Elizabeth Gaskell.....................................................................................................................................1

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 minutehand came to the point, marking the expiration of the

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. Bronte 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 monotonouslooking houses, in a suburb of the town. From thence the following

"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 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 prideof 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 themnotwithstanding the

illsuccess of their poemsthe 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

thirdCharlotte's contributionis 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 Bronte 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 onevolume tale

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 Bronte 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 Tabbynow nearly eighty years of

agethe 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 Bronte 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 shortsighted 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

The sisters retained the old habit, which was begun in their aunt's lifetime, 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 dailyrecurring 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

"She once told her sisters that they were wrongeven morally wrongin 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 shortsighted to excess, she wrote in little square paperbooks,

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

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 Bronte returned with her father to

They arrived at home about the end of September. Mr. Bronte 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

Soon after this some proposal, of which I have not been able to gain a clear account, was again mooted for

Miss Bronte's opening a school at some place distant from Haworth. It elicited the following fragment of a

"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

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 NorthPole 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 twoedged 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."

"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

abovenamed place; therefore I write. I have also a third reason: it is a haunting terror lest you should

imagine I forget youthat 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

The next year opened with a spell of cold dreary weather, which told severely on a constitution already tried

by anxiety and care. Miss Bronte 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

"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

"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 thirtyone next

birthday. My youth is gone like a dream; and very little use have I ever made of it. What have I done these

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

selfdenying natures. Though they shrank from overmuch contact with their fellowbeings, 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 parishschools 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

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

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

"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

"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

"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

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

"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

Meanwhile, "The Professor" had met with many refusals from different publishers; some, I have reason to

believe, not overcourteously 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

"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 vulgarlyexpressed acceptance would have done. It was added, that a work in three

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

"GentlemenI 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,

A little circumstance may be mentioned here, though it belongs to a somewhat earlier period, as showing

Miss Bronte'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 postagestamp in her letter. She accordingly wrote again, to repair her former

"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

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

While the minds of the three sisters were in this state of suspense, their longexpected 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 amethysttinted 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

Throughout this timeduring all these confidencesnot a word was uttered to their friend of the three tales

in London; two accepted and in the pressone 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

Mr. Bronte, 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

"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 stationhouse 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 Bronte, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire, as there is a risk of letters

otherwise directed not reaching me at present. To save trouble, I enclose an envelope."

While it was in the press, Miss Bronte 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

"I had a very wet, windy walk home from Keighley; but my fatigue quite disappeared when I reached home,

"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 bedroom 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

wellpleased 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 clearheaded 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

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 Bronte felt so strong an admiration; he immediately appreciated, and, in a characteristic note

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

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 fingerposts of professional criticism; and, early in

I will insert two or three of Miss Bronte'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.

"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

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

"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,

"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

bookbut time will show. If "Jane Eyre" has any solid worth in it, it ought to weather a gust of unfavourable

"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

"Gentlemen,The Examiner reached me today; it had been missent on account of the direction, which was

to Currer Bell, care of Miss Bronte. 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 Bronte 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

"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"."

"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

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

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 Charlottewe 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 Bridgewhether 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

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 illsuccess 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 writingand not writing letters. We have seen how the communications from their

publishers were received "under cover to Miss Bronte." Once, Charlotte told me, they overheard the postman

meeting Mr. Bronte, as the latter was leaving the house, and inquiring from the parson where one Currer Bell

could be living, to which Mr. Bronte replied that there was no such person in the parish. This must have been

the misadventure to which Miss Bronte 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.)

"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

"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,

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

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 readingworld 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 muchvexed question

of sex. All in vain. People were content to relax their exertions to satisfy their curiosity, and simply to sit

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. Bronte has sent me. It is

touching to look them over, and see how there is hardly any notice, however short and clumsilyworded, 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 themso 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 wildfire. 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, selfreliant, 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

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 manof his life, age, fortunes, or circumstancesthan she did of

those of Mr. Michael Angelo Titmarsh. The one had placed his name as author upon the titlepage 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 dayas 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 sheetlightning, playing under the

Anne Bronte 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 seaside." 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

Any author of a successful novel is liable to an inroad of letters from unknown readers, containing

commendationsometimes 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 praisesometimes 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 Bronte 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 selfflattery, full of clearsighted 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

"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 novelfor the papers had not yet declared themselvesreceiving 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 Bronte to tell her the delight with which her book

"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; overbright colouring, too, I avoided, and sought to produce something which should be soft,

"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,

"'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

"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

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

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.

"Dear Sir,I have received the Britannia and the Sun, but not the Spectator which I rather regret, as censure,

"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

"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

"The reviewer who noticed the little book of poems, in the Dublin Magazine, conjectured that the soidisant

three personages were in reality but one, who, endowed with an unduly prominent organ of selfesteem, 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 muchtobeastounded public! This was an ingenious thought in the

"A prose work, by Ellis and Acton, will soon appear: it should have been out, indeed, long since; for the first

proofsheets 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 businesslike and gentlemanlike, 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,

"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 reprintnot a reflection of any other

"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

"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

"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 quickgives me deadly painI 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,

In December, 1847, "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" appeared. The firstnamed 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

Bronte 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 countrypeople 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 sunnymore powerful than sportivefound 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 implacableof 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 treeloftier, straighter, widerspreadingand its matured

fruits would have attained a mellower ripeness and sunnier bloom; but on that mind time and experience

Whether justly or unjustly, the productions of the two younger Miss Brontes 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

Henceforward Charlotte Bronte's existence becomes divided into two parallel currentsher life as Currer

Bell, the author; her life as Charlotte Bronte, the woman. There were separate duties belonging to each

characternot 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.

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 Brontes 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

imaginationnot from internal conceptionbut 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

"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

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

"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

"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 masterwhich

will have its own wayputting out of view all behests but its own, dictating certain words, and insisting on

their being used, whether vehement or measured in their nature; newmoulding characters, giving unthought

of turns to incidents, rejecting carefullyelaborated 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

"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 carefullyfenced, highlycultivated

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 wrongor, 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

"Dear Sir,I must write one more note, though I had not intended to trouble you again so soon. I have to

"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

CHARACTER, and one of the writers with the nicest sense of means to an end that ever lived.'

"What I callwhat I will bend to, as a great artist thencannot 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 termsentiment jealously hidden,

but genuine, which extracts the venom from that formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive

"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,

"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,

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

"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 interestingfar 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 bestfar the bestin 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

"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

Let us return from Currer Bell to Charlotte Bronte. 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 churchyard rendered the Parsonage unhealthy, and

occasioned much illness to its inmates. Mr. Bronte 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 hillside, and means

set on foot for obtaining a watersupply to each house, instead of the weary, hardworked housewives

having to carry every bucketful, from a distance of several hundred yards, up a steep street. But he was

baffled by the ratepayers; 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

In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was dethroned. The quick succession of events at that time called forth the

following expression of Miss Bronte's thoughts on the subject, in a letter addressed to Miss Wooler, and

"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 outlived youth; and, though I dare not say that I have

outlived all its illusionsthat the romance is quite gone from lifethe veil fallen from truth, and that I see

both in naked realityyet, 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 frenzyfits 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 thirtytwo. Youth is gonegone,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 Bronte 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 Bronte was an authorhad 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

"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

"All I can say to you about a certain matter is this: the reportif report there beand if the lady, who seems

to have been rather mystified, had not dreamt what she fancied had been told to hermust 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 itif any one has, which I doubtis

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 illbred

thing. The most profound obscurity is infinitely preferable to vulgar notoriety; and that notoriety I neither

seek nor will have. If then any Ban, or Gan, should presume to bore you on the subject,to ask you

what 'novel' Miss Bronte 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 Bronte 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

The reason why Miss Bronte was so anxious to preserve her secret, was, I am told, that she had pledged 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 Bronte's tale of "Agnes Grey", she had been

labouring at a second, "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." It is little known; the subjectthe 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

selfindulgence. She must be honest; she must not varnish, soften, or conceal. This wellmeant 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

In the June of this year, 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall' was sufficiently near its completion to be submitted to

In consequence of his mode of doing business, considerable annoyance was occasioned both to Miss Bronte

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 thitherno 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,

About eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, they arrived at the Chapter Coffeehouse, Paternoster Rowa

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 halfmile 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

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 twentyfour 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

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 twentyfour 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 salvolatile, 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 Bronte resolved

to raise no objections in the acceptance of kindness. So, in spite of headache and weariness, they made haste

Charlotte says, in an account which she gives to her friend of this visit to London, describing the entrance of

"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 twentyfour 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

"On Monday we went to the Exhibition of the Royal Academy, the National Gallery, dined again at Mr.

"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 itmy eyes

stared unnaturally. I was weak and yet restless. In a while, however, these bad effects of excitement went off,

The impression Miss Bronte 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. Halfway up, on the lefthand side, is the Chapter Coffeehouse. I visited

it last June. It was then unoccupied. It had the appearance of a dwellinghouse, 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 Coffeehouse, 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 Coffeehouse, and know all the geniuses there." Here he heard of chances of employment;

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 Coffeeroom. In

Mr. Bronte'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

Brontes to have gone to, from its purely business and masculine aspect. The old "greyhaired 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 upstairs, 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 windowseat, (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

Coffeehouse, to accepting the invitation which Mr. Smith and his mother urged upon them, and, in after

"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 livingthe West End but enjoying its pleasure. At the West End you may be amused;

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 Bronte has mentioned) to drink tea at his house. On the way thither, they had to pass through

Kensington Gardens, and Miss Bronte 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 countrywomen, 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 highstrung courage, on the road between Haworth

and Keighley, hardly thinking of the thunderstorm 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

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

"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

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,

"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 illfated 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 picturesquelow, damp, beautiful with

wood and water) to Casterton. The accommodations, the diet, the discipline, the system of tuitionall 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

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

"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 AllPowerful is likewise the AllMerciful. A deep conviction that he rests at

lastrests well, after his brief, erring, suffering, feverish lifefills 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

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

"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 abidingplace. 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

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

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.

"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,

"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 Bronte's former pupils) were here about a week ago. They are attractive and

stylishlooking girls. They seemed overjoyed to see Anne: when I went into the room, they were clinging

round her like two childrenshe, 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 crabcheese arrived safely. Emily has just reminded me to thank you for it: it looks very nice. I

But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Bronte'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

heatherjust one spray, however witheredto 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

"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

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.

"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

"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,

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 bulldog. 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 Bronte drooped and sickened more rapidly

An article on "Vanity Fair" and "Jane Eyre" had appeared in the Quarterly Review of December, 1848. Some

weeks after, Miss Bronte 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 Bronte 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 Bronte; 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

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

whenforgetting 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 admirednot 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

"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 downstairs. She looks somewhat pale and sickly. She has had one dose of the

codliver 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

"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 codliver 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

"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

"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

"Anne really did seem to be a little better during some mild days last week, but today she looks very pale

and languid again. She perseveres with the codliver 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

"We received the box and its contents quite safely today. 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 stateI trust not greatly worse, though she is

becoming very thin. I fear it would be only selfdelusion 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

"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 onenot even youto 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

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

For a short time they hoped that the disease was arrested. Charlotteherself ill with a complaint that

severely tried her spiritswas the everwatchful 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.

"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 afterfeeling 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

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

"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 seaside, or to some inland wateringplaceand should papa be disinclined to move, and I consequently

obliged to remain at homeshe 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 itobjections 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."

"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 oftenrepeated 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 upstairs 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 practicehumble and limited indeedbut 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,

It must have been about this time that Anne composed her last verses, before "the desk was closed, and the

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

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

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

"These weary hours will not be lost, These days of misery, These nights of darkness, anguishtost, Can

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

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

"If Thou should'st bring me back to life, More humbled I should be; More wisemore strengthened for the

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

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

"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

heartbreaking. I cannot forget Emily's deathday; 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

"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.

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

"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 codliver 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

"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

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 Bronte 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 goodsized sittingroom, and

an airy doublebedded room (both commanding a seaview), 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

"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 selfpossession 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

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

"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. Today she seems better again. I

long for the moment to come when the experiment of the seaair 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

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 timeand it almost seems

ominous to her fancy nowthat 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,

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

"She left her home May 24th, 1849died 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

"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 bedroom, 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

"On the 25th we arrived at Scarborough; our dear invalid having, during the journey, directed our attention to

"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 boymaster of the donkey to treat the poor animal well. She was ever fond of

"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 fellowcreatures. 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

"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 bearmore than the bereaved father could bear, were she borne home

another, and a third tenant of the familyvault 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 halfopened door, as the living sister was closing the eyes of the dead one.

She could now no more stay the welledup 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 restingplace. 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

'Where the south sun warms the now dear sod, Where the ocean billows lave and strike the steep and

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

Mr. Bronte 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

"I intended to have written a line to you today, 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,

"I left Papa soon, and went into the diningroom: I shut the doorI tried to be glad that I was come home. I

have always been glad beforeexcept onceeven then I was cheered. But this time joy was not to be the

sensation. I felt that the house was all silentthe rooms were all empty. I remembered where the three were

laidin what narrow dark dwellingsnever 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; today 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 diningroomwe used to talk. Now I

sit by myselfnecessarily 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

"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."

"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;

"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 throughthat at night I shall go to

bed with them, that they will long keep me sleeplessthat 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 roomthe clock ticking loud through a still

houseand have open before the mind's eye the record of the last year, with its shocks, sufferings,

"I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear me with moderationthat you will not take alarm or

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 Bronte'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 Bronte 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 Bronte 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 manysided

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 Bronte family and them,although their intercourse was

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 Bronte would have been, had she been placed in health

Miss Bronte 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

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

I knew in part what the unknown author of "Shirley" must have suffered, when I read those pathetic words

"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 Heavenbendhearbe 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

"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 soundwhich so wastes our strength that, even if we have sworn to be

firm, a rush of unconquerable tears sweeps away the oathpreceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy

followed. The first words spoken were not those of one becoming estranged from this world, and already

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

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."

"Papa has not been well at all lately. He has had another attack of bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for

some daysmore 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 LASTthe only near

and dear relative I have in the world. Yesterday and today he has seemed much better, for which I am truly

"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 dresscoat, or a marketcoat,

"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

marriageday. 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

"If duty and the wellbeing 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 certain]y 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

"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 onceat the consecration of a churchwhen 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 enthusiasmothers 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

characterhe would as soon, indeed, suspect me of writing a hooka novelas 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

"No matter,whether known or unknownmisjudged, 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

newstrung 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

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 Bronte had all the household work to perform, as

The serious illness of the younger servant was at its height, when a cry from Tabby called Miss Bronte into

the kitchen, and she found the poor old woman of eighty laid on the floor, with her head under the

kitchengrate; 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 Bronte had," by saying, "Eh! she's a

But there was one day when the strung nerves gave waywhen, 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 batha thing for which she had long been wishing. The receipt of it was

"Sept. 28th, 1849. ". . . Martha is now almost well, and Tabby much better. A huge monsterpackage, 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 showerbath. 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 NorthMidland 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:

"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

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 illhealth; 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

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.

"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,

Miss Bronte, 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 pseudogallant allusions to her sex, mortified her

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 Bronte. 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 Bronte 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.

"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

"I accept your offer respecting the 'Athenaeum;' it is a paper I should like much to see, providing that you can

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

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

In consequence of this longprotracted 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

"'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, steadygoing, private character. To you, dear E , I wish to be a sincere friend.

"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 dressmaker 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 heartwinner." 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

"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

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 drawingroom. 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 Bronte 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 Bronte 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 timewent away. Another ring; "Miss Bronte was

announced; and in came a younglooking lady, almost childlike 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 selfcontrol." She came,hesitated one moment at finding four or five people

assembled,then went straight to Miss Martineau with intuitive recognition, and, with the freemasonry of

good feeling and gentle breeding, she soon became as one of the family seated round the teatable; and,

before she left, she told them, in a simple, touching manner, of her sorrow and isolation, and a foundation

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 diningroom, 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 was no moral duty involved

in asserting her independence, that made her about this time write as follows: "Mrs. watches me very

narrowly when surrounded by strangers. She never takes her eye from me. I like the surveillance; it seems to

Respecting this particular dinnerparty she thus wrote to the Brussels schoolfellow of former days, whose

"The evening after I left you passed better than I expected. Thanks to my substantial lunch and cheering cup

of coffee, I was able to wait the eight o'clock dinner with complete resignation, and to endure its length quite

courageously, nor was I too much exhausted to converse; and of this I was glad, for otherwise I know my

kind host and hostess would have been much disappointed. There were only seven gentlemen at dinner

besides Mr. Smith, but of these five were criticsmen more dreaded in the world of letters than you can

conceive. I did not know how much their presence and conversation had excited me till they were gone, and

the reaction commenced. When I had retired for the night, I wished to sleepthe effort to do so was vain. I

could not close my eyes. Night passed; morning came, and I rose without having known a moment's slumber.

So utterly worn out was I when I got to Derby, that I was again obliged to stay there all night."

"Here I am at Haworth once more. I feel as if I had come out of an exciting whirl. Not that the hurry and

stimulus would have seemed much to one accustomed to society and change, but to me they were very

marked. My strength and spirits too often proved quite insufficient to the demand on their exertions. I used to

bear up as long as I possibly could, for, when I flagged, I could see Mr. Smith became disturbed; he always

thought that something had been said or done to annoy mewhich never once happened, for I met with

perfect good breeding even from antagonistsmen who had done their best or worst to write me down. I

explained to him over and over again, that my occasional silence was only failure of the power to talk, never

"Thackeray is a Titan of mind. His presence and powers impress one deeply in an intellectual sense; I do not

see him or know him as a man. All the others are subordinate. I have esteem for some, and, I trust, courtesy

for all. I do not, of course, know what they thought of me, but I believe most of them expected me to come

out in a more marked, eccentric, striking light. I believe they desired more to admire and more to blame. I felt

sufficiently at my ease with all but Thackeray; with him I was fearfully stupid."

She returned to her quiet home, and her noiseless daily duties. Her father had quite enough of the spirit of

heroworship in him to make him take a vivid pleasure in the accounts of what she had heard and whom she

had seen. It was on the occasion of one of her visits to London that he had desired her to obtain a sight of

Prince Albert's armoury, if possible. I am not aware whether she managed to do this; but she went to one or

two of the great national armouries in order that she might describe the stern steel harness and glittering

swords to her father, whose imagination was forcibly struck by the idea of such things; and often afterwards,

when his spirits flagged and the languor of old age for a time got the better of his indomitable nature, she

would again strike on the measure wild, and speak about the armies of strange weapons she had seen in

London, till he resumed his interest in the old subject, and was his own keen, warlike, intelligent self again.

Her life at Haworth was so unvaried that the postman's call was the event of her day. Yet she dreaded the

great temptation of centring all her thoughts upon this one time, and losing her interest in the smaller hopes

and employments of the remaining hours. Thus she conscientiously denied herself the pleasure of writing

letters too frequently, because the answers (when she received them) took the flavour out of the rest of her

life; or the disappointment, when the replies did not arrive, lessened her energy for her home duties.

The winter of this year in the north was hard and cold; it affected Miss Bronte's health less than usual,

however, probably because the change and the medical advice she had taken in London had done her good;

probably, also, because her friend had come to pay her a visit, and enforced that attention to bodily symptoms

which Miss Bronte was too apt to neglect, from a fear of becoming nervous herself about her own state and

thus infecting her father. But she could scarcely help feeling much depressed in spirits as the anniversary of

her sister Emily's death came round; all the recollections connected with it were painful, yet there were no

outward events to call off her attention, and prevent them from pressing hard upon her. At this time, as at

many others, I find her alluding in her letters to the solace which she found in the books sent her from

"What, I sometimes ask, could I do without them? I have recourse to them as to friends; they shorten and

cheer many an hour that would be too long and too desolate otherwise; even when my tired sight will not

permit me to continue reading, it is pleasant to see them on the shelf, or on the table. I am still very rich, for

my stock is far from exhausted. Some other friends have sent me books lately. The perusal of Harriet

Martineau's 'Eastern Life' has afforded me great pleasure; and I have found a deep and interesting subject of

study in Newman's work on the Soul. Have you read this work? It is daring,it may be mistaken,but it is

pure and elevated. Froude's 'Nemesis of Faith' I did not like; I thought it morbid; yet in its pages, too, are

By this time, "Airedale, Wharfedale, Calderdale, and Ribblesdale" all knew the place of residence of Currer

Bell. She compared herself to the ostrich hiding its head in the sand; and says that she still buries hers in the

heath of Haworth moors; but "the concealment is but selfdelusion." Indeed it was. Far and wide in the West

Riding had spread the intelligence that Currer Bell was no other than a daughter of the venerable clergyman

"Mr. , having finished 'Jane Eyre,' is now crying out for the 'other book;' he is to have it next week. . . .

Mr. R has finished 'Shirley;' he is delighted with it. John 's wife seriously thought him gone

wrong in the head, as she heard him giving vent to roars of laughter as he sat alone, clapping and stamping on

the floor. He would read all the scenes about the curates aloud to papa." . . . "Martha came in yesterday,

puffing and blowing, and much excited. 'I've heard sich news!' she began. 'What about?' 'Please, ma'am,

you've been and written two books the grandest books that ever was seen. My father has heard it at

Halifax, and Mr. G T and Mr. G and Mr. M at Bradford; and they are going to have a

meeting at the Mechanics' Institute, and to settle about ordering them.' 'Hold your tongue, Martha, and be off.'

I fell into a cold sweat. "Jane Eyre" will be read by J B, by Mrs. T, and B. Heaven

help, keep, and deliver me!" . . . "The Haworth people have been making great fools of themselves about

Shirley; they have taken it in an enthusiastic light. When they got the volumes at the Mechanics' Institute, all

the members wanted them. They cast lots for the whole three, and whoever got a volume was only allowed to

keep it two days, and was to be fined a shilling per diem for longer detention. It would be mere nonsense and

The tone of these extracts is thoroughly consonant with the spirit of Yorkshire and Lancashire people, who

try as long as they can to conceal their emotions of pleasure under a bantering exterior, almost as if making

fun of themselves. Miss Bronte was extremely touched in the secret places of her warm heart by the way in

which those who had known her from her childhood were proud and glad of her success. All round about the

news had spread; strangers came "from beyond Burnley" to see her, as she went quietly and unconsciously

But there were drawbacks to this hearty and kindly appreciation which was so much more valuable than

fame. The January number of the Edinburgh Review had contained the article on Shirley, of which her

correspondent, Mr. Lewes, was the writer. I have said that Miss Bronte was especially anxious to be criticised

as a writer, without relation to her sex as a woman. Whether right or wrong, her feeling was strong on this

point. Now in this review of Shirley, the heading of the first two pages ran thus: "Mental Equality of the

Sexes?" "Female Literature," and through the whole article the fact of the author's sex is never forgotten.

A few days after the review appeared, Mr. Lewes received the following note,rather in the style of Anne

In some explanatory notes on her letters to him, with which Mr. Lewes has favoured me, he says:

"Seeing that she was unreasonable because angry, I wrote to remonstrate with her on quarrelling with the

severity or frankness of a review, which certainly was dictated by real admiration and real friendship; even

"My dear Sir,I will tell you why I was so hurt by that review in the Edinburgh; not because its criticism

was keen or its blame sometimes severe; not because its praise was stinted (for, indeed, I think you give me

quite as much praise as I deserve), but because after I had said earnestly that I wished critics would judge me

as an AUTHOR, not as a woman, you so roughlyI even thought so cruellyhandled the question of sex. I

dare say you meant no harm, and perhaps you will not now be able to understand why I was so grieved at

what you will probably deem such a trifle; but grieved I was, and indignant too.

