| ing," 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 |