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The Life of Charlotte Brontë — Volume 2

by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell · English · Gutenberg #1700 · 490,631 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Life of Charlotte Brontë — Volume 2

Author: Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell


        
Release date: April 1, 1999 [eBook #1700]
                Most recently updated: February 27, 2013

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1700


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË — VOLUME 2 ***











The Life of Charlotte Brontë by Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell

Volume 2

by ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL




CONTENTS OF VOLUME TWO


CHAPTER I.

Mr. Brontë afflicted with blindness, and relieved by a successful
operation for cataract--Charlotte Brontë's first work of fiction, "The
Professor"--She commences "Jane Eyre"--Circumstances attending its
composition--Her ideas of a heroine--Her attachment to home--Haworth in
December--A letter of confession and counsel.


CHAPTER II.

State of Charlotte Brontë's health at the commencement of
1847--Family trials--"Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" accepted
by a publisher--"The Professor" rejected--Completion of "Jane Eyre",
its reception and publication--The reviews of "Jane Eyre", and the
author's comments on them--Her father's reception of the book--Public
interest excited by "Jane Eyre"--Dedication of the second edition to
Mr. Thackeray--Correspondence of Currer Bell with Mr. Lewes on "Jane
Eyre"--Publication of "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey"--Miss
Brontë's account of the authoress of "Wuthering Heights"--Domestic
anxieties of the Brontë sisters--Currer Bell's correspondence with Mr.
Lewes--Unhealthy state of Haworth--Charlotte Brontë on the revolutions
of 1848--Her repudiation of authorship--Anne Brontë's second tale, "The
Tenant of Wildfell Hall"--Misunderstanding as to the individuality
of the three Bells, and its results--Currer and Acton Bell visit
London--Charlotte Brontë's account of her visit--The Chapter Coffee
House--The Clergy Daughters' School at Casterton--Death of Branwell
Brontë--Illness and death of Emily Brontë.


CHAPTER III.

The Quarterly Review on "Jane Eyre"--Severe illness of Anne Brontë--Her
last verses--She is removed to Scarborough--Her last hours, and death
and burial there--Charlotte's return to Haworth, and her loneliness.


CHAPTER IV.

Commencement and completion of "Shirley"--Originals of the characters,
and circumstances under which it was written--Loss on railway
shares--Letters to Mr. Lewes and other friends on "Shirley," and the
reviews of it--Miss Brontë visits London, meets Mr. Thackeray, and makes
the acquaintance of Miss Martineau--Her impressions of literary men.


CHAPTER V.

"Currer Bell" identified as Miss Brontë at Haworth and the vicinity--Her
letter to Mr. Lewes on his review of "Shirley"--Solitude and
heavy mental sadness and anxiety--She visits Sir J. and Lady Kay
Shuttleworth--Her comments on critics, and remarks on Thackeray's
"Pendennis" and Scott's "Suggestions on Female Education"--Opinions of
"Shirley" by Yorkshire readers.


CHAPTER VI.

An unhealthy spring at Haworth--Miss Brontë's proposed visit to
London--Her remarks on "The Leader"--Associations of her walks on the
moors--Letter to an unknown admirer of her works--Incidents of her visit
to London--Her impressions of a visit to Scotland--Her portrait, by
Richmond--Anxiety about her father.


CHAPTER VII.

Visit to Sir J. and Lady Kay Shuttleworth--The biographer's impressions
of Miss Brontë--Miss Brontë's account of her visit to the Lakes of
Westmoreland--Her disinclination for acquaintance and visiting--Remarks
on "Woman's Mission," Tennyson's "In Memoriam," etc.--Impressions of her
visit to Scotland--Remarks on a review in the "Palladium."


CHAPTER VIII.

Intended republication of "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey"--Reaction
after her visit to Scotland--Her first meeting with Mr. Lewes--Her
opinion of Balzac and George Sand--A characteristic incident--Account of
a friendly visit to Haworth Parsonage--Remarks on "The Roman," by Sydney
Dobell, and on the character of Dr. Arnold--Letter to Mr. Dobell.


CHAPTER IX.

Miss Brontë's visit to Miss Martineau, and estimate of her
hostess--Remarks on Mr. Ruskin's "Stones of Venice"--Preparations for
another visit to London--Letter to Mr. Sydney Dobell: the moors in
autumn--Mr. Thackeray's second lecture at Willis's Rooms, and sensation
produced by Currer Bell's appearance there--Her account of her visit to
London--She breakfasts with Mr. Rogers, visits the Great Exhibition,
and sees Lord Westminster's pictures--Return to Haworth and letter
thence--Her comment on Mr. Thackeray's Lecture--Counsel on development
of character.


CHAPTER X.

Remarks on friendship--Letter to Mrs. Gaskell on her and Miss
Martineau's views of the Great Exhibition and Mr. Thackeray's
lecture, and on the "Saint's Tragedy"--Miss Brontë's feelings
towards children--Her comments on Mr. J. S. Mill's article on the
Emancipation of Women--More illness at Haworth Parsonage--Letter
on Emigration--Periodical returns of illness--Miss Wooler visits
Haworth--Miss Brontë's impressions of her visit to London--Her account
of the progress of Villette--Her increasing illness and sufferings
during winter--Her letter on Mr. Thackeray's Esmond--Revival of sorrows
and accessions of low spirits--Remarks on some recent books--Retrospect
of the winter of 1851-2--Letter to Mrs. Gaskell on "Ruth."


CHAPTER XI.

Miss Brontë revisits Scarborough--Serious illness and ultimate
convalescence of her father--Her own illness--"Villette" nearly
completed--Further remarks on "Esmond" and "Uncle Tom's Cabin"--Letter
respecting "Villette"--Another letter about "Villette"--Instance of
extreme sensibility.


CHAPTER XII.

The biographer's difficulty--Deep and enduring attachment of Mr.
Nicholls for Miss Brontë--Instance of her self-abnegation--She
again visits London--Impressions of this visit--Letter to Mrs.
Gaskell--Reception of the critiques on "Villette"--Misunderstanding
with Miss Martineau--Letter on Mr. Thackeray's portrait--Visit of the
Bishop of Ripon to Haworth Parsonage--Her wish to see the unfavourable
critiques on her works--Her nervous shyness of strangers, and its
cause--Letter on Mr. Thackeray's lectures.


CHAPTER XIII.

Letter to Mrs. Gaskell on writing fiction, etc.--The biographer's
account of her visit to Haworth, and reminiscences of conversations with
Miss Brontë--Letters from Miss Brontë to her friends--Her engagement to
Mr. Nicholls, and preparations for the marriage--The marriage ceremony
and wedding tour--Her happiness in the married state--New symptoms
of illness, and their cause--The two last letters written by Mrs.
Nicholls--An alarming change--Her death.


CHAPTER XIV.

Mourners at the funeral--Conclusion.




CHAPTER I.


During this summer of 1846, while her literary hopes were waning, an
anxiety of another kind was increasing. Her father's eyesight had become
seriously impaired by the progress of the cataract which was forming.
He was nearly blind. He could grope his way about, and recognise the
figures of those he knew well, when they were placed against a strong
light; but he could no longer see to read; and thus his eager appetite
for knowledge and information of all kinds was severely balked. He
continued to preach. I have heard that he was led up into the pulpit,
and that his sermons were never so effective as when he stood there, a
grey sightless old man, his blind eyes looking out straight before him,
while the words that came from his lips had all the vigour and force of
his best days. Another fact has been mentioned to me, curious as showing
the accurateness of his sensation of time. His sermons had always lasted
exactly half an hour. With the clock right before him, and with his
ready flow of words, this had been no difficult matter as long as he
could see. But it was the same when he was blind; as the minute-hand
came to the point, marking the expiration of the thirty minutes, he
concluded his sermon.

Under his great sorrow he was always patient. As in times of far greater
affliction, he enforced a quiet endurance of his woe upon himself. But
so many interests were quenched by this blindness that he was driven
inwards, and must have dwelt much on what was painful and distressing
in regard to his only son. No wonder that his spirits gave way, and
were depressed. For some time before this autumn, his daughters had
been collecting all the information they could respecting the probable
success of operations for cataract performed on a person of their
father's age. About the end of July, Emily and Charlotte had made a
journey to Manchester for the purpose of searching out an operator; and
there they heard of the fame of the late Mr. Wilson as an oculist. They
went to him at once, but he could not tell, from description, whether
the eyes were ready for being operated upon or not. It therefore became
necessary for Mr. Brontë to visit him; and towards the end of August,
Charlotte brought her father to him. He determined at once to undertake
the operation, and recommended them to comfortable lodgings, kept by an
old servant of his. These were in one of numerous similar streets of
small monotonous-looking houses, in a suburb of the town. From thence
the following letter is dated, on August 21st, 1846:--

"I just scribble a line to you to let you know where I am, in order
that you may write to me here, for it seems to me that a letter from
you would relieve me from the feeling of strangeness I have in this
big town. Papa and I came here on Wednesday; we saw Mr. Wilson, the
oculist, the same day; he pronounced papa's eyes quite ready for an
operation, and has fixed next Monday for the performance of it. Think of
us on that day! We got into our lodgings yesterday. I think we shall be
comfortable; at least our rooms are very good, but there is no mistress
of the house (she is very ill, and gone out into the country), and I am
somewhat puzzled in managing about provisions; we board ourselves. I
find myself excessively ignorant. I can't tell what to order in the way
of meat. For ourselves I could contrive, papa's diet is so very simple;
but there will be a nurse coming in a day or two, and I am afraid of
not having things good enough for her. Papa requires nothing, you know,
but plain beef and mutton, tea and bread and butter; but a nurse will
probably expect to live much better; give me some hints if you can. Mr.
Wilson says we shall have to stay here for a month at least. I wonder
how Emily and Anne will get on at home with Branwell. They, too, will
have their troubles. What would I not give to have you here! One is
forced, step by step, to get experience in the world; but the learning
is so disagreeable. One cheerful feature in the business is, that Mr.
Wilson thinks most favourably of the case."

"August 26th, 1846.

"The operation is over; it took place yesterday Mr. Wilson performed
it; two other surgeons assisted. Mr. Wilson says, he considers it
quite successful; but papa cannot yet see anything. The affair lasted
precisely a quarter of an hour; it was not the simple operation of
couching Mr. C. described, but the more complicated one of extracting
the cataract. Mr. Wilson entirely disapproves of couching. Papa
displayed extraordinary patience and firmness; the surgeons seemed
surprised. I was in the room all the time; as it was his wish that I
should be there; of course, I neither spoke nor moved till the thing
was done, and then I felt that the less I said, either to papa or the
surgeons, the better. Papa is now confined to his bed in a dark room,
and is not to be stirred for four days; he is to speak and be spoken to
as little as possible. I am greatly obliged to you for your letter, and
your kind advice, which gave me extreme satisfaction, because I found
I had arranged most things in accordance with it, and, as your theory
coincides with my practice, I feel assured the latter is right. I hope
Mr. Wilson will soon allow me to dispense with the nurse; she is well
enough, no doubt, but somewhat too obsequious; and not, I should think,
to be much trusted; yet I was obliged to trust her in some things. . . .

"Greatly was I amused by your account of ----'s flirtations; and yet
something saddened also. I think Nature intended him for something
better than to fritter away his time in making a set of poor, unoccupied
spinsters unhappy. The girls, unfortunately, are forced to care for him,
and such as him, because, while their minds are mostly unemployed, their
sensations are all unworn, and, consequently, fresh and green; and he,
on the contrary, has had his fill of pleasure, and can with impunity
make a mere pastime of other people's torments. This is an unfair state
of things; the match is not equal. I only wish I had the power to
infuse into the souls of the persecuted a little of the quiet strength
of pride--of the supporting consciousness of superiority (for they are
superior to him because purer)--of the fortifying resolve of firmness to
bear the present, and wait the end. Could all the virgin population of
---- receive and retain these sentiments, he would continually have to
veil his crest before them. Perhaps, luckily, their feelings are not so
acute as one would think, and the gentleman's shafts consequently don't
wound so deeply as he might desire. I hope it is so."

A few days later, she writes thus: "Papa is still lying in bed, in a
dark room, with his eyes bandaged. No inflammation ensued, but still it
appears the greatest care, perfect quiet, and utter privation of light
are necessary to ensure a good result from the operation. He is very
patient, but, of course, depressed and weary. He was allowed to try
his sight for the first time yesterday. He could see dimly. Mr. Wilson
seemed perfectly satisfied, and said all was right. I have had bad
nights from the toothache since I came to Manchester."

All this time, notwithstanding the domestic anxieties which were
harassing them--notwithstanding the ill-success of their poems--the
three sisters were trying that other literary venture, to which
Charlotte made allusion in one of her letters to the Messrs. Aylott.
Each of them had written a prose tale, hoping that the three might be
published together. "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" are before
the world. The third--Charlotte's contribution--is yet in manuscript,
but will be published shortly after the appearance of this memoir.
The plot in itself is of no great interest; but it is a poor kind of
interest that depends upon startling incidents rather than upon dramatic
development of character; and Charlotte Brontë never excelled one or two
sketches of portraits which she had given in "The Professor", nor, in
grace of womanhood, ever surpassed one of the female characters there
described. By the time she wrote this tale, her taste and judgment had
revolted against the exaggerated idealisms of her early girlhood, and
she went to the extreme of reality, closely depicting characters as they
had shown themselves to her in actual life: if there they were strong
even to coarseness,--as was the case with some that she had met with in
flesh and blood existence,--she "wrote them down an ass;" if the scenery
of such life as she saw was for the most part wild and grotesque,
instead of pleasant or picturesque, she described it line for line. The
grace of the one or two scenes and characters, which are drawn rather
from her own imagination than from absolute fact stand out in exquisite
relief from the deep shadows and wayward lines of others, which call to
mind some of the portraits of Rembrandt.

The three tales had tried their fate in vain together, at length they
were sent forth separately, and for many months with still-continued
ill success. I have mentioned this here, because, among the dispiriting
circumstances connected with her anxious visit to Manchester, Charlotte
told me that her tale came back upon her hands, curtly rejected by
some publisher, on the very day when her father was to submit to his
operation. But she had the heart of Robert Bruce within her, and failure
upon failure daunted her no more than him. Not only did "The Professor"
return again to try his chance among the London publishers, but she
began, in this time of care and depressing inquietude, in those grey,
weary, uniform streets; where all faces, save that of her kind doctor,
were strange and untouched with sunlight to her,--there and then, did
the brave genius begin "Jane Eyre". Read what she herself says:--"Currer
Bell's book found acceptance nowhere, nor any acknowledgment of merit,
so that something like the chill of despair began to invade his heart."
And, remember it was not the heart of a person who, disappointed in one
hope, can turn with redoubled affection to the many certain blessings
that remain. Think of her home, and the black shadow of remorse lying
over one in it, till his very brain was mazed, and his gifts and his
life were lost;--think of her father's sight hanging on a thread;--of
her sister's delicate health, and dependence on her care;--and then
admire as it deserves to be admired, the steady courage which could work
away at "Jane Eyre", all the time "that the one-volume tale was plodding
its weary round in London."

I believe I have already mentioned that some of her surviving friends
consider that an incident which she heard, when at school at Miss
Wooler's, was the germ of the story of Jane Eyre. But of this nothing
can be known, except by conjecture. Those to whom she spoke upon
the subject of her writings are dead and silent; and the reader may
probably have noticed, that in the correspondence from which I have
quoted, there has been no allusion whatever to the publication of her
poems, nor is there the least hint of the intention of the sisters to
publish any tales. I remember, however, many little particulars which
Miss Brontë gave me, in answer to my inquiries respecting her mode of
composition, etc. She said, that it was not every day, that she could
write. Sometimes weeks or even months elapsed before she felt that she
had anything to add to that portion of her story which was already
written. Then, some morning, she would waken up, and the progress of
her tale lay clear and bright before her, in distinct vision, when this
was the case, all her care was to discharge her household and filial
duties, so as to obtain leisure to sit down and write out the incidents
and consequent thoughts, which were, in fact, more present to her mind
at such times than her actual life itself. Yet notwithstanding this
"possession" (as it were), those who survive, of her daily and household
companions, are clear in their testimony, that never was the claim of
any duty, never was the call of another for help, neglected for an
instant. It had become necessary to give Tabby--now nearly eighty years
of age--the assistance of a girl. Tabby relinquished any of her work
with jealous reluctance, and could not bear to be reminded, though ever
so delicately, that the acuteness of her senses was dulled by age. The
other servant might not interfere with what she chose to consider her
exclusive work. Among other things, she reserved to herself the right of
peeling the potatoes for dinner; but as she was growing blind, she often
left in those black specks, which we in the North call the "eyes" of the
potato. Miss Brontë was too dainty a housekeeper to put up with this;
yet she could not bear to hurt the faithful old servant, by bidding the
younger maiden go over the potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby that
her work was less effectual than formerly. Accordingly she would steal
into the kitchen, and quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables, without
Tabby's being aware, and breaking off in the full flow of interest
and inspiration in her writing, carefully cut out the specks in the
potatoes, and noiselessly carry them back to their place. This little
proceeding may show how orderly and fully she accomplished her duties,
even at those times when the "possession" was upon her.

Any one who has studied her writings,--whether in print or in her
letters; any one who has enjoyed the rare privilege of listening to her
talk, must have noticed her singular felicity in the choice of words.
She herself, in writing her books, was solicitous on this point. One set
of words was the truthful mirror of her thoughts; no others, however
apparently identical in meaning, would do. She had that strong practical
regard for the simple holy truth of expression, which Mr. Trench has
enforced, as a duty too often neglected. She would wait patiently
searching for the right term, until it presented itself to her. It might
be provincial, it might be derived from the Latin; so that it accurately
represented her idea, she did not mind whence it came; but this care
makes her style present the finish of a piece of mosaic. Each component
part, however small, has been dropped into the right place. She never
wrote down a sentence until she clearly understood what she wanted to
say, had deliberately chosen the words, and arranged them in their right
order. Hence it comes that, in the scraps of paper covered with her
pencil writing which I have seen, there will occasionally be a sentence
scored out, but seldom, if ever, a word or an expression. She wrote
on these bits of paper in a minute hand, holding each against a piece
of board, such as is used in binding books, for a desk. This plan was
necessary for one so short-sighted as she was; and, besides, it enabled
her to use pencil and paper, as she sat near the fire in the twilight
hours, or if (as was too often the case) she was wakeful for hours
in the night. Her finished manuscripts were copied from these pencil
scraps, in clear, legible, delicate traced writing, almost as easy to
read as print.

The sisters retained the old habit, which was begun in their aunt's
life-time, of putting away their work at nine o'clock, and beginning
their study, pacing up and down the sitting room. At this time, they
talked over the stories they were engaged upon, and described their
plots. Once or twice a week, each read to the others what she had
written, and heard what they had to say about it. Charlotte told me,
that the remarks made had seldom any effect in inducing her to alter
her work, so possessed was she with the feeling that she had described
reality; but the readings were of great and stirring interest to all,
taking them out of the gnawing pressure of daily-recurring cares, and
setting them in a free place. It was on one of these occasions, that
Charlotte determined to make her heroine plain, small, and unattractive,
in defiance of the accepted canon.

The writer of the beautiful obituary article on "the death of Currer
Bell" most likely learnt from herself what is there stated, and which I
will take the liberty of quoting, about Jane Eyre.