"However, I will not bear malice against you for it; I know what your nature is: it is not a bad or unkind one,

though you would often jar terribly on some feelings with whose recoil and quiver you could not possibly

sympathise. I imagine you are both enthusiastic and implacable, as you are at once sagacious and careless;

you know much and discover much, but you are in such a hurry to tell it all you never give yourself time to

think how your reckless eloquence may affect others; and, what is more, if you knew how it did affect them,

"However, I shake hands with you: you have excellent points; you can be generous. I still feel angry, and

think I do well to be angry; but it is the anger one experiences for rough play rather than for foul play.I am

As Mr. Lewes says, "the tone of this letter is cavalier." But I thank him for having allowed me to publish

what is so characteristic of one phase of Miss Bronte's mind. Her health, too, was suffering at this time. "I

don't know what heaviness of spirit has beset me of late" (she writes, in pathetic words, wrung out of the

sadness of her heart), "made my faculties dull, made rest weariness, and occupation burdensome. Now and

then, the silence of the house, the solitude of the room, has pressed on me with a weight I found it difficult to

bear, and recollection has not failed to be as alert, poignant, obtrusive, as other feelings were languid. I

attribute this state of things partly to the weather. Quicksilver invariably falls low in storms and high winds,

and I have ere this been warned of approaching disturbance in the atmosphere by a sense of bodily weakness,

and deep, heavy mental sadness, such as some would call PRESENTIMENT,presentiment indeed it is, but

not at all supernatural. . . . I cannot help feeling something of the excitement of expectation till the post hour

comes, and when, day after day, it brings nothing, I get low. This is a stupid, disgraceful, unmeaning state of

things. I feel bitterly vexed at my own dependence and folly; but it is so bad for the mind to be quite alone,

and to have none with whom to talk over little crosses and disappointments, and to laugh them away. If I

could write, I dare say I should be better, but I cannot write a line. However (by God's help), I will contend

"I had rather a foolish letter the other day from . Some things in it nettled me, especially an

unnecessarily earnest assurance that, in spite of all I had done in the writing line, I still retained a place in her

esteem. My answer took strong and high ground at once. I said I had been troubled by no doubts on the

subject; that I neither did her nor myself the injustice to suppose there was anything in what I had written to

"A few days since, a little incident happened which curiously touched me. Papa put into my hands a little

packet of letters and papers,telling me that they were mamma's, and that I might read them. I did read

them, in a frame of mind I cannot describe. The papers were yellow with time, all having been written before

I was born it was strange now to peruse, for the first time, the records of a mind whence my own sprang; and

most strange, and at once sad and sweet, to find that mind of a truly fine, pure, and elevated order. They were

written to papa before they were married. There is a rectitude, a refinement a constancy, a modesty, a sense, a

gentleness about them indescribable. I wished that she had lived, and that I had known her. . . . All through

this month of February, I have had a crushing time of it. I could not escape from or rise above certain most

mournful recollections,the last days, the sufferings, the remembered wordsmost sorrowful to me, of

those who, Faith assures me, are now happy. At evening and bedtime, such thoughts would haunt me,

The reader may remember the strange prophetic vision, which dictated a few words, written on the occasion

"Wherever I seek for her now in this world, she cannot be found; no more than a flower or a leaf which

withered twenty years ago. A bereavement of this kind gives one a glimpse of the feeling those must have,

who have seen all drop round themfriend after friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone."

to wear, with slow dropping but perpetual pain, upon their spirits, the nerves and appetite will give way in

solitude. How much more must it have been so with Miss Bronte, delicate and frail in constitution, tried by

much anxiety and sorrow in early life, and now left to face her life alone. Owing to Mr. Bronte's great age,

and longformed habits of solitary occupation when in the house, his daughter was left to herself for the

greater part of the day. Ever since his serious attacks of illness, he had dined alone; a portion of her dinner,

regulated by strict attention to the diet most suitable for him, being taken into his room by herself. After

dinner she read to him for an hour or so, as his sight was too weak to allow of his reading long to himself. He

was out of doors among his parishioners for a good part of each day; often for a longer time than his strength

would permit. Yet he always liked to go alone, and consequently her affectionate care could be no check

upon the length of his walks to the more distant hamlets which were in his cure. He would come back

occasionally utterly fatigued; and be obliged to go to bed, questioning himself sadly as to where all his

former strength of body had gone to. His strength of will was the same as ever. That which he resolved to do

he did, at whatever cost of weariness; but his daughter was all the more anxious from seeing him so

regardless of himself and his health. The hours of retiring for the night had always been early in the

Parsonage; now family prayers were at eight o'clock; directly after which Mr. Bronte and old Tabby went to

bed, and Martha was not long in following. But Charlotte could not have slept if she had gone,could not

have rested on her desolate couch. She stopped up,it was very tempting,late and later, striving to beguile

the lonely night with some employment, till her weak eyes failed to read or to sew, and could only weep in

solitude over the dead that were not. No one on earth can even imagine what those hours were to her. All the

grim superstitions of the North had been implanted in her during her childhood by the servants, who believed

in them. They recurred to her now,with no shrinking from the spirits of the Dead, but with such an intense

longing once more to stand face to face with the souls of her sisters, as no one but she could have felt. It

seemed as if the very strength of her yearning should have compelled them to appear. On windy nights, cries,

and sobs, and wailings seemed to go round the house, as of the dearlybeloved striving to force their way to

her. Some one conversing with her once objected, in my presence, to that part of "Jane Eyre" in which she

hears Rochester's voice crying out to her in a great crisis of her life, he being many, many miles distant at the

time. I do not know what incident was in Miss Bronte's recollection when she replied, in a low voice, drawing

The reader, who has even faintly pictured to himself her life at this time,the solitary days,the waking,

watching nights,may imagine to what a sensitive pitch her nerves were strung, and how such a state was

It was no bad thing for her that about this time various people began to go over to Haworth, curious to see the

scenery described in "Shirley," if a sympathy with the writer, of a more generous kind than to be called mere

curiosity, did not make them wish to know whether they could not in some way serve or cheer one who had

Among this number were Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth. Their house lies over the crest of the moors

which rise above Haworth, at about a dozen miles' distance as the crow flies, though much further by the

road. But, according to the acceptation of the word in that uninhabited district, they were neighbours, if they

so willed it. Accordingly, Sir James and his wife drove over one morning, at the beginning of March, to call

upon Miss Bronte and her father. Before taking leave, they pressed her to visit them at Gawthorpe Hall, their

residence on the borders of East Lancashire. After some hesitation, and at the urgency of her father, who was

extremely anxious to procure for her any change of scene and society that was offered, she consented to go.

On the whole, she enjoyed her visit very much, in spite of her shyness, and the difficulty she always

experienced in meeting the advances of those strangers whose kindness she did not feel herself in a position

She took great pleasure in the "quiet drives to old ruins and old halls, situated among older hills and woods;

the dialogues by the old fireside in the antique oakpanneled drawingroom, while they suited him, did not

too much oppress and exhaust me. The house, too, is much to my taste; near three centuries old, grey, stately,

and picturesque. On the whole, now that the visit is over, I do not regret having paid it. The worst of it is, that

there is now some menace hanging over my head of an invitation to go to them in London during the season.

This, which would be a great enjoyment to some people, is a perfect terror to me. I should highly prize the

advantages to be gained in an extended range of observation; but I tremble at the thought of the price I must

On the same day on which she wrote the above, she sent the following letter to Mr. Smith.

"I return Mr. H's note, after reading it carefully. I tried very hard to understand all he says about art; but,

to speak truth, my efforts were crowned with incomplete success. There is a certain jargon in use amongst

critics on this point through which it is physically and morally impossible to me to see daylight. One thing

however, I see plainly enough, and that is, Mr. Currer Bell needs improvement, and ought to strive after it;

and this (D. V.) he honestly intends to dotaking his time, however, and following as his guides Nature and

Truth. If these lead to what the critics call art, it is all very well; but if not, that grand desideratum has no

chance of being run after or caught. The puzzle is, that while the people of the South object to my delineation

of Northern life and manners, the people of Yorkshire and Lancashire approve. They say it is precisely the

contrast of rough nature with highly artificial cultivation which forms one of their main characteristics. Such,

or something very similar, has been the observation made to me lately, whilst I have been from home, by

members of some of the ancient East Lancashire families, whose mansions lie on the hilly borderland

between the two counties. The question arises, whether do the London critics, or the old Northern squires,

"Any promise you require respecting the books shall be willingly given, provided only I am allowed the

Jesuit's principle of a mental reservation, giving licence to forget and promise whenever oblivion shall appear

expedient. The last two or three numbers of Pendennis will not, I dare say, be generally thought sufficiently

exciting, yet I like them. Though the story lingers, (for me) the interest does not flag. Here and there we feel

that the pen has been guided by a tired hand, that the mind of the writer has been somewhat chafed and

depressed by his recent illness, or by some other cause; but Thackeray still proves himself greater when he is

weary than other writers are when they are fresh. The public, of course, will have no compassion for his

fatigue, and make no allowance for the ebb of inspiration; but some truehearted readers here and there,

while grieving that such a man should be obliged to write when he is not in the mood, will wonder that, under

such circumstances, he should write so well. The parcel of books will come, I doubt not, at such time as it

shall suit the good pleasure of the railway officials to send it on,or rather to yield it up to the repeated and

humble solicitations of Haworth carriers;till when I wait in all reasonable patience and resignation, looking

with docility to that model of active selfhelpfulness Punch friendly offers the 'Women of England,' in his

The books lent her by her publishers were, as I have before said, a great solace and pleasure to her. There was

much interest in opening the Cornhill parcel. But there was pain too; for, as she untied the cords, and took out

the volumes one by one, she could scarcely fail to be reminded of those who once, on similar occasions,

looked on so eagerly. "I miss familiar voices, commenting mirthfully and pleasantly; the room seems very

still very empty; but yet there is consolation in remembering that Papa will take pleasure in some of the

books. Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste." She goes on to make

"I wonder how you can choose so well; on no account would I forestall the choice. I am sure any selection I

might make for myself would be less satisfactory than the selection others so kindly and judiciously make for

me; besides, if I knew all that was coming, it would be comparatively flat. I would much rather not know.

"Amongst the especially welcome works are 'Southey's Life', the 'Women of France,' Hazlitt's 'Essays,'

Emerson's 'Representative Men;' but it seems invidious to particularise when all are good. . . . I took up a

second small book, Scott's 'Suggestions on Female Education;' that, too, I read, and with unalloyed pleasure.

It is very good; justly thought, and clearly and felicitously expressed. The girls of this generation have great

advantages; it seems to me that they receive much encouragement in the acquisition of knowledge, and the

cultivation of their minds; in these days, women may be thoughtful and well read, without being universally

stigmatised as 'Blues' and 'Pedants.' Men begin to approve and aid, instead of ridiculing or checking them in

their efforts to be wise. I must say that, for my own part, whenever I have been so happy as to share the

conversation of a really intellectual man, my feeling has been, not that the little I knew was accounted a

superfluity and impertinence, but that I did not know enough to satisfy just expectation. I have always to

explain, 'In me you must not look for great attainments: what seems to you the result of reading and study is

chiefly spontaneous and intuitive.' . . . Against the teaching of some (even clever) men, one instinctively

revolts. They may possess attainments, they may boast varied knowledge of life and of the world; but if of the

finer perceptions, of the more delicate phases of feeling, they be destitute and incapable, of what avail is the

rest? Believe me, while hints well worth consideration may come from unpretending sources, from minds not

highly cultured, but naturally fine and delicate, from hearts kindly, feeling, and unenvious, learned dictums

delivered with pomp and sound may be perfectly empty, stupid, and contemptible. No man ever yet 'by aid of

Greek climbed Parnassus,' or taught others to climb it. . . . I enclose for your perusal a scrap of paper which

came into my hands without the knowledge of the writer. He is a poor working man of this villagea

thoughtful, reading, feeling being, whose mind is too keen for his frame, and wears it out. I have not spoken

to him above thrice in my life, for he is a Dissenter, and has rarely come in my way. The document is a sort

of record of his feelings, after the perusal of "Jane Eyre;" it is artless and earnest; genuine and generous. You

must return it to me, for I value it more than testimonies from higher sources. He said, 'Miss Bronte, if she

knew he had written it, would scorn him;' but, indeed, Miss Bronte does not scorn him; she only grieves that

a mind of which this is the emanation, should be kept crushed by the leaden hand of povertyby the trials of

"As to the Times, as you say, the acrimony of its critique has proved, in some measure, its own antidote; to

have been more effective, it should have been juster. I think it has had little weight up here in the North it

may be that annoying remarks, if made, are not suffered to reach my ear; but certainly, while I have heard

little condemnatory of Shirley, more than once have I been deeply moved by manifestations of even

enthusiastic approbation. I deem it unwise to dwell much on these matters; but for once I must permit myself

to remark, that the generous pride many of the Yorkshire people have taken in the matter, has been such as to

awake and claim my gratitudeespecially since it has afforded a source of reviving pleasure to my father in

his old age. The very curates, poor fellows! show no resentment each characteristically finds solace for his

own wounds in crowing over his brethren. Mr. Donne was at first a little disturbed; for a week or two he was

in disquietude, but he is now soothed down; only yesterday I had the pleasure of making him a comfortable

cup of tea, and seeing him sip it with revived complacency. It is a curious fact that, since he read 'Shirley,' he

has come to the house oftener than ever, and been remarkably meek and assiduous to please. Some people's

natures are veritable enigmas I quite expected to have had one good scene at least with him; but as yet

During the earlier months of this spring, Haworth was extremely unhealthy. The weather was damp, low

fever was prevalent, and the household at the Parsonage suffered along with its neighbours. Charlotte says, "I

have felt it (the fever) in frequent thirst and infrequent appetite; Papa too, and even Martha, have

complained." This depression of health produced depression of spirits, and she grew more and more to dread

the proposed journey to London with Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth. "I know what the effect and

what the pain will be, how wretched I shall often feel, and how thin and haggard I shall get; but he who shuns

suffering will never win victory. If I mean to improve, I must strive and endure. . . . Sir James has been a

physician, and looks at me with a physician's eye: he saw at once that I could not stand much fatigue, nor

bear the presence of many strangers. I believe he would partly understand how soon my stock of animal

spirits was brought to a low ebb; but nonenot the most skilful physiciancan get at more than the outside

of these things: the heart knows its own bitterness, and the frame its own poverty, and the mind its own

struggles. Papa is eager and restless for me to go; the idea of a refusal quite hurts him."

But the sensations of illness in the family increased; the symptoms were probably aggravated, if not caused,

by the immediate vicinity of the churchyard, "paved with rainblackened tombstones." On April 29th she

"We have had but a poor week of it at Haworth. Papa continues far from well; he is often very sickly in the

morning, a symptom which I have remarked before in his aggravated attacks of bronchitis; unless he should

get much better, I shall never think of leaving him to go to London. Martha has suffered from

ticdouloureux, with sickness and fever, just like you. I have a bad cold, and a stubborn sore throat; in short,

everybody but old Tabby is out of sorts. When was here, he complained of a sudden headache, and the

night after he was gone I had something similar, very bad, lasting about three hours."

"I did not think Papa well enough to be left, and accordingly begged Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth to

return to London without me. It was arranged that we were to stay at several of their friends' and relatives'

houses on the way; a week or more would have been taken up on the journey. I cannot say that I regret having

missed this ordeal; I would as lief have walked among redhot ploughshares; but I do regret one great treat,

which I shall now miss. Next Wednesday is the anniversary dinner of the Royal Literary Fund Society, held

in Freemasons' Hall. Octavian Blewitt, the secretary, offered me a ticket for the ladies' gallery. I should have

seen all the great literati and artists gathered in the hall below, and heard them speak; Thackeray and Dickens

are always present among the rest. This cannot now be. I don't think all London can afford another sight to

It became requisite, however, before long, that she should go to London on business; and as Sir James Kay

Shuttleworth was detained in the country by indisposition, she accepted Mrs. Smith's invitation to stay quietly

In the interval between the relinquishment of the first plan and the adoption of the second, she wrote the

"I had thought to bring the Leader and the Athenaeum myself this time, and not to have to send them by post,

but it turns out otherwise; my journey to London is again postponed, and this time indefinitely. Sir James Kay

Shuttleworth's state of health is the causea cause, I fear, not likely to be soon removed. . . . Once more, then,

I settle myself down in the quietude of Haworth Parsonage, with books for my household companions, and an

occasional letter for a visitor; a mute society, but neither quarrelsome, nor vulgarising, nor unimproving.

"One of the pleasures I had promised myself consisted in asking you several questions about the Leader,

which is really, in its way, an interesting paper. I wanted, amongst other things, to ask you the real names of

some of the contributors, and also what Lewes writes besides his Apprenticeship of Life. I always think the

article headed 'Literature' is his. Some of the communications in the 'Open Council' department are odd

productions; but it seems to me very fair and right to admit them. Is not the system of the paper altogether a

"I have just received yours of this morning; thank you for the enclosed note. The longings for liberty and

leisure which May sunshine wakens in you, stir my sympathy. I am afraid Cornhill is little better than a

prison for its inmates on warm spring or summer days. It is a pity to think of you all toiling at your desks in

such genial weather as this. For my part, I am free to walk on the moors; but when I go out there alone,

everything reminds me of the times when others were with me, and then the moors seem a wilderness,

featureless, solitary, saddening. My sister Emily had a. particular love for them, and there is not a knoll of

heather, not a branch of fern, not a young bilberry leaf, not a fluttering lark or linnet, but reminds me of her.

The distant prospects were Anne's delight, and when I look round, she is in the blue tints, the pale mists, the

waves and shadows of the horizon. In the hillcountry silence, their poetry comes by lines and stanzas into

my mind: once I loved it; now I dare not read it, and am driven often to wish I could taste one draught of

oblivion, and forget much that, while mind remains, I never shall forget. Many people seem to recall their

departed relatives with a sort of melancholy complacency, but I think these have not watched them through

lingering sickness, nor witnessed their last moments: it is these reminiscences that stand by your bedside at

night, and rise at your pillow in the morning. At the end of all, however, exists the Great Hope. Eternal Life is

She had to write many letters, about this time, to authors who sent her their books, and strangers who

expressed their admiration of her own. The following was in reply to one of the latter class, and was

"Apologies are indeed unnecessary for a 'reality of feeling, for a genuine unaffected impulse of the spirit,'

"Certainly it is 'something to me' that what I write should be acceptable to the feeling heart and refined

intellect; undoubtedly it is much to me that my creations (such as they are) should find harbourage,

appreciation, indulgence, at any friendly hand, or from any generous mind. You are very welcome to take

Jane, Caroline, and Shirley for your sisters, and I trust they will often speak to their adopted brother when he

is solitary, and soothe him when he is sad. If they cannot make themselves at home in a thoughtful,

sympathetic mind, and diffuse through its twilight a cheering, domestic glow, it is their fault; they are not, in

that case, so amiable, so benignant, not so real as they ought to be. If they CAN, and can find household

altars in human hearts, they will fulfil the best design of their creation, in therein maintaining a genial flame,

"What does it matter that part of your pleasure in such beings has its source in the poetry of your own youth

rather than in any magic of theirs? What, that perhaps, ten years hence, you may smile to remember your

present recollections, and view under another light both 'Currer Bell' and his writings? To me this

consideration does not detract from the value of what you now feel. Youth has its romance, and maturity its

wisdom, as morning and spring have their freshness, noon and summer their power, night and winter their

repose. Each attribute is good in its own season. Your letter gave me pleasure, and I thank you for it.

Miss Bronte went up to town at the beginning of June, and much enjoyed her stay there; seeing very few

persons, according to the agreement she made before she went; and limiting her visit to a fortnight, dreading

the feverishness and exhaustion which were the inevitable consequences of the slightest excitement upon her

"Since I wrote to you last, I have not had many moments to myself, except such as it was absolutely

necessary to give to rest. On the whole, however, I have thus far got on very well, suffering much less from

"Of course I cannot give you in a letter a regular chronicle of how my time has been spent. I can onlyjust

notify. what I deem three of its chief incidents: a sight of the Duke of Wellington at the Chapel Royal (he is a

real grand old man), a visit to the House of Commons (which I hope to describe to you some day when I see

you), and last, not least, an interview with Mr. Thackeray. He made a morning call, and sat above two hours.

Mr. Smith only was in the room the whole time. He described it afterwards as a 'queer scene,' andI suppose

it was. The giant sate before me; I was moved to speak to him of some of his shortcomings (literary of

course); one by one the faults came into my head, and one by one I brought them out, and sought some

explanation or defence. He did defend himself, like a great Turk and heathen; that is to say, the excuses were

often worse than the crime itself. The matter ended in decent amity; if all be well, I am to dine at his house

"I have seen Lewes too. . . . I could not feel otherwise to him than halfsadly, halftenderly,a queer word

that last, but I use it because the aspect of Lewes's face almost moves me to tears; it is so wonderfully like

Emily,her eyes, her features, the very nose, the somewhat prominent mouth, the forehead, even, at

moments, the expression: whatever Lewes says, I believe I cannot hate him. Another likeness I have seen,

too, that touched me sorrowfully. You remember my speaking of a Miss K., a young authoress, who

supported her mother by writing? Hearing that she had a longing to see me, I called on her yesterday. . . . She

met me halffrankly, halftremblingly; we sate down together, and when I had talked with her five minutes,

her face was no longer strange, but mournfully familiar;it was Martha in every lineament. I shall try to find

a moment to see her again. . . . I do not intend to stay here, at the furthest, more than a week longer; but at the

end of that time I cannot go home, for the house at Haworth is just now unroofed; repairs were become

She soon followed her letter to the friend to whom it was written; but her visit was a very short one, for, in

accordance with a plan made before leaving London, she went on to Edinburgh to join the friends with whom

she had been staying in town. She remained only a few days in Scotland, and those were principally spent in

Edinburgh, with which she was delighted, calling London a "dreary place" in comparison.

"My stay in Scotland" (she wrote some weeks later) "was short, and what I saw was chiefly comprised in

Edinburgh and the neighbourhood, in Abbotsford and in Melrose, for I was obliged to relinquish my first

intention of going from Glasgow to Oban, and thence through a portion of the Highlands; but though the time

was brief, and the view of objects limited, I found such a charm of situation, association, and circumstance,

that I think the enjoyment experienced in that little space equalled in degree, and excelled in kind, all which

London yielded during a month's sojourn Edinburgh, compared to London, is like a vivid page of history

compared to a large dull treatise on political economy; and as to Melrose and Abbotsford, the very names

"I would not write to you immediately on my arrival at home, because each return to this old house brings

with it a phase of feeling which it is better to pass through quietly before beginning to indite letters. The six

weeks of change and enjoyment are past, but they are not lost; memory took a sketch of each as it went by,

and, especially, a distinct daguerreotype of the two days I spent in Scotland. Those were two very pleasant

days. I always liked Scotland as an idea, but now, as a reality, I like it far better; it furnished me with some

hours as happy almost as any I ever spent. Do not fear, however, that I am going to bore you with description;

you will, before now, have received a pithy and pleasant report of all things, to which any addition of mine

would be superfluous. My present endeavours are directed towards recalling my thoughts, cropping their

wings, drilling them into correct discipline, and forcing them to settle to some useful work: they are idle, and

keep taking the train down to London, or making a foray over the Borderespecially are they prone to

perpetrate that last excursion; and who, indeed, that has once seen Edinburgh, with its couchant craglion,

but must see it again in dreams, waking or sleeping? My dear sir, do riot think I blaspheme, when I tell you

that your great London, as compared to DunEdin, 'mine own romantic town,' is as prose compared to poetry,

or as a great rumbling, rambling, heavy epic compared to a lyric, brief, bright, clear and vital as a flash of

lightning. You have nothing like Scott's monument, or, if you had that, and all the glories of architecture

assembled together, you have nothing like Arthur's Seat, and, above all, you have riot the Scotch national

character; and it is that grand character after all which gives the land its true charm, its true greatness.

On her return from Scotland, she again spent a few days with her friends, and then made her way to Haworth.

I got home very well, and full glad was I that no insuperable obstacle had deferred my return one single day

longer. Just at the foot of Bridgehouse hill, I met John, staff in hand; he fortunately saw me in the cab,

stopped, and informed me he was setting off to B, by Mr. Bronte's orders, to see how I was, for that he

had been quite miserable ever since he got Miss 's letter. I found, on my arrival, that Papa had worked

himself up to a sad pitch of nervous excitement and alarm, in which Martha and Tabby were but too

obviously joining him. . . . The house looks very clean, and, I think, is not damp; there is, however, still a

great deal to do in the way of settling and arranging,enough to keep me disagreeably busy for some time to

come. I was truly thankful to find Papa pretty well, but I fear he is just beginning to show symptoms of a

cold: my cold continues better. . . . An article in a newspaper I found awaiting me on my arrival, amused me;

it was a paper published while I was in London. I enclose it to give you a laugh; it professes to be written by

an Author jealous of Authoresses. I do not know who he is, but he must be one of those I met. . . . The 'ugly

men,' giving themselves 'Rochester airs,' is no bad hit; some of those alluded to will not like it."

While Miss Bronte was staying in London, she was induced to sit for her portrait to Richmond. It is a crayon

drawing; in my judgment an admirable likeness, though of course there is some difference of opinion on the

subject; and, as usual, those best acquainted with the original were least satisfied with the resemblance. Mr.

Bronte thought that it looked older than Charlotte did, and that her features had not been flattered; but he

acknowledged that the expression was wonderfully good and lifelike. She sent the following amusing

"The little box for me came at the same time as the large one for Papa. When you first told me that you had

had the Duke's picture framed, and had given it to me, I felt half provoked with you for performing such a

work of supererogation, but now, when I see it again, I cannot but acknowledge that, in so doing, you were

felicitously inspired. It is his very image, and, as Papa said when he saw it, scarcely in the least like the

ordinary portraits; not only the expression, but even the form of the head is different, and of a far nobler

character. I esteem it a treasure. The lady who left the parcel for me was, it seems, Mrs. Gore. The parcel

contained one of her works, 'The Hamiltons,' and a very civil and friendly note, in which I find myself

addressed as 'Dear Jane.' Papa seems much pleased with the portrait, as do the few other persons who have

seen it, with one notable exception; viz., our old servant, who tenaciously maintains that it is not likethat it

is too oldlooking; but as she, with equal tenacity, asserts that the Duke of Wellington's picture is a portrait

of 'the Master' (meaning Papa), I am afraid not much weight is to be ascribed to her opinion: doubtless she

confuses her recollections of me as I was in childhood with present impressions. Requesting always to be

very kindly remembered to your mother and sisters, I am, yours very thanklessly (according to desire),

It may easily be conceived that two people living together as Mr. Bronte and his daughter did, almost entirely

dependent on each other for society, and loving each other deeply (although not demonstratively)that these

two last members of a family would have their moments of keen anxiety respecting each other's health. There

is not one letter of hers which I have read, that does not contain some mention of her father's state in this

respect. Either she thanks God with simple earnestness that he is well, or some infirmities of age beset him,

and she mentions the fact, and then winces away from it, as from a sore that will not bear to be touched. He,

in his turn, noted every indisposition of his one remaining child's, exaggerated its nature, and sometimes

worked himself up into a miserable state of anxiety, as in the case she refers to, when, her friend having

named in a letter to him that his daughter was suffering from a bad cold, he could not rest till he despatched a

messenger, to go, "staff in hand" a distance of fourteen miles, and see with his own eyes what was her real

She evidently felt that this natural anxiety on the part of her father and friend increased the nervous

depression of her own spirits, whenever she was ill; and in the following letter she expresses her strong wish

"I am truly sorry that I allowed the words to which you refer to escape my lips, since their effect on you has

been unpleasant; but try to chase every shadow of anxiety from your mind, and, unless the restraint be very

disagreeable to you, permit me to add an earnest request that you will broach the subject to me no more. It is

the undisguised and most harassing anxiety of others that has fixed in my mind thoughts and expectations

which must canker wherever they take root; against which every effort of religion or philosophy must at

times totally fail; and subjugation to which is a cruel terrible fatethe fate, indeed, of him whose life was

passed under a sword suspended by a horsehair. I have had to entreat Papa's consideration on this point. My

nervous system is soon wrought on. I should wish to keep it in rational strength and coolness; but to do so I

must determinedly resist the kindlymeant, but too irksome expression of an apprehension, for the realisation

or defeat of which I have no possible power to be responsible. At present, I am pretty well. Thank God! Papa,

Her father was always anxious to procure every change that was possible for her, seeing, as he did, the

benefit which she derived from it, however reluctant she might have been to leave her home and him

beforehand. This August she was invited to go for a week to the neighbourhood of Bowness, where Sir James

Kay Shuttleworth had taken a house; but she says, "I consented to go, with reluctance, chiefly to please Papa,

whom a refusal on my part would much have annoyed; but I dislike to leave him. I trust he is not worse, but

his complaint is still weakness. It is not right to anticipate evil, and to be always looking forward with an

apprehensive spirit; but I think grief is a twoedged sword, it cuts both ways; the memory of one loss is the

It was during this visit at the BrieryLady Kay Shuttleworth having kindly invited me to meet her

therethat I first made acquaintance with Miss Bronte. If I copy out part of a letter, which I wrote soon after

this to a friend, who was deeply interested in her writings, I shall probably convey my first impressions more

truly and freshly than by amplifying what I then said into a longer description.

