"My dear Sir,--I will tell you why I was so hurt by that review
in the Edinburgh; not because its criticism was keen or its blame
sometimes severe; not because its praise was stinted (for,
indeed, I think you give me quite as much praise as I deserve),
but because after I had said earnestly that I wished critics
would judge me as an AUTHOR, not as a woman, you so roughly--I
even thought so cruelly--handled the question of sex. I dare say
you meant no harm, and perhaps you will not now be able to
understand why I was so grieved at what you will probably deem
such a trifle; but grieved I was, and indignant too.

"There was a passage or two which you did quite wrong to write.

"However, I will not bear malice against you for it; I know what
your nature is: it is not a bad or unkind one, though you would
often jar terribly on some feelings with whose recoil and quiver
you could not possibly sympathise. I imagine you are both
enthusiastic and implacable, as you are at once sagacious and
careless; you know much and discover much, but you are in such a
hurry to tell it all you never give yourself time to think how
your reckless eloquence may affect others; and, what is more, if
you knew how it did affect them, you would not much care.

"However, I shake hands with you: you have excellent points; you
can be generous. I still feel angry, and think I do well to be
angry; but it is the anger one experiences for rough play rather
than for foul play.--I am yours, with a certain respect, and more
chagrin,

CURRER BELL."