Miss Bronte, in
reply to a friendly critic, who had warned her against being too
melodramatic, and had ventured to propose Miss Austen's works to her as a
study, writes thus:--
'Whenever I _do_ write another book, I think I will have nothing of
what you call "melodrama." I _think_ so, but I am not sure. I
_think_, too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out
of Miss Austen's "mild eyes," to finish more, and be more subdued; but
neither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or, at least,
when they write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them
which becomes their master--which will have its way--putting out of
view all behests but its own, dictating certain words, and insisting
on their being used, whether vehement or measured in their nature, new
moulding characters, giving unthought of turns to incidents, rejecting
carefully elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and adopting new
ones. Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence?
Can we indeed counteract it?' {126}
The playful raillery with which the one parries an attack on her liberty,
and the vehement eloquence of the other in pleading the same cause and
maintaining the independence of genius, are very characteristic of the
minds of the respective writers.
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