"Dark when I got to Windermere station; a drive along the level road to Lowwood; then a stoppage at a

pretty house, and then a pretty drawingroom, in which were Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth, and a

little lady in a blacksilk gown, whom I could not see at first for the dazzle in the room; she came up and

shook hands with me at once. I went up to unbonnet, etc.; came down to tea; the little lady worked away and

hardly spoke but I had time for a good look at her. She is (as she calls herself) UNDEVELOPED, thin, and

more than half a head shorter than I am; soft brown hair, not very dark; eyes (very good and expressive,

looking straight and open at you) of the same colour as her hair; a large mouth; the forehead square, broad

and rather overhanging. She has a very sweet voice; rather hesitates in choosing her expressions, but when

chosen they seem without an effort admirable, and just befitting the occasion; there is nothing overstrained,

but perfectly simple. . . . After breakfast, we four went out on the lake, and Miss Bronte agreed with me in

liking Mr. Newman's Soul, and in liking Modern Painters, and the idea of the Seven Lamps; and she told me

about Father Newman's lectures at the Oratory in a very quiet, concise, graphic way. . . . She is more like

Miss than any one in her waysif you can fancy Miss to have gone through suffering enough to

have taken out every spark of merriment, and to be shy and silent from the habit of extreme, intense solitude.

Such a life as Miss Bronte's I never heard of before. described her home to me as in a village of grey

stone houses, perched up on the north side of a bleak moor, looking over sweeps of bleak moors, etc., etc.

"We were only three days together; the greater part of which was spent in driving about, in order to show

Miss Bronte the Westmoreland scenery, as she had never been there before. We were both included in an

invitation to drink tea quietly at Fox How; and I then saw how severely her nerves were taxed by the effort of

going amongst strangers. We knew beforehand that the number of the party would not exceed twelve; but she

suffered the whole day from an acute headache brought on by apprehension of the evening.

"Brierly Close was situated high above Lowwood, and of course commanded an extensive view and wide

horizon. I was struck by Miss Bronte's careful examination of the shape of the clouds and the signs of the

heavens, in which she read, as from a book, what the coming weather would be. I told her that I saw she must

have a view equal in extent at her own home. She said that I was right, but that the character of the prospect

from Haworth was very different; that I had no idea what a companion the sky became to any one living in

solitude,more than any inanimate object on earth,more than the moors themselves."

The following extracts convey some of her own impressions and feelings respecting this visit:

"You said I should stay longer than a week in Westmoreland; you ought by this time to know me better. Is it

my habit to keep dawdling at a place long after the time I first fixed on for departing? I have got home, and I

am thankful to say Papa seems,to say the least,no worse than when I left him, yet I wish he were

stronger. My visit passed off very well; I am glad I went. The scenery is, of course, grand; could I have

wandered about amongst those hills ALONE, I could have drank in all their beauty; even in a carriage with

company, it was very well. Sir James was all the while as kind and friendly as he could be: he is in much

better health. . . . Miss Martineau was from home; she always leaves her house at Ambleside during the Lake

season, to avoid the influx of visitors to which she would otherwise be subject.

"If I could only have dropped unseen out of the carriage, and gone away by myself in amongst those grand

hills and sweet dales, I should have drank in the full power of this glorious scenery. In company this can

hardly be. Sometimes, while was warning me against the faults of the artistclass, all the while vagrant

"I forget to tell you that, about a week before I went to Westmoreland, there came an invitation to Harden

Grange; which, of course, I declined. Two or three days after, a large party made their appearance here,

consisting of Mrs. F and sundry other ladies and two gentlemen; one tall and stately, black haired and

whiskered, who turned out to be Lord John Manners,the other not so distinguishedlooking, shy, and a

little queer, who was Mr. Smythe, the son of Lord Strangford. I found Mrs. F. a true lady in manners and

appearance, very gentle and unassuming. Lord John Manners brought in his hand a brace of grouse for Papa,

which was a welltimed present: a day or two before Papa had been wishing for some."

To these extracts I must add one other from a letter referring to this time. It is addressed to Miss Wooler, the

kind friend of both her girlhood and womanhood, who had invited her to spend a fortnight with her at her

"When I tell you that I have already been to the Lakes this season, and that it is scarcely more than a month

since I returned, you will understand that it is no longer within my option to accept your kind invitation. I

wish I could have gone to you. I have already had my excursion, and there is an end of it. Sir James Kay

Shuttleworth is residing near Windermere, at a house called the 'Briery,' and it was there I was staying for a

little time this August. He very kindly showed me the neighbourhood, as it can be seen from a carriage, and I

discerned that the Lake country is a glorious region, of which I had only seen the similitude in dreams,

waking or sleeping. Decidedly I find it does not agree with me to prosecute the search of the picturesque in a

carriage. A waggon, a springcart, even a postchaise might do; but the carriage upsets everything. I longed

to slip out unseen, and to run away by myself in amongst the hills and dales. Erratic and vagrant instincts

tormented me, and these I was obliged to control or rather suppress for fear of growing in any degree

"You say that you suspect I have formed a large circle of acquaintance by this time. No: I cannot say that I

have. I doubt whether I possess either the wish or the power to do so. A few friends I should like to have, and

these few I should like to know well; If such knowledge brought proportionate regard, I could not help

concentrating my feelings; dissipation, I think, appears synonymous with dilution. However, I have, as yet,

scarcely been tried. During the month I spent in London in the spring, I kept very quiet, having the fear of

lionising before my eyes. I only went out once to dinner; and once was present at an evening party; and the

only visits I have paid have been to Sir James Kay Shuttleworth's and my publisher's. From this system I

should not like to depart; as far as I can see, Indiscriminate visiting tends only to a waste of time and a

vulgarising of character. Besides, it would be wrong to leave Papa often; he is now in his seventyfifth year,

the infirmities of age begin to creep upon him; during the summer he has been much harassed by chronic

bronchitis, but I am thankful to say that he is now somewhat better. I think my own health has derived benefit

"Somebody in D professes to have authority for saying, that 'when Miss Bronte was in London she

neglected to attend Divine service on the Sabbath, and in the week spent her time in going about to balls,

theatres, and operas.' On the other hand, the London quidnuncs make my seclusion a matter of wonder, and

devise twenty romantic fictions to account for it. Formerly I used to listen to report with interest, and a certain

credulity; but I am now grown deaf and sceptical: experience has taught me how absolutely devoid of

I must now quote from the first letter I had the privilege of receiving from Miss Bronte. It is dated August the

"Papa and I have just had tea; he is sitting quietly in his room, and I in mine; 'storms of rain' are sweeping

over the garden and churchyard: as to the moors, they are hidden in thick fog. Though alone, I am not

unhappy; I have a thousand things to be thankful for, and, amongst the rest, that this morning I received a

"I do not know the 'Life of Sydney Taylor;' whenever I have the opportunity I will get it. The little French

book you mention shall also take its place on the list of books to be procured as soon as possible. It treats a

subject interesting to all women perhaps, more especially to single women; though, indeed, mothers, like

you, study it for the sake of their daughters. The Westminster Review is not a periodical I see regularly, but

some time since I got hold of a numberfor last January, I thinkin which there was an article entitled

'Woman's Mission' (the phrase is hackneyed), containing a great deal that seemed to me just and sensible.

Men begin to regard the position of woman in another light than they used to do; and a few men, whose

sympathies are fine and whose sense of justice is strong, think and speak of it with a candour that commands

my admiration. They say, however and, to an extent, trulythat the amelioration of our condition depends

on ourselves. Certainly there are evils which our own efforts will best reach; but as certainly there are other

evils deeprooted in the foundation of the social systemwhich no efforts of ours can touch: of which we

"I have read Tennyson's 'In Memoriam,' or rather part of it; I closed the book when I had got about half way.

It is beautiful; it is mournful; it is monotonous. Many of the feelings expressed bear, in their utterance, the

stamp of truth; yet, if Arthur Hallam had been som what nearer Alfred Tennyson, his brother instead of his

friend,I should have distrusted this rhymed, and measured, and printed monument of grief. What change

the lapse of years may work I do not know; but it seems to me that bitter sorrow, while recent, does not flow

"I promised to send you Wordsworth's 'Prelude,' and, accordingly, despatch it by this post; the other little

volume shall follow in a day or two. I shall be glad to hear from you whenever you have time to write to me,

but you are never, on any account, to do this except when inclination prompts and leisure permits. I should

A short time after we had met at the Briery, she sent me the volume of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell's poems;

"The little book of rhymes was sent by way of fulfilling a rashlymade promise; and the promise was made

to prevent you from throwing away four shillings in an injudicious purchase. I do not like my own share of

the work, nor care that it should be read: Ellis Bell's I think good and vigorous, and Acton's have the merit of

truth and simplicity. Mine are chiefly juvenile productions; the restless effervescence of a mind that would

not be still. In those days, the sea too often 'wrought and was tempestuous,' and weed, sand, shingleall

turned up in the tumult. This image is much too magniloquent for the subject, but you will pardon it."

Another letter of some interest was addressed, about this time, to a literary friend, on Sept. 5th:

"The reappearance of the Athenaeum is very acceptable, not merely for its own sake,though I esteem the

opportunity of its perusal a privilege,but because, as a weekly token of the remembrance of friends, it

cheers and gives pleasure. I only fear that its regular transmission may become a task to you; in this case,

"I did indeed enjoy my trip to Scotland, and yet I saw little of the face of the country; nothing of its grandeur

or finer scenic features; but Edinburgh, Melrose, Abbotsfordthese three in themselves sufficed to stir

feelings of such deep interest and admiration, that neither at the time did I regret, nor have I since regretted,

the want of wider space over which to diffuse the sense of enjoyment. There was room and variety enough to

be very happy, and 'enough,' the proverb says, 'is as good as a feast.' The queen, indeed, was right to climb

Arthur's Seat with her husband and children. I shall not soon forget how I felt when, having reached its

summit, we all sat down and looked over the citytowards the sea and Leith, and the Pentland Hills. No

doubt you are proud of being a native of Scotland,proud of your country, her capital, her children, and her

"The article in the Palladium is one of those notices over which an author rejoices trembling. He rejoices to

find his work finely, fully, fervently appreciated, and trembles under the responsibility such appreciation

seems to devolve upon him. I am counselled to wait and watchD. V. I will do so; yet it is harder to wait

with the hands bound, and the observant and reflective faculties at their silent and unseen work, than to

"I need not say how I felt the remarks on 'Wuthering Heights;' they woke the saddest yet most grateful

feelings; they are true, they are discriminating, they are full of late justice, but it is very latealas! in one

sense, TOO late. Of this, however, and of the pang of regret for a light prematurely extinguished, it is not

wise to speak much. Whoever the author of this article may be, I remain his debtor.

"Yet, you see, even here, Shirley is disparaged in comparison with "Jane Eyre"; and yet I took great pains

with Shirley. I did not hurry; I tried to do my best, and my own impression was that it was not inferior to the

former work; indeed, I had bestowed on it more time, thought, and anxiety: but great part of it was written

under the shadow of impending calamity; and the last volume, I cannot deny, was composed in the eager,

"You sent the tragedy of 'Galileo Galilei,' by Samuel Brown, in one of the Cornhill parcels; it contained, I

remember, passages of very great beauty. Whenever you send any more books (but that must not be till I

return what I now have) I should be glad if you would include amongst them the 'Life of Dr. Arnold.' Do you

know also the 'Life of Sydney Taylor?' I am not familiar even with the name, but it has been recommended to

me as a work meriting perusal. Of course, when I name any book, it is always understood that it should be

It was thought desirable about this time, to republish "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey", the works of

She wrote to Mr. Williams, September 29th, 1850, "It is my intention to write a few lines of remark on

'Wuthering Heights,' which, however, I propose to place apart as a brief preface before the tale. I am likewise

compelling myself to read it over, for the first time of opening the book since my sister's death. Its power fills

me with renewed admiration; but yet I am oppressed: the reader is scarcely ever permitted a taste of

unalloyed pleasure; every beam of sunshine is poured down through black bars of threatening cloud; every

page is surcharged with a sort of moral electricity; and the writer was unconscious of all thisnothing could

"And this makes me reflect,perhaps I am too incapable of perceiving the faults and peculiarities of my own

"I should wish to revise the proofs, if it be not too great an inconvenience to send them. It seems to me

advisable to modify the orthography of the old servant Joseph's speeches; for though, as it stands, it exactly

renders the Yorkshire dialect to a Yorkshire ear, yet, I am sure Southerns must find it unintelligible; and thus

To her own dear friend, as to one who had known and loved her sisters, she writes still more fully respecting

"There is nothing wrong, and I am writing you a line as you desire, merely to say that I AM busy just now.

Mr. Smith wishes to reprint some of Emily's and Annie's works, with a few little additions from the papers

they have left; and I have been closely engaged in revising, transcribing, preparing a preface, notice, etc. As

the time for doing this is limited, I am obliged to be industrious. I found the task at first exquisitely painful

and depressing; but regarding it in the light of a SACRED DUTY, I went on, and now can bear it better. It is

work, however, that I cannot do in the evening, for if I did, I should have no sleep at night. Papa, I am

thankful to say, is in improved health, and so, I think, am I; I trust you are the same.

"I have just received a kind letter from Miss Martineau. She has got back to Ambleside, and had heard of my

"I am both angry and surprised at myself for not being in better spirits; for not growing accustomed, or at

least resigned, to the solitude and isolation of my lot. But my late occupation left a result for some days, and

indeed still, very painful. The reading over of papers, the renewal of remembrances brought back the pang of

bereavement, and occasioned a depression of spirits well nigh intolerable. For one or two nights, I scarcely

knew how to get on till morning; and when morning came, I was still haunted with a sense of sickening

distress. I tell you these things, because it is absolutely necessary to me to have some relief. You will forgive

me, and not trouble yourself, or imagine that I am one whit worse than I say. It is quite a mental ailment, and

I believe and hope is better now. I think so, because I can speak about it, which I never can when grief is at its

"I thought to find occupation and interest in writing, when alone at home, but hitherto my efforts have been

vain; the deficiency of every stimulus is so complete. You will recommend me, I dare say, to go from home;

but that does no good, even could I again leave Papa with an easy mind (thank God! he is better). I cannot

describe what a time of it I had after my return from London, Scotland, etc. There was a reaction that sunk

me to the earth; the deadly silence, solitude, desolation, were awful; the craving for companionship, the

"Dear , when I think of you, it is with a compassion and tenderness that scarcely cheer me. Mentally, I

fear, you also are too lonely and too little occupied. It seems our doom, for the present at least. May God in

During her last visit to London, as mentioned in one of her letters, she had made the acquaintance of her

"Some months after" (the appearance of the review of "Shirley" in the Edinburgh), "Currer Bell came to

London, and I was invited to meet her at your house. You may remember, she asked you not to point me out

to her, but allow her to discover me if she could. She DID recognise me almost as soon as I came into the

room. You tried me in the same way; I was less sagacious. However, I sat by her side a great part of the

evening and was greatly interested by her conversation. On parting we shook hands, and she said, 'We are

friends now, are we not?' 'Were we not always, then?' I asked. 'No! not always,' she said, significantly; and

that was the only allusion she made to the offending article. I lent her some of Balzac's and George Sand's

novels to take with her into the country; and the following letter was written when they were returned:"

"I am sure you will have thought me very dilatory in returning the books you so kindly lent me. The fact is,

having some other books to send, I retained yours to enclose them in the same parcel.

"Accept my thanks for some hours of pleasant reading. Balzac was for me quite a new author; and in making

big acquaintance, through the medium of 'Modeste Mignon,' and 'Illusions perdues,' you cannot doubt I have

felt some interest. At first, I thought he was going to be painfully minute, and fearfully tedious; one grew

impatient of his long parade of detail, his slow revelation of unimportant circumstances, as he assembled his

personages on the stage; but by and bye I seemed to enter into the mystery of his craft, and to discover, with

delight, where his force lay: is it not in the analysis of motive; and in a subtle perception of the most obscure

and secret workings of the mind? Still, admire Balzac as we may, I think we do not like him; we rather feel

towards him as towards an ungenial acquaintance who is for ever holding up in strong light our defects, and

"Fantastic, fanatical, unpractical enthusiast as she often isfar from truthful as are many of her views of

lifemisled, as she is apt to be, by her feelingsGeorge Sand has a better nature than M. de Balzac; her

brain is larger, her heart warmer than his. The 'Lettres d'un Voyageur' are full of the writer's self; and I never

felt so strongly, as in the perusal of this work, that most of her very faults spring from the excess of her good

qualities: it is this excess which has often hurried her into difficulty, which has prepared for her enduring

"But I believe her mind is of that order which disastrous experience teaches, without weakening or too much

disheartening; and, in that case, the longer she lives the better she will grow. A hopeful point in all her

writings is the scarcity of false French sentiment; I wish I could say its absence; but the weed flourishes here

I remember the good expression of disgust which Miss Bronte made use of in speaking to me of some of

The reader will notice that most of the letters from which I now quote are devoted to critical and literary

subjects. These were, indeed, her principal interests at this time; the revision of her sister's works, and writing

a short memoir of them, was the painful employment of every day during the dreary autumn of 1850.

Wearied out by the vividness of her sorrowful recollections, she sought relief in long walks on the moors. A

friend of hers, who wrote to me on the appearance of the eloquent article in the Daily News upon the "Death

"They are mistaken in saying she was too weak to roam the hills for the benefit of the air. I do not think any

one, certainly not any woman, in this locality, went so much on the moors as she did, when the weather

permitted. Indeed, she was so much in the habit of doing so, that people, who live quite away on the edge of

the common, knew her perfectly well. I remember on one occasion an old woman saw her at a little distance,

and she called out, 'How! Miss Bronte! Hey yah (have you) seen ought o' my cofe (calf)?' Miss Bronte told

her she could not say, for she did not know it. 'Well!' she said, 'Yah know, it's getting up like nah (now),

between a cah (cow) and a cofewhat we call a stirk, yah know, Miss Bronte; will yah turn it this way if yah

It must have been about this time that a visit was paid to her by some neighbours, who were introduced to her

by a mutual friend. This visit has been described in a letter from which I am permitted to give extracts, which

will show the impression made upon strangers by the character of the country round her home, and other

circumstances. "Though the weather was drizzly, we resolved to make our longplanned excursion to

Haworth; so we packed ourselves into the buffaloskin, and that into the gig, and set off about eleven. The

rain ceased, and the day was just suited to the scenery,wild and chill,with great masses of cloud

glooming over the moors, and here and there a ray of sunshine covertly stealing through, and resting with a

dim magical light upon some high bleak village; or darting down into some deep glen, lighting up the tall

chimney, or glistening on the windows and wet roof of the mill which lies couching in the bottom. The

country got wilder and wilder as we approached Haworth; for the last four miles we were ascending a huge

moor, at the very top of which lies the dreary blacklooking village of Haworth. The villagestreet itself is

one of the steepest hills I have ever seen, and the stones are so horribly jolting that I should have got out and

walked with W, if possible, but, having once begun the ascent, to stop was out of the question. At the

top was the inn where we put up, close by the church; and the clergyman's house, we were told, was at the top

of the churchyard. So through that we went,a dreary, dreary place, literally PAVED with rainblackened

tombstones, and all on the slope, for at Haworth there is on the highest height a higher still, and Mr. Bronte's

house stands considerably above the church. There was the house before us, a small oblong stone house, with

not a tree to screen it from the cutting wind; but how were we to get at it from the churchyard we could not

see! There was an old man in the churchyard, brooding like a Ghoul over the graves, with a sort of grim

hilarity on his face. I thought he looked hardly human; however, he was human enough to tell us the way; and

presently we found ourselves in the little bare parlour. Presently the door opened, and in came a

superannuated mastiff, followed by an old gentleman very like Miss Bronte, who shook hands with us, and

then went to call his daughter. A long interval, during which we coaxed the old dog, and looked at a picture

of Miss Bronte, by Richmond, the solitary ornament of the room, looking strangely out of place on the bare

walls, and at the books on the little shelves, most of them evidently the gift of the authors since Miss Bronte's

celebrity. Presently she came in, and welcomed us very kindly, and took me upstairs to take off my bonnet,

and herself brought me water and towels. The uncarpeted stone stairs and floors, the old drawers propped on

wood, were all scrupulously clean and neat. When we went into the parlour again, we began talking very

comfortably, when the door opened and Mr. Bronte looked in; seeing his daughter there, I suppose he thought

it was all right, and he retreated to his study on the opposite side of the passage; presently emerging again to

bring W a country newspaper. This was his last appearance till we went. Miss Bronte spoke with the

greatest warmth of Miss Martineau, and of the good she had gained from her. Well! we talked about various

things; the character of the people,about her solitude, etc., till she left the room to help about dinner, I

suppose, for she did not return for an age. The old dog had vanished; a fat curlyhaired dog honoured us with

his company for some time, but finally manifested a wish to get out, so we were left alone. At last she

returned, followed by the maid and dinner, which made us all more comfortable; and we had some very

pleasant conversation, in the midst of which time passed quicker than we supposed, for at last Wfound

that it was halfpast three, and we had fourteen or fifteen miles before us. So we hurried off, having obtained

from her a promise to pay us a visit in the spring; and the old gentleman having issued once more from his

study to say goodbye, we returned to the inn, and made the best of our way homewards.

"Miss Bronte put me so in mind of her own 'Jane Eyre.' She looked smaller than ever, and moved about so

quietly, and noiselessly, just like a little bird, as Rochester called her, barring that all birds are joyous, and

that joy can never have entered that house since it was first built; and yet, perhaps, when that old man

married, and took home his bride, and children's voices and feet were heard about the house, even that

desolate crowded graveyard and biting blast could not quench cheerfulness and hope. Now there is

something touching in the sight of that little creature entombed in such a place, and moving about herself like

a spirit, especially when you think that the slight still frame encloses a force of strong fiery life, which

In one of the preceding letters, Miss Bronte referred to am article in the Palladium, which had rendered what

she considered the due meed of merit to "Wuthering Heights", her sister Emily's tale. Her own works were

praised, and praised with discrimination, and she was grateful for this. But her warm heart was filled to the

brim with kindly feelings towards him who had done justice to the dead. She anxiously sought out the name

of the writer; and having discovered that it was Mr. Sydney Dobell he immediately became one of her

She looked with interest upon everything he wrote; and before long we shall find that they corresponded.

"The box of books came last night, and, as usual, I have only gratefully to admire the selection made:

'Jeffrey's Essays,' 'Dr. Arnold's Life,' 'The Roman,' 'Alton Loche,' these were all wished for and welcome.

"You say I keep no books; pardon meI am ashamed of my own rapaciousness I have kept 'Macaulay's

History,' and Wordsworth's 'Prelude', and Taylor's 'Philip Van Artevelde.' I soothe my conscience by saying

that the two last,being poetrydo not count. This is a convenient doctrine for me I meditate acting upon it

with reference to the Roman, so I trust nobody in Cornhill will dispute its validity or affirm that 'poetry' has a

"I have already had 'Macaulay's Essays,' 'Sidney Smith's Lectures on Moral Philosophy,' and 'Knox on Race.'

Pickering's work on the same subject I have not seen; nor all the volumes of Leigh Hunt's Autobiography.

However, I am now abundantly supplied for a long time to come. I liked Hazlitt's Essays much.

"The autumn, as you say, has been very fine. I and solitude and memory have often profited by its sunshine

"I had felt some disappointment at the nonarrival of the proof sheets of 'Wuthering Heights;' a feverish

impatience to complete the revision is apt to beset me. The work of looking over papers, etc., could not be

gone through with impunity, and with unaltered spirits; associations too tender, regrets too bitter, sprang out

of it. Meantime, the Cornhill books now, as heretofore, are my best medicine,affording a solace which

"Already I have read the greatest part of the 'Roman;' passages in it possess a kindling virtue such as true

poetry alone can boast; there are images of genuine grandeur; there are lines that at once stamp themselves on

the memory. Can it be true that a new planet has risen on the heaven, whence all stars seemed fast fading? I

believe it is; for this Sydney or Dobell speaks with a voice of his own, unborrowed, unmimicked. You hear

Tennyson, indeed, sometimes, and Byron sometimes, in some passages of the Roman; but then again you

have a new note,nowhere clearer than in a certain brief lyric, sang in a meeting of minstrels, a sort of dirge

over a dead brother;THAT not only charmed the ear and brain, it soothed the heart."

The following extract will be read with interest as conveying her thoughts after the perusal of Dr. Arnold's

"I have just finished reading the 'Life of Dr. Arnold;' but now when I wish, according to your request, to

express what I think of it, I do not find the task very easy; proper terms seem wanting. This is not a character

to be dismissed with a few laudatory words; it is not a onesided character; pure panegyric would be

inappropriate. Dr. Arnold (it seems to me) was not quite saintly; his greatness was cast in a mortal mould; he

was a little severe, almost a little hard; he was vehement and somewhat oppugnant. Himself the most

indefatigable of workers, I know not whether he could have understood, or made allowance for, a

temperament that required more rest; yet not to one man in twenty thousand is given his giant faculty of

labour; by virtue of it he seems to me the greatest of working men. Exacting he might have been, then, on this

point; and granting that he were so, and a little hasty, stern, and positive, those were his sole faults (if, indeed,

that can be called a fault which in no shape degrades the individual's own character; but is only apt to oppress

and overstrain the weaker nature of his neighbours). Afterwards come his good qualities. About these there is

nothing dubious. Where can we find justice, firmness, independence, earnestness, sincerity, fuller and purer

"But this is not all, and I am glad of it. Besides high intellect and stainless rectitude, his letters and his life

attest his possession of the most truehearted affection. WITHOUT this, however one might admire, we

could not love him; but WITH it I think we love him much. A hundred such menfiftynay, ten or five

such righteous men might save any country; might victoriously champion any cause.

"I was struck, too, by the almost unbroken happiness of his life; a happiness resulting chiefly, no doubt, from

the right use to which he put that health and strength which God had given him, but also owing partly to a

singular exemption from those deep and bitter griefs which most human beings are called on to endure. His

wife was what he wished; his children were healthy and promising; his own health was excellent; his

undertakings were crowned with success; even death was kind,for, however sharp the pains of his last

hour, they were but brief. God's blessing seems to have accompanied him from the cradle to the grave. One

feels thankful to know that it has been permitted to any man to live such a life.

"When I was in Westmoreland last August, I spent an evening at Fox How, where Mrs. Arnold and her

daughters still reside. It was twilight as I drove to the place, and almost dark ere I reached it; still I could

perceive that the situation was lovely. The house looked like a nest half buried in flowers and creepers: and,

dusk as it was, I could FEEL that the valley and the hills round were beautiful as imagination could dream."