"She once told her sisters that they were wrong--even morally wrong--in
making their heroines beautiful as a matter of course. They replied that
it was impossible to make a heroine interesting on any other terms. Her
answer was, 'I will prove to you that you are wrong; I will show you a
heroine as plain and as small as myself, who shall be as interesting
as any of yours.' Hence 'Jane Eyre,' said she in telling the anecdote:
'but she is not myself, any further than that.' As the work went on, the
interest deepened to the writer. When she came to 'Thornfield' she could
not stop. Being short-sighted to excess, she wrote in little square
paper-books, held close to her eyes, and (the first copy) in pencil. On
she went, writing incessantly for three weeks; by which time she had
carried her heroine away from Thornfield, and was herself in a fever
which compelled her to pause."

This is all, I believe, which can now be told respecting the conception
and composition of this wonderful book, which was, however, only at its
commencement when Miss Brontë returned with her father to Haworth, after
their anxious expedition to Manchester.

They arrived at home about the end of September. Mr. Brontë was daily
gaining strength, but he was still forbidden to exercise his sight much.
Things had gone on more comfortably while she was away than Charlotte
had dared to hope, and she expresses herself thankful for the good
ensured and the evil spared during her absence.

Soon after this some proposal, of which I have not been able to gain a
clear account, was again mooted for Miss Brontë's opening a school at
some place distant from Haworth. It elicited the following fragment of a
characteristic reply:--

"Leave home!--I shall neither be able to find place nor employment,
perhaps, too, I shall be quite past the prime of life, my faculties will
be rusted, and my few acquirements in a great measure forgotten. These
ideas sting me keenly sometimes; but, whenever I consult my conscience,
it affirms that I am doing right in staying at home, and bitter are its
upbraidings when I yield to an eager desire for release. I could hardly
expect success if I were to err against such warnings. I should like to
hear from you again soon. Bring ---- to the point, and make him give you
a clear, not a vague, account of what pupils he really could promise;
people often think they can do great things in that way till they have
tried; but getting pupils is unlike getting any other sort of goods."

Whatever might be the nature and extent of this negotiation, the end of
it was that Charlotte adhered to the decision of her conscience, which
bade her remain at home, as long as her presence could cheer or comfort
those who were in distress, or had the slightest influence over him who
was the cause of it. The next extract gives us a glimpse into the cares
of that home. It is from a letter dated December 15th.

"I hope you are not frozen up; the cold here is dreadful. I do not
remember such a series of North-Pole days. England might really have
taken a slide up into the Arctic Zone; the sky looks like ice; the earth
is frozen; the wind is as keen as a two-edged blade. We have all had
severe colds and coughs in consequence of the weather. Poor Anne has
suffered greatly from asthma, but is now, we are glad to say, rather
better. She had two nights last week when her cough and difficulty of
breathing were painful indeed to hear and witness, and must have been
most distressing to suffer; she bore it, as she bears all affliction,
without one complaint, only sighing now and then when nearly worn out.
She has an extraordinary heroism of endurance. I admire, but I certainly
could not imitate her." . . . "You say I am to 'tell you plenty.' What
would you have me say? Nothing happens at Haworth; nothing, at least,
of a pleasant kind. One little incident occurred about a week ago, to
sting us to life; but if it gives no more pleasure for you to hear, than
it did for us to witness, you will scarcely thank me for adverting to
it. It was merely the arrival of a Sheriff's officer on a visit to B.,
inviting him either to pay his debts or take a trip to York. Of course
his debts had to be paid. It is not agreeable to lose money, time after
time, in this way; but where is the use of dwelling on such subjects? It
will make him no better."

"December 28th.

"I feel as if it was almost a farce to sit down and write to you now,
with nothing to say worth listening to; and, indeed, if it were not for
two reasons, I should put off the business at least a fortnight hence.
The first reason is, I want another letter from you, for your letters
are interesting, they have something in them; some results of experience
and observation; one receives them with pleasure, and reads them with
relish; and these letters I cannot expect to get, unless I reply to
them. I wish the correspondence could be managed so as to be all on one
side. The second reason is derived from a remark in your last, that you
felt lonely, something as I was at Brussels, and that consequently you
had a peculiar desire to hear from old acquaintance. I can understand
and sympathise with this. I remember the shortest note was a treat to
me, when I was at the above-named place; therefore I write. I have
also a third reason: it is a haunting terror lest you should imagine I
forget you--that my regard cools with absence. It is not in my nature to
forget your nature; though, I dare say, I should spit fire and explode
sometimes if we lived together continually; and you, too, would get
angry, and then we should get reconciled and jog on as before. Do you
ever get dissatisfied with your own temper when you are long fixed to
one place, in one scene, subject to one monotonous species of annoyance?
I do: I am now in that unenviable frame of mind; my humour, I think,
is too soon over-thrown, too sore, too demonstrative and vehement. I
almost long for some of the uniform serenity you describe in Mrs. ----'s
disposition; or, at least, I would fain have her power of self-control
and concealment; but I would not take her artificial habits and ideas
along with her composure. After all I should prefer being as I am. . .
You do right not to be annoyed at any maxims of conventionality you meet
with. Regard all new ways in the light of fresh experience for you:
if you see any honey gather it." . . . "I don't, after all, consider
that we ought to despise everything we see in the world, merely because
it is not what we are accustomed to. I suspect, on the contrary, that
there are not unfrequently substantial reasons underneath for customs
that appear to us absurd; and if I were ever again to find myself
amongst strangers, I should be solicitous to examine before I condemned.
Indiscriminating irony and faultfinding are just sumphishness, and that
is all. Anne is now much better, but papa has been for near a fortnight
far from well with the influenza; he has at times a most distressing
cough, and his spirits are much depressed."

So ended the year 1846.




CHAPTER II.


The next year opened with a spell of cold dreary weather, which told
severely on a constitution already tried by anxiety and care. Miss
Brontë describes herself as having utterly lost her appetite, and as
looking "grey, old, worn and sunk," from her sufferings during the
inclement season. The cold brought on severe toothache; toothache
was the cause of a succession of restless miserable nights; and long
wakefulness told acutely upon her nerves, making them feel with
redoubled sensitiveness all the harass of her oppressive life. Yet she
would not allow herself to lay her bad health to the charge of an uneasy
mind; "for after all," said she at this time, "I have many, many things
to be thankful for." But the real state of things may be gathered from
the following extracts from her letters.

"March 1st.

"Even at the risk of appearing very exacting, I can't help saying that I
should like a letter as long as your last, every time you write. Short
notes give one the feeling of a very small piece of a very good thing
to eat,--they set the appetite on edge, and don't satisfy it,--a letter
leaves you more contented; and yet, after all, I am very glad to get
notes; so don't think, when you are pinched for time and materials, that
it is useless to write a few lines; be assured, a few lines are very
acceptable as far as they go; and though I like long letters, I would
by no means have you to make a task of writing them. . . . I really
should like you to come to Haworth, before I again go to B----. And it
is natural and right that I should have this wish. To keep friendship in
proper order, the balance of good offices must be preserved, otherwise a
disquieting and anxious feeling creeps in, and destroys mutual comfort.
In summer and in fine weather, your visit here might be much better
managed than in winter. We could go out more, be more independent of
the house and of our room. Branwell has been conducting himself very
badly lately. I expect, from the extravagance of his behaviour, and from
mysterious hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we
shall be hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon. My health
is better: I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather, more
than on an uneasy mind."

"March 24th, 1847.

"It is at Haworth, if all be well, that we must next see each other
again. I owe you a grudge for giving Miss M---- some very exaggerated
account about my not being well, and setting her on to urge my leaving
home as quite a duty. I'll take care not to tell you next time, when I
think I am looking specially old and ugly; as if people could not have
that privilege, without being supposed to be at the last gasp! I shall
be thirty-one next birthday. My youth is gone like a dream; and very
little use have I ever made of it. What have I done these last thirty
years? Precious little."

The quiet, sad year stole on. The sisters were contemplating near at
hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused and
faculties abused in the person of that brother, once their fond darling
and dearest pride. They had to cheer the poor old father, into whose
heart all trials sank the deeper, because of the silent stoicism of
his endurance. They had to watch over his health, of which, whatever
was its state, he seldom complained. They had to save, as much as they
could, the precious remnants of his sight. They had to order the frugal
household with increased care, so as to supply wants and expenditure
utterly foreign to their self-denying natures. Though they shrank from
overmuch contact with their fellow-beings, for all whom they met they
had kind words, if few; and when kind actions were needed, they were not
spared, if the sisters at the parsonage could render them. They visited
the parish-schools duly; and often were Charlotte's rare and brief
holidays of a visit from home shortened by her sense of the necessity of
being in her place at the Sunday-school.

In the intervals of such a life as this, "Jane Eyre" was making
progress. "The Professor" was passing slowly and heavily from publisher
to publisher. "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" had been accepted by
another publisher, "on terms somewhat impoverishing to the two authors;"
a bargain to be alluded to more fully hereafter. It was lying in his
hands, awaiting his pleasure for its passage through the press, during
all the months of early summer.

The piece of external brightness to which the sisters looked during
these same summer months, was the hope that the friend to whom so many
of Charlotte's letters are addressed, and who was her chosen companion,
whenever circumstances permitted them to be together, as well as a
favourite with Emily and Anne, would be able to pay them a visit at
Haworth. Fine weather had come in May, Charlotte writes, and they hoped
to make their visitor decently comfortable. Their brother was tolerably
well, having got to the end of a considerable sum of money which he
became possessed of in the spring, and therefore under the wholesome
restriction of poverty. But Charlotte warns her friend that she must
expect to find a change in his appearance, and that he is broken in
mind; and ends her note of entreating invitation by saying, "I pray for
fine weather, that we may get out while you stay."

At length the day was fixed.

"Friday will suit us very well. I DO trust nothing will now arise to
prevent your coming. I shall be anxious about the weather on that day;
if it rains, I shall cry. Don't expect me to meet you; where would be
the good of it? I neither like to meet, nor to be met. Unless, indeed,
you had a box or a basket for me to carry; then there would be some
sense in it. Come in black, blue, pink, white, or scarlet, as you like.
Come shabby or smart, neither the colour nor the condition signifies;
provided only the dress contain E----, all will be right."

But there came the first of a series of disappointments to be borne. One
feels how sharp it must have been to have wrung out the following words.

"May 20th.

"Your letter of yesterday did indeed give me a cruel chill of
disappointment. I cannot blame you, for I know it was not your fault. I
do not altogether exempt ---- from reproach. . . . This is bitter, but I
feel bitter. As to going to B----, I will not go near the place till you
have been to Haworth. My respects to all and sundry, accompanied with a
large amount of wormwood and gall, from the effusion of which you and
your mother are alone excepted.--C. B.

"You are quite at liberty to tell what I think, if you judge proper.
Though it is true I may be somewhat unjust, for I am deeply annoyed. I
thought I had arranged your visit tolerably comfortable for you this
time. I may find it more difficult on another occasion."

I must give one sentence from a letter written about this time, as it
shows distinctly the clear strong sense of the writer.

"I was amused by what she says respecting her wish that, when she
marries, her husband will, at least, have a will of his own, even should
he be a tyrant. Tell her, when she forms that aspiration again, she
must make it conditional if her husband has a strong will, he must also
have strong sense, a kind heart, and a thoroughly correct notion of
justice; because a man with a WEAK BRAIN and a STRONG WILL, is merely an
intractable brute; you can have no hold of him; you can never lead him
right. A TYRANT under any circumstances is a curse."

Meanwhile, "The Professor" had met with many refusals from different
publishers; some, I have reason to believe, not over-courteously worded
in writing to an unknown author, and none alleging any distinct reasons
for its rejection. Courtesy is always due; but it is, perhaps, hardly to
be expected that, in the press of business in a great publishing house,
they should find time to explain why they decline particular works. Yet,
though one course of action is not to be wondered at, the opposite may
fall upon a grieved and disappointed mind with all the graciousness of
dew; and I can well sympathise with the published account which "Currer
Bell" gives, of the feelings experienced on reading Messrs. Smith and
Elder's letter containing the rejection of "The Professor".

"As a forlorn hope, we tried one publishing house more. Ere long, in
a much shorter space than that on which experience had taught him
to calculate, there came a letter, which he opened in the dreary
anticipation of finding two hard hopeless lines, intimating that
'Messrs. Smith and Elder were not disposed to publish the MS.,' and,
instead, he took out of the envelope a letter of two pages. He read
it trembling. It declined, indeed, to publish that tale, for business
reasons, but it discussed its merits and demerits, so courteously,
so considerately, in a spirit so rational, with a discrimination so
enlightened, that this very refusal cheered the author better than a
vulgarly-expressed acceptance would have done. It was added, that a work
in three volumes would meet with careful attention."

Mr. Smith has told me a little circumstance connected with the reception
of this manuscript, which seems to me indicative of no ordinary
character. It came (accompanied by the note given below) in a brown
paper parcel, to 65 Cornhill. Besides the address to Messrs. Smith and
Co., there were on it those of other publishers to whom the tale had
been sent, not obliterated, but simply scored through, so that Messrs.
Smith at once perceived the names of some of the houses in the trade to
which the unlucky parcel had gone, without success.

To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.

"July 15th, 1847.

"Gentlemen--I beg to submit to your consideration the accompanying
manuscript. I should be glad to learn whether it be such as you approve,
and would undertake to publish at as early a period as possible.
Address, Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Brontë, Haworth, Bradford,
Yorkshire."

Some time elapsed before an answer was returned.

A little circumstance may be mentioned here, though it belongs to a
somewhat earlier period, as showing Miss Brontë's inexperience of the
ways of the world, and willing deference to the opinion of others. She
had written to a publisher about one of her manuscripts, which she had
sent him, and, not receiving any reply, she consulted her brother as
to what could be the reason for the prolonged silence. He at once set
it down to her not having enclosed a postage-stamp in her letter. She
accordingly wrote again, to repair her former omission, and apologise
for it.

To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.

"August 2nd, 1847.

"Gentlemen,--About three weeks since, I sent for your consideration a
MS. entitled "The Professor", a tale by Currer Bell. I should be glad
to know whether it reached your hands safely, and likewise to learn, at
your earliest convenience, whether it be such as you can undertake to
publish.--I am, gentlemen, yours respectfully,

"CURRER BELL.

"I enclose a directed cover for your reply."

This time her note met with a prompt answer; for, four days later, she
writes (in reply to the letter which she afterwards characterised in the
Preface to the second edition of "Wuthering Heights", as containing a
refusal so delicate, reasonable, and courteous, as to be more cheering
than some acceptances):

"Your objection to the want of varied interest in the tale is, I am
aware, not without grounds; yet it appears to me that it might be
published without serious risk, if its appearance were speedily followed
up by another work from the same pen, of a more striking and exciting
character. The first work might serve as an introduction, and accustom
the public to the author's the success of the second might thereby be
rendered more probable. I have a second narrative in three volumes,
now in progress, and nearly completed, to which I have endeavoured
to impart a more vivid interest than belongs to "The Professor". In
about a month I hope to finish it, so that if a publisher were found
for "The Professor", the second narrative might follow as soon as was
deemed advisable; and thus the interest of the public (if any interest
was aroused) might not be suffered to cool. Will you be kind enough to
favour me with your judgment on this plan?"

While the minds of the three sisters were in this state of suspense,
their long-expected friend came to pay her promised visit. She was with
them at the beginning of the glowing August of that year. They were
out on the moors for the greater part of the day basking in the golden
sunshine, which was bringing on an unusual plenteousness of harvest,
for which, somewhat later, Charlotte expressed her earnest desire that
there should be a thanksgiving service in all the churches. August was
the season of glory for the neighbourhood of Haworth. Even the smoke,
lying in the valley between that village and Keighley, took beauty from
the radiant colours on the moors above, the rich purple of the heather
bloom calling out an harmonious contrast in the tawny golden light that,
in the full heat of summer evenings, comes stealing everywhere through
the dun atmosphere of the hollows. And up, on the moors, turning away
from all habitations of men, the royal ground on which they stood would
expand into long swells of amethyst-tinted hills, melting away into
aerial tints; and the fresh and fragrant scent of the heather, and the
"murmur of innumerable bees," would lend a poignancy to the relish with
which they welcomed their friend to their own true home on the wild and
open hills.

There, too, they could escape from the Shadow in the house below.

Throughout this time--during all these confidences--not a word was
uttered to their friend of the three tales in London; two accepted and
in the press--one trembling in the balance of a publisher's judgment;
nor did she hear of that other story "nearly completed," lying in
manuscript in the grey old parsonage down below. She might have her
suspicions that they all wrote with an intention of publication some
time; but she knew the bounds which they set to themselves in their
communications; nor could she, nor can any one else, wonder at their
reticence, when remembering how scheme after scheme had failed, just as
it seemed close upon accomplishment.

Mr. Brontë, too, had his suspicions of something going on; but, never
being spoken to, he did not speak on the subject, and consequently his
ideas were vague and uncertain, only just prophetic enough to keep him
from being actually stunned when, later on, he heard of the success of
"Jane Eyre"; to the progress of which we must now return.

To MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER.

"August 24th.

"I now send you per rail a MS. entitled 'Jane Eyre,' a novel in three
volumes, by Currer Bell. I find I cannot prepay the carriage of
the parcel, as money for that purpose is not received at the small
station-house where it is left. If, when you acknowledge the receipt
of the MS., you would have the goodness to mention the amount charged
on delivery, I will immediately transmit it in postage stamps. It is
better in future to address Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Brontë,
Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire, as there is a risk of letters otherwise
directed not reaching me at present. To save trouble, I enclose an
envelope."

"Jane Eyre" was accepted, and printed and published by October 16th.

While it was in the press, Miss Brontë went to pay a short visit to
her friend at B----. The proofs were forwarded to her there, and she
occasionally sat at the same table with her friend, correcting them; but
they did not exchange a word on the subject.

Immediately on her return to the Parsonage, she wrote:

"September.

"I had a very wet, windy walk home from Keighley; but my fatigue quite
disappeared when I reached home, and found all well. Thank God for it.

"My boxes came safe this morning. I have distributed the presents.
Papa says I am to remember him most kindly to you. The screen will be
very useful, and he thanks you for it. Tabby was charmed with her cap.
She said, 'she never thought o' naught o' t' sort as Miss sending her
aught, and, she is sure, she can never thank her enough for it.' I was
infuriated on finding a jar in my trunk. At first, I hoped it was empty,
but when I found it heavy and replete, I could have hurled it all the
way back to B----. However, the inscription A. B. softened me much. It
was at once kind and villainous in you to send it. You ought first to
be tenderly kissed, and then afterwards as tenderly whipped. Emily is
just now on the floor of the bed-room where I am writing, looking at
her apples. She smiled when I gave the collar to her as your present,
with an expression at once well-pleased and slightly surprised. All send
their love.--Yours, in a mixture of anger and love."

When the manuscript of "Jane Eyre" had been received by the future
publishers of that remarkable novel, it fell to the share of a gentleman
connected with the firm to read it first. He was so powerfully struck
by the character of the tale, that he reported his impression in very
strong terms to Mr. Smith, who appears to have been much amused by the
admiration excited. "You seem to have been so enchanted, that I do not
know how to believe you," he laughingly said. But when a second reader,
in the person of a clear-headed Scotchman, not given to enthusiasm, had
taken the MS. home in the evening, and became so deeply interested in
it, as to sit up half the night to finish it, Mr. Smith's curiosity was
sufficiently excited to prompt him to read it for himself; and great as
were the praises which had been bestowed upon it, he found that they had
not exceeded the truth.

On its publication, copies were presented to a few private literary
friends. Their discernment had been rightly reckoned upon. They were of
considerable standing in the world of letters; and one and all returned
expressions of high praise along with their thanks for the book. Among
them was the great writer of fiction for whom Miss Brontë felt so strong
an admiration; he immediately appreciated, and, in a characteristic note
to the publishers, acknowledged its extraordinary merits.

