m grasp my hair and my shoulder: he had closed with a desperate thing. I really saw in him a tyrant, a murderer. I felt a drop or two of blood from my head trickle down my neck, and was sensible of somewhat pungent suffering: these sensations for the time predominated over fear, and I received him in frantic sort. I don’t very well know what I did with my hands, but he called me “Rat! Rat!” and bellowed out aloud. Aid was near him: Eliza and Georgiana had run for Mrs. Reed, who was gone upstairs: she now came upon the scene, followed by Bessie and her maid Abbot. We were parted: I heard the words –
“Dear! dear! What a fury to fly at Master John!”
“Did ever anybody see such a picture of passion!”
Then Mrs. Reed subjoined –
“Take her away to the red-room, and lock her in there.” Four hands were immediately laid upon me, and I was borne upstairs.
“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.
PREFACE
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