If I say again what I have said already before, it is only to impress and reimpress upon my readers the dreary

monotony of her life at this time. The dark, bleak season of the year brought back the long evenings, which

tried her severely: all the more so, because her weak eyesight rendered her incapable of following any

occupation but knitting by candlelight. For her father's sake, as well as for her own, she found it necessary

to make some exertion to ward off settled depression of spirits. She accordingly accepted an invitation to

spend a week or ten days with Miss Martineau at Ambleside. She also proposed to come to Manchester and

see me, on her way to Westmoreland. But, unfortunately, I was from home, and unable to receive her. The

friends with whom I was staying in the South of England ( hearing me express my regret that I could not

accept her friendly proposal, and aware of the sad state of health and spirits which made some change

necessary for her) wrote to desire that she would come and spend a week or two with me at their house. She

"My dear Mrs. Gaskell,Miss 's kindness and yours is such that I am placed in the dilemma of not

knowing how adequately to express my sense of it. THIS I know, however, very wellthat if I COULD go

and be with you for a week or two in such a quiet southcountry house, and with such kind people as you

describe, I should like it much. I find the proposal marvellously to my taste; it is the pleasantest, gentlest,

sweetest, temptation possible; but, delectable as it is, its solicitations are by no means to be yielded to without

the sanction of reason, and therefore I desire for the present to be silent, and to stand back till I have been to

Miss Martineau's, and returned home, and considered well whether it is a scheme as right as agreeable.

On the 10th of December, the second edition of "Wuthering Heights" was published. She sent a copy of it to

"I offer this little book to my critic in the 'Palladium,' and he must believe it accompanied by a tribute of the

sincerest gratitude; not so much for anything he has said of myself, as for the noble justice he has rendered to

one dear to me as myself perhaps dearer; and perhaps one kind word spoken for her awakens a deeper,

tenderer, sentiment of thankfulness than eulogies heaped on my own head. As you will see when you have

read the biographical notice, my sister cannot thank you herself; she is gone out of your sphere and mine, and

human blame and praise are nothing to her now. But to me, for her sake, they are something still; it revived

me for many a day to find that, dead as she was, the work of her genius had at last met with worthy

"Tell me, when you have read the introduction, whether any doubts still linger in your mind respecting the

authorship of 'Wuthering Heights,' 'Wildfell Hall,' etc. Your mistrust did me some injustice; it proved a

general conception of character such as I should be sorry to call mine; but these false ideas will naturally arise

when we only judge an author from his works. In fairness, I must also disclaim the flattering side of the

portrait. I am no 'young Penthesilea mediis in millibus,' but a plain country parson's daughter.

Immediately after the republication of her sisters' book she went to Miss Martineau's.

"I can write to you now, dear E, for I am away from home) and relieved, temporarily, at least, by

change of air and scene, from the heavy burden of depression which, I confess, has for nearly three months

been sinking me to the earth. I never shall forget last autumn! Some days and nights have been cruel; but

now, having once told you this, I need say no more on the subject. My loathing of solitude grew extreme; my

recollection of my sisters intolerably poignant. I am better now. I am at Miss Martineau's for a week. Her

house is very pleasant, both within and without; arranged at; all points with admirable neatness and comfort.

Her visitors enjoy the most perfect liberty; what she claims for herself she allows them. I rise at my own

hour, breakfast alone (she is up at five, takes a cold bath, and a walk by starlight, and has finished breakfast

and got to her work by seven o'clock). I pass the morning in the drawingroomshe, in her study. At two

o'clock we meetwork, talk, and walk together till five, her dinnerhour, spend the evening together, when

she converses fluently and abundantly, and with the most complete frankness. I go to my own. room soon

after ten,she sits up writing letters till twelve. She appears exhaustless in strength and spirits, and

indefatigable in the faculty of labour. She is a great and a good woman; of course not without peculiarities,

but I have seen none as yet that annoy me. She is both hard and warmhearted, abrupt and affectionate,

liberal and despotic. I believe she is not at all conscious of her own absolutism. When I tell her of it, she

denies the charge warmly; then I laugh at her. I believe she almost rules Ambleside. Some of the gentry

dislike her, but the lower orders have a great regard for her. . . . I thought I should like to spend two or three

days with you before going home, so, if it is not inconvenient to you, I will (D. V.) come on Monday and stay

till Thursday. . . . I have truly enjoyed my visit here. I have seen a good many people, and all have been so

marvellously kind; not the least so, the family of Dr. Arnold. Miss Martineau I relish inexpressibly."

Miss Bronte paid the visit she here proposes to her friend, but only remained two or three days. She then

returned home, and immediately began to suffer from her old enemy, sickly and depressing headache. This

was all the more trying to bear, as she was obliged to take an active share in the household work,one

This visit to Ambleside did Miss Bronte much good, and gave her a stock of pleasant recollections, and fresh

interests, to dwell upon in her solitary life. There are many references in her letters to Miss Martineau's

"She is certainly a woman of wonderful endowments, both intellectual and physical; and though I share few

of her opinions, and regard her as fallible on certain points of judgment, I must still award her my sincerest

esteem. The manner in which she combines the highest mental culture with the nicest discharge of feminine

duties filled me with admiration; while her affectionate kindness earned my gratitude." "I think her good and

noble qualities far outweigh her defects. It is my habit to consider the individual apart from his (or her)

reputation, practice independent of theory, natural disposition isolated from acquired opinions. Harriet

Martineau's person, practice, and character, inspire me with the truest affection and respect."You ask me

whether Miss Martineau made me a convert to mesmerism? Scarcely; yet I heard miracles of its efficacy, and

could hardly discredit the whole of what was told me. I even underwent a personal experiment; and though

the result was not absolutely clear, it was inferred that in time I should prove an excellent subject. The

question of mesmerism will be discussed with little reserve, I believe, in a forthcoming work of Miss

Martineau's; and I have some painful anticipations of the manner in which other subjects, offering less

"Your last letter evinced such a sincere and discriminating admiration for Dr. Arnold, that perhaps you will

not be wholly uninterested in hearing that, during my late visit to Miss Martineau, I saw much more of Fox

How and its inmates, and daily admired, in the widow and children of one of the greatest and best men of his

time, the possession of qualities the most estimable and endearing. Of my kind hostess herself, I cannot speak

in terms too high. Without being able to share all her opinions, philosophical, political, or religious,without

adopting her theories,I yet find a worth and greatness in herself, and a consistency, benevolence,

perseverance in her practice, such as wins the sincerest esteem and affection. She is not a person to be judged

by her writings alone, but rather by her own deeds and life, than which nothing can be more exemplary or

nobler. She seems to me the benefactress of Ambleside, yet takes no sort of credit to herself for her active and

indefatigable philanthropy. The government of her household is admirably administered: all she does is well

done, from the writing of a history down to the quietest female occupation. No sort of carelessness or neglect

is allowed under her rule, and yet she is not overstrict, nor too rigidly exacting: her servants and her poor

"I must not, however, fall into the error of talking too much about her merely because my own mind is just

now deeply impressed with what I have seen of her intellectual power and moral worth. Faults she has; but to

"Your account of Mr. A tallies exactly with Miss M's. She, too, said that placidity and mildness

(rather than originality and power) were his external characteristics. She described him as a combination of

the antique Greek sage with the European modern man of science. Perhaps it was mere perversity in me to

get the notion that torpid veins, and a cold, slowbeating heart, lay under his marble outside. But he is a

materialist: he serenely denies us our hope of immortality, and quietly blots from man's future Heaven and

the Life to come. That is why a savour of bitterness seasoned my feeling towards him.

"All you say of Mr. Thackeray is most graphic and characteristic. He stirs in me both sorrow and anger. Why

should he lead so harassing a life? Why should his mocking tongue so perversely deny the better feelings of

For some time, whenever she was well enough in health and spirits, she had been employing herself upon

Villette; but she was frequently unable to write, and was both grieved and angry with herself for her inability.

"Something you say about going to London; but the words are dreamy, and fortunately I am not obliged to

hear or answer them. London and summer are many months away: our moors are all white with snow just

now, and little redbreasts come every morning to the window for crumbs. One can lay no plans three or four

months beforehand. Besides, I don't deserve to go to London; nobody merits a change or a treat less. I

secretly think, on the contrary, I ought to be put in prison, and kept on bread and water in solitary

confinementwithout even a letter from Cornhilltill I had written a book. One of two things would

certainly result from such a mode of treatment pursued for twelve months; either I should come out at the end

of that time with a threevolume MS. in my hand, or else with a condition of intellect that would exempt me

Meanwhile, she was disturbed and distressed by the publication of Miss Martineau's "Letters," etc.; they

came down with a peculiar force and heaviness upon a heart that looked, with fond and earnest faith, to a

"My dear Sir,Have you yet read Miss Martineau's and Mr. Atkinson's new work, 'Letters on the Nature and

"Of the impression this book has made on me, I will not now say much. It is the first exposition of avowed

atheism and materialism I have ever read; the first unequivocal declaration of disbelief in the existence of a

God or a future life I have ever seen. In judging of such exposition and declaration, one would wish entirely

to put aside the sort of instinctive horror they awaken, and to consider them in an impartial spirit and

collected mood. This I find it difficult to do. The strangest thing is, that we are called on to rejoice over this

hopeless blankto receive this bitter bereavement as great gainto welcome this unutterable desolation as a

state of pleasant freedom. Who COULD do this if he would? Who WOULD do it if he could?

"Sincerely, for my own part, do I wish to find and know the Truth; but if this be Truth, well may she guard

herself with mysteries, and cover herself with a veil. If this be Truth, man or woman who beholds her can but

curse the day he or she was born. I said, however, I would not dwell on what I thought; I wish to hear, rather,

what some other person thinks,some one whose feelings are unapt to bias his judgment. Read the book,

then, in an unprejudiced spirit, and candidly say what you think of it. I mean, of course, if you have

And yet she could not bear the contemptuous tone in which this work was spoken of by many critics; it made

her more indignant than almost any other circumstance during my acquaintance with her. Much as she

regretted the publication of the book, she could not see that it had given any one a right to sneer at an action,

certainly prompted by no worldly motive, and which was but one errorthe gravity of which she

admittedin the conduct of a person who had, all her life long, been striving, by deep thought and noble

"Your remarks on Miss Martineau and her book pleased me greatly, from their tone and spirit. I have even

taken the liberty of transcribing for her benefit one or two phrases, because I know they will cheer her; she

likes sympathy and appreciation (as all people do who deserve them); and most fully do I agree with you in

the dislike you express of that hard, contemptuous tone in which her work is spoken of by many critics.

Before I return from the literary opinions of the author to the domestic interests of the woman, I must copy

"'The Stones of Venice' seem nobly laid and chiselled. How grandly the quarry of vast marbles is disclosed!

Mr. Ruskin seems to me one of the few genuine writers, as distinguished from bookmakers, of this age. His

earnestness even amuses me in certain passages; for I cannot help laughing to think how utilitarians will fume

and fret over his deep, serious (and as THEY will think), fanatical reverence for Art. That pure and severe

mind you ascribed to him speaks in every line. He writes like a consecrated Priest of the Abstract and Ideal.

"I shall bring with me 'The Stones of Venice'; all the foundations of marble and of granite, together with the

mighty quarry out of which they were hewn; and, into the bargain, a small assortment of crotchets and

As spring drew on, the depression of spirits to which she was subject began to grasp her again, and "to crush

her with a day and nightmare." She became afraid of sinking as low as she had done in the autumn; and to

avoid this, she prevailed on her old friend and schoolfellow to come and stay with her for a few weeks in

March. She found great benefit from this companionship,both from the congenial society in itself, and

from the selfrestraint of thought imposed by the necessity of entertaining her and looking after her comfort.

On this occasion, Miss Bronte said, "It will not do to get into the habit offrom home, and thus temporarily

evading an running away oppression instead of facing, wrestling with and conquering it or being conquered

I shall now make an extract from one of her letters, which is purposely displaced as to time. I quote it because

it relates to a third offer of marriage which she had, and because I find that some are apt to imagine, from the

extraordinary power with which she represented the passion of love in her novels, that she herself was easily

"Could I ever feel enough for , to accept of him as a husband? FriendshipgratitudeesteemI

have; but each moment he came near me, and that I could see his eyes fastened on me, my veins ran ice. Now

that he is away, I feel far more gently towards him, it is only close by that I grow rigid, stiffening with a

strange mixture of apprehension and anger, which nothing softens but his retreat, and a perfect subduing of

his manner. I did not want to be proud, nor intend to be proud, but I was forced to be so. Most true it is, that

we are overruled by One above us; that in His hands our very will is as clay in the hands of the potter."

I have now named all the offers of marriage she ever received, until that was made which she finally

accepted. The gentleman referred to in this letter retained so much regard for her as to be her friend to the

Before her friend E took her departure, Mr. Bronte caught cold, and continued for some weeks much

out of health, with an attack of bronchitis. His spirits, too, became much depressed; and all his daughter's

When he grew better, and had regained his previous strength, she resolved to avail herself of an invitation

which she had received some time before, to pay a visit in London. This year, 1851, was, as e very one

remembers, the time of the great Exhibition; but even with that attraction in prospect, she did not intend to

stay there long; and, as usual, she made an agreement with her friends, before finally accepting their offered

hospitality, that her sojourn at their house was to be as quiet as ever, since any other way of proceeding

disagreed with her both mentally and physically. She never looked excited except for a moment, when

something in conversation called her out; but she often felt so, even about comparative trifles, and the

exhaustion of reaction was sure to follow. Under such circumstances, she always became extremely thin and

Her preparations in the way of dress for this visit, in the gay time of that gay season, were singularly in

accordance with her feminine taste; quietly anxious to satisfy her love for modest, dainty, neat attire, and not

regardless of the becoming, yet remembering consistency, both with her general appearance and with her

"By the bye, I meant to ask you when you went to Leeds, to do a small errand for me, but fear your hands

will be too full of business. It was merely this: in case you chanced to be in any shop where the lace cloaks,

both black and white, of which I spoke, were sold, to ask their price. I suppose they would hardly like to send

a few to Haworth to be looked at; indeed, if they cost very much, it would be useless, but if they are

reasonable and they would send them, I should like to see them; and also some chemisettes of small size (the

full woman's size don't fit me), both of simple style for every day and good quality for best.". . . ."It appears I

could not rest satisfied when I was well off. I told you I had taken one of the black lace mantles, but when I

came to try it with the black satin dress, with which I should chiefly want to wear it, I found the effect was far

from good; the beauty of the lace was lost, and it looked somewhat brown and rusty; I wrote to Mr. ,

requesting him to change it for a WHITE mantle of the same price; he was extremely courteous, and sent to

London for one, which I have got this morning. The price is less, being but 1 pound 14s.; it is pretty, neat and

light, looks well on black; and upon reasoning the matter over, I came to the philosophic conclusion, that it

would be no shame for a person of my means to wear a cheaper thing; so I think I shall take it, and if you

"Do you know that I was in Leeds on the very same day with you last Wednesday? I had thought of telling

you where I was going, and having your help and company in buying a bonnet, etc., but then I reflected this

would merely be making a selfish use of you, so I determined to manage or mismanage the matter alone. I

went to Hurst and Hall's for the bonnet, and got one which seemed grave and quiet there amongst all the

splendours; but now it looks infinitely too gay with its pink lining. I saw some beautiful silks of pale sweet

colours, but had not the spirit nor the means to launch out at the rate of five shillings per yard, and went and

bought a black silk at three shillings after all. I rather regret this, because papa says he would have lent me a

sovereign if he had known. I believe, if you had been there, you would have forced me to get into debt. . . . I

really can no more come to B before I go to London than I can fly. I have quantities of sewing to do, as

well as household matters to arrange, before I leave, as they will clean, etc., in my absence. Besides, I am

grievously afflicted with headache, which I trust to change of air for relieving; but meantime, as it proceeds

from the stomach, it makes me very thin and grey; neither you nor anybody else would fatten me up or put

me into good condition for the visit; it is fated otherwise. No matter. Calm your passion; yet I am glad to see

"Your poor mother is like Tabby, Martha and Papa; all these fancy I am somehow, by some mysterious

process, to be married in London, or to engage myself to matrimony. How I smile internally! How groundless

and improbable is the idea! Papa seriously told me yesterday, that if I married and left him he should give up

I copy the following, for the sake of the few words describing the appearance of the heathery moors in late

"My dear Sir,I hasten to send Mrs. Dobell the autograph. It was the word 'Album' that frightened me I

thought she wished me to write a sonnet on purpose for it, which I could not do.

"Your proposal respecting a journey to Switzerland is deeply kind; it draws me with the force of a mighty

Temptation, but the stern Impossible holds me back. No! I cannot go to Switzerland this summer.

"Why did the editor of the 'Eclectic' erase that most powerful and pictorial passage? He could not be

"I know nothing of such an orchardcountry as you describe. I have never seen such a region. Our hills only

confess the coming of summer by growing green with young fern and moss, in secret little hollows. Their

bloom is reserved for autumn; then they burn with a kind of dark glow, different, doubtless, from the blush of

garden blossoms. About the close of next month, I expect to go to London, to pay a brief and quiet visit. I

fear chance will not be so propitious as to bring you to town while I am there; otherwise, how glad I should

be if you would call. With kind regards to Mrs. Dobell,Believe me, sincerely yours,

"I came here on Wednesday, being summoned a day sooner than I expected, in order to be in time for

Thackeray's second lecture, which was delivered on Thursday afternoon. This, as you may suppose, was a

genuine treat to me, and I was glad not to miss it. It was given in Willis' Rooms, where the Almacks balls are

helda great painted and gilded saloon with long sofas for benches. The audience was said to be the cream

of London society, and it looked so. I did not at all expect the great lecturer would know me or notice me

under these circumstances, with admiring duchesses and countesses seated in rows before him; but he met me

as I enteredshook handstook me to his mother, whom I had not before seen, and introduced me. She is a

fine, handsome, younglooking old lady; was very gracious, and called with one of her granddaughters next

"Thackeray called too, separately. I had a long talk with him, and I think he knows me now a little better than

he did: but of this I cannot yet be sure; he is a great and strange man. There is quite a furor for his lectures.

They are a sort of essays, characterised by his own peculiar originality and power, and delivered with a

finished taste and ease, which is felt, but cannot be described. Just before the lecture began, somebody came

behind me, leaned over and said, 'Permit me, as a Yorkshireman, to introduce myself.' I turned roundsaw a

strange, not handsome, face, which puzzled me for half a minute, and then I said, 'You are Lord Carlisle.' He

"Afterwards came another man with the same plea, that he was a Yorkshireman, and this turned out to be Mr.

Monckton Milnes. Then came Dr. Forbes, whom I was sincerely glad to see. On Friday, I went to the Crystal

Palace; it is a marvellous, stirring, bewildering sighta mixture of a genii palace, and a mighty bazaar, but it

is not much in my way; I liked the lecture better. On Saturday I saw the Exhibition at Somerset House; about

half a dozen of the pictures are good and interesting, the rest of little worth. Sundayyesterdaywas a day

to be marked with a white stone; through most of the day I was very happy, without being tired or

overexcited. In the afternoon, I went to hear D'Aubigne, the great Protestant French preacher; it was

pleasanthalf sweet, half sadand strangely suggestive to hear the French language once more. For health,

The lady, who accompanied Miss Bronte to the lecture at Thackeray's alluded to, says that, soon after they

had taken their places, she was aware that he was pointing out her companion to several of his friends, but

she hoped that Miss Bronte herself would not perceive it. After some time, however, during which many

heads had been turned round, and many glasses put up, in order to look at the author of "Jane Eyre", Miss

Bronte said, "I am afraid Mr. Thackeray has been playing me a trick;" but she soon became too much

absorbed in the lecture to notice the attention which was being paid to her, except when it was directly

offered, as in the case of Lord Carlisle and Mr. Monckton Milnes. When the lecture was ended, Mr.

Thackeray came down from the platform, and making his way towards her, asked her for her opinion. This

she mentioned to me not many days afterwards, adding remarks almost identical with those which I

subsequently read in 'Villette,' where a similar action on the part of M. Paul Emanuel is related.

"As our party left the Hall, he stood at the entrance; he saw and knew me, and lifted his hat; he offered his

hand in passing, and uttered the words 'Qu'en ditesvous?'question eminently characteristic, and reminding

me, even in this his moment of triumph, of that inquisitive restlessness, that absence of what I considered

desirable selfcontrol, which were amongst his faults. He should not have cared just then to ask what I

thought, or what anybody thought; but he DID care, and he was too natural to conceal, too impulsive to

repress his wish. Well! if I blamed his overeagerness, I liked his naivete. I would have praised him; I had

plenty of praise in my heart; but alas I no words on my lips. Who HAS words at the right moment? I

stammered some lame expressions; but was truly glad when other people, coming up with profuse

As they were preparing to leave the room, her companion saw with dismay that many of the audience were

forming themselves into two lines, on each side of the aisle down which they had to pass before reaching the

door. Aware that any delay would only make the ordeal more trying, her friend took Miss Bronte's arm in

hers, and they went along the avenue of eager and admiring faces. During this passage through the "cream of

society," Miss Bronte's hand trembled to such a degree, that her companion feared lest she should turn faint

and be unable to proceed; and she dared not express her sympathy or try to give her strength by any touch or

Surely, such thoughtless manifestation of curiosity is a blot on the scutcheon of true politeness! The rest of

the account of this, her longest visit to London, shall be told in her own words.

"I sit down to write to you this morning in an inexpressibly flat state; having spent the whole of yesterday and

the day before in a gradually increasing headache, which grew at last rampant and violent, ended with

excessive sickness, and this morning I am quite weak and washy. I hoped to leave my headaches behind me

at Haworth; but it seems I brought them carefully packed in my trunk, and very much have they been in my

way since I came. . . . Since I wrote last, I have seen various things worth describing; Rachel, the great

French actress, amongst the number. But today I really have no pith for the task. I can only wish you

"I cannot boast that London has agreed with me well this time; the oppression of frequent headache, sickness,

and a low tone of spirits, has poisoned many moments which might otherwise have been pleasant. Sometimes

I have felt this hard, and been tempted to murmur at Fate, which compels me to comparative silence and

solitude for eleven months in the year, and in the twelfth, while offering social enjoyment, takes away the

vigour and cheerfulness which should turn it to account. But circumstances are ordered for us, and we must

"Your letter would have been answered yesterday, but I was already gone out before post time, and was out

all day. People are very kind, and perhaps I shall be glad of what I have seen afterwards, but it is often a little

trying at the time. On Thursday, the Marquis of Westminster asked me to a great party, to which I was to go

with Mrs. D, a beautiful, and, I think, a kind woman too; but this I resolutely declined. On Friday I

dined at the 's, and met Mrs. D and Mr. Monckton Milnes. On Saturday I went to hear and see

Rachel; a wonderful sightterrible as if the earth had cracked deep at your feet, and revealed a glimpse of

hell. I shall never forget it. She made me shudder to the marrow of my bones; in her some fiend has certainly

taken up an incarnate home. She is not a woman; she is a snake; she is the . On Sunday I went to the

Spanish Ambassador's Chapel, where Cardinal Wiseman, in his archiepiscopal robes and mitre, held a

confirmation. The whole scene was impiously theatrical. Yesterday (Monday) I was sent for at ten to

breakfast with Mr. Rogers, the patriarchpoet. Mrs. D and Lord Glenelg were there; no one else this

certainly proved a most calm, refined, and intellectual treat. After breakfast, Sir David Brewster came to take

us to the Crystal Palace. I had rather dreaded this, for Sir David is a man of profoundest science, and I feared

it would be impossible to understand his explanations of the mechanism, etc.; indeed, I hardly knew how to

ask him questions. I was spared all trouble without being questioned, he gave information in the kindest and

simplest manner. After two hours spent at the Exhibition, and where, as you may suppose, I was VERY tired,

we had to go to Lord Westminster's, and spend two hours more in looking at the collection of pictures in his

"may have told you that I have spent a month in London this summer. When you come, you shall ask

what questions you like on that point, and I will answer to the best of my stammering ability. Do not press me

much on the subject of the 'Crystal Palace.' I went there five times, and certainly saw some interesting things,

and the 'coup d'oeil' is striking and bewildering enough; but I never was able to get any raptures on the

subject, and each renewed visit was made under coercion rather than my own free will. It is an excessively

bustling place; and, after all, its wonders appeal too exclusively to the eye, and rarely touch the heart or head.

I make an exception to the last assertion, in favour of those who possess a large range of scientific

knowledge. Once I went with Sir David Brewster, and perceived that he looked on objects with other eyes

Miss Bronte returned from London by Manchester, and paid us a visit of a couple of days at the end of June.

The weather was so intensely hot, and she herself so much fatigued with her London sightseeing, that we

did little but sit indoors, with open windows, and talk. The only thing she made a point of exerting herself to

procure was a present for Tabby. It was to be a shawl, or rather a large handkerchief, such as she could pin

across her neck and shoulders, in the oldfashioned country manner. Miss Bronte took great pains in seeking

out one which she thought would please the old woman. On her arrival at home, she addressed the following

"My dear Mrs. Smith,Once more I am at home, where, I am thankful to say, I found my father very well.

The journey to Manchester was a little hot and dusty, but otherwise pleasant enough. The two stout

gentlemen, who filled a portion of the carriage when I got in, quitted it at Rugby, and two other ladies and

myself had it to ourselves the rest of the way. The visit to Mrs. Gaskell formed a cheering break in the

journey. Haworth Parsonage is rather a contrast, yet even Haworth Parsonage does not look gloomy in this

bright summer weather; it is somewhat still, but with the windows open I can hear a bird or two singing on

certain thorntrees in the garden. My father and the servants think me looking better than when I felt home,

and I certainly feel better myself for the change. You are too much like your son to render it advisable I

should say much about your kindness during my visit. However, one cannot help (like Captain Cuttle)

making a note of these matters. Papa says I am to thank you in his name, and offer you his respects, which I

do accordingly.With truest regards to all your circle, believe me very sincerely yours,

"My dear Sir,Thackeray's last lecture must, I think, have been his best. What he says about Sterne is true.

