While I acknowledge the success
of the present work to have been
greater than I anticipated, and
the praises it has elicited from
a few kind critics to have been
greater than it deserved, I must
also admit that from some other
quarters it has been censured with
an asperity which I was as little
prepared to expect, and which my
judgment, as well as my feelings,
assures me is more bitter than
just. It is scarcely the province
of an author to refute the arguments
of his censors and vindicate his
own productions; but I may be allowed
to make here a few observations
with which I would have prefaced
the first edition, had I foreseen
the necessity of such precautions
against the misapprehensions of
those who would read it with a
prejudiced mind or be content to
judge it by a hasty
glance.
My object in writing the following
pages was not simply to amuse
the Reader; neither was it to
gratify my own taste, nor yet
to ingratiate myself with the
Press and the Public: I wished
to tell the truth, for truth
always conveys its own moral
to those who are able to receive
it. But as the priceless treasure
too frequently hides at the bottom
of a well, it needs some courage
to dive for it, especially as
he that does so will be likely
to incur more scorn and obloquy
for the mud and water into which
he has ventured to plunge, than
thanks for the jewel he procures;
as, in like manner, she who undertakes
the cleansing of a careless bachelor's
apartment will be liable to more
abuse for the dust she raises
than commendation for the clearance
she effects. Let it not be imagined,
however, that I consider myself
competent to reform the errors
and abuses of society, but only
that I would fain contribute
my humble quota towards so good
an aim; and if I can gain the
public ear at all, I would rather
whisper a few wholesome truths
therein than much soft nonsense.
As the story of 'Agnes Grey'
was accused of extravagant over-
colouring in those very parts
that were carefully copied from
the life, with a most scrupulous
avoidance of all exaggeration,
so, in the present work, I find
myself censured for depicting
CON AMORE, with 'a morbid love
of the coarse, if not of the
brutal,' those scenes which,
I will venture to say, have not
been more painful for the most
fastidious of my critics to read
than they were for me to describe.
I may have gone too far; in which
case I shall be careful not to
trouble myself or my readers
in the same way again; but when
we have to do with vice and vicious
characters, I maintain it is
better to depict them as they
really are than as they would
wish to appear. To represent
a bad thing in its least offensive
light is, doubtless, the most
agreeable course for a writer
of fiction to pursue; but is
it the most honest, or the safest?
Is it better to reveal the snares
and pitfalls of life to the young
and thoughtless traveller, or
to cover them with branches and
flowers? Oh, reader! if there
were less of this delicate concealment
of facts - this whispering, 'Peace,
peace,' when there is no peace,
there would be less of sin and
misery to the young of both sexes
who are left to wring their bitter
knowledge from experience.
I would not be understood to
suppose that the proceedings
of the unhappy scapegrace, with
his few profligate companions
I have here introduced, are a
specimen of the common practices
of society - the case is an extreme
one, as I trusted none would
fail to perceive; but I know
that such characters do exist,
and if I have warned one rash
youth from following in their
steps, or prevented one thoughtless
girl from falling into the very
natural error of my heroine,
the book has not been written
in vain. But, at the same time,
if any honest reader shall have
derived more pain than pleasure
from its perusal, and have closed
the last volume with a disagreeable
impression on his mind, I humbly
crave his pardon, for such was
far from my intention; and I
will endeavour to do better another
time, for I love to give innocent
pleasure. Yet, be it understood,
I shall not limit my ambition
to this - or even to producing
'a perfect work of art': time
and talents so spent, I should
consider wasted and misapplied.
Such humble talents as God has
given me I will endeavour to
put to their greatest use; if
I am able to amuse, I will try
to benefit too; and when I feel
it my duty to speak an unpalatable
truth, with the help of God,
I WILL speak it, though it be
to the prejudice of my name and
to the detriment of my reader's
immediate pleasure as well as
my own.
One word more, and I have done.
Respecting the author's identity,
I would have it to he distinctly
understood that Acton Bell is
neither Currer nor Ellis Bell,
and therefore let not his faults
be attributed to them. As to
whether the name be real or fictitious,
it cannot greatly signify to
those who know him only by his
works. As little, I should think,
can it matter whether the writer
so designated is a man, or a
woman, as one or two of my critics
profess to have discovered. I
take the imputation in good part,
as a compliment to the just delineation
of my female characters; and
though I am bound to attribute
much of the severity of my censors
to this suspicion, I make no
effort to refute it, because,
in my own mind, I am satisfied
that if a book is a good one,
it is so whatever the sex of
the author may be. All novels
are, or should be, written for
both men and women to read, and
I am at a loss to conceive how
a man should permit himself to
write anything that would be
really disgraceful to a woman,
or why a woman should be censured
for writing anything that would
be proper and becoming for a
man.
JULY 22nd, 1848.