The Reviews were more tardy, or more cautious. The Athenaeum and the
Spectator gave short notices, containing qualified admissions of the
power of the author. The Literary Gazette was uncertain as to whether it
was safe to praise an unknown author. The Daily News declined accepting
the copy which had been sent, on the score of a rule "never to review
novels;" but a little later on, there appeared a notice of the Bachelor
of the Albany in that paper; and Messrs. Smith and Elder again forwarded
a copy of "Jane Eyre" to the Editor, with a request for a notice. This
time the work was accepted; but I am not aware what was the character of
the article upon it.

The Examiner came forward to the rescue, as far as the opinions of
professional critics were concerned. The literary articles in that paper
were always remarkable for their genial and generous appreciation of
merit nor was the notice of "Jane Eyre" an exception; it was full of
hearty, yet delicate and discriminating praise. Otherwise, the press in
general did little to promote the sale of the novel; the demand for it
among librarians had begun before the appearance of the review in the
Examiner; the power of fascination of the tale itself made its merits
known to the public, without the kindly finger-posts of professional
criticism; and, early in December, the rush began for copies.

I will insert two or three of Miss Brontë's letters to her publishers,
in order to show how timidly the idea of success was received by one so
unaccustomed to adopt a sanguine view of any subject in which she was
individually concerned. The occasions on which these notes were written,
will explain themselves.

"Oct. 19th, 1847.

"Gentlemen,--The six copies of "Jane Eyre" reached me this morning. You
have given the work every advantage which good paper, clear type, and
a seemly outside can supply;--if it fails, the fault will lie with the
author,--you are exempt.

"I now await the judgment of the press and the public.--I am, Gentlemen,
yours respectfully,

C. BELL."

MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.

"Oct. 26th, 1847.

"Gentlemen,--I have received the newspapers. They speak quite as
favourably of "Jane Eyre" as I expected them to do. The notice in the
Literary Gazette seems certainly to have been indited in rather a flat
mood, and the Athenaeum has a style of its own, which I respect, but
cannot exactly relish; still when one considers that journals of that
standing have a dignity to maintain which would be deranged by a too
cordial recognition of the claims of an obscure author, I suppose there
is every reason to be satisfied.

"Meantime a brisk sale would be effectual support under the hauteur of
lofty critics.--I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,

"C. BELL."

MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.

"Nov. 13th, 1847.

"Gentlemen,--I have to acknowledge the receipt of yours of the 11th
inst., and to thank you for the information it communicates. The notice
from the People's Journal also duly reached me, and this morning I
received the Spectator. The critique in the Spectator gives that view of
the book which will naturally be taken by a certain class of minds; I
shall expect it to be followed by other notices of a similar nature. The
way to detraction has been pointed out, and will probably be pursued.
Most future notices will in all likelihood have a reflection of the
Spectator in them. I fear this turn of opinion will not improve the
demand for the book--but time will show. If "Jane Eyre" has any solid
worth in it, it ought to weather a gust of unfavourable wind.--I am,
Gentlemen, yours respectfully,

"C. BELL."

MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.

"Nov. 30th, 1847.

"Gentlemen,--I have received the Economist, but not the Examiner; from
some cause that paper has missed, as the Spectator did on a former
occasion; I am glad, however, to learn through your letter, that its
notice of "Jane Eyre" was favourable, and also that the prospects of the
work appear to improve.

"I am obliged to you for the information respecting "Wuthering
Heights".--I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,

"C. BELL."

To MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.

"Dec. 1st, 1847.

"Gentlemen,--The Examiner reached me to-day; it had been missent on
account of the direction, which was to Currer Bell, care of Miss Brontë.
Allow me to intimate that it would be better in future not to put the
name of Currer Bell on the outside of communications; if directed simply
to Miss Brontë they will be more likely to reach their destination
safely. Currer Bell is not known in the district, and I have no wish
that he should become known. The notice in the Examiner gratified
me very much; it appears to be from the pen of an able man who has
understood what he undertakes to criticise; of course, approbation from
such a quarter is encouraging to an author, and I trust it will prove
beneficial to the work.--I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully,

C. BELL.

"I received likewise seven other notices from provincial papers enclosed
in an envelope. I thank you very sincerely for so punctually sending me
all the various criticisms on "Jane Eyre"."

TO MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO.

"Dec. 10th, 1847.

"Gentlemen,--I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter inclosing
a bank post bill, for which I thank you. Having already expressed my
sense of your kind and upright conduct, I can now only say that I trust
you will always have reason to be as well content with me as I am with
you. If the result of any future exertions I may be able to make should
prove agreeable and advantageous to you, I shall be well satisfied; and
it would be a serious source of regret to me if I thought you ever had
reason to repent being my publishers.

"You need not apologise, Gentlemen, for having written to me so seldom;
of course I am always glad to hear from you, but I am truly glad to
hear from Mr. Williams likewise; he was my first favourable critic; he
first gave me encouragement to persevere as an author, consequently I
naturally respect him and feel grateful to him.

"Excuse the informality of my letter, and believe me, Gentlemen, yours
respectfully,

CURRER BELL."

There is little record remaining of the manner in which the first news
of its wonderful success reached and affected the one heart of the three
sisters. I once asked Charlotte--we were talking about the description
of Lowood school, and she was saying that she was not sure whether she
should have written it, if she had been aware how instantaneously it
would have been identified with Cowan Bridge--whether the popularity
to which the novel attained had taken her by surprise. She hesitated
a little, and then said: "I believed that what had impressed me so
forcibly when I wrote it, must make a strong impression on any one who
read it. I was not surprised at those who read "Jane Eyre" being deeply
interested in it; but I hardly expected that a book by an unknown author
could find readers."

The sisters had kept the knowledge of their literary ventures from their
father, fearing to increase their own anxieties and disappointment by
witnessing his; for he took an acute interest in all that befell his
children, and his own tendency had been towards literature in the days
when he was young and hopeful. It was true he did not much manifest
his feelings in words; he would have thought that he was prepared for
disappointment as the lot of man, and that he could have met it with
stoicism; but words are poor and tardy interpreters of feelings to those
who love one another, and his daughters knew how he would have borne
ill-success worse for them than for himself. So they did not tell him
what they were undertaking. He says now that he suspected it all along,
but his suspicions could take no exact form, as all he was certain
of was, that his children were perpetually writing--and not writing
letters. We have seen how the communications from their publishers were
received "under cover to Miss Brontë." Once, Charlotte told me, they
overheard the postman meeting Mr. Brontë, as the latter was leaving the
house, and inquiring from the parson where one Currer Bell could be
living, to which Mr. Brontë replied that there was no such person in
the parish. This must have been the misadventure to which Miss Brontë
alludes in the beginning of her correspondence with Mr. Aylott.

Now, however, when the demand for the work had assured success to
"Jane Eyre," her sisters urged Charlotte to tell their father of its
publication. She accordingly went into his study one afternoon after
his early dinner, carrying with her a copy of the book, and one or two
reviews, taking care to include a notice adverse to it.

She informed me that something like the following conversation took
place between her and him. (I wrote down her words the day after I heard
them; and I am pretty sure they are quite accurate.)

"Papa, I've been writing a book."

"Have you, my dear?"

"Yes, and I want you to read it."

"I am afraid it will try my eyes too much."

"But it is not in manuscript: it is printed."

"My dear! you've never thought of the expense it will be! It will be
almost sure to be a loss, for how can you get a book sold? No one knows
you or your name."

"But, papa, I don't think it will be a loss; no more will you, if you
will just let me read you a review or two, and tell you more about it."

So she sate down and read some of the reviews to her father; and then,
giving him the copy of "Jane Eyre" that she intended for him, she left
him to read it. When he came in to tea, he said, "Girls, do you know
Charlotte has been writing a book, and it is much better than likely?"

But while the existence of Currer Bell, the author, was like a piece of
a dream to the quiet inhabitants of Haworth Parsonage, who went on with
their uniform household life,--their cares for their brother being its
only variety,--the whole reading-world of England was in a ferment to
discover the unknown author. Even the publishers of "Jane Eyre" were
ignorant whether Currer Bell was a real or an assumed name,--whether it
belonged to a man or a woman. In every town people sought out the list
of their friends and acquaintances, and turned away in disappointment.
No one they knew had genius enough to be the author. Every little
incident mentioned in the book was turned this way and that to answer,
if possible, the much-vexed question of sex. All in vain. People were
content to relax their exertions to satisfy their curiosity, and simply
to sit down and greatly admire.

I am not going to write an analysis of a book with which every one who
reads this biography is sure to be acquainted; much less a criticism
upon a work, which the great flood of public opinion has lifted up from
the obscurity in which it first appeared, and laid high and safe on the
everlasting hills of fame.

Before me lies a packet of extracts from newspapers and periodicals,
which Mr. Brontë has sent me. It is touching to look them over, and see
how there is hardly any notice, however short and clumsily-worded, in
any obscure provincial paper, but what has been cut out and carefully
ticketed with its date by the poor, bereaved father,--so proud when he
first read them--so desolate now. For one and all are full of praise
of this great, unknown genius, which suddenly appeared amongst us.
Conjecture as to the authorship ran about like wild-fire. People in
London, smooth and polished as the Athenians of old, and like them
"spending their time in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear
some new thing," were astonished and delighted to find that a fresh
sensation, a new pleasure, was in reserve for them in the uprising of an
author, capable of depicting with accurate and Titanic power the strong,
self-reliant, racy, and individual characters which were not, after all,
extinct species, but lingered still in existence in the North. They
thought that there was some exaggeration mixed with the peculiar force
of delineation. Those nearer to the spot, where the scene of the story
was apparently laid, were sure, from the very truth and accuracy of the
writing, that the writer was no Southeron; for though "dark, and cold,
and rugged is the North," the old strength of the Scandinavian races yet
abides there, and glowed out in every character depicted in "Jane Eyre."
Farther than this, curiosity, both honourable and dishonourable, was at
fault.

When the second edition appeared, in the January of the following
year, with the dedication to Mr. Thackeray, people looked at each
other and wondered afresh. But Currer Bell knew no more of William
Makepeace Thackeray as an individual man--of his life, age, fortunes, or
circumstances--than she did of those of Mr. Michael Angelo Titmarsh. The
one had placed his name as author upon the title-page of Vanity Fair,
the other had not. She was thankful for the opportunity of expressing
her high admiration of a writer, whom, as she says, she regarded "as the
social regenerator of his day--as the very master of that working corps
who would restore to rectitude the warped state of things. . . . 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."

Anne Brontë had been more than usually delicate all the summer, and
her sensitive spirit had been deeply affected by the great anxiety of
her home. But now that "Jane Eyre" gave such indications of success,
Charlotte began to plan schemes of future pleasure,--perhaps relaxation
from care, would be the more correct expression,--for their darling
younger sister, the "little one" of the household. But, although Anne
was cheered for a time by Charlotte's success, the fact was, that
neither her spirits nor her bodily strength were such as to incline
her to much active exertion, and she led far too sedentary a life,
continually stooping either over her book, or work, or at her desk. "It
is with difficulty," writes her sister, "that we can prevail upon her to
take a walk, or induce her to converse. I look forward to next summer
with the confident intention that she shall, if possible, make at least
a brief sojourn at the sea-side." In this same letter, is a sentence,
telling how dearly home, even with its present terrible drawback, lay at
the roots of her heart; but it is too much blended with reference to the
affairs of others to bear quotation.

Any author of a successful novel is liable to an inroad of letters
from unknown readers, containing commendation--sometimes of so
fulsome and indiscriminating a character as to remind the recipient
of Dr. Johnson's famous speech to one who offered presumptuous and
injudicious praise--sometimes saying merely a few words, which have
power to stir the heart "as with the sound of a trumpet," and in the
high humility they excite, to call forth strong resolutions to make
all future efforts worthy of such praise; and occasionally containing
that true appreciation of both merits and demerits, together with the
sources of each, which forms the very criticism and help for which an
inexperienced writer thirsts. Of each of these kinds of communication
Currer Bell received her full share; and her warm heart, and true
sense and high standard of what she aimed at, affixed to each its true
value. Among other letters of hers, some to Mr. G. H. Lewes have been
kindly placed by him at my service; and as I know Miss Brontë highly
prized his letters of encouragement and advice, I shall give extracts
from her replies, as their dates occur, because they will indicate the
kind of criticism she valued, and also because throughout, in anger,
as in agreement and harmony, they show her character unblinded by any
self-flattery, full of clear-sighted modesty as to what she really did
well, and what she failed in, grateful for friendly interest, and only
sore and irritable when the question of sex in authorship was, as she
thought, roughly or unfairly treated. As to the rest, the letters speak
for themselves, to those who know how to listen, far better than I can
interpret their meaning into my poorer and weaker words. Mr. Lewes has
politely sent me the following explanation of that letter of his, to
which the succeeding one of Miss Brontë is a reply.

"When 'Jane Eyre' first appeared, the publishers courteously sent me
a copy. The enthusiasm with which I read it, made me go down to Mr.
Parker, and propose to write a review of it for Frazer's Magazine.
He would not consent to an unknown novel--for the papers had not yet
declared themselves--receiving such importance, but thought it might
make one on 'Recent Novels: English and French'--which appeared in
Frazer, December, 1847. Meanwhile I had written to Miss Brontë to
tell her the delight with which her book filled me; and seem to have
sermonised her, to judge from her reply."

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"Nov. 6th, 1847.

"Dear Sir,--Your letter reached me yesterday; I beg to assure you, that
I appreciate fully the intention with which it was written, and I thank
you sincerely both for its cheering commendation and valuable advice.

"You warn me to beware of melodrama, and you exhort me to adhere to the
real. When I first began to write, so impressed was I with the truth of
the principles you advocate, that I determined to take Nature and Truth
as my sole guides, and to follow in their very footprints; I restrained
imagination, eschewed romance, repressed excitement; over-bright
colouring, too, I avoided, and sought to produce something which should
be soft, grave, and true.

"My work (a tale in one volume) being completed, I offered it to a
publisher. He said it was original, faithful to nature, but he did not
feel warranted in accepting it; such a work would not sell. I tried
six publishers in succession; they all told me it was deficient in
'startling incident' and 'thrilling excitement,' that it would never
suit the circulating libraries, and, as it was on those libraries the
success of works of fiction mainly depended, they could not undertake to
publish what would be overlooked there.

"'Jane Eyre' was rather objected to at first, on the same grounds, but
finally found acceptance.

"I mention this to you, not with a view of pleading exemption from
censure, but in order to direct your attention to the root of certain
literary evils. If, in your forthcoming article in Frazer, you would
bestow a few words of enlightenment on the public who support the
circulating libraries, you might, with your powers, do some good.

"You advise me, too, not to stray far from the ground of experience, as
I become weak when I enter the region of fiction; and you say, 'real
experience is perennially interesting, and to all men.'

"I feel that this also is true; but, dear Sir, is not the real
experience of each individual very limited? And, if a writer dwells upon
that solely or principally, is he not in danger of repeating himself,
and also of becoming an egotist? Then, too, imagination is a strong,
restless faculty, which claims to be heard and exercised: are we to be
quite deaf to her cry, and insensate to her struggles? When she shows
us bright pictures, are we never to look at them, and try to reproduce
them? And when she is eloquent, and speaks rapidly and urgently in our
ear, are we not to write to her dictation?

"I shall anxiously search the next number of Fraser for your opinions on
these points.--Believe me, dear Sir, yours gratefully,

"C. BELL."

But while gratified by appreciation as an author, she was cautious as
to the person from whom she received it; for much of the value of the
praise depended on the sincerity and capability of the person rendering
it. Accordingly, she applied to Mr. Williams (a gentleman connected
with her publishers' firm) for information as to who and what Mr. Lewes
was. Her reply, after she had learnt something of the character of her
future critic, and while awaiting his criticism, must not be omitted.
Besides the reference to him, it contains some amusing allusions to the
perplexity which began to be excited respecting the "identity of the
brothers Bell," and some notice of the conduct of another publisher
towards her sister, which I refrain from characterising, because I
understand that truth is considered a libel in speaking of such people.

To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.

"Nov. 10th, 1847.

"Dear Sir,--I have received the Britannia and the Sun, but not the
Spectator which I rather regret, as censure, though not pleasant, is
often wholesome.

"Thank you for your information regarding Mr. Lewes. I am glad to hear
that he is a clever and sincere man: such being the case, I can await
his critical sentence with fortitude; even if it goes against me, I
shall not murmur; ability and honesty have a right to condemn, where
they think condemnation is deserved. From what you say, however, I trust
rather to obtain at least a modified approval.

"Your account of the various surmises respecting the identity of the
brothers Bell, amused me much: were the enigma solved, it would probably
be found not worth the trouble of solution; but I will let it alone; it
suits ourselves to remain quiet, and certainly injures no one else.

"The reviewer who noticed the little book of poems, in the Dublin
Magazine, conjectured that the soi-disant three personages were in
reality but one, who, endowed with an unduly prominent organ of
self-esteem, and consequently impressed with a somewhat weighty notion
of his own merits, thought them too vast to be concentrated in a
single individual, and accordingly divided himself into three, out of
consideration, I suppose, for the nerves of the much-to-be-astounded
public! This was an ingenious thought in the reviewer,--very original
and striking, but not accurate. We are three.

"A prose work, by Ellis and Acton, will soon appear: it should have
been out, indeed, long since; for the first proof-sheets were already
in the press at the commencement of last August, before Currer Bell
had placed the MS. of "Jane Eyre" in your hands. Mr.----, however,
does not do business like Messrs. Smith and Elder; a different spirit
seems to preside at ---- Street, to that which guides the helm at
65, Cornhill. . . . My relations have suffered from exhausting delay
and procrastination, while I have to acknowledge the benefits of a
management at once business-like and gentleman-like, energetic and
considerate.

"I should like to know if Mr. ---- often acts as he has done to my
relations, or whether this is an exceptional instance of his method. Do
you know, and can you tell me anything about him? You must excuse me
for going to the point at once, when I want to learn anything: if my
questions are importunate, you are, of course, at liberty to decline
answering them.--I am, yours respectfully,

C. BELL."

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"Nov. 22nd, 1847.

"Dear Sir,--I have now read 'Ranthorpe.' I could not get it till a
day or two ago; but I have got it and read it at last; and in reading
'Ranthorpe,' I have read a new book,--not a reprint--not a reflection of
any other book, but a NEW BOOK.

"I did not know such books were written now. It is very different to any
of the popular works of fiction: it fills the mind with fresh knowledge.
Your experience and your convictions are made the reader's; and to an
author, at least, they have a value and an interest quite unusual. I
await your criticism on 'Jane Eyre' now with other sentiments than I
entertained before the perusal of 'Ranthorpe.'

"You were a stranger to me. I did not particularly respect you. I did
not feel that your praise or blame would have any special weight. I knew
little of your right to condemn or approve. NOW I am informed on these
points.