His observations on literary men, and their social obligations and individual duties, seem to me also true and

full of mental and moral vigour. . . . The International Copyright Meeting seems to have had but a barren

result, judging from the report in the Literary Gazette. I cannot see that Sir E. Bulwer and the rest DID

anything; nor can I well see what it is in their power to do. The argument brought forward about the damage

accruing to American national literature from the present piratical system, Is a good and sound argument, but

I am afraid the publishershonest menare not yet mentally prepared to give such reasoning due weight. I

should think, that which refers to the injury inflicted upon themselves, by an oppressive competition in

piracy, would influence them more; but, I suppose, all established matters, be they good or evil, are difficult

to change. About the 'Phrenological Character' I must not say a word. Of your own accord, you have found

the safest point from which to view it: I will not say 'look higher!' I think you see the matter as it is desirable

we should all see what relates to ourselves. If I had a right to whisper a word of counsel, it should be merely

this: whatever your present self may be, resolve with all your strength of resolution, never to degenerate

thence. Be jealous of a shadow of falling off. Determine rather to look above that standard, and to strive

beyond it. Everybody appreciates certain social properties, and likes his neighbour for possessing them; but

perhaps few dwell upon a friend's capacity for the intellectual, or care how this might expand, if there were

but facilities allowed for cultivation, and space given for growth. It seems to me that, even should such space

and facilities be denied by stringent circumstances and a rigid fate, still it should do you good fully to know,

and tenaciously to remember, that you have such a capacity. When other people overwhelm you with

acquired knowledge, such as you have not had opportunity, perhaps not application, to gainderive not

pride, but support from the thought. If no new books had ever been written, some of these minds would

themselves have remained blank pages: they only take an impression; they were not born with a record of

thought on the brain, or an instinct of sensation on the heart. If I had never seen a printed volume, Nature

would have offered my perceptions a varying picture of a continuous narrative, which, without any other

teacher than herself, would have schooled me to knowledge, unsophisticated, but genuine.

"Before I received your last, I had made up my mind to tell you that I should expect no letter for three months

to come (intending afterwards to extend this abstinence to six months, for I am jealous of becoming

dependent on this indulgence: you doubtless cannot see why, because you do not live my life). Nor shall I

now expect a letter; but since you say that you would like to write now and then, I cannot say 'never write,'

without imposing on my real wishes a falsehood which they reject, and doing to them a violence, to which

they entirely refuse to submit. I can only observe that when it pleases you to write, whether seriously or for a

little amusement, your notes, if they come to me, will come where they are welcome. TellI will try to

Soon after she returned home, her friend paid her a visit. While she stayed at Haworth, Miss Bronte wrote the

letter from which the following extract is taken. The strong sense and right feeling displayed in it on the

subject of friendship, sufficiently account for the constancy of affection which Miss Bronte earned from all

". . . I could not help wondering whether Cornhill will ever change for me, as Oxford has changed for you. I

have some pleasant associations connected with it nowwill these alter their character some day?

"Perhaps they maythough I have faith to the contrary, because, I THINK, I do not exaggerate my

partialities; I THINK I take faults along with excellencesblemishes together with beauties. And, besides, in

the matter of friendship, I have observed that disappointment here arises chiefly, NOT from liking our friends

too well, or thinking of them too highly, but rather from an overestimate of THEIR liking for and opinion of

US; and that if we guard ourselves with sufficient scrupulousness of care from error in this direction, and can

be content, and even happy to give more affection than we receivecan make just comparison of

circumstances, and be severely accurate in drawing inferences thence, and never let selflove blind our

eyesI think we may manage to get through life with consistency and constancy, unembittered by that

misanthropy which springs from revulsions of feeling. All this sounds a little metaphysical, but it is good

sense if you consider it. The moral of it is, that if we would build on a sure foundation in friendship, we must

love our friends for THEIR sakes rather than for OUR OWN; we must look at their truth to THEMSELVES,

full as much as their truth to US. In the latter case, every wound to selflove would be a cause of coldness; in

the former, only some painful change in the friend's character and dispositionsome fearful breach in his

"How interesting your old maidencousin's gossip about your parents must have been to you; and how

gratifying to find that the reminiscence turned on none but pleasant facts and characteristics! Life must,

indeed, be slow in that little decaying hamlet amongst the chalk hills. After all, depend upon it, it is better to

be worn out with work in a thronged community, than to perish of inaction in a stagnant solitude take this

I received a letter from her a little later than this; and though there is reference throughout to what I must

have said in writing to her, all that it called forth in reply is so peculiarly characteristic, that I cannot prevail

"My dear Mrs. Gaskell,I was too much pleased with your letter, when I got it at last, to feel disposed to

"About a fortnight ago, I received a letter from Miss Martineau; also a long letter, and treating precisely the

same subjects on which yours dwelt, viz., the Exhibition and Thackeray's last lecture. It was interesting

mentally to place the two documents side by sideto study the two aspects of mindto view, alternately,

the same scene through two mediums. Full striking was the difference; and the more striking because it was

not the rough contrast of good and evil, but the more subtle opposition, the more delicate diversity of

different kinds of good. The excellences of one nature resembled (I thought) that of some sovereign

medicineharsh, perhaps, to the taste, but potent to invigorate; the good of the other seemed more akin to

the nourishing efficacy of our daily bread. It is not bitter; it is not lusciously sweet: it pleases, without

"I very much agree with you in all you say. For the sake of variety, I could almost wish that the concord of

"To begin with Trafalgar Square. My taste goes with yours and Meta's completely on this point. I have

always thought it a fine site (and SIGHT also). The view from the summit of those steps has ever struck me

as grand and imposing Nelson Column included the fountains I could dispense with. With respect, also, to the

"Then I feel sure you speak justly of Thackeray's lecture. You do well to set aside odious comparisons, and to

wax impatient of that trite twaddle about 'nothing newness'a jargon which simply proves, in those who

habitually use it, a coarse and feeble faculty of appreciation; an inability to discern the relative value of

ORIGINALITY and NOVELTY; a lack of that refined perception which, dispensing with the stimulus of an

evernew subject, can derive sufficiency of pleasure from freshness of treatment. To such critics, the prime

of a summer morning would bring no delight; wholly occupied with railing at their cook for not having

provided a novel and piquant breakfastdish, they would remain insensible to such influences as lie in

"Is it Mr. 's family experience which has influenced your feelings about the Catholics? I own, I cannot

be sorry for this commencing change. Good peopleVERY good peopleI doubt not, there are amongst

the Romanists, but the system is not one which would have such sympathy as YOURS. Look at Popery

"I have read the 'Saints' Tragedy.' As a 'work of art' it seems to me far superior to either 'Alton Locke' or

'Yeast.' Faulty it may be, crude and unequal, yet there are portions where some of the deep chords of human

nature are swept with a hand which is strong even while it falters. We see throughout (I THINK) that

Elizabeth has not, and never bad, a mind perfectly sane. From the time that she was what she herself, in the

exaggeration of her humility, calls 'an idiot girl,' to the hour when she lay moaning in visions on her dying

bed, a slight craze runs through her whole existence. This is good: this is true. A sound mind, a healthy

intellect, would have dashed the priestpower to the wall; would have defended her natural affections from

his grasp, as a lioness defends her young; would have been as true to husband and children, as your

lealhearted little Maggie was to her Frank. Only a mind weak with some fatal flaw COULD have been

influenced as was this poor saint's. But what anguish what struggles! Seldom do I cry over books; but here,

my eyes rained as I read. When Elizabeth turns her face to the wallI stopped there needed no more.

"Deep truths are touched on in this tragedytouched on, not fully elicited; truths that stir a peculiar pitya

compassion hot with wrath, and bitter with pain. This is no poet's dream: we know that such things HAVE

"Remember me kindly and respectfully to Mr. Gaskell, and though I have not seen Marianne, I must beg to

include her in the love I send the others. Could you manage to convey a small kiss to that dear, but dangerous

little person, Julia? She surreptitiously possessed herself of a minute fraction of my heart, which has been

The reference which she makes at the end of this letter is to my youngest little girl, between whom and her a

strong mutual attraction existed. The child would steal her little hand into Miss Bronte's scarcely larger one,

and each took pleasure in this apparently unobserved caress. Yet once when I told Julia to take and show her

the way to some room in the house, Miss Bronte shrunk back: "Do not BID her do anything for me," she said;

"it has been so sweet hitherto to have her rendering her little kindnesses SPONTANEOUSLY."

As illustrating her feelings with regard to children, I may give what she says ill another of her letters to me.

"Whenever I see Florence and Julia again, I shall feel like a fond but bashful suitor, who views at a distance

the fair personage to whom, in his clownish awe, he dare not risk a near approach. Such is the clearest idea I

can give you of my feeling towards children I like, but to whom I am a stranger;and to what children am I

not a stranger? They seem to me little wonders; their talk, their ways are all matter of halfadmiring,

The following is part of a long letter which I received from her, dated September 20th, 1851:

". . . Beautiful are those sentences out of James Martineau's sermons; some of them gems most pure and

genuine; ideas deeply conceived, finely expressed. I should like much to see his review of his sister's book.

Of all the articles respecting which you question me, I have seen none, except that notable one in the

'Westminster' on the Emancipation of Women. But why are you and I to think (perhaps I should rather say to

FEEL) so exactly alike on some points that there can be no discussion between us? Your words on this paper

express my thoughts. Wellargued it is,clear, logical,but vast is the hiatus of omission; harsh the

consequent jar on every finer chord of the soul. What is this hiatus? I think I know; and, knowing, I will

venture to say. I think the writer forgets there is such a thing as selfsacrificing love and disinterested

devotion. When I first read the paper, I thought it was the work of a powerfulminded, clearheaded woman,

who had a hard, jealous heart, muscles of iron, and nerves of bend* leather; of a woman who longed for

power, and had never felt affection. To many women affection is sweet, an d power conquered

indifferentthough we all like influence won. I believe J. S. Mill would make a hard, dry, dismal world of it;

and yet he speaks admirable sense through a great portion of his articleespecially when he says, that if

there be a natural unfitness in women for men's employment, there is no need to make laws on the subject;

leave all careers open; let them try; those who ought to succeed will succeed, or, at least, will have a fair

chancethe incapable will fall back into their right place. He likewise disposes of the 'maternity' question

very neatly. In short, J. S. Mill's head is, I dare say, very good, but I feel disposed to scorn his heart. You are

right when you say that there is a large margin in human nature over which the logicians have no dominion;

"I send by this post Ruskin's 'Stones of Venice,' and I hope you and Meta will find passages in it that will

please you. Some parts would be dry and technical were it not for the character, the marked individuality

which pervades every page. I wish Marianne had come to speak to me at the lecture; it would have given me

such pleasure. What you say of that small sprite Julia, amuses me much. I believe you don't know that she has

a great deal of her mama's nature (modified) in her; yet I think you will find she has as she grows up.

"Will it not be a great mistake, if Mr. Thackeray should deliver his lectures at Manchester under such

circumstances and conditions as will exclude people like you and Mr. Gaskell from the number of his

audience? I thought his Londonplan too narrow. Charles Dickens would not thus limit his sphere of action.

"You charge me to write about myself. What can I say on that precious topic? My health is pretty good. My

spirits are not always alike. Nothing happens to me. I hope and expect little in this world, and am thankful

that I do not despond and suffer more. Thank you for inquiring after our old servant; she is pretty well; the

little shawl, etc., pleased her much. Papa likewise, I am glad to say, is pretty well; with his and my kindest

Before the autumn was far advanced, the usual effects of her solitary life, and of the unhealthy situation of

Haworth Parsonage, began to appear in the form of sick headaches, and miserable, starting, wakeful nights.

She does not dwell on this in her letters; but there is an absence of all cheerfulness of tone, and an occasional

sentence forced out of her, which imply far more than many words could say. There was illness all through

the Parsonage householdtaking its accustomed forms of lingering influenza and low fever; she herself was

outwardly the strongest of the family, and all domestic exertion fell for a time upon her shoulders.

"As I laid down your letter, after reading with interest the graphic account it gives of a very striking scene, I

could not help feeling with renewed force a truth, trite enough, yet ever impressive; viz., that it is good to be

attracted out of ourselvesto be forced to take a near view of the sufferings, the privations, the efforts, the

difficulties of others. If we ourselves live in fulness of content, it is well to be reminded that thousands of our

fellowcreatures undergo a different lot; it is well to have sleepy sympathies excited, and lethargic

selfishness shaken up. If, on the other hand, we be contending with the special grief,the intimate

trial,the peculiar bitterness with which God has seen fit to mingle our own cup of existence,it is very

good to know that our overcast lot is not singular; it stills the repining word and thought,it rouses the

flagging strength, to have it vividly set before us that there are countless afflictions in the world, each perhaps

rivallingsome surpassingthe private pain over which we are too prone exclusively to sorrow.

"All those crowded emigrants had their troubles,their untoward causes of banishment; you, the lookeron,

had 'your wishes and regrets,'your anxieties, alloying your home happiness and domestic bliss; and the

parallel might be pursued further, and still it would be true,still the same; a thorn in the flesh for each;

"How far this state of things is susceptible of amelioration from changes in public institutions,alterations in

national habits,may and ought to be earnestly considered: but this is a problem not easily solved. The evils,

as you point them out, are great, real, and most obvious; the remedy is obscure and vague; yet for such

difficulties as spring from overcompetition, emigration must be good; the new life in a new country must

give a new lease of hope; the wider field, less thickly peopled, must open a new path for endeavour. But I

always think great physical powers of exertion and endurance ought to accompany such a step. . . . I am truly

glad to hear that an ORIGINAL writer has fallen in your way. Originality is the pearl of great price in

literature,the rarest, the most precious claim by which an author can be recommended. Are not your

publishing prospects for the coming season tolerably rich and satisfactory? You inquire after 'Currer Bell.' It

seems to me that the absence of his name from your list of announcements will leave no blank, and that he

may at least spare himself the disquietude of thinking he is wanted when it is certainly not his lot to appear.

"Perhaps Currer Bell has his secret moan about these matters; but if so, he will keep it to himself. It is an

affair about which no words need be wasted, for no words can make a change: it is between him and his

My husband and I were anxious that she should pay us a visit before the winter had set completely in; and she

"If anybody would tempt me from home, you would; but, just now, from home I must not, will not go. I feel

greatly better at present than I did three weeks ago. For a month or six weeks about the equinox (autumnal or

vernal) is a period of the year which, I have noticed, strangely tries me. Sometimes the strain falls on the

mental, sometimes on the physical part of me; I am ill with neuralgic headache, or I am ground to the dust

with deep dejection of spirits (not, however, such dejection but I can keep it to myself). That weary time has,

I think and trust, got over for this year. It was the anniversary of my poor brother's death, and of my sister's

"As to running away from home every time I have a battle of this sort to fight, it would not do besides, the

'weird' would follow. As to shaking it off, that cannot be. I have declined to go to Mrs. , to Miss

Martineau, and now I decline to go to you. But listen do not think that I throw your kindness away; or that it

fails of doing the good you desire. On the contrary, the feeling expressed in your letter,proved by your

invitationgoes RIGHT HOME where you would have it to go, and heals as you would have it to heal.

"Your description of Frederika Bremer tallies exactly with one I read somewhere, in I know not what book. I

laughed out when I got to the mention of Frederika's special accomplishment, given by you with a distinct

simplicity that, to my taste, is what the French would call 'impayable.' Where do you find the foreigner who is

A visit from Miss Wooler at this period did Miss Bronte much good for the time. She speaks of her guest's

company as being very pleasant,"like good wine," both to her father and to herself. But Miss Wooler could

not remain with her long; and then again the monotony of her life returned upon her in all its force; the only

events of her days and weeks consisting in the small changes which occasional letters brought. It must be

remembered that her health was often such as to prevent her stirring out of the house in inclement or wintry

weather. She was liable to sore throat, and depressing pain at the chest, and difficulty of breathing, on the

A letter from her late visitor touched and gratified her much; it was simply expressive of gratitude for

attention and kindness shown to her, but it wound up by saying that she had not for many years experienced

so much enjoyment as during the ten days passed at Haworth. This little sentence called out a wholesome

sensation of modest pleasure in Miss Bronte's mind; and she says, "it did me good."

I find, in a letter to a distant friend, written about this time, a retrospect of her visit to London. It is too ample

to be considered as a mere repetition of what she had said before; and, besides, it shows that her first

impressions of what she saw and heard were not crude and transitory, but stood the tests of time and

"I spent a few weeks in town last summer, as you have heard; and was much interested by many things I

heard and saw there. What now chiefly dwells in my memory are Mr. Thackeray's lectures, Mademoiselle

Rachel's acting, D'Aubigne's, Melville's, and Maurice's preaching, and the Crystal Palace.

"Mr. Thackeray's lectures you will have seen mentioned and commented on in the papers; they were very

interesting. I could not always coincide with the sentiments expressed, or the opinions broached; but I

admired the gentlemanlike ease, the quiet humour, the taste, the talent, the simplicity, and the originality of

"Rachel's acting transfixed me with wonder, enchained me with interest, and thrilled me with horror. The

tremendous force with which she expresses the very worst passions in their strongest essence forms an

exhibition as exciting as the bull fights of Spain, and the gladiatorial combats of old Rome, and (it seemed to

me) not one whit more moral than these poisoned stimulants to popular ferocity. It is scarcely human nature

that she shows you; it is something wilder and worse; the feelings and fury of a fiend. The great gift of genius

she undoubtedly has; but, I fear, she rather abuses it than turns it to good account.

"With all the three preachers I was greatly pleased. Melville seemed to me the most eloquent, Maurice the

most in earnest; had I the choice, it is Maurice whose ministry I should frequent.

"On the Crystal Palace I need not comment. You must already have heard too much of it. It struck me at the

first with only a vague sort of wonder and admiration; but having one day the privilege of going over it in

company with an eminent countryman of yours, Sir David Brewster, and hearing, in his friendly Scotch

accent, his lucid explanation of many things that had been to me before a sealed book, I began a little better to

comprehend it, or at least a small part of it: whether its final results will equal expectation, I know not."

Her increasing indisposition subdued her at last, in spite of all her efforts of reason and will. She tried to

forget oppressive recollections in writing. Her publishers were importunate for a new book from her pen.

"It is not at all likely" (she says) "that my book will be ready at the time you mention. If my health is spared, I

shall get on with it as fast as is consistent with its being done, if not WELL, yet as well as I can do it. NOT

ONE WHIT FASTER. When the mood leaves me (it has left me now, without vouchsafing so much as a

word or a message when it will return) I put by the MS. and wait till it comes back again. God knows, I

sometimes have to wait longVERY long it seems to me. Meantime, if I might make a request to you, it

would be this. Please to say nothing about my book till it is written, and in your hands. You may not like it. I

am not myself elated with it as far as it is gone, and authors, you need not be told, are always tenderly

indulgent, even blindly partial to their own. Even if it should turn out reasonably well, still I regard it as ruin

to the prosperity of an ephemeral book like a novel, to be much talked of beforehand, as if it were something

great. People are apt to conceive, or at least to profess, exaggerated expectation, such as no performance can

realise; then ensue disappointment and the due revenge, detraction, and failure. If when I write, I were to

think of the critics who, I know, are waiting for Currer Bell, ready 'to break all his bones or ever he comes to

the bottom of the den,' my hand would fall paralysed on my desk. However, I can but do my best, and then

The "mood" here spoken of did not go off; it had a physical origin. Indigestion, nausea, headache,

sleeplessness,all combined to produce miserable depression of spirits. A little event which occurred about

this time, did not tend to cheer her. It was the death of poor old faithful Keeper, Emily's dog. He had come to

the Parsonage in the fierce strength of his youth. Sullen and ferocious he had met with his master in the

indomitable Emily. Like most dogs of his kind, he feared, respected, and deeply loved her who subdued him.

He had mourned her with the pathetic fidelity of his nature, falling into old age after her death. And now, her

surviving sister wrote: "Poor old Keeper died last Monday morning, after being ill one night; he went gently

to sleep; we laid his old faithful head in the garden. Flossy (the 'fat curlyhaired dog') is dull, and misses him.

There was something very sad in losing the old dog; yet I am glad he met a natural fate. People kept hinting

When Miss Bronte wrote this, on December 8th, she was suffering from a bad cold, and pain in her side. Her

illness increased, and on December 17th, sheso patient, silent, and enduring of sufferingso afraid of any

"I cannot at present go to see you, but I would be grateful if you could come and see me, even were it only for

a few days. To speak truth, I have put on but a poor time of it during this month past. I kept hoping to be

better, but was at last obliged to have recourse to a medical man. Sometimes I have felt very weak and low,

and longed much for society, but could not persuade myself to commit the selfish act of asking you merely

for my own relief. The doctor speaks encouragingly, but as yet I get no better. As the illness has been coming

on for a long time, it cannot, I suppose, be expected to disappear all at once. I am not confined to bed, but I

am weak,have had no appetite for about three weeksand my nights are very bad. I am well aware myself

that extreme and continuous depression of spirits has had much to do with the origin of the illness; and I

know a little cheerful society would do me more good than gallons of medicine. If you CAN come, come on

Friday. Write tomorrow and say whether this be possible, and what time you will be at Keighley, that I may

Of course, her friend went; and a certain amount of benefit was derived from her society, always so grateful

to Miss Bronte. But the evil was now too deeprooted to be more than palliated for a time by "the little

A relapse came on before long. She was very ill, and the remedies employed took an unusual effect on her

peculiar sensitiveness of constitution. Mr. Bronte was miserably anxious about the state of his only remaining

child, for she was reduced to the last degree of weakness, as she had been unable to swallow food for above a

week before. She rallied, and derived her sole sustenance from halfateacup of liquid, administered by

teaspoonfuls, in the course of the day. Yet she kept out of bed, for her father's sake, and struggled in solitary

When she was recovering, her spirits needed support, and then she yielded to her friend's entreaty that she

would visit her. All the time that Miss Bronte's illness had lasted, Miss had been desirous of coming to

her; but she refused to avail herself of this kindness, saying, that "it was enough to burden herself; that it

would be misery to annoy another;" and, even at her worst time, she tells her friend, with humorous glee, how

coolly she had managed to capture one of Miss 's letters to Mr. Bronte, which she suspected was of a

kind to aggravate his alarm about his daughter's state, "and at once conjecturing its tenor, made its contents

Happily for all parties, Mr. Bronte was wonderfully well this winter; good sleep, good spirits, and an

excellent steady appetite, all seemed to mark vigour; and in such a state of health, Charlotte could leave him

She benefited greatly by the kind attentions and cheerful society of the family with whom she went to stay.

They did not care for her in the least as "Currer Bell," but had known and loved her for years as Charlotte

Bronte. To them her invalid weakness was only a fresh claim upon their tender regard, from the solitary

Miss Bronte wrote to me about this time, and told me something of what she had suffered.

"Certainly, the past winter has been to me a strange time; had I the prospect before me of living it over again,

my prayer must necessarily be, 'Let this cup pass from me.' That depression of spirits, which I thought was

gone by when I wrote last, came back again with a heavy recoil; internal congestion ensued, and then

inflammation. I had severe pain in my right side, frequent burning and aching in my chest; sleep almost

forsook me, or would never come, except accompanied by ghastly dreams; appetite vanished, and slow fever

was my continual companion. It was some time before I could bring myself to have recourse to medical

advice. I thought my lungs were affected, and could feel no confidence in the power of medicine. When, at

last, however, a doctor was consulted, he declared my lungs and chest sound, and ascribed all my sufferings

to derangement of the liver, on which organ it seems the inflammation had fallen. This information was a

great relief to my dear father, as well as to myself; but I had subsequently rather sharp medical discipline to

undergo, and was much reduced. Though not yet well, it is with deep thankfulness that I can say, I am

It was a great interest to her to be allowed an ear]y reading of Esmond; and she expressed her thoughts on the

subject, in a criticising letter to Mr. Smith, who had given her this privilege.

"My dear Sir,It has been a great delight to me to read Mr. Thackeray's work; and I so seldom now express

my sense of kindness that, for once, you must permit me, without rebuke, to thank you for a pleasure so rare

and special. Yet I am not going to praise either Mr. Thackeray or his book. I have read, enjoyed, been

interested, and, after all, feel full as much ire and sorrow as gratitude and admiration. And still one can never

lay down a book of his without the last two feelings having their part, be the subject or treatment what it may.

In the first half of the book, what chiefly struck me was the wonderful manner in which the writer throws

himself into the spirit and letters of the times whereof he treats; the allusions, the illustrations, the style, all

seem to me so masterly in their exact keeping, their harmonious consistency, their nice, natural truth, their

pure exemption from exaggeration. No secondrate imitator can write in that way; no coarse scenepainter

can charm us with an allusion so delicate and perfect. But what bitter satire, what relentless dissection of

diseased subjects! Well, and this, too, is right, or would be right, if the savage surgeon did not seem so

fiercely pleased with his work. Thackeray likes to dissect an ulcer or an aneurism; he has pleasure in putting

his cruel knife or probe into quivering, living flesh. Thackeray would not like all the world to be good; no

"As usual, he is unjust to women; quite unjust. There is hardly any punishment he does not deserve for

making Lady Castlewood peep through a keyhole, listen at a door, and be jealous of a boy and a milkmaid.

Many other things I noticed that, for my part, grieved and exasperated me as I read; but then, again, came

passages so true, so deeply thought, so tenderly felt, one could not help forgiving and admiring.

But I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on the political or religious intrigues of the times.

Thackeray, in his heart, does not value political or religious intrigues of any age or date. He likes to show us

human nature at home, as he himself daily sees it; his wonderful observant faculty likes to be in action. In

him this faculty is a sort of captain and leader; and if ever any passage in his writings lacks interest, it is when

this masterfaculty is for a time thrust into a subordinate position. I think such is the case in the former half

of the present volume. Towards the middle, he throws off restraint, becomes himself, and is strong to the

close. Everything now depends on the second and third volumes. If, in pith and interest, they fall short of the

first, a true success cannot ensue. If the continuation be an improvement upon the commencement, if the

stream gather force as it rolls, Thackeray will triumph. Some people have been in the habit of terming him the

second writer of the day; it just depends on himself whether or not these critics shall be justified in their

award. He need not be the second. God made him second to no man. If I were he, I would show myself as I

am, not as critics report me; at any rate, I would do my best. Mr. Thackeray is easy and indolent, and seldom

Miss Bronte's health continued such, that she could not apply herself to writing as she wished, for many

weeks after the serious attack from which she had suffered. There was not very much to cheer her in the few

events that touched her interests during this time. She heard in March of the death of a friend's relation in the

"The news of E's death came to me last week in a letter from M ; a long letter, which wrung my

heart so, in its simple, strong, truthful emotion, I have only ventured to read it once. It ripped up halfscarred

wounds with terrible force. The deathbed was just the same,breath failing, etc. She fears she shall now, in

her dreary solitude, become a 'stern, harsh, selfish woman.' This fear struck home; again and again have I felt

it for myself, and what is MY position to M's? May God help her, as God only can help!"

Again and again, her friend urged her to leave home; nor were various invitations wanting to enable her to do

this, when these constitutional accesses of low spirits preyed too much upon her in her solitude. But she

would not allow herself any such indulgence, unless it became absolutely necessary from the state of her

health. She dreaded the perpetual recourse to such stimulants as change of scene and society, because of the

reaction that was sure to follow. As far as she could see, her life was ordained to be lonely, and she must

subdue her nature to her life, and, if possible, bring the two into harmony. When she could employ herself in

fiction, all was comparatively well. The characters were her companions in the quiet hours, which she spent

utterly alone, unable often to stir out of doors for many days together. The interests of the persons in her

novels supplied the lack of interest in her own life; and Memory and Imagination found their appropriate

work, and ceased to prey upon her vitals. But too frequently she could not write, could not see her people, nor

hear them speak; a great mist of headache had blotted them out; they were nonexistent to her.

