A PREFACE to the first edition of Jane Eyre being unnecessary,
I
gave none: this second edition demands a few words both of
acknowledgment and miscellaneous remark.
My thanks are due in three quarters.
To the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to
a plain
tale with few pretensions.
To the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has
opened
to an obscure aspirant.
To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy,
their
practical sense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and
unrecommended Author.
The Press and the Public are but vague personifications
for me, and
I must thank them in vague terms; but my Publishers are definite: so
are certain generous critics who have encouraged me as only
large-hearted and high-minded men know how to encourage a struggling
stranger; to them, i.e., to my Publishers and the select Reviewers,
I say cordially, Gentlemen, I thank you from my heart.
Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided
and
approved me, I turn to another class; a small one, so far as I know,
but not, therefore, to be overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping
few who doubt the tendency of such books as Jane Eyre: in whose eyes
whatever is unusual is wrong; whose ears detect in each protest
against bigotry- that parent of crime- an insult to piety, that regent
of God on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain obvious
distinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is
not
religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck
the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand
to the Crown of Thorns.
These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they
are as
distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they
should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth;
narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few,
should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ.
There is- I repeat it- a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad
action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between
them.
The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for
it has
been accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make
external show pass for sterling worth- to let white-washed walls vouch
for clean shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose-
to rase the gilding, and show base metal under it- to penetrate the
sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: but hate as it will, it is
indebted to him.
Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied
good
concerning him, but evil; probably he liked the sycophant son of
Chenaanah better; yet might Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he
but stopped his ears to flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel.
There is a man in our own days whose words are not framed
to tickle
delicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of
society, much as the son of Imlah came before the throned Kings of
Judah and Israel; and who speaks truth as deep, with a power as
prophet-like and as vital- a mien as dauntless and as daring. Is the
satirist of Vanity Fair admired in high places? I cannot tell; but I
think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the Greek fire of his
sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his denunciation,
were to take his warnings in time- they or their seed might yet escape
a fatal Ramoth-Gilead.
Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him,
Reader,
because I think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique
than his contemporaries have yet recognised; because I regard him as
the first social regenerator of the day- as the very master of that
working corps who would restore to rectitude the warped system of
things; because I think no commentator on his writings has yet found
the comparison that suits him, the terms which rightly characterise
his talent. They say he is like Fielding: they talk of his wit,
humour, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a
vulture: Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never does.
His wit is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same
relation to his serious genius that the mere lambent sheet-lightning
playing under the edge of the summer-cloud does to the electric
death-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I have alluded to Mr. Thackeray,
because to him- if he will accept the tribute of a total stranger- I
have dedicated this second edition of Jane Eyre.
CURRER BELL.
December 21st, 1847.
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