"You will be severe; your last letter taught me as much. Well! I shall
try to extract good out of your severity: and besides, though I am now
sure you are a just, discriminating man, yet, being mortal, you must be
fallible; and if any part of your censure galls me too keenly to the
quick--gives me deadly pain--I shall for the present disbelieve it, and
put it quite aside, till such time as I feel able to receive it without
torture.--I am, dear Sir, yours very respectfully,

C. BELL."

In December, 1847, "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" appeared. The
first-named of these stories has revolted many readers by the power with
which wicked and exceptional characters are depicted. Others, again,
have felt the attraction of remarkable genius, even when displayed on
grim and terrible criminals. Miss Brontë herself says, with regard to
this tale, "Where delineation of human character is concerned, the case
is different. I am bound to avow that she had scarcely more practical
knowledge of the peasantry amongst whom she lived, than a nun has of
the country-people that pass her convent gates. My sister's disposition
was not naturally gregarious: circumstances favoured and fostered her
tendency to seclusion; except to go to church, or take a walk on the
hills, she rarely crossed the threshold of home. Though the feeling for
the people around her was benevolent, intercourse with them she never
sought, nor, with very few exceptions, ever experienced and yet she knew
them, knew their ways, their language, and their family histories; she
could hear of them with interest, and talk of them with detail minute,
graphic, and accurate; but WITH them she rarely exchanged a word. Hence
it ensued, that what her mind has gathered of the real concerning them,
was too exclusively confined to those tragic and terrible traits, of
which, in listening to the secret annals of every rude vicinage, the
memory is sometimes compelled to receive the impress. Her imagination,
which was a spirit more sombre than sunny--more powerful than
sportive--found in such traits material whence it wrought creations like
Heathcliff, like Earnshaw, like Catherine. Having formed these beings,
she did not know what she had done. If the auditor of her work, when
read in manuscript, shuddered under the grinding influence of natures
so relentless and implacable--of spirits so lost and fallen; if it was
complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes
banished sleep by night, and disturbed mental peace by day, Ellis Bell
would wonder what was meant, and suspect the complainant of affectation.
Had she but lived, her mind would of itself have grown like a strong
tree--loftier, straighter, wider-spreading--and its matured fruits
would have attained a mellower ripeness and sunnier bloom; but on that
mind time and experience alone could work; to the influence of other
intellects she was not amenable."

Whether justly or unjustly, the productions of the two younger Miss
Brontës were not received with much favour at the time of their
publication. "Critics failed to do them justice. The immature, but very
real, powers revealed in 'Wuthering Heights,' were scarcely recognised;
its import and nature were misunderstood; the identity of its author was
misrepresented: it was said that this was an earlier and ruder attempt
of the same pen which had produced 'Jane Eyre.'" . . . "Unjust and
grievous error! We laughed at it at first, but I deeply lament it now."

Henceforward Charlotte Brontë's existence becomes divided into two
parallel currents--her life as Currer Bell, the author; her life as
Charlotte Brontë, the woman. There were separate duties belonging to
each character--not opposing each other; not impossible, but difficult
to be reconciled. When a man becomes an author, it is probably merely
a change of employment to him. He takes a portion of that time which
has hitherto been devoted to some other study or pursuit; he gives up
something of the legal or medical profession, in which he has hitherto
endeavoured to serve others, or relinquishes part of the trade or
business by which he has been striving to gain a livelihood; and another
merchant or lawyer, or doctor, steps into his vacant place, and probably
does as well as he. But no other can take up the quiet, regular duties
of the daughter, the wife, or the mother, as well as she whom God has
appointed to fill that particular place: a woman's principal work in
life is hardly left to her own choice; nor can she drop the domestic
charges devolving on her as an individual, for the exercise of the most
splendid talents that were ever bestowed. And yet she must not shrink
from the extra responsibility implied by the very fact of her possessing
such talents. She must not hide her gift in a napkin; it was meant for
the use and service of others. In an humble and faithful spirit must she
labour to do what is not impossible, or God would not have set her to do
it.

I put into words what Charlotte Brontë put into actions.

The year 1848 opened with sad domestic distress. It is necessary,
however painful, to remind the reader constantly of what was always
present to the hearts of father and sisters at this time. It is well
that the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and gloomy views
of life presented by the Brontës in their tales, should know how such
words were wrung out of them by the living recollection of the long
agony they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have objected to the
representation of coarseness and shrank from it with repugnance, as if
such conceptions arose out of the writers, should learn, that, not from
the imagination--not from internal conception--but from the hard cruel
facts, pressed down, by external life, upon their very senses, for long
months and years together, did they write out what they saw, obeying the
stern dictates of their consciences. They might be mistaken. They might
err in writing at all, when their affections were so great that they
could not write otherwise than they did of life. It is possible that it
would have been better to have described only good and pleasant people,
doing only good and pleasant things (in which case they could hardly
have written at any time): all I say is, that never, I believe, did
women, possessed of such wonderful gifts, exercise them with a fuller
feeling of responsibility for their use. As to mistakes, stand now--as
authors as well as women--before the judgment-seat of God.

"Jan. 11th, 1848.

"We have not been very comfortable here at home lately. Branwell has,
by some means, contrived to get more money from the old quarter, and
has led us a sad life. . . . Papa is harassed day and night; we have
little peace, he is always sick; has two or three times fallen down in
fits; what will be the ultimate end, God knows. But who is without their
drawback, their scourge, their skeleton behind the curtain? It remains
only to do one's best, and endure with patience what God sends."

I suppose that she had read Mr. Lewes' review on "Recent Novels," when
it appeared in the December of the last year, but I find no allusion to
it till she writes to him on January 12th, 1848.

"Dear Sir,--I thank you then sincerely for your generous review; and it
is with the sense of double content I express my gratitude, because I
am now sure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive. You were not
severe on 'Jane Eyre;' you were very lenient. I am glad you told me my
faults plainly in private, for in your public notice you touch on them
so lightly, I should perhaps have passed them over thus indicated, with
too little reflection.

"I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake
new works; my stock of materials is not abundant, but very slender;
and, besides, neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers,
are sufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a frequent writer.
I tell you this, because your article in Frazer left in me an uneasy
impression that you were disposed to think better of the author of
'Jane Eyre' than that individual deserved; and I would rather you had a
correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though I should never see
you.

"If I ever 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 own 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?

"I am glad that another work of yours will soon appear; most curious
shall I be to see whether you will write up to your own principles,
and work out your own theories. You did not do it altogether in
'Ranthorpe'--at least not in the latter part; but the first portion was,
I think, nearly without fault; then it had a pith, truth, significance
in it, which gave the book sterling value; but to write so, one must
have seen and known a great deal, and I have seen and known very little.

"Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point.
What induced you to say that you would have rather written "Pride and
Prejudice,' or 'Tom Jones,' than any of the 'Waverley Novels'?

"I had not seen 'Pride and Prejudice' till I read that sentence of
yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate,
daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully-fenced,
highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no
glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no
blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies
and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These observations
will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk.

"Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I never saw
any of her works which I admired throughout (even 'Consuelo,' which is
the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple strange
extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind,
which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is
sagacious and profound;--Miss Austen is only shrewd and observant.

"Am I wrong--or, were you hasty in what you said? If you have time, I
should be glad to hear further on this subject; if not, or if you think
the questions frivolous, do not trouble yourself to reply.--I am, yours
respectfully,

C. BELL."

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"Jan. 18th, 1848.

"Dear Sir,--I must write one more note, though I had not intended to
trouble you again so soon. I have to agree with you, and to differ from
you.

"You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the 'influence'; well, I
accept your definition of what the effects of that influence should be;
I recognise the wisdom of your rules for its regulation. . . .

"What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I must
familiarise my mind with the fact, that 'Miss Austen is not a poetess,
has no "sentiment" (you scornfully enclose the word in inverted commas),
no eloquence, none of the ravishing enthusiasm of poetry,'--and then you
add, I MUST 'learn to acknowledge her as ONE OF THE GREATEST ARTISTS, OF
THE GREATEST PAINTERS OF HUMAN CHARACTER, and one of the writers with
the nicest sense of means to an end that ever lived.'

"The last point only will I ever acknowledge.

"Can there be a great artist without poetry?

"What I call--what I will bend to, as a great artist then--cannot be
destitute of the divine gift. But by POETRY, I am sure, you understand
something different to what I do, as you do by 'sentiment.' It is
POETRY, as I comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George
Sand, and makes out of something coarse, something Godlike. It is
'sentiment,' in my sense of the term--sentiment jealously hidden, but
genuine, which extracts the venom from that formidable Thackeray, and
converts what might be corrosive poison into purifying elixir.

"If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his
kind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe, he wishes
only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without 'sentiment,'
without Poetry, maybe IS sensible, real (more REAL than TRUE), but she
cannot be great.

"I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not
questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass over
me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that will be,
as I have no access to a circulating library), diligently peruse all
Miss Austen's works, as you recommend. . . . You must forgive me for
not always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, yours
gratefully,

C. BELL."

I have hesitated a little, before inserting the following extract from
a letter to Mr. Williams, but it is strikingly characteristic; and the
criticism contained in it is, from that circumstance, so interesting
(whether we agree with it or not), that I have determined to do so,
though I thereby displace the chronological order of the letters,
in order to complete this portion of a correspondence which is very
valuable, as showing the purely intellectual side of her character.

To W. S. WILLIAMS, BSQ.

"April 26th, 1848.

"My dear Sir,--I have now read 'Rose, Blanche, and Violet,' and I
will tell you, as well as I can, what I think of it. Whether it is an
improvement on 'Ranthorpe' I do not know, for I liked 'Ranthorpe' much;
but, at any rate, it contains more of a good thing. I find in it the
same power, but more fully developed.

"The author's character is seen in every page, which makes the book
interesting--far more interesting than any story could do; but it is
what the writer himself says that attracts far more than what he puts
into the mouths of his characters. G. H. Lewes is, to my perception,
decidedly the most original character in the book. . . . The didactic
passages seem to me the best--far the best--in the work; very acute,
very profound, are some of the views there given, and very clearly they
are offered to the reader. He is a just thinker; he is a sagacious
observer; there is wisdom in his theory, and, I doubt not, energy in his
practice. But why, then, are you often provoked with him while you read?
How does he manage, while teaching, to make his hearer feel as if his
business was, not quietly to receive the doctrines propounded, but to
combat them? You acknowledge that he offers you gems of pure truth; why
do you keep perpetually scrutinising them for flaws?

"Mr. Lewes, I divine, with all his talents and honesty, must have some
faults of manner; there must be a touch too much of dogmatism; a dash
extra of confidence in him, sometimes. This you think while you are
reading the book; but when you have closed it and laid it down, and sat
a few minutes collecting your thoughts, and settling your impressions,
you find the idea or feeling predominant in your mind to be pleasure at
the fuller acquaintance you have made with a fine mind and a true heart,
with high abilities and manly principles. I hope he will not be long
ere he publishes another book. His emotional scenes are somewhat too
uniformly vehement: would not a more subdued style of treatment often
have produced a more masterly effect? Now and then Mr. Lewes takes a
French pen into his hand, wherein he differs from Mr. Thackeray, who
always uses an English quill. However, the French pen does not far
mislead Mr. Lewes; he wields it with British muscles. All honour to him
for the excellent general tendency of his book!

"He gives no charming picture of London literary society, and especially
the female part of it; but all coteries, whether they be literary,
scientific, political, or religious, must, it seems to me, have a
tendency to change truth into affectation. When people belong to a
clique, they must, I suppose, in some measure, write, talk, think, and
live for that clique; a harassing and narrowing necessity. I trust,
the press and the public show themselves disposed to give the book the
reception it merits, and that is a very cordial one, far beyond anything
due to a Bulwer or D'Israeli production."

Let us return from Currer Bell to Charlotte Brontë. The winter in
Haworth had been a sickly season. Influenza had prevailed amongst the
villagers, and where there was a real need for the presence of the
clergyman's daughters, they were never found wanting, although they
were shy of bestowing mere social visits on the parishioners. They had
themselves suffered from the epidemic; Anne severely, as in her case it
had been attended with cough and fever enough to make her elder sisters
very anxious about her.

There is no doubt that the proximity of the crowded church-yard rendered
the Parsonage unhealthy, and occasioned much illness to its inmates.
Mr. Brontë represented the unsanitary state at Haworth pretty forcibly
to the Board of Health; and, after the requisite visits from their
officers, obtained a recommendation that all future interments in the
churchyard should be forbidden, a new graveyard opened on the hill-side,
and means set on foot for obtaining a water-supply to each house,
instead of the weary, hard-worked housewives having to carry every
bucketful, from a distance of several hundred yards, up a steep street.
But he was baffled by the rate-payers; as, in many a similar instance,
quantity carried it against quality, numbers against intelligence. And
thus we find that illness often assumed a low typhoid form in Haworth,
and fevers of various kinds visited the place with sad frequency.

In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was dethroned. The quick succession
of events at that time called forth the following expression of Miss
Brontë's thoughts on the subject, in a letter addressed to Miss Wooler,
and dated March 31st.

"I remember well wishing my lot had been cast in the troubled times of
the late war, and seeing in its exciting incidents a kind of stimulating
charm, which it made my pulses beat fast to think of I remember even,
I think; being a little impatient, that you would not fully sympathise
with my feelings on those subjects; that you heard my aspirations and
speculations very tranquilly, and by no means seemed to think the
flaming swords could be any pleasant addition to Paradise. I have now
out-lived youth; and, though I dare not say that I have outlived all its
illusions--that the romance is quite gone from life--the veil fallen
from truth, and that I see both in naked reality--yet, certainly, many
things are not what they were ten years ago: and, amongst the rest, the
pomp and circumstance of war have quite lost in my eyes their fictitious
glitter. I have still no doubt that the shock of moral earthquakes
wakens a vivid sense of life, both in nations and individuals; that
the fear of dangers on a broad national scale, diverts men's minds
momentarily from brooding over small private perils, and for the time
gives them something like largeness of views; but, as little doubt have
I, that convulsive revolutions put back the world in all that is good,
check civilisation, bring the dregs of society to its surface; in short,
it appears to me that insurrections and battles are the acute diseases
of nations, and that their tendency is to exhaust, by their violence,
the vital energies of the countries where they occur. That England
may be spared the spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the
Continent, and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray. With the French
and Irish I have no sympathy. With the Germans and Italians I think the
case is different; as different as the love of freedom is from the lust
for license."

Her birthday came round. She wrote to the friend whose birthday was
within a week of hers; wrote the accustomed letter; but, reading it with
our knowledge of what she had done, we perceive the difference between
her thoughts and what they were a year or two ago, when she said "I have
done nothing." There must have been a modest consciousness of having
"done something" present in her mind, as she wrote this year:--

"I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone--gone,--and will never come back:
can't help it. . . . It seems to me, that sorrow must come some time to
everybody, and those who scarcely taste it in their youth, often have
a more brimming and bitter cup to drain in after life; whereas, those
who exhaust the dregs early, who drink the lees before the wine, may
reasonably hope for more palatable draughts to succeed."

The authorship of "Jane Eyre" was as yet a close secret in the Brontë
family; not even this friend, who was all but a sister knew more about
it than the rest of the world. She might conjecture, it is true, both
from her knowledge of previous habits, and from the suspicious fact of
the proofs having been corrected at B----, that some literary project
was afoot; but she knew nothing, and wisely said nothing, until she
heard a report from others, that Charlotte Brontë was an author--had
published a novel! Then she wrote to her; and received the two following
letters; confirmatory enough, as it seems to me now, in their very
vehemence and agitation of intended denial, of the truth of the report.

"April 28th, 1848.

"Write another letter, and explain that last note of yours distinctly.
If your allusions are to myself, which I suppose they are, understand
this,--I have given no one a right to gossip about me, and am not to be
judged by frivolous conjectures, emanating from any quarter whatever.
Let me know what you heard, and from whom you heard it."

"May 3rd, 1848.

"All I can say to you about a certain matter is this: the report--if
report there be--and if the lady, who seems to have been rather
mystified, had not dreamt what she fancied had been told to her--must
have had its origin in some absurd misunderstanding. I have given NO
ONE a right either to affirm, or to hint, in the most distant manner,
that I was 'publishing'--(humbug!) Whoever has said it--if any one has,
which I doubt--is no friend of mine. Though twenty books were ascribed
to me, I should own none. I scout the idea utterly. Whoever, after
I have distinctly rejected the charge, urges it upon me, will do an
unkind and an ill-bred thing. The most profound obscurity is infinitely
preferable to vulgar notoriety; and that notoriety I neither seek nor
will have. If then any B--an, or G--an, should presume to bore you on
the subject,--to ask you what 'novel' Miss Brontë has been 'publishing,'
you can just say, with the distinct firmness of which you are perfect
mistress when you choose, that you are authorised by Miss Brontë to
say, that she repels and disowns every accusation of the kind. You may
add, if you please, that if any one has her confidence, you believe you
have, and she has made no drivelling confessions to you on the subject.
I am at a loss to conjecture from what source this rumour has come; and,
I fear, it has far from a friendly origin. I am not certain, however,
and I should be very glad if I could gain certainty. Should you hear
anything more, please let me know. Your offer of 'Simeon's Life' is a
very kind one, and I thank you for it. I dare say Papa would like to see
the work very much, as he knew Mr. Simeon. Laugh or scold A---- out of
the publishing notion; and believe me, through all chances and changes,
whether calumniated or let alone,--Yours faithfully,

C. BRONTË."

The reason why Miss Brontë was so anxious to preserve her secret, was, I
am told, that she had pledged her word to her sisters that it should not
be revealed through her.

The dilemmas attendant on the publication of the sisters' novels, under
assumed names, were increasing upon them. Many critics insisted on
believing, that all the fictions published as by three Bells were the
works of one author, but written at different periods of his development
and maturity. No doubt, this suspicion affected the reception of the
books. Ever since the completion of Anne Brontë's tale of "Agnes Grey",
she had been labouring at a second, "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." It
is little known; the subject--the deterioration of a character, whose
profligacy and ruin took their rise in habits of intemperance, so slight
as to be only considered "good fellowship"--was painfully discordant
to one who would fain have sheltered herself from all but peaceful and
religious ideas. "She had" (says her sister of that gentle "little
one"), "in the course of her life, been called on to contemplate near
at hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused
and faculties abused; hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and
dejected nature; what she saw sunk very deeply into her mind; it did her
harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to be a duty to reproduce
every detail (of course, with fictitious characters, incidents, and
situations), as a warning to others. She hated her work, but would
pursue it. When reasoned with on the subject, she regarded such
reasonings as a temptation to self-indulgence. She must be honest; she
must not varnish, soften, or conceal. This well-meant resolution brought
on her misconstruction, and some abuse, which she bore, as it was her
custom to bear whatever was unpleasant with mild steady patience. She
was a very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of religious
melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief blameless life."

In the June of this year, 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall' was sufficiently
near its completion to be submitted to the person who had previously
published for Ellis and Acton Bell.

In consequence of his mode of doing business, considerable annoyance
was occasioned both to Miss Brontë and to them. The circumstances,
as detailed in a letter of hers to a friend in New Zealand, were
these:--One morning, at the beginning of July, a communication was
received at the Parsonage from Messrs. Smith and Elder, which disturbed
its quiet inmates not a little, as, though the matter brought under
their notice was merely referred to as one which affected their literary
reputation, they conceived it to have a bearing likewise upon their
character. "Jane Eyre" had had a great run in America, and a publisher
there had consequently bid high for early sheets of the next work by
"Currer Bell." These Messrs. Smith and Elder had promised to let him
have. He was therefore greatly astonished, and not well pleased, to
learn that a similar agreement had been entered into with another
American house, and that the new tale was very shortly to appear. It
turned out, upon inquiry, that the mistake had originated in Acton and
Ellis Bell's publisher having assured this American house that, to the
best of his belief, "Jane Eyre", "Wuthering Heights", and "The Tenant of
Wildfell Hall" (which he pronounced superior to either of the other two)
were all written by the same author.

