The first letter in the collection before me concerns one of Newman's brothers. Perhaps most of us can count a "Charles Robert" in our environment. Someone whose "worm i' the bud" of their character has so completely spoilt its early flower on account of the "one ruinous vice" of "censoriousness," of perpetual nagging, and fault-finding developed to such a pitch that it has eaten out at last the fair heart of human forbearance and kindness which is the birthright of everyone. Such a person makes the true, free development of others in his proximity a harder task than God intended it to be, for this reason: that the best character cannot do itself justice if it is aware that all its sayings and doings are capped promptly by wrong constructions placed there by "the chiel amang" them "takin'" unfavourable "notes."
Such a one was Charles Robert Newman. At the date at which this letter was written his own family had found him so "impossible" that for thirty or forty years no intercourse had taken place between them.
To Miss Anna Swanwick from Frank Newman.
"45 Bedford Gardens, W.
"Tuesday, 4th July, 1871.
"My dear Anna,
"… I look forward with hope that after my whole life has been a constant preparation for doing—as yet very little—for the good of those who have had fewer advantages than myself, I may perhaps be able in my very ripe years to contribute something more; especially by aid of the noble women who from all quarters spring up to the succour of their own sex and of the public welfare: I trust I shall not permit any literary tastes or fancies to withdraw my energies from this and similar causes…. But every one of us who is to do anything worthy must forget self, and, above all, must not cast self-complacent glances on what he is, or does, or has done; and, in truth, I have so deep a dissatisfaction with what I am and have been, that my poor consolation is to think how much worse I might have been…. I must add you evidently do not know that I have two brothers. The eldest, Dr. J. H. N.; the second, Charles Robert N., three years older than myself, of whom we do not speak, because he is as unfit for society as if insane. He is a Cynic Philosopher in modern dress, having many virtues, but one ruinous vice, that of perpetual censoriousness, by which he alienates every friend as soon as made, or in the making, by which he ejected himself from all posts of usefulness. … He has lived now more than thirty years in retirement and idleness. His moral ruin was from Robert Owen's Socialism and Atheistic Philosophy; but he presently began his rebukes on Robert Owen himself. His sole pleasure in company seems to be in noting down material for ingenious, impertinent, and insolent fault- finding; hence no one can safely admit him. He formally renounced his mother, brothers, and sisters about forty years ago, and wrote to other persons requesting them not to count him a Newman … because we were religious and he was an Atheist. He had all the same dear sweet influences of home as all of us; yet how unamiable and useless has he become! still loving to snarl most at the hands that feed him. Is not this an admonition not to attribute too much to the single cause of home Influences, however precious? I shall be happy to attend to your Aeschylus. Lovingly yours,
"F. W. Newman."
"Weston-super-Mare, "30th July, 1880.
"My dear Anna,