This was the case all through the present spring; and anxious as her publishers were for its completion,

Villette stood still. Even her letters to her friend are scarce and brief. Here and there I find a sentence in them

"M's letter is very interesting; it shows a mind one cannot but truly admire. Compare its serene trusting

strength, with poor 's vacillating dependence. When the latter was in her first burst of happiness, I never

remember the feeling finding vent in expressions of gratitude to God. There was always a continued claim

upon your sympathy in the mistrust and doubt she felt of her own bliss. M believes; her faith is grateful

"You say, dear E, that you often wish I would chat on paper, as you do. How can I? Where are my

materials? Is my life fertile in subjects of chat? What callers do I see? What visits do I pay? No, you must

chat, and I must listen, and say 'Yes,' and 'No,' and 'Thank you!' for five minutes' recreation.

"I am amused at the interest you take in politics. Don't expect to rouse me; to me, all ministries and all

oppositions seem to be pretty much alike. D'Israeli was factious as leader of the Opposition; Lord John

Russell is going to be factious, now that he has stepped into D'Israeli's shoes. Lord Derby's 'Christian love

"My dear Sir,Mr. Smith intimated a short time since, that he had some thoughts of publishing a reprint of

Shirley. Having revised the work, I now enclose the errata. I have likewise sent off today, per rail, a

"I have lately read with great pleasure, 'The Two Families.' This work, it seems, should have reached me in

January; but owing to a mistake, it was detained at the Dead Letter Office, and lay there nearly two months. I

liked the commencement very much; the close seemed to me scarcely equal to 'Rose Douglas.' I thought the

authoress committed a mistake in shifting the main interest from the two personages on whom it first

restsviz., Ben Wilson and Maryto other characters of quite inferior conception. Had she made Ben and

Mary her hero and heroine, and continued the development of their fortunes and characters in the same

truthful natural vein in which she commences it, an excellent, even an original, book might have been the

result. As for Lilias and Ronald, they are mere romantic figments, with nothing of the genuine Scottish

peasant about them; they do not even speak the Caledonian dialect; they palaver like a fine lady and

"I ought long since to have acknowledged the gratification with which I read Miss Kavanagh's 'Women of

Christianity.' Her charity and (on the whole) her impartiality are very beautiful. She touches, indeed, with too

gentle a hand the theme of Elizabeth of Hungary; and, in her own mind, she evidently misconstrues the fact

of Protestant charities SEEMING to be fewer than Catholic. She forgets, or does not know, that Protestantism

is a quieter creed than Romanism; as it does not clothe its priesthood in scarlet, so neither does it set up its

good women for saints, canonise their names, and proclaim their good works. In the records of man, their

almsgiving will not perhaps be found registered, but Heaven has its account as well as earth.

"With kind regards to yourself and family, who, I trust, have all safely weathered the rough winter lately past,

as well as the east winds, which are still nipping our spring in Yorkshire,I am, my dear Sir, yours

"My dear Sir,The box arrived quite safely, and I very much thank you for the contents, which are most

"As you wished me to say what I thought of 'The School for Fathers,' I hastened to read it. The book seems to

me clever, interesting, very amusing, and likely to please generally. There is a merit in the choice of ground,

which is not yet too hackneyed; the comparative freshness of subject, character, and epoch give the tale a

certain attractiveness. There is also, I think, a graphic rendering of situations, and a lively talent for

describing whatever is visible and tangiblewhat the eye meets on the surface of things. The humour

appears to me such as would answer well on the stage; most of the scenes seem to demand dramatic

accessories to give them their full effect. But I think one cannot with justice bestow higher praise than this.

To speak candidly, I felt, in reading the tale, a wondrous hollowness in the moral and sentiment; a strange

dilettante shallowness in the purpose and feeling. After all, 'Jack' is not much better than a 'Tony Lumpkin,'

and there is no very great breadth of choice between the clown he IS and the fop his father would have made

him. The grossly material life of the old English foxhunter, and the frivolous existence of the fine gentleman

present extremes, each in its way so repugnant, that one feels half inclined to smile when called upon to

sentimentalise over the lot of a youth forced to pass from one to the other; torn from the stables, to be ushered

perhaps into the ballroom. Jack dies mournfully indeed, and you are sorry for the poor fellow's untimely

end; but you cannot forget that, if he had not been thrust into the way of Colonel Penruddock's weapon, he

might possibly have broken his neck in a foxhunt. The character of Sir Thomas Warren is excellent;

consistent throughout. That of Mr. Addison not bad, but sketchy, a mere outlinewanting colour and finish.

The man's portrait is there, and his costume, and fragmentary anecdotes of his life; but where is the man's

naturesoul and self? I say nothing about the female charactersnot one word; only that Lydia seems to

me like a pretty little actress, prettily dressed gracefully appearing and disappearing, and reappearing in a

genteel comedy, assuming the proper sentiments of her part with all due tact and naivete, andthat is all.

"Your description of the model man of business is true enough, I doubt not; but we will not fear that society

will ever be brought quite to this standard; human nature (bad as it is) has, after all, elements that forbid it.

But the very tendency to such a consummationthe marked tendency, I fear, of the dayproduces, no

doubt, cruel suffering. Yet, when the evil of competition passes a certain limit, must it not in time work its

own cure? I suppose it will, but then through some convulsed crisis, shattering all around it like an

earthquake. Meantime, for how many is life made a struggle; enjoyment and rest curtailed; labour terribly

enhanced beyond almost what nature can bear I often think that this world would be the most terrible of

enigmas, were it not for the firm belief that there is a world to come, where conscientious effort and patient

A letter to her old Brussels schoolfellow gives a short retrospect of the dreary winter she had passed through.

". . . I struggled through the winter, and the early part of the spring, often with great difficulty. My friend

stayed with me a few days in the early part of January; she could not be spared longer. I was better during her

visit, but had a relapse soon after she left me, which reduced my strength very much. It cannot be denied that

the solitude of my position fearfully aggravated its other evils. Some long stormy days and nights there were,

when I felt such a craving for support and companionship as I cannot express. Sleepless, I lay awake night

after night, weak and unable to occupy myself. I sat in my chair day after day, the saddest memories my only

company. It was a time I shall never forget; but God sent it, and it must have been for the best.

"I am better now; and very grateful do I feel for the restoration of tolerable health; but, as if there was always

to be some affliction, papa, who enjoyed wonderful health during the whole winter, is ailing with his spring

attack of bronchitis. I earnestly trust it may pass over in the comparatively ameliorated form in which it has

"Let me not forget to answer your question about the cataract. Tell your papa that MY father was seventy at

the time he underwent an operation; he was most reluctant to try the experiment; could not believe that, at his

age, and with his want of robust strength, it would succeed. I was obliged to be very decided in the matter,

and to act entirely on my own responsibility. Nearly six years have now elapsed since the cataract was

extracted (it was not merely depressed); he has never once during that time regretted the step, and a day

seldom passes that he does not express gratitude and pleasure at the restoration of that inestimable privilege

I had given Miss Bronte; in one of my letters, an outline of the story on which I was then engaged, and in

"The sketch you give of your work (respecting which I am, of course, dumb) seems to me very noble; and its

purpose may be as useful in practical result as it is high and just in theoretical tendency. Such a book may

restore hope and energy to many who thought they had forfeited their right to both; and open a clear course

for honourable effort to some who deemed that they and all honour had parted company in this world.

"My heart fails me already at the thought of the pang it will have to undergo. And yet you must follow the

impulse of your own inspiration. If THAT commands the slaying of the victim, no bystander has a right to

put out his hand to stay the sacrificial knife: but I hold you a stern priestess in these matters."

As the milder weather came on, her health improved, and her power of writing increased. She set herself with

redoubled vigour to the work before her; and denied herself pleasure for the purpose of steady labour. Hence

"Dear E, I must adhere to my resolution of neither visiting nor being visited at present. Stay you

quietly at B., till you go to S., as I shall stay at Haworth; as sincere a farewell can be taken with the heart as

with the lips, and perhaps less painful. I am glad the weather is changed; the return of the southwest wind

suits me; but I hope you have no cause to regret the departure of your favourite east wind. What you say

about does not surprise me; I have had many little notes (whereof I answer about one in three)

breathing the same spirit,self and child the sole allabsorbing topics, on which the changes are rung even

to weariness. But I suppose one must not heed it, or think the case singular. Nor, I am afraid, must one expect

her to improve. I read in a French book lately, a sentence to this effect, that 'marriage might be defined as the

state of twofold selfishness.' Let the single therefore take comfort. Thank you for Mary's letter. She DOES

seem most happy; and I cannot tell you how much more real, lasting, and betterwarranted her happiness

seems than ever 's did. I think so much of it is in herself, and her own serene, pure, trusting, religious

nature. 's always gives me the idea of a vacillating, unsteady rapture, entirely dependent on

circumstances with all their fluctuations. If Mary lives to be a mother, you will then see a greater difference.

"I wish you, dear E., all health and enjoyment in your visit; and, as far as one can judge at present, there

The reader will remember that Anne Bronte had been interred in the churchyard of the Old Church at

Scarborough. Charlotte had left directions for a tombstone to be placed over her; but many a time during the

solitude of the past winter, her sad, anxious thoughts had revisited the scene of that last great sorrow, and she

had wondered whether all decent services had been rendered to the memory of the dead, until at last she came

to a silent resolution to go and see for herself whether the stone and inscription were in a satisfactory state of

"Dear E, I am at Filey utterly alone. Do not be angry, the step is right. I considered it, and resolved

on it with due deliberation. Change of air was necessary; there were reasons why I should NOT go to the

south, and why I should come here. On Friday I went to Scarborough, visited the churchyard and stone. It

must be refaced and relettered; there are five errors. I gave the necessary directions. THAT duty, then, is

done; long has it lain heavy on my mind; and that was a pilgrimage I felt I could only make alone.

"I am in our old lodgings at Mrs. Smith's; not, however, in the same rooms, but in less expensive apartments.

They seemed glad to see me, remembered you and me very well, and, seemingly, with great good will. The

daughter who used to wait on us is just married. Filey seems to me much altered; more

lodginghousessome of them very handsomehave been built; the sea has all its old grandeur. I walk on

the sands a good deal, and try NOT to feel desolate and melancholy. How sorely my heart longs for you, I

need not say. I have bathed once; it seemed to do me good. I may, perhaps, stay here a fortnight. There are as

yet scarcely any visitors. A Lady Wenlock is staying at the large house of which you used so vigilantly to

observe the inmates. One day I set out with intent to trudge to Filey Bridge, but was frightened back by two

cows. I mean to try again some morning. I left papa well. I have been a good deal troubled with headache,

and with some pain in the side since I came here, but I feel that this has been owing to the cold wind, for very

cold has it been till lately; at present I feel better. Shall I send the papers to you as usual Write again directly,

and tell me this, and anything and everything else that comes into your mind.Believe me, yours faithfully,

"Dear E, Be quite easy about me. I really think I am better for my stay at Filey; that I have derived

more benefit from it than I dared to anticipate. I believe, could I stay here two months, and enjoy something

like social cheerfulness as well as exercise and good air, my health would be quite renewed. This, however,

cannot possibly be; but I am most thankful for the good received. I stay here another week.

"I return 's letter. I am sorry for her: I believe she suffers; but I do not much like her style of expressing

herself. . . . Grief as well as joy manifests itself in most different ways in different people; and I doubt not she

is sincere and in earnest when she talks of her 'precious, sainted father;' but I could wish she used simpler

Soon after her return from Filey, she was alarmed by a very serious and sharp attack of illness with which

Mr. Bronte was seized. There was some fear, for a few days, that his sight was permanently lost, and his

"This prostration of spirits," writes his daughter, "which accompanies anything like a relapse is almost the

most difficult point to manage. Dear E, you are tenderly kind in offering your society; but rest very

tranquil where you are; be fully assured that it is not now, nor under present circumstances, that I feel the lack

either of society or occupation; my time is pretty well filled up, and my thoughts appropriated. . . . I cannot

permit myself to comment much on the chief contents of your last; advice is not necessary: as far as I can

judge, you seem hitherto enabled to take these trials in a good and wise spirit. I can only pray that such

combined strength and resignation may be continued to you. Submission, courage, exertion, when

practicablethese seem to be the weapons with which we must fight life's long battle."

I suppose that, during the very time when her thoughts were thus fully occupied with anxiety for her father,

she received some letter from her publishers, making inquiry as to the progress of the work which they knew

she had in hand, as I find the following letter to Mr. Williams, bearing reference to some of Messrs. Smith

"My dear Sir,Is it in contemplation to publish the new edition of 'Shirley' soon? Would it not be better to

defer it for a time? In reference to a part of your letter, permit me to express this wish,and I trust in doing

so, I shall not be regarded as stepping out of my position as an author, and encroaching on the arrangements

of business,viz.: that no announcement of a new work by the author of 'Jane Eyre' shall be made till the

MS. of such work is actually in my publisher's hands. Perhaps we are none of us justified in speaking very

decidedly where the future is concerned; but for some too much caution in such calculations can scarcely be

observed: amongst this number I must class myself. Nor, in doing so, can I assume an apologetic tone. He

"Last autumn I got on for a time quickly. I ventured to look forward to spring as the period of publication: my

health gave way; I passed such a winter as, having been once experienced, will never be forgotten. The spring

proved little better than a protraction of trial. The warm weather and a visit to the sea have done me much

good physically; but as yet I have recovered neither elasticity of animal spirits, nor flow of the power of

composition. And if it were otherwise, the difference would be of no avail; my time and thoughts are at

present taken up with close attendance on my father, whose health is just now in a very critical state, the heat

of the weather having produced determination of blood to the head.I am, yours sincerely,

Before the end of August, Mr. Bronte's convalescence became quite established, and he was anxious to

On September the 14th the "great duke" died. He had been, as we have seen, her hero from childhood; but I

find no further reference to him at this time than what is given in the following extract from a letter to her

"I do hope and believe the changes you have been having this summer will do you permanent good,

notwithstanding the pain with which they have been too often mingled. Yet I feel glad that you are soon

coming home; and I really must not trust myself to say how much I wish the time were come when, without

let or hindrance, I could once more welcome you to Haworth. But oh I don't get on; I feel

frettedincapablesometimes very low. However, at present, the subject must not be dwelt upon; it presses

me too hardlynearlyand painfully. Less than ever can I taste or know pleasure till this work is wound

up. And yet I often sit up in bed at night, thinking of and wishing for you. Thank you for the Times; what it

said on the mighty and mournful subject was well said. All at once the whole nation seems to take a just view

of that great character. There was a review too of an American book, which I was glad to see. Read 'Uncle

"Papa's health continues satisfactory, thank God! As for me, my wretched liver has been disordered again of

late, but I hope it is now going to be on better behaviour; it hinders me in workingdepresses both power

Haworth was in an unhealthy state, as usual; and both Miss Bronte and Tabby suffered severely from the

prevailing epidemics. The former was long in shaking off the effects of this illness. In vain she resolved

against allowing herself any society or change of scene until she had accomplished her labour. She was too ill

to write; and with illness came on the old heaviness of heart, recollections of the past, and anticipations of the

future. At last Mr. Bronte expressed so strong a wish that her friend should be asked to visit her, and she felt

some little refreshment so absolutely necessary, that on October the 9th she begged her to come to Haworth,

"I thought I would persist in denying myself till I had done my work, but I find it won't do; the matter refuses

to progress, and this excessive solitude presses too heavily; so let me see your dear face, E., just for one

But she would only accept of the company of her friend for the exact time specified. She thus writes to Miss

"E has only been my companion one little week. I would not have her any longer, for I am disgusted

with myself and my delays; and consider it was a weak yielding to temptation in me to send for her at all; but

in truth, my spirits were getting lowprostrate sometimesand she has done me inexpressible good. I

wonder when I shall see you at Haworth again; both my father and the servants have again and again

insinuated a distinct wish that you should be requested to come in the course of the summer and autumn, but I

have always turned rather a deaf ear; 'not yet,' was my thought, 'I want first to be free;' work first, then

Miss 's visit had done her much good. Pleasant companionship during the day produced, for the time,

the unusual blessing of calm repose at night; and after her friend's departure she was well enough to "fall to

business," and write away, almost incessantly, at her story of Villette, now drawing to a conclusion. The

following letter to Mr. Smith, seems to have accompanied the first part of the MS.

"My dear Sir,You must notify honestly what you think of 'Villette' when you have read it. I can hardly tell

you how I hunger to hear some opinion besides my own, and how I have sometimes desponded, and almost

despaired, because there was no one to whom to read a line, or of whom to ask a counsel. 'Jane Eyre' was not

written under such circumstances, nor were twothirds of 'Shirley'. I got so miserable about it, I could bear no

allusion to the book. It is not finished yet; but now I hope. As to the anonymous publication, I have this to

say: If the withholding of the author's name should tend materially to injure the publisher's interest, to

interfere with booksellers' orders, etc., I would not press the point; but if no such detriment is contingent, I

should be most thankful for the sheltering shadow of an incognito. I seem to dread the advertisementsthe

largelettered 'Currer Bell's New Novel,' or 'New Work, by the Author of Jane Eyre.' These, however, I feel

well enough, are the transcendentalisms of a retired wretch; so you must speak frankly. . . . I shall be glad to

see 'Colonel Esmond.' My objection to the second volume lay here: I thought it contained decidedly too much

"The third volume seemed to me to possess the most sparkle, impetus, and interest. Of the first and second

my judgment was, that parts of them were admirable; but there was the fault of containing too much

Historytoo little story. I hold that a work of fiction ought to be a work of creation: that the REAL should

be sparingly introduced in pages dedicated to the IDEAL. Plain household bread is a far more wholesome and

necessary thing than cake; yet who would like to see the brown loaf placed on the table for dessert? In the

second volume, the author gives us an ample supply of excellent brown bread; in his third, only such a

portion as gives substance, like the crumbs of bread in a wellmade, not too rich, plumpudding."

Her letter to Mr. Smith, containing the allusion to 'Esmond,' which reminded me of the quotation just given

"You will see that 'Villette' touches on no matter of public interest. I cannot write books handling the topics

of the day; it is of no use trying. Nor can I write a book for its moral. Nor can I take up a philanthropic

scheme, though I honour philanthropy; and voluntarily and sincerely veil my face before such a mighty

subject as that handled in Mrs. Beecher Stowe's work, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' To manage these great matters

rightly, they must be long and practically studiedtheir bearings known intimately, and their evils felt

genuinely; they must not be taken up as a business matter, and a trading speculation. I doubt not, Mrs. Stowe

had felt the iron of slavery enter into her heart, from childhood upwards, long before she ever thought of

writing books. The feeling throughout her work is sincere, and not got up. Remember to be an honest critic of

'Villette,' and tell Mr. Williams to be unsparing: not that I am likely to alter anything, but I want to know his

"My dear Sir,I feel very grateful for your letter; it relieved me much, for I was a good deal harassed by

doubts as to how 'Villette' might appear in other eyes than my own. I feel in some degree authorised to rely

on your favourable impressions, because you are quite right where you hint disapprobation. You have exactly

hit two points at least where I was conscious of defect;the discrepancy, the want of perfect harmony,

between Graham's boyhood and manhood,the angular abruptness of his change of sentiment towards Miss

Fanshawe. You must remember, though, that in secret he had for some time appreciated that young lady at a

somewhat depressed standardheld her a LITTLE lower than the angels. But still the reader ought to have

been better made to feel this preparation towards a change of mood. As to the publishing arrangement, I leave

them to Cornhill. There is, undoubtedly, a certain force in what you say about the inexpediency of affecting a

mystery which cannot be sustained; so you must act as you think is for the best. I submit, also, to the

advertisements in large letters, but under protest, and with a kind of ostrichlonging for concealment. Most of

the third volume is given to the development of the 'crabbed Professor's' character. Lucy must not marry Dr.

John; he is far too youthful, handsome, brightspirited, and sweettempered; he is a 'curled darling' of Nature

and of Fortune, and must draw a prize in life's lottery. His wife must be young, rich, pretty; he must be made

very happy indeed. If Lucy marries anybody, it must be the Professora man in whom there is much to

forgive, much to 'put up with.' But I am not leniently disposed towards Miss FROST from the beginning, I

never meant to appoint her lines in pleasant places. The conclusion of this third volume is still a matter of

some anxiety: I can but do my best, however. It would speedily be finished, could I ward off certain

obnoxious headaches, which, whenever I get into the spirit of my work, are apt to seize and prostrate me. . . .

"Colonel Henry Esmond is just arrived. He looks very antique and distinguished in his Queen Anne's garb;

the periwig, sword, lace, and ruffles are very well represented by the old 'Spectator' type."

In reference to a sentence towards the close of this letter, I may mention what she told me; that Mr. Bronte

was anxious that her new tale should end well, as he disliked novels which left a melancholy impression upon

the mind; and he requested her to make her hero and heroine (like the heroes and heroines in fairytales)

"marry, and live very happily ever after." But the idea of M. Paul Emanuel's death at sea was stamped on her

imagination till it assumed the distinct force of reality; and she could no more alter her fictitious ending than

if they had been facts which she was relating. All she could do in compliance with her father's wish was so to

veil the fate in oracular words, as to leave it to the character and discernment of her readers to interpret her

"My dear Sir,I must not delay thanking you for your kind letter, with its candid and able commentary on

'Villette.' With many of your strictures I concur. The third volume may, perhaps, do away with some of the

objections; others still remain in force. I do not think the interest culminates anywhere to the degree you

would wish. What climax there is does not come on till near the conclusion; and even then, I doubt whether

the regular novelreader will consider the 'agony piled sufficiently high' (as the Americans say), or the

colours dashed on to the canvas with the proper amount of daring. Still, I fear, they must be satisfied with

what is offered: my palette affords no brighter tints; were t to attempt to deepen the reds, or burnish the

"Unless I am mistaken, the emotion of the book will be found to be kept throughout in tolerable subjection.

As to the name of the heroine, I can hardly express what subtlety of thought made me decide upon giving her

a cold name; but, at first, I called her 'Lucy Snowe' (spelt with an 'e'); which Snowe I afterwards changed to

'Frost.' Subsequently, I rather regretted the change, and wished it 'Snowe' again. If not too late, I should like

the alteration to be made now throughout the MS. A COLD name she must have; partly, perhaps, on the

'lucus a non lucendo' principle partly on that of the 'fitness of things,' for she has about her an external

"You say that she may be thought morbid and weak, unless the history of her life be more fully given. I

consider that she is both morbid and weak at times; her character sets up no pretensions to unmixed strength,

and anybody living her life would necessarily become morbid. It was no impetus of healthy feeling which

urged her to the confessional, for instance; it was the semidelirium of solitary grief and sickness. If,

however, the book does not express all this, there must be a great fault somewhere. I might explain away a

few other points, but it would be too much like drawing a picture and then writing underneath the name of the

object intended to be represented. We know what sort of a pencil that is which needs an ally in the pen.

"Thanking you again for the clearness and fulness with which you have responded to my request for a

"My dear Sir,I only wished the publication of 'Shirley' to be delayed till 'Villette' was nearly ready; so that

there can now be no objection to its being issued whenever you think fit. About putting the MS. into type, I

can only say that, should I be able to proceed with the third volume at my average rate of composition, and

with no more than the average amount of interruptions, I should hope to have it ready in about three weeks. I

leave it to you to decide whether it would be better to delay the printing that space of time, or to commence it

immediately. It would certainly be more satisfactory if you were to see the third volume before printing the

first and the second; yet, if delay is likely to prove injurious, I do not think it is indispensable. I have read the

third volume of 'Esmond.' I found it both entertaining and exciting to me; it seems to possess an impetus and

excitement beyond the other two,that movement and brilliancy its predecessors sometimes wanted, never

fails here. In certain passages, I thought Thackeray used all his powers; their grand, serious force yielded a

profound satisfaction. 'At last he puts forth his strength,' I could not help saying to myself. No character in the

book strikes me as more masterly than that of Beatrix; its conception is fresh, and its delineation vivid. It is

peculiar; it has impressions of a new kindnew, at least, to me. Beatrix is not, in herself, all bad. So much

does she sometimes reveal of what is good and great as to suggest this feelingyou would think she was

urged by a fate. You would think that some antique doom presses on her house, and that once in so many

generations its brightest ornament was to become its greatest disgrace. At times, what is good in her struggles

against this terrible destiny, but the Fate conquers. Beatrix cannot be an honest woman and a good man's

wife. She 'tries, and she CANNOT.' Proud, beautiful, and sullied, she was born what she becomes, a king's

mistress. I know not whether you have seen the notice in the Leader; I read it just after concluding the book.

Can I be wrong in deeming it a notice tame, cold, and insufficient? With all its professed friendliness, it

produced on me a most disheartening impression. Surely, another sort of justice than this will be rendered to

'Esmond' from other quarters. One acute remark of the critic is to the effect that Blanche Amory and Beatrix

are identicalsketched from the same original! To me they are about as identical as a weazel and a royal

tigress of Bengal; both the latter are quadrupeds,both the former, women. But I must not take up either

On a Saturday, a little later in this month, Miss Bronte completed 'Villette,' and sent it off to her publishers. "I

said my prayers when I had done it. Whether it is well or ill done, I don't know; D. V., I will now try and wait

the issue quietly. The book, I think, will not be considered pretentious; nor is it of a character to excite

As her labour was ended, she felt at liberty to allow herself a little change. There were several friends anxious

to see her and welcome her to their homes Miss Martineau, Mrs. Smith, and her own faithful E. With

the last, in the same letter as that in which she announced the completion of 'Villette,' she offered to spend a

week. She began, also, to consider whether it might not be well to avail herself of Mrs. Smith's kind

invitation, with a view to the convenience of being on the spot to correct the proofs.

The following letter is given, not merely on account of her own criticisms on 'Villette,' but because it shows

how she had learned to magnify the meaning of trifles, as all do who live a selfcontained and solitary life.

Mr. Smith had been unable to write by the same post as that which brought the money for 'Villette,' and she

consequently received it without a line. The friend with whom she was staying says, that she immediately

fancied there was some disappointment about 'Villette,' or that some word or act of hers had given offence;

and had not the Sunday intervened, and so allowed time for Mr. Smith's letter to make its appearance, she

"My dear Sir,The receipts have reached me safely. I received the first on Saturday, enclosed in a cover

without a line, and had made up my mind to take the train on Monday, and go up to London to see what was

the matter, and what had struck my publisher mute. On Sunday morning your letter came, and you have thus

been spared the visitation of the unannounced and unsummoned apparition of Currer Bell in Cornhill.