Though Messrs. Smith and Elder distinctly stated in their letter that
they did not share in such "belief," the sisters were impatient till
they had shown its utter groundlessness, and set themselves perfectly
straight. With rapid decision, they resolved that Charlotte and Anne
should start, for London, that very day, in order to prove their
separate identity to Messrs. Smith and Elder, and demand from the
credulous publisher his reasons for a "belief" so directly at variance
with an assurance which had several times been given to him. Having
arrived at this determination, they made their preparations with
resolute promptness. There were many household duties to be performed
that day; but they were all got through. The two sisters each packed up
a change of dress in a small box, which they sent down to Keighley by
an opportune cart; and after early tea they set off to walk thither--no
doubt in some excitement; for, independently of the cause of their
going to London, it was Anne's first visit there. A great thunderstorm
overtook them on their way that summer evening to the station; but
they had no time to seek shelter. They only just caught the train at
Keighley, arrived at Leeds, and were whirled up by the night train to
London.

About eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, they arrived at the Chapter
Coffee-house, Paternoster Row--a strange place, but they did not well
know where else to go. They refreshed themselves by washing, and had
some breakfast. Then they sat still for a few minutes, to consider what
next should be done.

When they had been discussing their project in the quiet of Haworth
Parsonage the day before, and planning the mode of setting about the
business on which they were going to London, they had resolved to take
a cab, if they should find it desirable, from their inn to Cornhill;
but that, amidst the bustle and "queer state of inward excitement" in
which they found themselves, as they sat and considered their position
on the Saturday morning, they quite forgot even the possibility of
hiring a conveyance; and when they set forth, they became so dismayed by
the crowded streets, and the impeded crossings, that they stood still
repeatedly, in complete despair of making progress, and were nearly an
hour in walking the half-mile they had to go. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr.
Williams knew that they were coming; they were entirely unknown to the
publishers of "Jane Eyre", who were not, in fact, aware whether the
"Bells" were men or women, but had always written to them as to men.

On reaching Mr. Smith's, Charlotte put his own letter into his hands;
the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at Haworth
Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. "Where did you get this?"
said he,--as if he could not believe that the two young ladies dressed
in black, of slight figures and diminutive stature, looking pleased
yet agitated, could be the embodied Currer and Acton Bell, for whom
curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain. An explanation ensued,
and Mr. Smith at once began to form plans for their amusement and
pleasure during their stay in London. He urged them to meet a few
literary friends at his house; and this was a strong temptation to
Charlotte, as amongst them were one or two of the writers whom she
particularly wished to see; but her resolution to remain unknown induced
her firmly to put it aside.

The sisters were equally persevering in declining Mr. Smith's
invitations to stay at his house. They refused to leave their quarters,
saying they were not prepared for a long stay.

When they returned back to their inn, poor Charlotte paid for the
excitement of the interview, which had wound up the agitation and hurry
of the last twenty-four hours, by a racking headache and harassing
sickness. Towards evening, as she rather expected some of the ladies
of Mr. Smith's family to call, she prepared herself for the chance,
by taking a strong dose of sal-volatile, which roused her a little,
but still, as she says, she was "in grievous bodily case," when their
visitors were announced, in full evening costume. The sisters had not
understood that it had been settled that they were to go to the Opera,
and therefore were not ready. Moreover, they had no fine elegant dresses
either with them, or in the world. But Miss Brontë resolved to raise no
objections in the acceptance of kindness. So, in spite of headache and
weariness, they made haste to dress themselves in their plain high-made
country garments.

Charlotte says, in an account which she gives to her friend of this
visit to London, describing the entrance of her party into the
Opera-house:--

"Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us, as we stood by the box-door,
which was not yet opened, with a slight, graceful superciliousness,
quite warranted by the circumstances. Still I felt pleasurably excited
in spite of headache, sickness, and conscious clownishness; and I saw
Anne was calm and gentle, which she always is. The performance was
Rossini's 'Barber of Seville,'--very brilliant, though I fancy there
are things I should like better. We got home after one o'clock. We had
never been in bed the night before; had been in constant excitement for
twenty-four hours; you may imagine we were tired. The next day, Sunday,
Mr. Williams came early to take us to church; and in the afternoon Mr.
Smith and his mother fetched us in a carriage, and took us to his house
to dine.

"On Monday we went to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, the National
Gallery, dined again at Mr. Smith's, and then went home to tea with Mr.
Williams at his house.

"On Tuesday morning, we left London, laden with books Mr. Smith had
given us, and got safely home. A more jaded wretch than I looked, it
would be difficult to conceive. I was thin when I went, but I was meagre
indeed when I returned, my face looking grey and very old, with strange
deep lines ploughed in it--my eyes stared unnaturally. I was weak and
yet restless. In a while, however, these bad effects of excitement went
off, and I regained my normal condition."

The impression Miss Brontë made upon those with whom she first became
acquainted during this visit to London, was of a person with clear
judgment and fine sense; and though reserved, possessing unconsciously
the power of drawing out others in conversation. She never expressed
an opinion without assigning a reason for it; she never put a question
without a definite purpose; and yet people felt at their ease in talking
with her. All conversation with her was genuine and stimulating; and
when she launched forth in praise or reprobation of books, or deeds, or
works of art, her eloquence was indeed burning. She was thorough in all
that she said or did; yet so open and fair in dealing with a subject,
or contending with an opponent, that instead of rousing resentment, she
merely convinced her hearers of her earnest zeal for the truth and right.

Not the least singular part of their proceedings was the place at which
the sisters had chosen to stay.

Paternoster Row was for many years sacred to publishers. It is a narrow
flagged street, lying under the shadow of St. Paul's; at each end there
are posts placed, so as to prevent the passage of carriages, and thus
preserve a solemn silence for the deliberations of the "Fathers of the
Row." The dull warehouses on each side are mostly occupied at present
by wholesale stationers; if they be publishers' shops, they show no
attractive front to the dark and narrow street. Half-way up, on the
left-hand side, is the Chapter Coffee-house. I visited it last June.
It was then unoccupied. It had the appearance of a dwelling-house,
two hundred years old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient
country towns; the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had heavy
beams running across them; the walls were wainscotted breast high; the
staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much space in the
centre of the house. This then was the Chapter Coffee-house, which, a
century ago, was the resort of all the booksellers and publishers; and
where the literary hacks, the critics, and even the wits, used to go in
search of ideas or employment. This was the place about which Chatterton
wrote, in those delusive letters he sent to his mother at Bristol,
while he was starving in London. "I am quite familiar at the Chapter
Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there." Here he heard of chances
of employment; here his letters were to be left.

Years later, it became the tavern frequented by university men and
country clergymen, who were up in London for a few days, and, having
no private friends or access into society, were glad to learn what was
going on in the world of letters, from the conversation which they were
sure to hear in the Coffee-room. In Mr. Brontë's few and brief visits to
town, during his residence at Cambridge, and the period of his curacy in
Essex, he had stayed at this house; hither he had brought his daughters,
when he was convoying them to Brussels; and here they came now, from
very ignorance where else to go. It was a place solely frequented by
men; I believe there was but one female servant in the house. Few people
slept there; some of the stated meetings of the Trade were held in it,
as they had been for more than a century; and, occasionally country
booksellers, with now and then a clergyman, resorted to it; but it was
a strange desolate place for the Miss Brontës to have gone to, from its
purely business and masculine aspect. The old "grey-haired elderly man,"
who officiated as waiter seems to have been touched from the very first
with the quiet simplicity of the two ladies, and he tried to make them
feel comfortable and at home in the long, low, dingy room up-stairs,
where the meetings of the Trade were held. The high narrow windows
looked into the gloomy Row; the sisters, clinging together on the most
remote window-seat, (as Mr. Smith tells me he found them, when he came,
that Saturday evening, to take them to the Opera,) could see nothing of
motion, or of change, in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and
close, although the whole breadth of the Row was between. The mighty
roar of London was round them, like the sound of an unseen ocean, yet
every footfall on the pavement below might be heard distinctly, in that
unfrequented street. Such as it was, they preferred remaining at the
Chapter Coffee-house, to accepting the invitation which Mr. Smith and
his mother urged upon them, and, in after years, Charlotte says:--

"Since those days, I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine
squares; but I love the City far better. The City seems so much more
in earnest; its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things,
sights, sounds. The City is getting its living--the West End but
enjoying its pleasure. At the West End you may be amused; but in the
City you are deeply excited." (Villette, vol. i. p. 89.)

Their wish had been to hear Dr. Croly on the Sunday morning, and Mr.
Williams escorted them to St. Stephen's, Walbrook; but they were
disappointed, as Dr. Croly did not preach. Mr. Williams also took them
(as Miss Brontë has mentioned) to drink tea at his house. On the way
thither, they had to pass through Kensington Gardens, and Miss Brontë
was much "struck with the beauty of the scene, the fresh verdure of
the turf, and the soft rich masses of foliage." From remarks on the
different character of the landscape in the South to what it was in the
North, she was led to speak of the softness and varied intonation of the
voices of those with whom she conversed in London, which seem to have
made a strong impression on both sisters. All this time those who came
in contact with the "Miss Browns" (another pseudonym, also beginning
with B), seem only to have regarded them as shy and reserved little
country-women, with not much to say. Mr. Williams tells me that on the
night when he accompanied the party to the Opera, as Charlotte ascended
the flight of stairs leading from the grand entrance up to the lobby of
the first tier of boxes, she was so much struck with the architectural
effect of the splendid decorations of that vestibule and saloon, that
involuntarily she slightly pressed his arm, and whispered, "You know I
am not accustomed to this sort of thing." Indeed, it must have formed a
vivid contrast to what they were doing and seeing an hour or two earlier
the night before, when they were trudging along, with beating hearts and
high-strung courage, on the road between Haworth and Keighley, hardly
thinking of the thunder-storm that beat about their heads, for the
thoughts which filled them of how they would go straight away to London,
and prove that they were really two people, and not one imposter. It was
no wonder that they returned to Haworth utterly fagged and worn out,
after the fatigue and excitement of this visit.

The next notice I find of Charlotte's life at this time is of a
different character to anything telling of enjoyment.

"July 28th.

"Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems much
shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us, have sad nights with him. He
sleeps most of the day, and consequently will lie awake at night. But
has not every house its trial?"

While her most intimate friends were yet in ignorance of the fact of
her authorship of "Jane Eyre," she received a letter from one of them,
making inquiries about Casterton School. It is but right to give her
answer, written on August 28th, 1848.

"Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I will write
without further delay. It often happens that when we linger at first
in answering a friend's letter, obstacles occur to retard us to an
inexcusably late period. In my last, I forgot to answer a question which
you asked me, and was sorry afterwards for the omission. I will begin,
therefore, by replying to it, though I fear what information I can
give will come a little late. You said Mrs. ---- had some thoughts of
sending ---- to school, and wished to know whether the Clergy Daughters'
School at Casterton was an eligible place. My personal knowledge of that
institution is very much out of date, being derived from the experience
of twenty years ago. The establishment was at that time in its infancy,
and a sad rickety infancy it was. Typhus fever decimated the school
periodically; and consumption and scrofula, in every variety of form
bad air and water, bad and insufficient diet can generate, preyed on
the ill-fated pupils. It would not THEN have been a fit place for any
of Mrs. ----'s children; but I understand it is very much altered for
the better since those days. The school is removed from Cowan Bridge
(a situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque--low, damp, beautiful
with wood and water) to Casterton. The accommodations, the diet, the
discipline, the system of tuition--all are, I believe, entirely altered
and greatly improved. I was told that such pupils as behaved well, and
remained at the school till their education was finished, were provided
with situations as governesses, if they wished to adopt the vocation and
much care was exercised in the selection, it was added, that they were
also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on leaving Casterton. . . .
The oldest family in Haworth failed lately, and have quitted the
neighbourhood where their fathers resided before them for, it is said,
thirteen generations. . . . Papa, I am most thankful to say, continues
in very good health, considering his age; his sight, too, rather, I
think, improves than deteriorates. My sisters likewise are pretty well."

But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed household, and gathering
blackness every hour.

On October the 9th, she thus writes:--

"The past three weeks have been a dark interval in our humble home.
Branwell's constitution had been failing fast all the summer; but still,
neither the doctors nor himself thought him so near his end as he was.
He was entirely confined to his bed but for one single day, and was in
the village two days before his death. He died, after twenty minutes'
struggle, on Sunday morning, September 24th. He was perfectly conscious
till the last agony came on. His mind had undergone the peculiar change
which frequently precedes death, two days previously; the calm of better
feelings filled it; a return of natural affection marked his last
moments. He is in God's hands now; and the All-Powerful is likewise
the All-Merciful. A deep conviction that he rests at last--rests well,
after his brief, erring, suffering, feverish life--fills and quiets
my mind now. The final separation, the spectacle of his pale corpse,
gave me more acute bitter pain than I could have imagined. Till the
last hour comes, we never how know much we can forgive, pity, regret a
near relative. All his vices were and are nothing now. We remember only
his woes. Papa was acutely distressed at first, but, on the whole, has
borne the event well. Emily and Anne are pretty well, though Anne is
always delicate, and Emily has a cold and cough at present. It was my
fate to sink at the crisis, when I should have collected my strength.
Headache and sickness came on first on the Sunday; I could not regain
my appetite. Then internal pain attacked me. I became at once much
reduced. It was impossible to touch a morsel. At last, bilious fever
declared itself. I was confined to bed a week,--a dreary week. But,
thank God! health seems now returning. I can sit up all day, and take
moderate nourishment. The doctor said at first, I should be very slow in
recovering, but I seem to get on faster than he anticipated. I am truly
MUCH BETTER."

I have heard, from one who attended Branwell in his last illness, that
he resolved on standing up to die. He had repeatedly said, that as long
as there was life there was strength of will to do what it chose; and
when the last agony came on, he insisted on assuming the position just
mentioned. I have previously stated, that when his fatal attack came on,
his pockets were found filled with old letters from the woman to whom
he was attached. He died! she lives still,--in May Fair. The Eumenides,
I suppose, went out of existence at the time when the wail was heard,
"Great Pan is dead." I think we could better have spared him than those
awful Sisters who sting dead conscience into life.

I turn from her for ever. Let us look once more into the Parsonage at
Haworth.

"Oct. 29th, 1848.

"I think I have now nearly got over the effects of my late illness,
and am almost restored to my normal condition of health. I sometimes
wish that it was a little higher, but we ought to be content with such
blessings as we have, and not pine after those that are out of our
reach. I feel much more uneasy about my sister than myself just now.
Emily's cold and cough are very obstinate. I fear she has pain in her
chest, and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing, when she has
moved at all quickly. She looks very thin and pale. Her reserved nature
occasions me great uneasiness of mind. It is useless to question her;
you get no answers. It is still more useless to recommend remedies; they
are never adopted. Nor can I shut my eyes to Anne's great delicacy of
constitution. The late sad event has, I feel, made me more apprehensive
than common. I cannot help feeling much depressed sometimes. I try
to leave all in God's hands; to trust in His goodness; but faith and
resignation are difficult to practise under some circumstances. The
weather has been most unfavourable for invalids of late; sudden changes
of temperature, and cold penetrating winds have been frequent here.
Should the atmosphere become more settled, perhaps a favourable effect
might be produced on the general health, and these harassing colds and
coughs be removed. Papa has not quite escaped, but he has so far stood
it better than any of us. You must not mention my going to ---- this
winter. I could not, and would not, leave home on any account. Miss ----
has been for some years out of health now. These things make one FEEL,
as well as KNOW, that this world is not our abiding-place. We should not
knit human ties too close, or clasp human affections too fondly. They
must leave us, or we must leave them, one day. God restore health and
strength to all who need it!"

I go on now with her own affecting words in the biographical notice of
her sisters.

"But a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape which to
anticipate is dread; to look back on grief. In the very heat and burden
of the day, the labourers failed over their work. My sister Emily first
declined. . . . Never in all her life had she lingered over any task
that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly.
She made haste to leave us. . . . Day by day, when I, saw with what a
front she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish of wonder and
love: I have seen nothing like it; but, indeed, I have never seen her
parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her
nature stood alone. The awful point was that, while full of ruth for
others, on herself she had no pity; the spirit was inexorable to the
flesh; from the trembling hands, the unnerved limbs, the fading eyes,
the same service was exacted as they had rendered in health. To stand by
and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can
render."

In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday succeeding
Branwell's death. She made no complaint; she would not endure
questioning; she rejected sympathy and help. Many a time did Charlotte
and Anne drop their sewing, or cease from their writing, to listen with
wrung hearts to the failing step, the laboured breathing, the frequent
pauses, with which their sister climbed the short staircase; yet they
dared not notice what they observed, with pangs of suffering even deeper
than hers. They dared not notice it in words, far less by the caressing
assistance of a helping arm or hand. They sat, still and silent.

"Nov. 23rd, 1848.

"I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied yet.
She is VERY ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your impression
would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect I
have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues; the breathing after the
least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompanied by
pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowed it be
to felt, was found to beat 115 per minute. In this state she resolutely
refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation of her feelings,
she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is,
and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God only knows how
all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been forced boldly to
regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable.
But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think Emily seems the nearest
thing to my heart in the world."

When a doctor had been sent for, and was in the very house, Emily
refused to see him. Her sisters could only describe to him what symptoms
they had observed; and the medicines which he sent she would not take,
denying that she was ill.

"Dec. 10th, 1848.

"I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now interests
me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I hardly
know what to think myself. Hope and fear fluctuate daily. The pain in
her side and chest is better; the cough, the shortness of breath, the
extreme emaciation continue. I have endured, however, such tortures
of uncertainty on this subject that, at length, I could endure it
no longer; and as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continues
immutable,--as she declares 'no poisoning doctor' shall come near
her,--I have written unknown to her, to an eminent physician in London,
giving as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as I could draw
up, and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a day or two. I am
thankful to say, that my own health at present is very tolerable. It is
well such is the case; for Anne, with the best will in the world to be
useful, is really too delicate to do or bear much. She, too, at present,
has frequent pains in the side. Papa is also pretty well, though Emily's
state renders him very anxious.

"The ----s (Anne Brontë's former pupils) were here about a week ago.
They are attractive and stylish-looking girls. They seemed overjoyed to
see Anne: when I went into the room, they were clinging round her like
two children--she, meantime, looking perfectly quiet and passive. . . .
I. and H. took it into their heads to come here. I think it probable
offence was taken on that occasion,--from what cause, I know not; and
as, if such be the case, the grudge must rest upon purely imaginary
grounds,--and since, besides, I have other things to think about, my
mind rarely dwells upon the subject. If Emily were but well, I feel
as if I should not care who neglected, misunderstood, or abused me. I
would rather you were not of the number either. The crab-cheese arrived
safely. Emily has just reminded me to thank you for it: it looks very
nice. I wish she were well enough to eat it."

But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Brontë's shiver at
recalling the pang she felt when, after having searched in the little
hollows and sheltered crevices of the moors for a lingering spray of
heather--just one spray, however withered--to take in to Emily, she saw
that the flower was not recognised by the dim and indifferent eyes. Yet,
to the last, Emily adhered tenaciously to her habits of independence.
She would suffer no one to assist her. Any effort to do so roused the
old stern spirit. One Tuesday morning, in December, she arose and
dressed herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for
herself, and even endeavouring to take up her employment of sewing: the
servants looked on, and knew what the catching, rattling breath, and
the glazing of the eye too surely foretold; but she kept at her work;
and Charlotte and Anne, though full of unspeakable dread, had still the
faintest spark of hope. On that morning Charlotte wrote thus--probably
in the very presence of her dying sister:--

"Tuesday.

"I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of hope to
say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician's opinion was
expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine, which she
would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. I pray for
God's support to us all. Hitherto He has granted it."

The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse: she could only whisper in
gasps. Now, when it was too late, she said to Charlotte, "If you will
send for a doctor, I will see him now." About two o'clock she died.

"Dec. 21st, 1848.

"Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will suffer
more in this world. She is gone, after a hard short conflict. She died
on TUESDAY, the very day I wrote to you. I thought it very possible she
might be with us still for weeks; and a few hours afterwards, she was in
eternity. Yes; there is no Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we
put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly under the church pavement.
We are very calm at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of
seeing her suffer is over; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone
by; the funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need now to
tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel them.
She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime.
But it is God's will, and the place where she is gone is better than
that she has left.

"God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, through such agony
as I had not conceived. I now look at Anne, and wish she were well and
strong; but she is neither; nor is papa. Could you now come to us for
a few days? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tell me if you
could come next week, and by what train. I would try to send a gig for
you to Keighley. You will, I trust, find us tranquil. Try to come. I
never so much needed the consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure,
of course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what your
kind heart would teach you to find in doing good to others."

As the old, bereaved father and his two surviving children followed
the coffin to the grave, they were joined by Keeper, Emily's fierce,
faithful bull-dog. He walked alongside of the mourners, and into the
church, and stayed quietly there all the time that the burial service
was being read. When he came home, he lay down at Emily's chamber door,
and howled pitifully for many days. Anne Brontë drooped and sickened
more rapidly from that time; and so ended the year 1848.




CHAPTER III.


An article on "Vanity Fair" and "Jane Eyre" had appeared in the
Quarterly Review of December, 1848. Some weeks after, Miss Brontë
wrote to her publishers, asking why it had not been sent to her; and
conjecturing that it was unfavourable, she repeated her previous
request, that whatever was done with the laudatory, all critiques
adverse to the novel might be forwarded to her without fail. The
Quarterly Review was accordingly sent. I am not aware that Miss Brontë
took any greater notice of the article than to place a few sentences out
of it in the mouth of a hard and vulgar woman in "Shirley," where they
are so much in character, that few have recognised them as a quotation.
The time when the article was read was good for Miss Brontë; she was
numbed to all petty annoyances by the grand severity of Death. Otherwise
she might have felt more keenly than they deserved the criticisms which,
while striving to be severe, failed in logic, owing to the misuse of
prepositions; and have smarted under conjectures as to the authorship
of "Jane Eyre," which, intended to be acute, were merely flippant. But
flippancy takes a graver name when directed against an author by an
anonymous writer. We call it then cowardly insolence.

Every one has a right to form his own conclusion respecting the merits
and demerits of a book. I complain not of the judgment which the
reviewer passes on "Jane Eyre." Opinions as to its tendency varied then,
as they do now. While I write, I receive a letter from a clergyman in
America in which he says: "We have in our sacred of sacreds a special
shelf, highly adorned, as a place we delight to honour, of novels which
we recognise as having had a good influence on character OUR character.
Foremost is 'Jane Eyre.'"

Nor do I deny the existence of a diametrically opposite judgment. And so
(as I trouble not myself about the reviewer's style of composition) I
leave his criticisms regarding the merits of the work on one side. But
when--forgetting the chivalrous spirit of the good and noble Southey,
who said: "In reviewing anonymous works myself, when I have known the
authors I have never mentioned them, taking it for granted they had
sufficient reasons for avoiding the publicity"--the Quarterly reviewer
goes on into gossiping conjectures as to who Currer Bell really is, and
pretends to decide on what the writer may be from the book, I protest
with my whole soul against such want of Christian charity. Not even
the desire to write a "smart article," which shall be talked about in
London, when the faint mask of the anonymous can be dropped at pleasure
if the cleverness of the review be admired--not even this temptation
can excuse the stabbing cruelty of the judgment. Who is he that should
say of an unknown woman: "She must be one who for some sufficient
reason has long forfeited the society of her sex"? Is he one who has
led a wild and struggling and isolated life,--seeing few but plain and
outspoken Northerns, unskilled in the euphuisms which assist the polite
world to skim over the mention of vice? Has he striven through long
weeping years to find excuses for the lapse of an only brother; and
through daily contact with a poor lost profligate, been compelled into a
certain familiarity with the vices that his soul abhors? Has he, through
trials, close following in dread march through his household, sweeping
the hearthstone bare of life and love, still striven hard for strength
to say, "It is the Lord! let Him do what seemeth to Him good"--and
sometimes striven in vain, until the kindly Light returned? If through
all these dark waters the scornful reviewer have passed clear, refined,
free from stain,--with a soul that has never in all its agonies cried
"lama sabachthani,"--still, even then let him pray with the Publican
rather than judge with the Pharisee.

"Jan. 10th, 1849.

"Anne had a very tolerable day yesterday, and a pretty quiet night last
night, though she did not sleep much. Mr. Wheelhouse ordered the blister
to be put on again. She bore it without sickness. I have just dressed
it, and she is risen and come down-stairs. She looks somewhat pale and
sickly. She has had one dose of the cod-liver oil; it smells and tastes
like train oil. I am trying to hope, but the day is windy, cloudy, and
stormy. My spirits fall at intervals very low; then I look where you
counsel me to look, beyond earthly tempests and sorrows. I seem to get
strength, if not consolation. It will not do to anticipate. I feel that
hourly. In the night, I awake and long for morning; then my heart is
wrung. Papa continues much the same; he was very faint when he came down
to breakfast. . . . Dear E----, your friendship is some comfort to me. I
am thankful for it. I see few lights through the darkness of the present
time, but amongst them the constancy of a kind heart attached to me is
one of the most cheering and serene."

"Jan. 15th, 1849.

"I can scarcely say that Anne is worse, nor can I say she is better. She
varies often in the course of a day, yet each day is passed pretty much
the same. The morning is usually the best time; the afternoon and the
evening the most feverish. Her cough is the most troublesome at night,
but it is rarely violent. The pain in her arm still disturbs her. She
takes the cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron regularly; she finds them
both nauseous, but especially the oil. Her appetite is small indeed.
Do not fear that I shall relax in my care of her. She is too precious
not to be cherished with all the fostering strength I have. Papa, I am
thankful to say, has been a good deal better this last day or two.

"As to your queries about myself, I can only say, that if I continue as
I am I shall do very well. I have not yet got rid of the pains in my
chest and back. They oddly return with every change of weather; and are
still sometimes accompanied with a little soreness and hoarseness, but I
combat them steadily with pitch plasters and bran tea. I should think it
silly and wrong indeed not to be regardful of my own health at present;
it would not do to be ill NOW.

"I avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.
This is not the time to regret, dread, or weep. What I have and ought
to do is very distinctly laid out for me; what I want, and pray for,
is strength to perform it. The days pass in a slow, dark march; the
nights are the test; the sudden wakings from restless sleep, the revived
knowledge that one lies in her grave, and another not at my side, but in
a separate and sick bed. However, God is over all."

"Jan. 22nd, 1849.

"Anne really did seem to be a little better during some mild days last
week, but to-day she looks very pale and languid again. She perseveres
with the cod-liver oil, but still finds it very nauseous.

"She is truly obliged to you for the soles for her shoes, and finds
them extremely comfortable. I am to commission you to get her just such
a respirator as Mrs. ---- had. She would not object to give a higher
price, if you thought it better. If it is not too much trouble, you may
likewise get me a pair of soles; you can send them and the respirator
when you send the box. You must put down the price of all, and we will
pay you in a Post Office order. "Wuthering Heights" was given to you. I
have sent ---- neither letter nor parcel. I had nothing but dreary news
to write, so preferred that others should tell her. I have not written
to ---- either. I cannot write, except when I am quite obliged."

"Feb. 11th, 1849.

"We received the box and its contents quite safely to-day. The penwipers
are very pretty, and we are very much obliged to you for them. I hope
the respirator will be useful to Anne, in case she should ever be well
enough to go out again. She continues very much in the same state--I
trust not greatly worse, though she is becoming very thin. I fear
it would be only self-delusion to fancy her better. What effect the
advancing season may have on her, I know not; perhaps the return of
really warm weather may give nature a happy stimulus. I tremble at the
thought of any change to cold wind or frost. Would that March were well
over! Her mind seems generally serene, and her sufferings hitherto are
nothing like Emily's. The thought of what may be to come grows more
familiar to my mind; but it is a sad, dreary guest."

"March 16th, 1849.

"We have found the past week a somewhat trying one; it has not been
cold, but still there have been changes of temperature whose effect
Anne has felt unfavourably. She is not, I trust, seriously worse, but
her cough is at times very hard and painful, and her strength rather
diminished than improved. I wish the month of March was well over. You
are right in conjecturing that I am somewhat depressed; at times I
certainly am. It was almost easier to bear up when the trial was at its
crisis than now. The feeling of Emily's loss does not diminish as time
wears on; it often makes itself most acutely recognised. It brings too
an inexpressible sorrow with it; and then the future is dark. Yet I am
well aware, it will not do either to complain, or sink, and I strive to
do neither. Strength, I hope and trust, will yet be given in proportion
to the burden; but the pain of my position is not one likely to lessen
with habit. Its solitude and isolation are oppressive circumstances,
yet I do not wish for any friends to stay with me; I could not do with
any one--not even you--to share the sadness of the house; it would rack
me intolerably. Meantime, judgment is still blent with mercy. Anne's
sufferings still continue mild. It is my nature, when left alone, to
struggle on with a certain perseverance, and I believe God will help me."

Anne had been delicate all her life; a fact which perhaps made them less
aware than they would otherwise have been of the true nature of those
fatal first symptoms. Yet they seem to have lost but little time before
they sent for the first advice that could be procured. She was examined
with the stethoscope, and the dreadful fact was announced that her
lungs were affected, and that tubercular consumption had already made
considerable progress. A system of treatment was prescribed, which was
afterwards ratified by the opinion of Dr. Forbes.

For a short time they hoped that the disease was arrested.
Charlotte--herself ill with a complaint that severely tried her
spirits--was the ever-watchful nurse of this youngest, last sister. One
comfort was that Anne was the patientest, gentlest invalid that could
be. Still, there were hours, days, weeks of inexpressible anguish to be
borne; under the pressure of which Charlotte could only pray and pray
she did, right earnestly. Thus she writes on March 24th;--

"Anne's decline is gradual and fluctuating; but its nature is not
doubtful. . . . In spirit she is resigned: at heart she is, I believe,
a true Christian. . . . May God support her and all of us through
the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the last hour when
the struggle which separates soul from body must be gone through!
We saw Emily torn from the midst of us when our hearts clung to her
with intense attachment. . . She was scarce buried when Anne's health
failed. . . . These things would be too much, if reason, unsupported by
religion, were condemned to bear them alone. I have cause to be most
thankful for the strength that has hitherto been vouchsafed both to my
father and to myself. God, I think, is especially merciful to old age;
and for my own part, trials, which in perspective would have seemed
to me quite intolerable, when they actually came I endured without
prostration. Yet I must confess that, in the time which has elapsed
since Emily's death, there have been moments of solitary, deep, inert
affliction, far harder to bear than those which immediately followed
our loss. The crisis of bereavement has an acute pang which goads to
exertion; the desolate after-feeling sometimes paralyses. I have learnt
that we are not to find solace in our own strength; we must seek it
in God's omnipotence. Fortitude is good; but fortitude itself must be
shaken under us to teach us how weak we are!"

All through this illness of Anne's, Charlotte had the comfort of being
able to talk to her about her state; a comfort rendered inexpressibly
great by the contrast which it presented to the recollection of Emily's
rejection of all sympathy. If a proposal for Anne's benefit was made,
Charlotte could speak to her about it, and the nursing and dying sister
could consult with each other as to its desirability. I have seen but
one of Anne's letters; it is the only time we seem to be brought into
direct personal contact with this gentle, patient girl. In order to give
the requisite preliminary explanation, I must state that the family of
friends, to which E---- belonged, proposed that Anne should come to
them; in order to try what change of air and diet, and the company of
kindly people could do towards restoring her to health. In answer to
this proposal, Charlotte writes:--

"March 24th.

"I read your kind note to Anne, and she wishes me to thank you sincerely
for your friendly proposal. She feels, of course, that it would not do
to take advantage of it, by quartering an invalid upon the inhabitants
of ----; but she intimates there is another way in which you might
serve her, perhaps with some benefit to yourself as well as to her.
Should it, a month or two hence, be deemed advisable that she should go
either to the sea-side, or to some inland watering-place--and should
papa be disinclined to move, and I consequently obliged to remain at
home--she asks, could you be her companion? Of course I need not add
that in the event of such an arrangement being made, you would be put
to no expense. This, dear E., is Anne's proposal; I make it to comply
with her wish; but for my own part, I must add that I see serious
objections to your accepting it--objections I cannot name to her. She
continues to vary; is sometimes worse, and sometimes better, as the
weather changes; but, on the whole, I fear she loses strength. Papa
says her state is most precarious; she may be spared for some time, or
a sudden alteration might remove her before we are aware. Were such an
alteration to take place while she was far from home, and alone with
you, it would be terrible. The idea of it distresses me inexpressibly,
and I tremble whenever she alludes to the project of a journey. In
short, I wish we could gain time, and see how she gets on. If she leaves
home it certainly should not be in the capricious month of May, which
is proverbially trying to the weak. June would be a safer month. If we
could reach June, I should have good hopes of her getting through the
summer. Write such an answer to this note as I can show Anne. You can
write any additional remarks to me on a separate piece of paper. Do not
consider yourself as confined to discussing only our sad affairs. I am
interested in all that interests you."

FROM ANNE BRONTË

"April 5th, 1849.

"My dear Miss ----,--I thank you greatly for your kind letter, and your
ready compliance with my proposal, as far as the WILL can go at least. I
see, however, that your friends are unwilling that you should undertake
the responsibility of accompanying me under present circumstances. But
I do not think there would be any great responsibility in the matter.
I know, and everybody knows, that you would be as kind and helpful as
any one could possibly be, and I hope I should not be very troublesome.
It would be as a companion, not as a nurse, that I should wish for your
company; otherwise I should not venture to ask it. As for your kind and
often-repeated invitation to ----, pray give my sincere thanks to your
mother and sisters, but tell them I could not think of inflicting my
presence upon them as I now am. It is very kind of them to make so light
of the trouble, but still there must be more or less, and certainly
no pleasure, from the society of a silent invalid stranger. I hope,
however, that Charlotte will by some means make it possible to accompany
me after all. She is certainly very delicate, and greatly needs a change
of air and scene to renovate her constitution. And then your going with
me before the end of May, is apparently out of the question, unless you
are disappointed in your visitors; but I should be reluctant to wait
till then, if the weather would at all permit an earlier departure.
You say May is a trying month, and so say others. The earlier part is
often cold enough, I acknowledge, but, according to my experience, we
are almost certain of some fine warm days in the latter half, when the
laburnums and lilacs are in bloom; whereas June is often cold, and
July generally wet. But I have a more serious reason than this for my
impatience of delay. The doctors say that change of air or removal
to a better climate would hardly ever fail of success in consumptive
cases, if the remedy were taken IN TIME; but the reason why there are
so many disappointments is, that it is generally deferred till it is
too late. Now I would not commit this error; and, to say the truth,
though I suffer much less from pain and fever than I did when you were
with us, I am decidedly weaker, and very much thinner. My cough still
troubles me a good deal, especially in the night, and, what seems worse
than all, I am subject to great shortness of breath on going up-stairs
or any slight exertion. Under these circumstances, I think there is no
time to be lost. I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable,
I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect, in the hope that
you, dear Miss ----, would give as much of your company as you possibly
could to Charlotte, and be a sister to her in my stead. But I wish it
would please God to spare me, not only for papa's and Charlotte's sakes,
but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I
have many schemes in my head for future practice--humble and limited
indeed--but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and
myself to have lived to so little purpose. But God's will be done.
Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and believe me,
dear Miss ----, yours most affectionately,

"ANNE BRONTË."

It must have been about this time that Anne composed her last verses,
before "the desk was closed, and the pen laid aside for ever."

           I.

    "I hoped that with the brave and strong
    My portioned task might lie;
    To toil amid the busy throng,
    With purpose pure and high.

           II.

    "But God has fixed another part,
    And He has fixed it well:
    I said so with my bleeding heart,
    When first the anguish fell.

           III.

    "Thou God, hast taken our delight,
    Our treasured hope, away;
    Thou bid'st us now weep through the night
    And sorrow through the day.

          IV.

    "These weary hours will not be lost,
    These days of misery,--
    These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,--
    Can I but turn to Thee.

          IV.

    "With secret labour to sustain
    In humble patience every blow;
    To gather fortitude from pain,
    And hope and holiness from woe.

          VI.

    "Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
    Whate'er may be my written fate;
    Whether thus early to depart,
    Or yet a while to wait.

          VII.

    "If Thou should'st bring me back to life,
    More humbled I should be;
    More wise--more strengthened for the strife,
    More apt to lean on Thee.

          VIII.

    "Should death be standing at the gate,
    Thus should I keep my vow;
    But, Lord, whatever be my fate,
    Oh let me serve Thee now!"

I take Charlotte's own words as the best record of her thoughts and
feelings during all this terrible time.

"April 12th.

"I read Anne's letter to you; it was touching enough, as you say.
If there were no hope beyond this world,--no eternity, no life
to come,--Emily's fate, and that which threatens Anne, would be
heart-breaking. I cannot forget Emily's death-day; it becomes a more
fixed, a darker, a more frequently recurring idea in my mind than ever.
It was very terrible. She was torn, conscious, panting, reluctant,
though resolute, out of a happy life. But it WILL NOT do to dwell on
these things.

"I am glad your friends object to your going with Anne: it would never
do. To speak truth, even if your mother and sisters had consented, I
never could. It is not that there is any laborious attention to pay
her; she requires, and will accept, but little nursing; but there would
be hazard, and anxiety of mind, beyond what you ought to be subject
to. If, a month or six weeks hence, she continues to wish for a change
as much as she does now, I shall (D. V.) go with her myself. It will
certainly be my paramount duty; other cares must be made subservient to
that. I have consulted Mr. T----: he does not object, and recommends
Scarborough, which was Anne's own choice. I trust affairs may be so
ordered, that you may be able to be with us at least part of the
time. . . . Whether in lodgings or not, I should wish to be boarded.
Providing oneself is, I think, an insupportable nuisance. I don't like
keeping provisions in a cupboard, locking up, being pillaged, and all
that. It is a petty, wearing annoyance."

The progress of Anne's illness was slower than that of Emily's had been;
and she was too unselfish to refuse trying means, from which, if she
herself had little hope of benefit, her friends might hereafter derive a
mournful satisfaction.

"I began to flatter myself she was getting strength. But the change to
frost has told upon her; she suffers more of late. Still her illness has
none of the fearful rapid symptoms which appalled in Emily's case. Could
she only get over the spring, I hope summer may do much for her, and
then early removal to a warmer locality for the winter might, at least,
prolong her life. Could we only reckon upon another year, I should be
thankful; but can we do this for the healthy? A few days ago I wrote
to have Dr. Forbes' opinion. . . . He warned us against entertaining
sanguine hopes of recovery. The cod-liver oil he considers a peculiarly
efficacious medicine. He, too, disapproved of change of residence for
the present. There is some feeble consolation in thinking we are doing
the very best that can be done. The agony of forced, total neglect,
is not now felt, as during Emily's illness. Never may we be doomed
to feel such agony again. It was terrible. I have felt much less of
the disagreeable pains in my chest lately, and much less also of the
soreness and hoarseness. I tried an application of hot vinegar, which
seemed to do good."

"May 1st.

