had opportunity, perhaps not application, to gain—derive not pride, but support from the thought. If no new books had ever been written, some of these minds would themselves have remained blank pages: they only take an impression; they were not born with a record of thought on the brain, or an instinct of sensation on the heart. If I had never seen a printed volume, Nature would have offered my perceptions a varying picture of a continuous narrative165, which, without any other teacher than herself, would have schooled me to knowledge, unsophisticated, but genuine.
"Before I received your last, I had made up my mind to tell you that I should expect no letter for three months to come (intending afterwards to extend this abstinence to six months, for I am jealous of becoming dependent on this indulgence: you doubtless cannot see why, because you do not live my life). Nor shall I now expect a letter; but since you say that you would like to write now and then, I cannot say 'never write,' without imposing166 on my real wishes a falsehood which they reject, and doing to them a violence, to which they entirely refuse to submit. I can only observe that when it pleases you to write, whether seriously or for a little amusement, your notes, if they come to me, will come where they are welcome. Tell——I will try to cultivate good spirits, as assiduously as she cultivates her geraniums."
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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converses
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的第三人称单数 ) | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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30
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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31
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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32
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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33
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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34
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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35
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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36
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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38
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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39
tallies
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| n.账( tally的名词复数 )；符合；（计数的）签；标签v.计算，清点( tally的第三人称单数 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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40
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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41
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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42
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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43
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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44
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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45
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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46
materialist
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| n. 唯物主义者 | |
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47
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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48
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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49
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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50
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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51
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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52
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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53
perversely
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| adv. 倔强地 | |
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54
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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56
exempt
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| adj.免除的；v.使免除；n.免税者，被免除义务者 | |
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57
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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58
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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59
atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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60
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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62
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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63
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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64
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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65
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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66
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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67
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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68
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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69
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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70
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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71
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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72
transcribing
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的现在分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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73
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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75
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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76
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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77
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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78
utilitarians
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| 功利主义者，实用主义者( utilitarian的名词复数 ) | |
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79
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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80
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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81
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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82
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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83
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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84
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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85
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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86
evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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87
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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88
stiffening
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| n. (使衣服等)变硬的材料, 硬化 动词stiffen的现在分词形式 | |
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89
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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90
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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91
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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92
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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93
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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94
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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95
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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96
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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97
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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98
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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99
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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100
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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101
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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102
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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103
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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104
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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105
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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106
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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107
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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108
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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109
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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110
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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112
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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113
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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114
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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115
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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116
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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117
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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118
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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119
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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120
furor
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| n.狂热；大骚动 | |
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121
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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122
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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123
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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125
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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126
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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127
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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128
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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129
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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134
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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135
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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rampant
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| adj.(植物)蔓生的；狂暴的，无约束的 | |
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137
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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138
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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139
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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140
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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141
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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142
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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143
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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144
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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145
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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146
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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148
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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150
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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151
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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152
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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153
coercion
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| n.强制，高压统治 | |
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154
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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156
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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piracy
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| n.海盗行为，剽窃，著作权侵害 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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163
stringent
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| adj.严厉的；令人信服的；银根紧的 | |
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tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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165
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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