Inexplicable delays should be avoided when possible, for they are apt to urge those subjected to their

harassment to sudden and impulsive steps. I must pronounce you right again, in your complaint of the

transfer of interest in the third volume, from one set of characters to another. It is not pleasant, and it will

probably be found as unwelcome to the reader, as it was, in a sense, compulsory upon the writer. The spirit of

romance would have indicated another course, far more flowery and inviting; it would have fashioned a

paramount hero, kept faithfully with him, and made him supremely worshipful; he should have been an idol,

and not a mute, unresponding idol either; but this would have been unlike real LIFEinconsistent with

truthat variance with probability. I greatly apprehend, however, that the weakest character in the book is

the one I aimed at making the most beautiful; and, if this be the case, the fault lies in its wanting the germ of

the realin its being purely imaginary. I felt that this character lacked substance; I fear that the reader will

feel the same. Union with it resembles too much the fate of Ixion, who was mated with a cloud. The

childhood of Paulina is, however, I think, pretty well imagined, but her. . ." (the remainder of this interesting

sentence is torn off the letter). "A brief visit to London becomes thus more practicable, and if your mother

will kindly write, when she has time, and name a day after Christmas which will suit her, I shall have

pleasure, papa's health permitting, in availing myself of her invitation. I wish I could come in time to correct

The difficulty that presented itself most strongly to me, when I first had the honour of being requested to

write this biography, was how I could show what a noble, true, and tender woman Charlotte Bronte really

was, without mingling up with her life too much of the personal history of her nearest and most intimate

friends. After much consideration of this point, I came to the resolution of writing truly, if I wrote at all; of

withholding nothing, though some things, from their very nature, could not be spoken of so fully as others.

One of the deepest interests of her life centres naturally round her marriage, and the preceding circumstances;

but more than all other events (because of more recent date, and concerning another as intimately as herself),

it requires delicate handling on my part, lest I intrude too roughly on what is most sacred to memory. Yet I

have two reasons, which seem to me good and valid ones, for giving some particulars of the course of events

which led to her few months of wedded lifethat short spell of exceeding happiness. The first is my desire

to call attention to the fact that Mr. Nicholls was one who had seen her almost daily for years; seen her as a

daughter, a sister, a mistress and a friend. He was not a man to be attracted by any kind of literary fame. I

imagine that this, by itself, would rather repel him when he saw it in the possession of a woman. He was a

grave, reserved, conscientious man, with a deep sense of religion, and of his duties as one of its ministers.

In silence he had watched her, and loved her long. The love of such a mana daily spectator of her manner

How deep his affection was I scarcely dare to tell, even if I could in words. She did not knowshe had

hardly begun to suspectthat she was the object of any peculiar regard on his part, when, in this very

December, he came one evening to tea. After tea, she returned from the study to her own sittingroom, as

was her custom, leaving her father and his curate together. Presently she heard the studydoor open, and

expected to hear the succeeding clash of the front door. Instead, came a tap; and, "like lightning, it flashed

upon me what was coming. He entered. He stood before me. What his words were you can imagine; his

manner you can hardly realise, nor can I forget it. He made me, for the first time, feel what it costs a man to

declare affection when he doubts response. . . . The spectacle of one, ordinarily so statuelike, thus trembling,

stirred, and overcome, gave me a strange shock. I could only entreat him to leave me then, and promise a

reply on the morrow. I asked if he had spoken to Papa. He said he dared not. I think I half led, half put him

So deep, so fervent, and so enduring was the affection Miss Bronte had inspired in the heart of this good

man! It is an honour to her; and, as such, I have thought it my duty to speak thus much, and quote thus fully

from her letter about it. And now I pass to my second reason for dwelling on a subject which may possibly be

considered by some, at first sight, of too private a nature for publication. When Mr. Nicholls had left her,

Charlotte went immediately to her father and told him all. He always disapproved of marriages, and

constantly talked against them. But he more than disapproved at this time; he could not bear the idea of this

attachment of Mr. Nicholls to his daughter. Fearing the consequences of agitation to one so recently an

invalid, she made haste to give her father a promise that, on the morrow, Mr. Nicholls should have a distinct

refusal. Thus quietly and modestly did she, on whom such hard judgments had been passed by ignorant

reviewers, receive this vehement, passionate declaration of love,thus thoughtfully for her father, and

unselfishly for herself, put aside all consideration of how she should reply, excepting as he wished!

The immediate result of Mr. Nicholls' declaration of attachment was, that he sent in his resignation of the

curacy of Haworth; and that Miss Bronte held herself simply passive, as far as words and actions went, while

she suffered acute pain from the strong expressions which her father used in speaking of Mr. Nicholls, and

from the too evident distress and failure of health on the part of the latter. Under these circumstances she,

more gladly than ever, availed herself of Mrs. Smith's proposal, that she should again visit them in London;

From thence I received the following letter. It is with a sad, proud pleasure I copy her words of friendship

"It is with YOU the ball rests. I have not heard from you since I wrote last; but I thought I knew the reason of

your silence, viz. application to work,and therefore I accept it, not merely with resignation, but with

"I am now in London, as the date above will show; staying very quietly at my publisher's, and correcting

proofs, etc. Before receiving yours, I had felt, and expressed to Mr. Smith, reluctance to come in the way of

'Ruth;' not that I think SHE would suffer from contact with 'Villette'we know not but that the damage

might be the other way; but I have ever held comparisons to be odious, and would fain that neither I nor my

friends should be made subjects for the same. Mr. Smith proposes, accordingly, to defer the publication of my

book till the 24th inst.; he says that will give 'Ruth' the start in the papers daily and weekly, and also will

leave free to her all the February magazines. Should this delay appear to you insufficient, speak! and it shall

"I dare say, arrange as we may, we shall not be able wholly to prevent comparisons; it is the nature of some

critics to be invidious; but we need not care we can set them at defiance; they SHALL not make us foes, they

SHALL not mingle with our mutual feelings one taint of jealousy there is my hand on that; I know you will

"'Villette' has indeed no right to push itself before 'Ruth.' There is a goodness, a philanthropic purpose, a

social use in the latter to which the former cannot for an instant pretend; nor can it claim precedence on the

"I wish to see YOU, probably at least as much as you can wish to see ME, and therefore shall consider your

invitation for March as an engagement; about the close of that month, then, I hope to pay you a brief visit.

With kindest remembrances to Mr. Gaskell and all your precious circle, I am," etc.

This visit at Mrs. Smith's was passed more quietly than any previous one, and was consequently more in

accordance with her own tastes. She saw things rather than persons; and being allowed to have her own

choice of sights, she selected the "REAL in preference to the DECORATIVE side of life." She went over two

prisons,one ancient, the other modern,Newgate and Pentonville; over two hospitals, the Foundling and

Bethlehem. She was also taken, at her own request, to see several of the great City sights; the Bank, the

The power of vast yet minute organisation, always called out her respect and admiration. She appreciated it

more fully than most women are able to do. All that she saw during this last visit to London impressed her

deeplyso much so as to render her incapable of the immediate expression of her feelings, or of reasoning

upon her impressions while they were so vivid. If she had lived, her deep heart would sooner or later have

What she saw dwelt in her thoughts, and lay heavy on her spirits. She received the utmost kindness from her

hosts, and had the old, warm, and grateful regard for them. But looking back, with the knowledge of what

was then the future, which Time has given, one cannot but imagine that there was a toningdown in

preparation for the final farewell to these kind friends, whom she saw for the last time on a Wednesday

morning in February. She met her friend E at Keighley, on her return, and the two proceeded to

"Villette"which, if less interesting as a mere story than "Jane Eyre," displays yet more of the extraordinary

genius of the authorwas received with one burst of acclamation. Out of so small a circle of characters,

dwelling in so dull and monotonous an area as a "pension," this wonderful tale was evolved!

"I got a budget of no less than seven papers yesterday and today. The import of all the notices is such as to

make my heart swell with thankfulness to Him, who takes note both of suffering, and work, and motives.

Papa is pleased too. As to friends in general, I believe I can love them still, without expecting them to take

any large share in this sort of gratification. The longer I live, the more plainly I see that gentle must be the

I suspect that the touch of slight disappointment, perceptible in the last few lines, arose from her great

susceptibility to an opinion she valued much,that of Miss Martineau, who, both in an article on 'Villette' in

the Daily News, and in a private letter to Miss Bronte, wounded her to the quick by expressions of censure

which she believed to be unjust and unfounded, but which, if correct and true, went deeper than any merely

artistic fault. An author may bring himself to believe that he can bear blame with equanimity, from whatever

quarter it comes; but its force is derived altogether from the character of this. To the public, one reviewer may

be the same impersonal being as another; but an author has frequently a far deeper significance to attach to

opinions. They are the verdicts of those whom he respects and admires, or the mere words of those for whose

judgment he cares not a jot. It is this knowledge of the individual worth of the reviewer's opinion, which

makes the censures of some sink so deep, and prey so heavily upon an author's heart. And thus, in proportion

to her true, firm regard for Miss Martineau, did Miss Bronte suffer under what she considered her

She had long before asked Miss Martineau to tell her whether she considered that any want of womanly

delicacy or propriety was betrayed in "Jane Eyre". And on receiving Miss Martineau's assurance that she did

not, Miss Bronte entreated her to declare it frankly if she thought there was any failure of this description in

any future work of "Currer Bell's." The promise then given of faithful truthspeaking, Miss Martineau

fulfilled when "Villette" appeared. Miss Bronte writhed under what she felt to be injustice.

This seems a fitting place to state how utterly unconscious she was of what was, by some, esteemed coarse in

her writings. One day, during that visit at the Briery when I first met her, the conversation turned upon the

subject of women's writing fiction; and some one remarked on the fact that, in certain instances, authoresses

had much outstepped the line which men felt to be proper in works of this kind. Miss Bronte said she

wondered how far this was a natural consequence of allowing the imagination to work too constantly; Sir

James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth and I expressed our belief that such violations of propriety were altogether

unconscious on the part of those to whom reference had been made. I remember her grave, earnest way of

saying, "I trust God will take from me whatever power of invention or expression I may have, before He lets

Again, she was invariably shocked and distressed when she heard of any disapproval of "Jane Eyre" on the

ground abovementioned. Some one said to her in London, "You know, you and I, Miss Bronte, have both

written naughty books!" She dwelt much on this; and, as if it weighed on her mind, took an opportunity to ask

Mrs. Smith, as she would have asked a motherif she had not been motherless from earliest

I do not deny for myself the existence of coarseness here and there in her works, otherwise so entirely noble.

I only ask those who read them to consider her life,which has been openly laid bare before them,and to

say how it could be otherwise. She saw few men; and among these few were one or two with whom she had

been acquainted since early girlhood,who had shown her much friendliness and kindness,through whose

family she had received many pleasures,for whose intellect she had a great respect,but who talked

before her, if not to her with as little reticence as Rochester talked to Jane Eyre. Take this in connection with

her poor brother's sad life, and the outspoken people among whom she lived,remember her strong feeling

of the duty of representing life as it really is, not as it ought to be,and then do her justice for all that she

was, and all that she would have been (had God spared her), rather than censure her because circumstances

forced her to touch pitch, as it were, and by it her hand was for a moment defiled. It was but skindeep.

Every change in her life was purifying her; it hardly could raise her. Again I cry, "If she had but lived!"

The misunderstanding with Miss Martineau on account of "Villette," was the cause of bitter regret to Miss

Bronte. Her woman's nature had been touched, as she thought, with insulting misconception; and she had

dearly loved the person who had thus unconsciously wounded her. It was but in the January just past that she

had written as follows, in reply to a friend, the tenor of whose letter we may guess from this answer:

"I read attentively all you say about Miss Martineau; the sincerity and constancy of your solicitude touch me

very much; I should grieve to neglect or oppose your advice, and yet I do not feel it would be right to give

Miss Martineau up entirely. There is in her nature much that is very noble; hundreds have forsaken her, more,

I fear, in the apprehension that their fair names may suffer, if seen in connection with hers, than from any

pure convictions, such as you suggest, of harm consequent on her fatal tenets. With these fairweather

friends I cannot bear to rank; and for her sin, is it not one of those of which God and not man must judge?

"To speak the truth, my dear Miss , I believe, if you were in my place, and knew Miss Martineau as I

do,if you had shared with me the proofs of her genuine kindliness, and had seen how she secretly suffers

from abandonment,you would be the last to give her up; you would separate the sinner from the sin, and

feel as if the right lay rather in quietly adhering to her in her strait, while that adherence is unfashionable and

unpopular, than in turning on her your back when the world sets the example. I believe she is one of those

whom opposition and desertion make obstinate in error; while patience and tolerance touch her deeply and

keenly, and incline her to ask of her own heart whether the course she has been pursuing may not possibly be

Kindly and faithful words! which Miss Martineau never knew of; to be repaid in words more grand and

tender, when Charlotte lay deaf and cold by her dead sisters. In spite of their short sorrowful

I turn to a pleasanter subject. While she was in London, Miss Bronte had seen Lawrence's portrait of Mr.

Thackeray, and admired it extremely. Her first words, after she had stood before it some time in silence,

were, "And there came up a Lion out of Judah!" The likeness was by this time engraved, and Mr. Smith sent

"My dear Sir,At a late hour yesterday evening, I had the honour of receiving, at Haworth Parsonage, a

distinguished guest, none other than W. M. Thackeray, Esq. Mindful of the rites of hospitality, I hung him up

in state this morning. He looks superb in his beautiful, tasteful gilded gibbet. For companion he has the Duke

of Wellington, (do you remember giving me that picture?) and for contrast and foil Richmond's portrait of an

unworthy individual, who, in such society, must be nameless. Thackeray looks away from the latter

character with a grand scorn, edifying to witness. I wonder if the giver of these gifts will ever see them on the

walls where they now hang; it pleases me to fancy that one day he may. My father stood for a quarter of an

hour this morning examining the great man's picture. The conclusion of his survey was, that he thought it a

puzzling head; if he had known nothing previously of the original's character; he could not have read it in his

features. I wonder at this. To me the broad brow seems to express intellect. Certain lines about the nose and

cheek, betray the satirist and cynic; the mouth indicates a childlike simplicityperhaps even a degree of

irresoluteness, inconsistencyweakness in short, but a weakness not unamiable. The engraving seems to me

very good. A certain not quite Christian expression'not to put too fine a point upon it'an expression of

spite, most vividly marked in the original, is here softened, and perhaps a littlea very littleof the power

Miss Bronte was in much better health during this winter of 18523, than she had been the year before.

"For my part," (she wrote to me in February) "I have thus far borne the cold weather well. I have taken long

walks on the crackling snow, and felt the frosty air bracing. This winter has, for me, not been like last winter.

December, January, February, '512, passed like a long stormy night, conscious of one painful dream) all

solitary grief and sickness. The corresponding months. in '523 have gone over my head quietly and not

uncheerfully. Thank God for the change and the repose! How welcome it has been He only knows! My father

too has borne the season well; and my book, and its reception thus far, have pleased and cheered him."

In March the quiet Parsonage had the honour of receiving a visit from the then Bishop of Ripon. He remained

one night with Mr. Bronte". In the evening, some of the neighbouring clergy were invited to meet him at tea

and supper; and during the latter meal, some of the "curates "began merrily to upbraid Miss Bronte" with

"putting them into a book;" and she, shrinking from thus having her character as authoress thrust upon her at

her own table, and in the presence of a stranger, pleasantly appealed to the bishop as to whether it was quite

fair thus to drive her, into a corner. His Lordship, I have been told, was agreeably impressed with the gentle

unassuming manners of his hostess, and with the perfect propriety and consistency of the arrangements in the

modest household. So much for the Bishop's recollection of his visit. Now we will turn to hers.

"The Bishop has been, and is gone. He is certainly a most charming Bishop; the most benignant gentleman

that ever put on lawn sleeves; yet stately too, and quite competent to check encroachments. His visit passed

capitally well; and at its close, as he was going away, he expressed himself thoroughly gratified with all he

had seen. The Inspector has been also in the course of the past week; so that I have had a somewhat busy time

of it. If you could have been at Haworth to share the pleasures of the company, without having been

inconvenienced by the little bustle of the preparation, I should have been VERY glad. But the house was a

good deal put out of its way, as you may suppose; all passed, however, orderly, quietly, and well. Martha

waited very nicely, and I had a person to help her in the kitchen. Papa kept up, too, fully as well as I

expected, though I doubt whether he could have borne another day of it. My penalty came on in a strong

headache as soon as the Bishop was gone: how thankful I was that it had patiently waited his departure. I

continue stupid today: of course, it is the reaction consequent on several days of extra exertion and

excitement. It is very well to talk of receiving a Bishop without trouble, but you MUST prepare for him."

By this time some of the Reviews had began to find fault with "Villette." Miss Bronte made her old request.

"My dear Sir,Were a review to appear, inspired with treble their animus, PRAY do not withhold it from

me. I like to see the satisfactory notices,especially I like to carry them to my father; but I MUST see such

as are UNsatisfactory and hostile; these are for my own especial edification;it is in these I best read public

feeling and opinion. To shun examination into the dangerous and disagreeable seems to me cowardly. I long

always to know what really IS, and am only unnerved when kept in the dark. . . . . . .

"As to the character of 'Lucy Snowe,' my intention from the first was that she should not occupy the pedestal

to which 'Jane Eyre' was raised by some injudicious admirers. She is where I meant her to be, and where no

"The note you sent this morning from Lady Harriette St. Clair, is precisely to the same purport as Miss

Muloch's request,an application for exact and authentic information respecting the fate of M. Paul

Emanuel! You see how much the ladies think of this little man, whom you none of you like. I had a letter the

other day; announcing that a lady of some note, who had always determined that whenever, she married, her

husband should be the counterpart of 'Mr. Knightly' in Miss Austen's 'Emma,' had now changed her mind,

and vowed that she would either find the duplicate of Professor Emanuel, or remain for ever single! I have

sent Lady Harriette an answer so worded as to leave the matter pretty much where it was. Since the little

puzzle amuses the ladies, it would be a pity to spoil their sport by giving them the key."

When Easter, with its duties arising out of sermons to be preached by strange clergymen who had afterwards

to be entertained at the Parsonage,with Mechanics' Institute Meetings, and school teadrinkings, was over

and gone; she came, at the close of April, to visit us in Manchester. We had a friend, a young lady, staying

with us. Miss Bronte had expected to find us alone; and although our friend was gentle and sensible after

Miss Bronte's own heart, yet her presence was enough to create a nervous tremour. I was aware that both of

our guests were unusually silent; and I saw a little shiver run from time to time over Miss Bronte's frame. I

could account for the modest reserve of the young lady; and the next day Miss Bronte told me how the

It was now two or three years since I had witnessed a similar effect produced on her; in anticipation of a quiet

evening at FoxHow; and since then she had seen many and various people in London: but the physical

sensations produced by shyness were still the same; and on the following day she laboured under severe

headache. I had several opportunities of perceiving how this nervousness was ingrained in her constitution,

and how acutely she suffered in striving to overcome it. One evening we had, among other guests, two sisters

who sang Scottish ballads exquisitely. Miss Bronte had been sitting quiet and constrained till they began "The

Bonnie House of Airlie," but the effect of that and "Carlisle Yetts," which followed, was as irresistible as the

playing of the Piper of Hamelin. The beautiful clear light came into her eyes; her lips quivered with emotion;

she forgot herself, rose, and crossed the room to the piano, where she asked eagerly for song after song. The

sisters begged her to come and see them the next morning, when they would sing as long as ever she liked;

and she promised gladly and thankfully. But on reaching the house her courage failed. We walked some time

up and down the street; she upbraiding herself all the while for folly, and trying to dwell on the sweet echoes

in her memory rather than on the thought of a third sister who would have to be faced if we went in. But it

was of no use; and dreading lest this struggle with herself might bring on one of her trying headaches, I

entered at last and made the best apology I could for her nonappearance. Much of this nervous dread of

encountering strangers I ascribed to the idea of her personal ugliness, which had been strongly impressed

upon her imagination early in life, and which she exaggerated to herself in a remarkable manner. "I notice,"

said she, "that after a stranger has once looked at my face, he is careful not to let his eyes wander to that part

of the room again!" A more untrue idea never entered into any one's head. Two gentlemen who saw her

during this visit, without knowing at the time who she was, were singularly attracted by her appearance; and

this feeling of attraction towards a pleasant countenance, sweet voice, and gentle timid manners, was so

strong in one as to conquer a dislike he had previously entertained to her works.

There was another circumstance that came to my knowledge at this period which told secrets about the

finelystrung frame. One night I was on the point of relating some dismal ghost story, just before bedtime.

She shrank from hearing it, and confessed that she was superstitious, and, prone at all times to the involuntary

recurrence of any thoughts of ominous gloom which might have been suggested to her. She said that on first

coming to us, she had found a letter on her dressingtable from a friend in Yorkshire, containing a story

which had impressed her vividly ever since;that it mingled with her dreams at night, and made her sleep

One day we asked two gentlemen to meet her at dinner; expecting that she and they would have a mutual

pleasure in making each other's acquaintance. To our disappointment she drew back with timid reserve from

all their advances, replying to their questions and remarks in the briefest manner possible; till at last they gave

up their efforts to draw her into conversation in despair, and talked to each other and my husband on subjects

of recent local interest. Among these Thackeray's Lectures (which had lately been delivered in Manchester)

were spoken of and that on Fielding especially dwelt upon. One gentleman objected to it strongly, as

calculated to do moral harm, and regretted that a man having so great an influence over the tone of thought of

the day, as Thackeray, should not more carefully weigh his words. The other took the opposite view. He said

that Thackeray described men from the inside, as it were; through his strong power of dramatic sympathy, he

identified himself with certain characters, felt their temptations, entered into their pleasures, etc. This roused

Miss Bronte, who threw herself warmly into the discussion; the ice of her reserve was broken, and from that

time she showed her interest in all that was said, and contributed her share to any conversation that was going

What she said, and which part she took, in the dispute about Thackeray's lecture, may be gathered from the

"The Lectures arrived safely; I have read them through twice. They must be studied to be appreciated. I

thought well of them when I heard them delivered, but now I see their real power; and it is great. The lecture

on Swift was new to me; I thought it almost matchless. Not that by any means I always agree with Mr.

Thackeray's opinions, but his force, his penetration, his pithy simplicity, his eloquencehis manly sonorous

eloquence,command entire admiration. . . . Against his errors I protest, were it treason to do so. I was

present at the Fielding lecture: the hour spent in listening to it was a painful hour. That Thackeray was wrong

in his way of treating Fielding's character and vices, my conscience told me. After reading that lecture, I

trebly felt that he was wrongdangerously wrong. Had Thackeray owned a son, grown, or growing up, and

a son, brilliant but recklesswould he have spoken in that light way of courses that lead to disgrace and the

grave? He speaks of it all as if he theorised; as if he had never been called on, in the course of his life, to

witness the actual consequences of such failings; as if he had never stood by and seen the issue, the final

result of it all. I believe, if only once the prospect of a promising life blasted on the outset by wild ways had

passed close under his eyes, he never COULD have spoken with such levity of what led to its piteous

destruction. Had I a brother yet living, I should tremble to let him read Thackeray's lecture on Fielding. I

should hide it away from him. If, in spite of precaution, it should fall into his hands, I should earnestly pray

him not to be misled by the voice of the charmer, let him charm never so wisely. Not that for a moment I

would have had Thackeray to ABUSE Fielding, or even Pharisaically to condemn his life; but I do most

deeply grieve that it never entered into his heart sadly and nearly to feel the peril of such a career, that he

might have dedicated some of his great strength to a potent warning against its adoption by any young man. I

believe temptation often assails the finest manly natures; as the pecking sparrow or destructive wasp attacks

the sweetest and mellowest fruit, eschewing what is sour and crude. The true lover of his race ought to devote

his vigour to guard and protect; he should sweep away every lure with a kind of rage at its treachery. You

will think this far too serious, I dare say; but the subject is serious, and one cannot help feeling upon it

After her visit to Manchester, she had to return to a reopening of the painful circumstances of the previous

winter, as the time drew near for Mr. Nicholl's departure from Haworth. A testimonial of respect from the

parishioners was presented, at a public meeting, to one who had faithfully served them for eight years: and he

left the place, and she saw no chance of hearing a word about him in the future, unless it was some

secondhand scrap of intelligence, dropped out accidentally by one of the neighbouring clergymen.

I had promised to pay her a visit on my return from London in June; but, after the day was fixed, a letter came

from Mr. Bronte, saying that she was suffering from so severe an attack of influenza, accompanied with such

excruciating pain in the head, that he must request me to defer my visit until she was better. While sorry for

the cause, I did not regret that my going was delayed till the season when the moors would be all glorious

with the purple bloom of the heather; and thus present a scene about which she had often spoken to me. So

we agreed that I should not come to her before August or September. Meanwhile, I received a letter from

which I am tempted to take an extract, as it shows both her conception of what fictitious writing ought to be,

"Thank you for your letter; it was as pleasant as a quiet chat, as welcome as spring showers, as reviving as a

friend's visit; in short, it was very like a page of 'Cranford.' . . . A thought strikes me. Do you, who have so

many friends,so large a circle of acquaintance,find it easy, when you sit down to write, to isolate

yourself from all those ties, and their sweet associations, so as to be your OWN WOMAN, uninfluenced or

swayed by the consciousness of how your work may affect other minds; what blame or what sympathy it may

call forth? Does no luminous cloud ever come between you and the severe Truth, as you know it in your own

secret and clearseeing soul? In a word, are you never tempted to make your characters more amiable than

the Life, by the inclination to assimilate your thoughts to the thoughts of those who always FEEL kindly, but

sometimes fail to SEE justly? Don't answer the question; it is not intended to be answered. . . . Your account

of Mrs. Stowe was stimulatingly interesting. I long to see you, to get you to say it, and many other things, all

over again. My father continues better. I am better too; but today I have a headache again, which will hardly

let me write coherently. Give my dear love to M. and M., dear happy girls as they are. You cannot now

transmit my message to F. and J. I prized the little wildflower,not that I think the sender cares for me; she

DOES not, and CANNOT, for she does not know me;but no matter. In my reminiscences she is a person of

a certain distinction. I think hers a fine little nature, frank and of genuine promise. I often see her; as she

appeared, stepping supreme from the portico towards the carriage, that evening we went to see 'Twelfth

Night.' I believe in J.'s future; I like what speaks in her movements, and what is written upon her face."