"I was glad to hear that when we go to Scarborough, you will be at
liberty to go with us, but the journey and its consequences still
continue a source of great anxiety to me, I must try to put it off two
or three weeks longer if I can; perhaps by that time the milder season
may have given Anne more strength,perhaps it will be otherwise; I cannot
tell. The change to fine weather has not proved beneficial to her so
far. She has sometimes been so weak, and suffered so much from pain
in the side, during the last few days, that I have not known what to
think. . . . She may rally again, and be much better, but there must be
SOME improvement before I can feel justified in taking her away from
home. Yet to delay is painful; for, as is ALWAYS the case, I believe,
under her circumstances, she seems herself not half conscious of the
necessity for such delay. She wonders, I believe, why I don't talk more
about the journey: it grieves me to think she may even be hurt by my
seeming tardiness. She is very much emaciated,--far more than when you
were with us; her arms are no thicker than a little child's. The least
exertion brings a shortness of breath. She goes out a little every day,
but we creep rather than walk. . . . Papa continues pretty well;--I hope
I shall be enabled to bear up. So far, I have reason for thankfulness to
God."

May had come, and brought the milder weather longed for; but Anne was
worse for the very change. A little later on it became colder, and she
rallied, and poor Charlotte began to hope that, if May were once over,
she might last for a long time. Miss Brontë wrote to engage the lodgings
at Scarborough,--a place which Anne had formerly visited with the family
to whom she was governess. They took a good-sized sitting-room, and an
airy double-bedded room (both commanding a sea-view), in one of the best
situations of the town. Money was as nothing in comparison with life;
besides, Anne had a small legacy left to her by her godmother, and they
felt that she could not better employ this than in obtaining what might
prolong life, if not restore health. On May 16th, Charlotte writes:

"It is with a heavy heart I prepare; and earnestly do I wish the
fatigue of the journey were well over. It may be borne better than I
expect; for temporary stimulus often does much; but when I see the
daily increasing weakness, I know not what to think. I fear you will
be shocked when you see Anne; but be on your guard, dear E----, not to
express your feelings; indeed, I can trust both your self-possession
and your kindness. I wish my judgment sanctioned the step of going to
Scarborough, more fully than it does. You ask how I have arranged about
leaving Papa. I could make no special arrangement. He wishes me to go
with Anne, and would not hear of Mr. N----'s coming, or anything of that
kind; so I do what I believe is for the best, and leave the result to
Providence."

They planned to rest and spend a night at York; and, at Anne's desire,
arranged to make some purchases there. Charlotte ends the letter to her
friend, in which she tells her all this, with--

"May 23rd.

"I wish it seemed less like a dreary mockery in us to talk of buying
bonnets, etc. Anne was very ill yesterday. She had difficulty of
breathing all day, even when sitting perfectly still. To-day she seems
better again. I long for the moment to come when the experiment of the
sea-air will be tried. Will it do her good? I cannot tell; I can only
wish. Oh! if it would please God to strengthen and revive Anne, how
happy we might be together: His will, however, be done!"

The two sisters left Haworth on Thursday, May 24th. They were to
have done so the day before, and had made an appointment with their
friend to meet them at the Leeds Station, in order that they might all
proceed together. But on Wednesday morning Anne was so ill, that it was
impossible for the sisters to set out; yet they had no means of letting
their friend know of this, and she consequently arrived at Leeds station
at the time specified. There she sate waiting for several hours. It
struck her as strange at the time--and it almost seems ominous to her
fancy now--that twice over, from two separate arrivals on the line by
which she was expecting her friends, coffins were carried forth, and
placed in hearses which were in waiting for their dead, as she was
waiting for one in four days to become so.

The next day she could bear suspense no longer, and set out for Haworth,
reaching there just in time to carry the feeble, fainting invalid into
the chaise which stood at the gate to take them down to Keighley. The
servant who stood at the Parsonage gates, saw Death written on her
face, and spoke of it. Charlotte saw it and did not speak of it,--it
would have been giving the dread too distinct a form; and if this last
darling yearned for the change to Scarborough, go she should, however
Charlotte's heart might be wrung by impending fear. The lady who
accompanied them, Charlotte's beloved friend of more than twenty years,
has kindly written out for me the following account of the journey--and
of the end.

"She left her home May 24th, 1849--died May 28th. Her life was calm,
quiet, spiritual: SUCH was her end. Through the trials and fatigues of
the journey, she evinced the pious courage and fortitude of a martyr.
Dependence and helplessness were ever with her a far sorer trial than
hard, racking pain.

"The first stage of our journey was to York; and here the dear invalid
was so revived, so cheerful, and so happy, we drew consolation, and
trusted that at least temporary improvement was to be derived from the
change which SHE had so longed for, and her friends had so dreaded for
her.

"By her request we went to the Minster, and to her it was an
overpowering pleasure; not for its own imposing and impressive grandeur
only, but because it brought to her susceptible nature a vital and
overwhelming sense of omnipotence. She said, while gazing at the
structure, 'If finite power can do this, what is the . . . ?' and here
emotion stayed her speech, and she was hastened to a less exciting scene.

"Her weakness of body was great, but her gratitude for every mercy was
greater. After such an exertion as walking to her bed-room, she would
clasp her hands and raise her eyes in silent thanks, and she did this
not to the exclusion of wonted prayer, for that too was performed on
bended knee, ere she accepted the rest of her couch.

"On the 25th we arrived at Scarborough; our dear invalid having, during
the journey, directed our attention to every prospect worthy of notice.

"On the 26th she drove on the sands for an hour; and lest the poor
donkey should be urged by its driver to a greater speed than her tender
heart thought right, she took the reins, and drove herself. When joined
by her friend, she was charging the boy-master of the donkey to treat
the poor animal well. She was ever fond of dumb things, and would give
up her own comfort for them.

"On Sunday, the 27th, she wished to go to church, and her eye
brightened with the thought of once more worshipping her God amongst
her fellow-creatures. We thought it prudent to dissuade her from the
attempt, though it was evident her heart was longing to join in the
public act of devotion and praise.

"She walked a little in the afternoon, and meeting with a sheltered and
comfortable seat near the beach, she begged we would leave her, and
enjoy the various scenes near at hand, which were new to us but familiar
to her. She loved the place, and wished us to share her preference.

"The evening closed in with the most glorious sunset ever witnessed.
The castle on the cliff stood in proud glory gilded by the rays of
the declining sun. The distant ships glittered like burnished gold;
the little boats near the beach heaved on the ebbing tide, inviting
occupants. The view was grand beyond description. Anne was drawn in her
easy chair to the window, to enjoy the scene with us. Her face became
illumined almost as much as the glorious scene she gazed upon. Little
was said, for it was plain that her thoughts were driven by the imposing
view before her to penetrate forwards to the regions of unfading glory.
She again thought of public worship, and wished us to leave her, and
join those who were assembled at the House of God. We declined, gently
urging the duty and pleasure of staying with her, who was now so dear
and so feeble. On returning to her place near the fire, she conversed
with her sister upon the propriety of returning to their home. She did
not wish it for her own sake, she said she was fearing others might
suffer more if her decease occurred where she was. She probably thought
the task of accompanying her lifeless remains on a long journey was more
than her sister could bear--more than the bereaved father could bear,
were she borne home another, and a third tenant of the family-vault in
the short space of nine months.

"The night was passed without any apparent accession of illness. She
rose at seven o'clock, and performed most of her toilet herself, by her
expressed wish. Her sister always yielded such points, believing it was
the truest kindness not to press inability when it was not acknowledged.
Nothing occurred to excite alarm till about 11 A. M. She then spoke of
feeling a change. She believed she had not long to live. Could she reach
home alive, if we prepared immediately for departure? A physician was
sent for. Her address to him was made with perfect composure. She begged
him to say how long he thought she might live;--not to fear speaking the
truth, for she was not afraid to die. The doctor reluctantly admitted
that the angel of death was already arrived, and that life was ebbing
fast. She thanked him for his truthfulness, and he departed to come
again very soon. She still occupied her easy chair, looking so serene,
so reliant there was no opening for grief as yet, though all knew the
separation was at hand. She clasped her hands, and reverently invoked
a blessing from on high; first upon her sister, then upon her friend,
to whom she said, 'Be a sister in my stead. Give Charlotte as much of
your company as you can.' She then thanked each for her kindness and
attention.

"Ere long the restlessness of approaching death appeared, and she
was borne to the sofa; on being asked if she were easier, she looked
gratefully at her questioner, and said, 'It is not YOU who can give me
ease, but soon all will be well, through the merits of our Redeemer.'
Shortly after this, seeing that her sister could hardly restrain her
grief, she said, 'Take courage, Charlotte; take courage.' Her faith
never failed, and her eye never dimmed till about two o'clock, when
she calmly and without a sigh passed from the temporal to the eternal.
So still, and so hallowed were her last hours and moments. There was
no thought of assistance or of dread. The doctor came and went two or
three times. The hostess knew that death was near, yet so little was the
house disturbed by the presence of the dying, and the sorrow of those
so nearly bereaved, that dinner was announced as ready, through the
half-opened door, as the living sister was closing the eyes of the dead
one. She could now no more stay the welled-up grief of her sister with
her emphatic and dying 'Take courage,' and it burst forth in brief but
agonising strength. Charlotte's affection, however, had another channel,
and there it turned in thought, in care, and in tenderness. There was
bereavement, but there was not solitude;--sympathy was at hand, and it
was accepted. With calmness, came the consideration of the removal of
the dear remains to their home resting-place. This melancholy task,
however, was never performed; for the afflicted sister decided to lay
the flower in the place where it had fallen. She believed that to do so
would accord with the wishes of the departed. She had no preference for
place. She thought not of the grave, for that is but the body's goal,
but of all that is beyond it.

"Her remains rest,

'Where the south sun warms the now dear sod, Where the ocean billows
lave and strike the steep and turf-covered rock.'"

Anne died on the Monday. On the Tuesday Charlotte wrote to her father;
but, knowing that his presence was required for some annual Church
solemnity at Haworth, she informed him that she had made all necessary
arrangements for the interment and that the funeral would take place so
soon, that he could hardly arrive in time for it. The surgeon who had
visited Anne on the day of her death, offered his attendance, but it was
respectfully declined.

Mr. Brontë wrote to urge Charlotte's longer stay at the seaside. Her
health and spirits were sorely shaken; and much as he naturally longed
to see his only remaining child, he felt it right to persuade her to
take, with her friend, a few more weeks' change of scene,--though
even that could not bring change of thought. Late in June the friends
returned homewards,--parting rather suddenly (it would seem) from each
other, when their paths diverged.

"July, 1849.

"I intended to have written a line to you to-day, if I had not received
yours. We did indeed part suddenly; it made my heart ache that we were
severed without the time to exchange a word; and yet perhaps it was
better. I got here a little before eight o'clock. All was clean and
bright waiting for me. Papa and the servants were well; and all received
me with an affection which should have consoled. The dogs seemed in
strange ecstasy. I am certain they regarded me as the harbinger of
others. The dumb creatures thought that as I was returned, those who had
been so long absent were not far behind.

"I left Papa soon, and went into the dining-room: I shut the door--I
tried to be glad that I was come home. I have always been glad
before--except once--even then I was cheered. But this time joy was
not to be the sensation. I felt that the house was all silent--the
rooms were all empty. I remembered where the three were laid--in what
narrow dark dwellings--never more to reappear on earth. So the sense of
desolation and bitterness took possession of me. The agony that WAS to
be undergone, and WAS NOT to be avoided, came on. I underwent it, and
passed a dreary evening and night, and a mournful morrow; to-day I am
better.

"I do not know how life will pass, but I certainly do feel confidence
in Him who has upheld me hitherto. Solitude may be cheered, and made
endurable beyond what I can believe. The great trial is when evening
closes and night approaches. At that hour, we used to assemble in the
dining-room--we used to talk. Now I sit by myself--necessarily I am
silent. I cannot help thinking of their last days, remembering their
sufferings, and what they said and did, and how they looked in mortal
affliction. Perhaps all this will become less poignant in time.

"Let me thank you once more, dear E----, for your kindness to me, which
I do not mean to forget. How did you think all looking at your home?
Papa thought me a little stronger; he said my eyes were not so sunken."

"July 14th, 1849.

"I do not much like giving an account of myself. I like better to go out
of myself, and talk of something more cheerful. My cold, wherever I got
it, whether at Easton or elsewhere, is not vanished yet. It began in my
head, then I had a sore throat, and then a sore chest, with a cough, but
only a trifling cough, which I still have at times. The pain between my
shoulders likewise amazed me much. Say nothing about it, for I confess
I am too much disposed to be nervous. This nervousness is a horrid
phantom. I dare communicate no ailment to Papa; his anxiety harasses me
inexpressibly.

"My life is what I expected it to be. Sometimes when I wake in the
morning, and know that Solitude, Remembrance, and Longing are to be
almost my sole companions all day through--that at night I shall go to
bed with them, that they will long keep me sleepless--that next morning
I shall wake to them again,--sometimes, Nell, I have a heavy heart of
it. But crushed I am not, yet; nor robbed of elasticity, nor of hope,
nor quite of endeavour. I have some strength to fight the battle of
life. I am aware, and can acknowledge, I have many comforts, many
mercies. Still I can GET ON. But I do hope and pray, that never may you,
or any one I love, be placed as I am. To sit in a lonely room--the clock
ticking loud through a still house--and have open before the mind's eye
the record of the last year, with its shocks, sufferings, losses--is a
trial.

"I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear me with
moderation--that you will not take alarm or think me in any way worse
off than I am."




CHAPTER IV.


The tale of "Shirley" had been begun soon after the publication of
"Jane Eyre." If the reader will refer to the account I have given of
Miss Brontë's schooldays at Roe Head, he will there see how every
place surrounding that house was connected with the Luddite riots, and
will learn how stories and anecdotes of that time were rife among the
inhabitants of the neighbouring villages; how Miss Wooler herself,
and the elder relations of most of her schoolfellows, must have known
the actors in those grim disturbances. What Charlotte had heard there
as a girl came up in her mind when, as a woman, she sought a subject
for her next work; and she sent to Leeds for a file of the Mercuries
of 1812, '13, and '14; in order to understand the spirit of those
eventful times. She was anxious to write of things she had known and
seen; and among the number was the West Yorkshire character, for which
any tale laid among the Luddites would afford full scope. In "Shirley"
she took the idea of most of her characters from life, although the
incidents and situations were, of course, fictitious. She thought that
if these last were purely imaginary, she might draw from the real
without detection, but in this she was mistaken; her studies were too
closely accurate. This occasionally led her into difficulties. People
recognised themselves, or were recognised by others, in her graphic
descriptions of their personal appearance, and modes of action and
turns of thought; though they were placed in new positions, and figured
away in scenes far different to those in which their actual life had
been passed. Miss Brontë was struck by the force or peculiarity of the
character of some one whom she knew; she studied it, and analysed it
with subtle power; and having traced it to its germ, she took that germ
as the nucleus of an imaginary character, and worked outwards;--thus
reversing the process of analysation, and unconsciously reproducing
the same external development. The "three curates" were real living
men, haunting Haworth and the neighbouring district; and so obtuse in
perception that, after the first burst of anger at having their ways
and habits chronicled was over, they rather enjoyed the joke of calling
each other by the names she had given them. "Mrs. Pryor" was well known
to many who loved the original dearly. The whole family of the Yorkes
were, I have been assured, almost daguerreotypes. Indeed Miss Brontë
told me that, before publication, she had sent those parts of the novel
in which these remarkable persons are introduced, to one of the sons;
and his reply, after reading it, was simply that "she had not drawn
them strong enough." From those many-sided sons, I suspect, she drew
all that there was of truth in the characters of the heroes in her
first two works. They, indeed, were almost the only young men she knew
intimately, besides her brother. There was much friendship, and still
more confidence between the Brontë family and them,--although their
intercourse was often broken and irregular. There was never any warmer
feeling on either side.

The character of Shirley herself, is Charlotte's representation of
Emily. I mention this, because all that I, a stranger, have been able
to learn about her has not tended to give either me, or my readers,
a pleasant impression of her. But we must remember how little we are
acquainted with her, compared to that sister, who, out of her more
intimate knowledge, says that she "was genuinely good, and truly great,"
and who tried to depict her character in Shirley Keeldar, as what Emily
Brontë would have been, had she been placed in health and prosperity.

Miss Brontë took extreme pains with "Shirley." She felt that the fame
she had acquired imposed upon her a double responsibility. She tried
to make her novel like a piece of actual life,--feeling sure that, if
she but represented the product of personal experience and observation
truly, good would come out of it in the long run. She carefully studied
the different reviews and criticisms that had appeared on "Jane Eyre,"
in hopes of extracting precepts and advice from which to profit.

Down into the very midst of her writing came the bolts of death. She had
nearly finished the second volume of her tale when Branwell died,--after
him Emily,--after her Anne;--the pen, laid down when there were three
sisters living and loving, was taken up when one alone remained. Well
might she call the first chapter that she wrote after this, "The Valley
of the Shadow of Death."

I knew in part what the unknown author of "Shirley" must have suffered,
when I read those pathetic words which occur at the end of this and the
beginning of the succeeding chapter:--

"Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer.

"Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. Night after
night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead; the supplicant
may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul utters when its
appeal is to the Invisible. 'Spare my beloved,' it may implore. 'Heal my
life's life. Rend not from me what long affection entwines with my whole
nature. God of Heaven--bend--hear--be clement!' And after this cry and
strife, the sun may rise and see him worsted. That opening morn, which
used to salute him with the whispers of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks,
may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and
heat have quitted,--'Oh! I have had a suffering night. This morning I
am worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to have
troubled me.'

"Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a new and
strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that the
insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his idol
should be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to the
sentence he cannot avert, and scarce can bear. . . .

"No piteous, unconscious moaning sound--which so wastes our strength
that, even if we have sworn to be firm, a rush of unconquerable tears
sweeps away the oath--preceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy
followed. The first words spoken were not those of one becoming
estranged from this world, and already permitted to stray at times into
realms foreign to the living."

She went on with her work steadily. But it was dreary to write without
any one to listen to the progress of her tale,--to find fault or to
sympathise,--while pacing the length of the parlour in the evenings,
as in the days that were no more. Three sisters had done this,--then
two, the other sister dropping off from the walk,--and now one was left
desolate, to listen for echoing steps that never came,--and to hear the
wind sobbing at the windows, with an almost articulate sound.

But she wrote on, struggling against her own feelings of illness;
"continually recurring feelings of slight cold; slight soreness in the
throat and chest, of which, do what I will," she writes, "I cannot get
rid."

In August there arose a new cause for anxiety, happily but temporary.

"Aug. 23rd, 1849.

"Papa has not been well at all lately. He has had another attack of
bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for some days--more wretched
indeed than I care to tell you. After what has happened, one trembles
at any appearance of sickness; and when anything ails Papa, I feel too
keenly that he is the LAST--the only near and dear relative I have in
the world. Yesterday and to-day he has seemed much better, for which I
am truly thankful. . . .

"From what you say of Mr. ----, I think I should like him very much.
---- wants shaking to be put out about his appearance. What does it
matter whether her husband dines in a dress-coat, or a market-coat,
provided there be worth, and honesty, and a clean shirt underneath?"

"Sept. 10th, 1849.

"My piece of work is at last finished, and despatched to its
destination. You must now tell me when there is a chance of your being
able to come here. I fear it will now be difficult to arrange, as it is
so near the marriage-day. Note well, it would spoil all my pleasure, if
you put yourself or any one else to inconvenience to come to Haworth.
But when it is CONVENIENT, I shall be truly glad to see you. . . . Papa,
I am thankful to say, is better, though not strong. He is often troubled
with a sensation of nausea. My cold is very much less troublesome, I am
sometimes quite free from it. A few days since, I had a severe bilious
attack, the consequence of sitting too closely to my writing; but it is
gone now. It is the first from which I have suffered since my return
from the sea-side. I had them every month before."

"Sept. 13th, 1849.

"If duty and the well-being of others require that you should stay at
home, I cannot permit myself to complain, still, I am very, VERY sorry
that circumstances will not permit us to meet just now. I would without
hesitation come to ----, if Papa were stronger; but uncertain as are
both his health and spirits, I could not possibly prevail on myself to
leave him now. Let us hope that when we do see each other our meeting
will be all the more pleasurable for being delayed. Dear E----, you
certainly have a heavy burden laid on your shoulders, but such burdens,
if well borne, benefit the character; only we must take the GREATEST,
CLOSEST, MOST WATCHFUL care not to grow proud of our strength, in case
we should be enabled to bear up under the trial. That pride, indeed,
would be sign of radical weakness. The strength, if strength we have, is
certainly never in our own selves; it is given us."

To W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ.

"Sept. 21st, 1849.

"My dear Sir,--I am obliged to you for preserving my secret, being at
least as anxious as ever (MORE anxious I cannot well be) to keep quiet.
You asked me in one of your letters lately, whether I thought I should
escape identification in Yorkshire. I am so little known, that I think I
shall. Besides, the book is far less founded on the Real, than perhaps
appears. It would be difficult to explain to you how little actual
experience I have had of life, how few persons I have known, and how
very few have known me.

"As an instance how the characters have been managed, take that of Mr.
Helstone. If this character had an original, it was in the person of
a clergyman who died some years since at the advanced age of eighty.
I never saw him except once--at the consecration of a church--when I
was a child of ten years old. I was then struck with his appearance,
and stern, martial air. At a subsequent period, I heard him talked
about in the neighbourhood where he had resided: some mention him with
enthusiasm--others with detestation. I listened to various anecdotes,
balanced evidence against evidence, and drew an inference. The original
of Mr. Hall I have seen; he knows me slightly; but he would as soon
think I had closely observed him or taken him for a character--he would
as soon, indeed, suspect me of writing a hook--a novel--as he would his
dog, Prince. Margaret Hall called "Jane Eyre" a 'wicked book,' on the
authority of the Quarterly; an expression which, coming from her, I will
here confess, struck somewhat deep. It opened my eyes to the harm the
Quarterly had done. Margaret would not have called it 'wicked,' if she
had not been told so.

"No matter,--whether known or unknown--misjudged, or the contrary,--I
am resolved not to write otherwise. I shall bend as my powers tend. The
two human beings who understood me, and whom I understood, are gone:
I have some that love me yet, and whom I love, without expecting, or
having a right to expect, that they shall perfectly understand me. I am
satisfied; but I must have my own way in the matter of writing. The loss
of what we possess nearest and dearest to us in this world, produces
an effect upon the character we search out what we have yet left that
can support, and, when found, we cling to it with a hold of new-strung
tenacity. The faculty of imagination lifted me when I was sinking, three
months ago; its active exercise has kept my head above water since; its
results cheer me now, for I feel they have enabled me to give pleasure
to others. I am thankful to God, who gave me the faculty; and it is
for me a part of my religion to defend this gift, and to profit by its
possession.--Yours sincerely,

"CHARLOTTE BRONTË."

At the time when this letter was written, both Tabby and the young
servant whom they had to assist her were ill in bed; and, with the
exception of occasional aid, Miss Brontë had all the household work to
perform, as well as to nurse the two invalids.

The serious illness of the younger servant was at its height, when a
cry from Tabby called Miss Brontë into the kitchen, and she found the
poor old woman of eighty laid on the floor, with her head under the
kitchen-grate; she had fallen from her chair in attempting to rise. When
I saw her, two years later, she described to me the tender care which
Charlotte had taken of her at this time; and wound up her account of
"how her own mother could not have had more thought for her nor Miss
Brontë had," by saying, "Eh! she's a good one--she IS!"

But there was one day when the strung nerves gave way--when, as she
says, "I fairly broke down for ten minutes; sat and cried like a fool.
Tabby could neither stand nor walk. Papa had just been declaring that
Martha was in imminent danger. I was myself depressed with headache
and sickness. That day I hardly knew what to do, or where to turn.
Thank God! Martha is now convalescent: Tabby, I trust, will be better
soon. Papa is pretty well. I have the satisfaction of knowing that my
publishers are delighted with what I sent them. This supports me. But
life is a battle. May we all be enabled to fight it well!"

The kind friend, to whom she thus wrote, saw how the poor over-taxed
system needed bracing, and accordingly sent her a shower-bath--a thing
for which she had long been wishing. The receipt of it was acknowledged
as follows:--

"Sept. 28th, 1849. ". . . Martha is now almost well, and Tabby much
better. A huge monster-package, from 'Nelson, Leeds,' came yesterday.
You want chastising roundly and soundly. Such are the thanks you get
for all your trouble. . . . Whenever you come to Haworth, you shall
certainly have a thorough drenching in your own shower-bath. I have not
yet unpacked the wretch.--"Yours, as you deserve,

C. B."

There was misfortune of another kind impending over her. There were
some railway shares, which, so early as 1846, she had told Miss Wooler
she wished to sell, but had kept because she could not persuade her
sisters to look upon the affair as she did, and so preferred running
the risk of loss, to hurting Emily's feelings by acting in opposition
to her opinion. The depreciation of these same shares was now
verifying Charlotte's soundness of judgment. They were in the York and
North-Midland Company, which was one of Mr. Hudson's pet lines, and had
the full benefit of his peculiar system of management. She applied to
her friend and publisher, Mr. Smith, for information on the subject; and
the following letter is in answer to his reply:--

"Oct. 4th, 1849.

"My dear Sir,--I must not THANK you for, but acknowledge the receipt of
your letter. The business is certainly very bad; worse than I thought,
and much worse than my father has any idea of. In fact, the little
railway property I possessed, according to original prices, formed
already a small competency for me, with my views and habits. Now,
scarcely any portion of it can, with security, be calculated upon. I
must open this view of the case to my father by degrees; and, meanwhile,
wait patiently till I see how affairs are likely to turn. . . . However
the matter may terminate, I ought perhaps to be rather thankful than
dissatisfied. When I look at my own case, and compare it with that of
thousands besides, I scarcely see room for a murmur. Many, very many,
are by the late strange railway system deprived almost of their daily
bread. Such then as have only lost provision laid up for the future,
should take care how they complain. The thought that 'Shirley' has given
pleasure at Cornhill, yields me much quiet comfort. No doubt, however,
you are, as I am, prepared for critical severity; but I have good hopes
that the vessel is sufficiently sound of construction to weather a gale
or two, and to make a prosperous voyage for you in the end."

Towards the close of October in this year, she went to pay a visit
to her friend; but her enjoyment in the holiday, which she had so
long promised herself when her work was completed, was deadened by a
continual feeling of ill-health; either the change of air or the foggy
weather produced constant irritation at the chest. Moreover, she was
anxious about the impression which her second work would produce on
the public mind. For obvious reasons an author is more susceptible to
opinions pronounced on the book which follows a great success, than he
has ever been before. Whatever be the value of fame, he has it in his
possession, and is not willing to have it dimmed or lost.

"Shirley" was published on October 26th.

When it came out, but before reading it, Mr. Lewes wrote to tell her of
his intention of reviewing it in the Edinburgh. Her correspondence with
him had ceased for some time: much had occurred since.

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"Nov. 1st, 1849.

"My dear Sir,--It is about a year and a half since you wrote to me; but
it seems a longer period, because since then it has been my lot to pass
some black milestones in the journey of life. Since then there have been
intervals when I have ceased to care about literature and critics and
fame; when I have lost sight of whatever was prominent in my thoughts
at the first publication of 'Jane Eyre;' but now I want these things
to come back vividly, if possible: consequently, it was a pleasure to
receive your note. I wish you did not think me a woman. I wish all
reviewers believed 'Currer Bell' to be a man; they would be more just to
him. You will, I know, keep measuring me by some standard of what you
deem becoming to my sex; where I am not what you consider graceful, you
will condemn me. All mouths will be open against that first chapter; and
that first chapter is true as the Bible, nor is it exceptionable. Come
what will, I cannot, when I write, think always of myself and of what is
elegant and charming in femininity; it is not on those terms, or with
such ideas, I ever took pen in hand: and if it is only on such terms my
writing will be tolerated, I shall pass away from the public and trouble
it no more. Out of obscurity I came, to obscurity I can easily return.
Standing afar off, I now watch to see what will become of 'Shirley.' My
expectations are very low, and my anticipations somewhat sad and bitter;
still, I earnestly conjure you to say honestly what you think; flattery
would be worse than vain; there is no consolation in flattery. As for
condemnation I cannot, on reflection, see why I should much fear it;
there is no one but myself to suffer therefrom, and both happiness and
suffering in this life soon pass away. Wishing you all success in your
Scottish expedition,--I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely,

C. BELL."

Miss Brontë, as we have seen, had been as anxious as ever to preserve
her incognito in "Shirley." She even fancied that there were fewer
traces of a female pen in it than in "Jane Eyre"; and thus, when the
earliest reviews were published, and asserted that the mysterious writer
must be a woman, she was much disappointed. She especially disliked the
lowering of the standard by which to judge a work of fiction, if it
proceeded from a feminine pen; and praise mingled with pseudo-gallant
allusions to her sex, mortified her far more than actual blame.

But the secret, so jealously preserved, was oozing out at last. The
publication of "Shirley" seemed to fix the conviction that the writer
was an inhabitant of the district where the story was laid. And a clever
Haworth man, who had somewhat risen in the world, and gone to settle
in Liverpool, read the novel, and was struck with some of the names
of places mentioned, and knew the dialect in which parts of it were
written. He became convinced that it was the production of some one in
Haworth. But he could not imagine who in that village could have written
such a work except Miss Brontë. Proud of his conjecture, he divulged the
suspicion (which was almost certainty) in the columns of a Liverpool
paper; thus the heart of the mystery came slowly creeping out; and a
visit to London, which Miss Brontë paid towards the end of the year
1849, made it distinctly known. She had been all along on most happy
terms with her publishers; and their kindness had beguiled some of those
weary, solitary hours which had so often occurred of late, by sending
for her perusal boxes of books more suited to her tastes than any she
could procure from the circulating library at Keighley. She often writes
such sentences as the following, in her letters to Cornhill:--

"I was indeed very much interested in the books you sent 'Eckermann's
Conversations with Goethe,' 'Guesses as Truth,' 'Friends in Council,'
and the little work on English social life, pleased me particularly,
and the last not least. We sometimes take a partiality to books as
to characters, not on account of any brilliant intellect or striking
peculiarity they boast, but for the sake of something good, delicate,
and genuine. I thought that small book the production of a lady, and an
amiable, sensible woman, and I liked it. You must not think of selecting
any more works for me yet; my stock is still far from exhausted.

"I accept your offer respecting the 'Athenaeum;' it is a paper I should
like much to see, providing that you can send it without trouble. It
shall be punctually returned."

In a letter to her friend she complains of the feelings of illness from
which she was seldom or never free.

"Nov. 16th, 1849.

You are not to suppose any of the characters in 'Shirley' intended as
literal portraits. It would not suit the rules of art, nor of my own
feelings; to write in that style. We only suffer reality to SUGGEST,
never to DICTATE. The heroines are abstractions and the heroes also.
Qualities I have seen, loved, and admired, are here and there put in
as decorative gems, to be preserved in that sitting. Since you say you
could recognise the originals of all except the heroines, pray whom did
you suppose the two Moores to represent? I send you a couple of reviews;
the one is in the Examiner, written by Albany Fonblanque, who is called
the most brilliant political writer of the day, a man whose dictum is
much thought of in London. The other, in the Standard of Freedom, is
written by William Howitt, a Quaker! . . . I should be pretty well, if
it were not for headaches and indigestion. My chest has been better
lately."

In consequence of this long-protracted state of languor, headache, and
sickness, to which the slightest exposure to cold added sensations of
hoarseness and soreness at the chest, she determined to take the evil
in time, as much for her father's sake as for her own, and to go up to
London and consult some physician there. It was not her first intention
to visit anywhere; but the friendly urgency of her publishers prevailed,
and it was decided that she was to become the guest of Mr. Smith. Before
she went, she wrote two characteristic letters about "Shirley," from
which I shall take a few extracts.

"'Shirley' makes her way. The reviews shower in fast. . . . The best
critique which has yet appeared is in the Revue des deux Mondes, a
sort of European Cosmopolitan periodical, whose head-quarters are at
Paris. Comparatively few reviewers, even in their praise, evince a just
comprehension of the author's meaning. Eugene Forcarde, the reviewer
in question, follows Currer Bell through every winding, discerns every
point, discriminates every shade, proves himself master of the subject,
and lord of the aim. With that man I would shake hands, if I saw him.
I would say, 'You know me, Monsieur; I shall deem it an honour to
know you.' I could not say so much of the mass of the London critics.
Perhaps I could not say so much to five hundred men and women in all
the millions of Great Britain. That matters little. My own conscience I
satisfy first; and having done that, if I further content and delight a
Forsarde, a Fonblanque, and a Thackeray, my ambition has had its ration,
it is fed; it lies down for the present satisfied; my faculties have
wrought a day's task, and earned a day's wages. I am no teacher; to look
on me in that light is to mistake me. To teach is not my vocation. What
I AM, it is useless to say. Those whom it concerns feel and find it
out. To all others I wish only to be an obscure, steady-going, private
character. To you, dear E ----, I wish to be a sincere friend. Give me
your faithful regard; I willingly dispense with admiration."

"Nov. 26th.

"It is like you to pronounce the reviews not good enough, and belongs
to that part of your character which will not permit you to bestow
unqualified approbation on any dress, decoration, etc., belonging to
you. Know that the reviews are superb; and were I dissatisfied with
them, I should be a conceited ape. Nothing higher is ever said, FROM
PERFECTLY DISINTERESTED MOTIVES, of any living authors. If all be well,
I go to London this week; Wednesday, I think. The dress-maker has done
my small matters pretty well, but I wish you could have looked them
over, and given a dictum. I insisted on the dresses being made quite
plainly."

At the end of November she went up to the "big Babylon," and was
immediately plunged into what appeared to her a whirl; for changes, and
scenes, and stimulus which would have been a trifle to others, were
much to her. As was always the case with strangers, she was a little
afraid at first of the family into which she was now received, fancying
that the ladies looked on her with a mixture of respect and alarm; but
in a few days, if this state of feeling ever existed, her simple, shy,
quiet manners, her dainty personal and household ways, had quite done
away with it, and she says that she thinks they begin to like her, and
that she likes them much, for "kindness is a potent heart-winner." She
had stipulated that she should not be expected to see many people. The
recluse life she had led, was the cause of a nervous shrinking from
meeting any fresh face, which lasted all her life long. Still, she
longed to have an idea of the personal appearance and manners of some of
those whose writings or letters had interested her. Mr. Thackeray was
accordingly invited to meet her, but it so happened that she had been
out for the greater part of the morning, and, in consequence, missed
the luncheon hour at her friend's house. This brought on a severe and
depressing headache in one accustomed to the early, regular hours of a
Yorkshire Parsonage; besides, the excitement of meeting, hearing, and
sitting next a man to whom she looked up with such admiration as she did
to the author of "Vanity Fair," was of itself overpowering to her frail
nerves. She writes about this dinner as follows:--

"Dec. 10th, 1849.

"As to being happy, I am under scenes and circumstances of excitement;
but I suffer acute pain sometimes,--mental pain, I mean. At the moment
Mr. Thackeray presented himself, I was thoroughly faint from inanition,
having eaten nothing since a very slight breakfast, and it was then
seven o'clock in the evening. Excitement and exhaustion made savage work
of me that evening. What he thought of me I cannot tell."

She told me how difficult she found it, this first time of meeting Mr.
Thackeray, to decide whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest, and
that she had (she believed) completely misunderstood an inquiry of his,
made on the gentlemen's coming into the drawing-room. He asked her "if
she had perceived the secret of their cigars;" to which she replied
literally, discovering in a minute afterwards, by the smile on several
faces, that he was alluding to a passage in "Jane Eyre". Her hosts took
pleasure in showing her the sights of London. On one of the days which
had been set apart for some of these pleasant excursions, a severe
review of "Shirley" was published in the Times. She had heard that her
book would be noticed by it, and guessed that there was some particular
reason for the care with which her hosts mislaid it on that particular
morning. She told them that she was aware why she might not see the
paper. Mrs. Smith at once admitted that her conjecture was right, and
said that they had wished her to go to the day's engagement before
reading it. But she quietly persisted in her request to be allowed to
have the paper. Mrs. Smith took her work, and tried not to observe the
countenance, which the other tried to hide between the large sheets; but
she could not help becoming aware of tears stealing down the face and
dropping on the lap. The first remark Miss Brontë made was to express
her fear lest so severe a notice should check the sale of the book,
and injuriously affect her publishers. Wounded as she was, her first
thought was for others. Later on (I think that very afternoon) Mr.
Thackeray called; she suspected (she said) that he came to see how she
bore the attack on "Shirley;" but she had recovered her composure, and
conversed very quietly with him: he only learnt from the answer to his
direct inquiry that she had read the Times' article. She acquiesced in
the recognition of herself as the authoress of "Jane Eyre," because she
perceived that there were some advantages to be derived from dropping
her pseudonym. One result was an acquaintance with Miss Martineau.
She had sent her the novel just published, with a curious note, in
which Currer Bell offered a copy of "Shirley" to Miss Martineau, as an
acknowledgment of the gratification he had received from her works. From
"Deerbrook" he had derived a new and keen pleasure, and experienced a
genuine benefit. In HIS mind "Deerbrook," etc.

Miss Martineau, in acknowledging this note and the copy of "Shirley,"
dated her letter from a friend's house in the neighbourhood of Mr.
Smith's residence; and when, a week or two afterwards, Miss Brontë
found how near she was to her correspondent, she wrote, in the name
of Currer Bell, to propose a visit to her. Six o'clock, on a certain
Sunday afternoon (Dec. 10th), was the time appointed. Miss Martineau's
friends had invited the unknown Currer Bell to their early tea; they
were ignorant whether the name was that of a man or a woman; and had
had various conjectures as to sex, age, and appearance. Miss Martineau
had, indeed, expressed her private opinion pretty distinctly by
beginning her reply, to the professedly masculine note referred to
above, with "Dear Madam;" but she had addressed it to "Currer Bell,
Esq." At every ring the eyes of the party turned towards the door. Some
stranger (a gentleman, I think) came in; for an instant they fancied he
was Currer Bell, and indeed an Esq.; he stayed some time--went away.
Another ring; "Miss Brontë was announced; and in came a young-looking
lady, almost child-like in stature, in a deep mourning dress, neat
as a Quaker's, with her beautiful hair smooth and brown, her fine
eyes blazing with meaning and her sensible face indicating a habit
of self-control." She came,--hesitated one moment at finding four or
five people assembled,--then went straight to Miss Martineau with
intuitive recognition, and, with the free-masonry of good feeling and
gentle breeding, she soon became as one of the family seated round the
tea-table; and, before she left, she told them, in a simple, touching
manner, of her sorrow and isolation, and a foundation was laid for her
intimacy with Miss Martineau.

After some discussion on the subject, and a stipulation that she should
not be specially introduced to any one, some gentlemen were invited by
Mr. Smith to meet her at dinner the evening before she left town. Her
natural place would have been at the bottom of the table by her host;
and the places of those who were to be her neighbours were arranged
accordingly; but, on entering the dining-room, she quickly passed up
so as to sit next to the lady of the house, anxious to shelter herself
near some one of her own sex. This slight action arose out of the same
womanly seeking after protection on every occasion, when there w

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