Towards the latter end of September I went to Haworth. At the risk of repeating something which I have

"It was a dull, drizzly Indianinky day, all the way on the railroad to Keighley, which is a rising

woolmanufacturing town, lying in a hollow between hillsnot a pretty hollow, but more what the

Yorkshire people call a 'bottom,' or 'botham.' I left Keighley in a car for Haworth, four miles offfour tough,

steep, scrambling miles, the road winding between the wavelike hills that rose and fell on every side of the

horizon, with a long illimitable sinuous look, as if they were a part of the line of the Great Serpent, which the

Norse legend says girdles the world. The day was leadcoloured; the road had stone factories alongside of

it,grey, dullcoloured rows of stone cottages belonging to these factories, and then we came to poor,

hungrylooking fields;stone fences everywhere, and trees nowhere. Haworth is a long, straggling village

one steep narrow streetso steep that the flagstones with which it is paved are placed endways, that the

horses' feet may have something to cling to, and not slip down backwards; which if they did, they would soon

reach Keighley. But if the horses had cats' feet and claws, they would do all the better. Well, we (the man,

horse, car; and I) clambered up this street, and reached the church dedicated to St. Autest (who was he?); then

we turned off into a lane on the left, past the curate's lodging at the Sexton's, past the schoolhouse, up to the

Parsonage yarddoor. I went round the house to the front door, looking to the church;moors everywhere

beyond and above. The crowded graveyard surrounds the house and small grass enclosure for drying

"I don't know that I ever saw a spot more exquisitely clean; the most dainty place for that I ever saw. To be

sure, the life is like clockwork. No one comes to the house; nothing disturbs the deep repose; hardly a voice

is heard; you catch the ticking of the clock in the kitchen, or the buzzing of a fly in the parlour, all over the

house. Miss Bronte sits alone in her parlour; breakfasting with her father in his study at nine o'clock. She

helps in the housework; for one of their servants, Tabby, is nearly ninety, and the other only a girl. Then I

accompanied her in her walks on the sweeping moors the heatherbloom had been blighted by a

thunderstorm a day or two before, and was all of a livid brown colour, instead of the blaze of purple glory it

ought to have been. Oh those high, wild, desolate moors, up above the whole world, and the very realms of

silence I Home to dinner at two. Mr. Bronte has his dinner sent into him. All the small table arrangements

had the same dainty simplicity about them. Then we rested, and talked over the clear, bright fire; it is a cold

country, and the fires were a pretty warm dancing light all over the house. The parlour had been evidently

refurnished within the last few years, since Miss Bronte's success has enabled her to have a little more money

to spend. Everything fits into, and is in harmony with, the idea of a country parsonage, possessed by people

of very moderate means. The prevailing colour of the room is crimson, to make a warm setting for the cold

grey landscape without. There is her likeness by Richmond, and an engraving from Lawrence's picture of

Thackeray; and two recesses, on each side of the high, narrow, oldfashioned mantelpiece, filled with

books,books given to her; books she has bought, and which tell of her individual pursuits and tastes; NOT

"She cannot see well, and does little beside knitting. The way she weakened her eyesight was this: When she

was sixteen or seventeen, she wanted much to draw; and she copied niminipimini copperplate engravings

out of annuals, ('stippling,' don't the artists call it?) every little point put in, till at the end of six months she

had produced an exquisitely faithful copy of the engraving. She wanted to learn to express her ideas by

drawing. After she had tried to DRAW stories, and not succeeded, she took the better mode of writing; but in

so small a hand, that it is almost impossible to decipher what she wrote at this time.

"But now to return to our quiet hour of rest after dinner. I soon observed that her habits of order were such

that she could not go on with the conversation, if a chair was out of its place; everything was arranged with

delicate regularity. We talked over the old times of her childhood; of her elder sister's (Maria's) death,just

like that of Helen Burns in 'Jane Eyre;' of those strange, starved days at school; of the desire (almost

amounting to illness) of expressing herself in some way,writing or drawing; of her weakened eyesight,

which prevented her doing anything for two years, from the age of seventeen to nineteen; of her being a

governess; of her going to Brussels; whereupon I said I disliked Lucy Snowe, and we discussed M. Paul

Emanuel; and I told her of 's admiration of 'Shirley,' which pleased her; for the character of Shirley was

meant for her sister Emily, about whom she is never tired of talking, nor I of listening. Emily must have been

a remnant of the Titans, greatgranddaughter of the giants who used to inhabit earth. One day, Miss

Bronte brought down a rough, commonlooking oilpainting, done by her brother, of herself,a little, rather

primlooking girl of eighteen,and the two other sisters, girls of sixteen and fourteen, with cropped hair,

and sad, dreamylooking eyes. . . . Emily had a great doghalf mastiff, half bulldogso savage, etc. . . .

This dog went to her funeral, walking side by side with her father; and then, to the day of its death, it slept at

"We have generally had another walk before tea, which is at six; at halfpast eight, prayers; and by nine, all

the household are in bed, except ourselves. We sit up together till ten, or past; and after I go, I hear Miss

Copying this letter has brought the days of that pleasant visit very clear before me,very sad in their

clearness. We were so happy together; we were so full of interest in each other's subjects. The day seemed

only too short for what we had to say and to hear. I understood her life the better for seeing the place where it

had been spentwhere she had loved and suffered. Mr. Bronte was a most courteous host; and when he was

with us,at breakfast in his study, or at tea in Charlotte's parlour,he had a sort of grand and stately way of

describing past times, which tallied well with his striking appearance. He never seemed quite to have lost the

feeling that Charlotte was a child to be guided and ruled, when she was present; and she herself submitted to

this with a quiet docility that half amused, half astonished me. But when she had to leave the room, then all

his pride in her genius and fame came out. He eagerly listened to everything I could tell him of the high

admiration I had at any time heard expressed for her works. He would ask for certain speeches over and over

I remember two or three subjects of the conversations which she and I held in the evenings, besides those

I asked her whether she had ever taken opium, as the description given of its effects in "Villette" was so

exactly like what I had experienced,vivid and exaggerated presence of objects, of which the outlines were

indistinct, or lost in golden mist , etc. She replied, that she had never, to her knowledge, taken a grain of it in

any shape, but that she had followed the process she always adopted when she had to describe anything

which had not fallen within her own experience; she had thought intently on it for many and many a night

before falling to sleep,wondering what it was like, or how it would be,till at length, sometimes after the

progress of her story had been arrested at this one point for weeks, she wakened up in the morning with all

clear before her, as if she had in reality gone through the experience, and then could describe it, word for

word, as it had happened. I cannot account for this psychologically; I only am sure that it was so, because she

She made many inquiries as to Mrs. Stowe's personal appearance; and it evidently harmonised well with

some theory of hers, to hear that the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin was small and slight. It was another theory

of hers, that no mixtures of blood produced such fine characters, mentally and morally, as the Scottish and

I recollect, too, her saying how acutely she dreaded a charge of plagiarism, when, after she had written "Jane

Eyre;" she read the thrilling effect of the mysterious scream at midnight in Mrs. Marsh's story of the

"Deformed." She also said that, when she read the "Neighbours," she thought every one would fancy that she

must have taken her conception of Jane Eyre's character from that of "Francesca," the narrator of Miss

Bremer's story. For my own part, I cannot see the slightest resemblance between the two characters, and so I

told her; but she persisted in saying that Francesca was Jane Eyre married to a goodnatured "Bear" of a

We went, not purposely, but accidentally, to see various poor people in our distant walks. From one we had

borrowed an umbrella; in the house of another we had taken shelter from a rough September storm. In all

these cottages, her quiet presence was known. At three miles from her home, the chair was dusted for her,

with a kindly "Sit ye down, Miss Bronte;" and she knew what absent or ailing members of the family to

inquire after. Her quiet, gentle words, few though they might be, were evidently grateful to those Yorkshire

We talked about the different courses through which life ran. She said, in her own composed manner, as if

she had accepted the theory as a fact, that she believed some were appointed beforehand to sorrow and much

disappointment; that it did not fall to the lot of allas Scripture told usto have their lines fall in pleasant

places; that it was well for those who had rougher paths, to perceive that such was God's will concerning

them, and try to moderate their expectations, leaving hope to those of a different doom, and seeking patience

and resignation as the virtues they were to cultivate. I took a different view: I thought that human lots were

more equal than she imagined; that to some happiness and sorrow came in strong patches of light and

shadow, (so to speak), while in the lives of others they were pretty equally blended throughout. She smiled,

and shook her head, and said she was trying to school herself against ever anticipating any pleasure; that it

was better to be brave and submit faithfully; there was some good reason, which we should know in time,

why sorrow and disappointment were to be the lot of some on earth. It was better to acknowledge this, and

In connection with this conversation, she named a little abortive plan which I had not heard of till then; how,

in the previous July, she had been tempted to join some friends (a married couple and their child) in an

excursion to Scotland. They set out joyfully; she with especial gladness, for Scotland was a land which had

its roots deep down in her imaginative affections, and the glimpse of two days at Edinburgh was all she had

as yet seen of it. But, at the first stage after Carlisle, the little yearling child was taken with a slight

indisposition; the anxious parents fancied that strange diet disagreed with it, and hurried back to their

Yorkshire home as eagerly as, two or three days before, they had set their faces northward, in hopes of a

We parted with many intentions, on both sides, of renewing very frequently the pleasure we had had in being

together. We agreed that when she wanted bustle, or when I wanted quiet, we were to let each other know,

I was aware that she had a great anxiety on her mind at this time; and being acquainted with its nature, I could

not but deeply admire the patient docility which she displayed in her conduct towards her father.

Soon after I left Haworth, she went on a visit to Miss Wooler, who was then staying at Hornsea. The time

passed quietly and happily with this friend, whose society was endeared to her by every year.

"I wonder how you are spending these long winter evenings. Alone, probably, like me. The thought often

crosses me, as I sit by myself, how pleasant it would be if you lived within a walking distance, and I could go

to you sometimes, or have you to come and spend a day and night with me. Yes; I did enjoy that week at

Hornsea, and I look forward to spring as the period when you will fulfil your promise of coming to visit me. I

fear you must be very solitary at Hornsea. How hard to some people of the world it would seem to live your

life! how utterly impossible to live it with a serene spirit and an unsoured disposition! It seems wonderful to

me, because you are not, like Mrs. , phlegmatic and impenetrable, but received from nature feelings of

the very finest edge. Such feelings, when they are locked up, sometimes damage the mind and temper. They

don't with you. It must be partly principle, partly selfdiscipline, which keeps you as you are."

Of course, as I draw nearer to the years so recently closed, it becomes impossible for me to write with the

same fulness of detail as I have hitherto not felt it wrong to use. Miss Bronte passed the winter of 18534 in a

solitary and anxious manner. But the great conqueror Time was slowly achieving his victory over strong

prejudice and human resolve. By degrees Mr. Bronte became reconciled to the idea of his daughter's

There is one other letter, addressed to Mr. Dobell, which developes the intellectual side of her character,

before we lose all thought of the authoress in the timid and conscientious woman about to become a wife, and

"My dear Sir,I can hardly tell you how glad I am to have an opportunity of explaining that taciturnity to

which you allude. Your letter came at a period of danger and care, when my father was very ill, and I could

not leave his bedside. I answered no letters at that time, and yours was one of three or four that, when leisure

returned to me, and I came to consider their purport, it seemed to me such that the time was past for

answering them, and I laid them finally aside. If you remember, you asked me to go to London; it was too

late either to go or to decline. I was sure you had left London. One circumstance you mentionedyour wife's

illnesswhich I have thought of many a time, and wondered whether she is better. In your present note you

do not refer to her, but I trust her health has long ere now been quite restored.

"'Balder' arrived safely. I looked at him, before cutting his leaves with singular pleasure. Remembering well

his elder brother, the potent 'Roman,' it was natural to give a cordial welcome to a fresh scion of the same

house and race. I have read him. He impressed me thus he teems with power; I found in him a wild wealth of

life, but I thought his favourite and favoured child would bring his sire troublewould make his heart ache.

It seemed to me, that his strength and beauty were not so much those of Joseph, the pillar of Jacob's age, as of

"How is it that while the firstborn of genius often brings honour, the second as almost often proves a source

of depression and care? I could almost prophesy that your third will atone for any anxiety inflicted by this his

"There is power in that character of 'Balder,' and to me a certain horror. Did you mean it to embody, along

with force, any of the special defects of the artistic character? It seems to me that those defects were never

thrown out in stronger lines. I did not and could not think you meant to offer him as your cherished ideal of

the true, great poet; I regarded him as a vividlycoloured picture of inflated selfesteem, almost frantic

aspiration; of a nature that has made a Moloch of intellectoffered up; in pagan fires, the natural

affectionssacrificed the heart to the brain. Do we not all know that true greatness is simple, selfoblivious,

prone to unambitious, unselfish attachments? I am certain you feel this truth in your heart of hearts.

"But if the critics err now (as yet I have seen none of their lucubrations), you shall one day set them right in

the second part of 'Balder.' You shall show them that you too knowbetter, perhaps, than theythat the

truly great man is too sincere in his affections to grudge a sacrifice; too much absorbed in his work to talk

loudly about it; too intent on finding the best way to accomplish what he undertakes to think great things of

himselfthe instrument. And if God places seeming impediments in his wayif his duties sometimes seem

to hamper his powershe feels keenly, perhaps writhes, under the slow torture of hindrance and delay; but if

"Whoever speaks to me of 'Balder'though I live too retired a life to come often in the way of

commentshall be answered according to your suggestion and my own impression. Equity demands that

A letter to her Brussels schoolfellow gives an idea of the external course of things during this winter.

"I was very glad to see your handwriting again. It is, I believe, a year since I heard from you. Again and again

you have recurred to my thoughts lately, and I was beginning to have some sad presages as to the cause of

your silence. Your letter happily does away with all these; it brings, on the whole, glad tidings both of your

papa, mama, your sisters, and, last but not least, your dear respected English self.

"My dear father has borne the severe winter very well, a circumstance for which I feel the more thankful as

he had many weeks of very precarious health last summer, following an attack from which he suffered in

June, and which for a few hours deprived him totally of sight, though neither his mind, speech, nor even his

powers of motion were in the least affected. I can hardly tell you how thankful I was, when, after that dreary

and almost despairing interval of utter darkness, some gleam of daylight became visible to him once more. I

had feared that paralysis had seized the optic nerve. A sort of mist remained for a long time; and, indeed, his

vision is not yet perfectly clear, but he can read, write, and walk about, and he preaches TWICE every

Sunday, the curate only reading the prayers. YOU can well understand how earnestly I wish and pray that

sight may be spared him to the end; he so dreads the privation of blindness. His mind is just as strong and

active as ever, and politics interest him as they do YOUR papa. The Czar, the war, the alliance between

France and Englandinto all these things he throws himself heart and soul; they seem to carry him back to

his comparatively young days, and to renew the excitement of the last great European struggle. Of course my

father's sympathies (and mine too) are all with Justice and Europe against Tyranny and Russia.

"Circumstanced as I have been, you will comprehend that I have had neither the leisure nor the inclination to

go from home much during the past year. I spent a week with Mrs. Gaskell in the spring, and a fortnight with

some other friends more recently, and that includes the whole of my visiting since I saw you last. My life is,

indeed, very uniform and retiredmore so than is quite healthful either for mind or body; yet I find reason

for oftenrenewed feelings of gratitude, in the sort of support which still comes and cheers me on from time

to time. My health, though not unbroken, is, I sometimes fancy, rather stronger on the whole than it was three

years ago headache and dyspepsia are my worst ailments. Whether I shall come up to town this season for a

"My dear Miss Wooler,The truly kind interest which you always taken in my affairs makes me feel that it

is due to you to transmit an early communication on a subject respecting which I have already consulted you

more than once. I must tell you then, that since I wrote last, papa's mind has gradually come round to a view

very different to that which he once took; and that after some correspondence, and as the result of a visit Mr.

Nicholls paid here about a week ago, it was agreed that he was to resume the curacy of Haworth, as soon as

papa's present assistant is provided with a situation, and in due course of time he is to be received as an

"It gives me unspeakable content to see that now my father has once admitted this new view of the case, he

dwells on it very complacently. In all arrangements, his convenience and seclusion will be scrupulously

respected. Mr. Nicholls seems deeply to feel the wish to comfort and sustain his declining years. I think from

Mr. Nicholls' character I may depend on this not being a mere transitory impulsive feeling, but rather that it

will be accepted steadily as a duty, and discharged tenderly as an office of affection. The destiny which

Providence in His goodness and wisdom seems to offer me will not, I am aware, be generally regarded as

brilliant, but I trust I see in it some germs of real happiness. I trust the demands of both feeling and duty will

be in some measure reconciled by the step in contemplation. It is Mr. Nicholls' wish that the marriage should

"When you write to me, tell me how you are. . . . I have now decidedly declined the visit to London; the

ensuing three months will bring me abundance of occupation; I could not afford to throw away a month. . . .

Papa has just got a letter from the good and dear bishop, which has touched and pleased us much; it expresses

so cordial an approbation of Mr. Nicholls' return to Haworth (respecting which he was consulted), and such

kind gratification at the domestic arrangements which are to ensue. It seems his penetration discovered the

She expressed herself in other letters, as thankful to One who had guided her through much difficulty and

much distress and perplexity of mind; and yet she felt what most thoughtful women do, who marry when the

first flush of careless youth is over, that there was a strange halfsad feeling, in making announcements of an

engagementfor cares and fears came mingled inextricably with hopes. One great relief to her mind at this

time was derived from the conviction that her father took a positive pleasure in all the thoughts about and

preparations for her wedding. He was anxious that things should be expedited, and was much interested in

every preliminary arrangement for the reception of Mr. Nicholls into the Parsonage as his daughter's husband.

This step was rendered necessary by Mr. Bronte's great age, and failing sight, which made it a paramount

obligation on so dutiful a daughter as Charlotte, to devote as much time and assistance as ever in attending to

his wants. Mr. Nicholls, too, hoped that he might be able to add some comfort and pleasure by his ready

At the beginning of May, Miss Bronte left home to pay three visits before her marriage. The first was to us.

She only remained three days, as she had to go to the neighbourhood of Leeds, there to make such purchases

as were required for her marriage. Her preparations, as she said, could neither be expensive nor extensive;

consisting chiefly in a modest replenishing of her wardrobe, some repapering and repainting in the

Parsonage; and, above all, converting the small flagged passageroom, hitherto used only for stores (which

was behind her sitting room), into a study for her husband. On this idea, and plans for his comfort, as well as

her father's, her mind dwelt a good deal; and we talked them over with the same unwearying happiness

which, I suppose, all women feel in such discussionsespecially when money considerations call for that

kind of contrivance which Charles Lamb speaks of in his Essay on Old China, as forming so great an addition

"Since I came home I have been very busy stitching; the little new room is got into order, and the green and

white curtains are up; they exactly suit the papering, and look neat and clean enough. I had a letter a day or

two since, announcing that Mr. Nicholls comes tomorrow. I feel anxious about him; more anxious on one

point than I dare quite express to myself. It seems he has again been suffering sharply from his rheumatic

affection. I hear this not from himself, but from another quarter. He was ill while I was in Manchester and

B. He uttered no complaint to me; dropped no hint on the subject. Alas he was hoping he had got the

better of it, and I know how this contradiction of his hopes will sadden him. For unselfish reasons he did so

earnestly wish this complaint might not become chronic. I fearI fear; but if he is doomed to suffer, so

much the more will he need care and help. Well! come what may, God help and strengthen both him and me!

Mr. Bronte had a slight illness which alarmed her much. Besides, all the weight of care involved in the

household preparations pressed on the bride in this casenot unpleasantly, only to the full occupation of her

time. She was too busy to unpack her wedding dresses for several days after they arrived from Halifax; yet

not too busy to think of arrangements by which Miss Wooler's journey to be present at the marriage could be

"I write to Miss Wooler today. Would it not be better, dear, if you and she could arrange to come to

Haworth on the same day, arrive at Keighley by the same train; then I could order the cab to meet you at the

station, and bring you on with your luggage? In this hot weather walking would be quite out of the question,

either for you or for her; and I know she would persist in doing it if left to herself, and arrive half killed. I

thought it better to mention this arrangement to you first, and then, if you liked it, you could settle the time,

etc., with Miss Wooler, and let me know. Be sure and give me timely information, that I may write to the

"Mr. Nicholls is a kind, considerate fellow. With all his masculine faults, he enters into my wishes about

having the thing done quietly, in a way that makes me grateful; and if nobody interferes and spoils his

arrangements, he will manage it so that not a soul in Haworth shall be aware of the day. He is so thoughtful,

too, about 'the ladies,'that is, you and Miss Wooler. Anticipating, too, the very arrangements I was going to

propose to him about providing for your departure, etc. He and Mr. S come to the evening before;

write me a note to let me know they are there; precisely at eight in the morning they will be in the church, and

there we are to meet them. Mr. and Mrs. Grant are asked to the breakfast, not to the ceremony.

It was fixed that the marriage was to take place on the 29th of June. Her two friends arrived at Haworth

Parsonage the day before; and the long summer afternoon and evening were spent by Charlotte in thoughtful

arrangements for the morrow, and for her father's comfort during her absence from home. When all was

finishedthe trunk packed, the morning's breakfast arranged, the weddingdress laid out,just at bedtime,

Mr. Bronte announced his intention of stopping at home while the others went to church. What was to be

done? Who was to give the bride away? There were only to be the officiating clergyman, the bride and

bridegroom, the bridesmaid, and Miss Wooler present. The Prayerbook was referred to; and there it was

seen that the Rubric enjoins that the Minister shall receive "the woman from her father's or FRIEND'S

hands," and that nothing is specified as to the sex of the "friend." So Miss Wooler, ever kind in emergency,

The news of the wedding had slipt abroad before the little party came out of church, and many old and

humble friends were there, seeing her look "like a snowdrop," as they say. Her dress was white embroidered

muslin, with a lace mantle, and white bonnet trimmed with green leaves, which perhaps might suggest the

Mr. Nicholls and she went to visit his friends and relations in Ireland; and made a tour by Killarney,

Glengariff, Tarbert, Tralee, and Cork, seeing scenery, of which she says, "some parts exceeded all I had ever

imagined." . . . "I must say I like my new relations. My dear husband, too, appears in a new light in his own

country. More than once I have had deep pleasure in hearing his praises on all sides. Some of the old servants

and followers of the family tell me I am a most fortunate person; for that I have got one of the best gentlemen

in the country. . . . I trust I feel thankful to God for having enabled me to make what seems a right choice;

and I pray to be enabled to repay as I ought the affectionate devotion of a truthful, honourable man."

Henceforward the sacred doors of home are closed upon her married life. We, her loving friends, standing

outside, caught occasional glimpses of brightness, and pleasant peaceful murmurs of sound, telling of the

gladness within; and we looked at each other, and gently said, "After a hard and long struggleafter many

cares and many bitter sorrowsshe is tasting happiness now!" We thought of the slight astringencies of her

character, and how they would turn to full ripe sweetness in that calm sunshine of domestic peace. We

remembered her trials, and were glad in the idea that God had seen fit to wipe away the tears from her eyes.

Those who saw her, saw an outward change in her look, telling of inward things. And we thought, and we

"I really seem to have had scarcely a spare moment since that dim quiet June morning, when you, E,

and myself all walked down to Haworth Church. Not that I have been wearied or oppressed; but the fact is,

my time is not my own now; somebody else wants a good portion of it, and says, 'we must do so and so.' We

DO so and so, accordingly; and it generally seems the right thing. . . . We have had many callers from a

distance, and latterly some little occupation in the way of preparing for a small village entertainment. Both

Mr. Nicholls and myself wished much to make some response for the hearty welcome and general goodwill

shown by the parishioners on his return; accordingly, the Sunday and day scholars and teachers, the

churchringers, singers, etc., to the number of five hundred, were asked to tea and supper in the

Schoolroom. They seemed to enjoy it much, and it was very pleasant to see their happiness. One of the

villagers, in proposing my husband's health, described him as a 'consistent Christian and a kind gentleman.' I

own the words touched me deeply, and I thought (as I know YOU would have thought had you been present)

that to merit and win such a character was better than to earn either wealth, or fame, or power. I am disposed

to echo that high but simple eulogium. . . . My dear father was not well when we returned from Ireland. I am,

however, most thankful to say that he is better now. May God preserve him to us yet for some years! The

wish for his continued life, together with a certain solicitude for his happiness and health, seems, I scarcely

know why, even stronger in me now than before I was married. Papa has taken no duty since we returned;

and each time I see Mr. Nicholls put on gown or surplice, I feel comforted to think that this marriage has

"Yes! I am thankful to say my husband is in improved health and spirits. It makes me content and grateful to

hear him from time to time avow his happiness in the brief, plain phrase of sincerity. My own life is more

occupied than it used to be I have not so much time for thinking I am obliged to be more practical, for my

dear Arthur is a very practical, as well as a very punctual and methodical man. Every morning he is in the

National School by nine o'clock; he gives the children religious instruction till halfpast ten. Almost every

afternoon he pays visits amongst the poor parishioners. Of course, he often finds a little work for his wife to

do, and I hope she is not sorry to help him. I believe it is not bad for me that his bent should be so wholly

towards matters of life and active usefulness; so little inclined to the literary and contemplative. As to his

continued affection and kind attentions it does not become me to say much of them; but they neither change

Her friend and bridesmaid came to pay them a visit in October. I was to have gone also, but I allowed some

"I say nothing about the war; but when I read of its horrors, I cannot help thinking that it is one of the greatest

curses that ever fell upon mankind. I trust it may not last long, for it really seems to me that no glory to be

gained can compensate for the sufferings which must be endured. This may seem a little ignoble and

unpatriotic; but I think that as we advance towards middle age, nobleness and patriotism have a different

"You kindly inquire after Papa. He is better, and seems to gain strength as the weather gets colder; indeed, of

late years health has always been better in winter than in summer. We are all indeed pretty well; and, for my

own part, it is long since I have known such comparative immunity from headache, etc., as during the last

three months. My life is different from what it used to be. May God make me thankful for it! I have a good,

Late in the autumn, Sir James Kay Shuttleworth crossed the borderhills that separate Lancashire from

About this time, Mr. Nicholls was offered a living of much greater value than his curacy at Haworth, and in

many ways the proposal was a very advantageous one; but he felt himself bound to Haworth as long as Mr.

Bronte lived. Still, this offer gave his wife great and true pleasure, as a proof of the respect in which her

"I intended to have written a line yesterday, but just as I was sitting down for the purpose, Arthur called to me

to take a walk. We set off, not intending to go far; but, though wild and cloudy, it was fair in the morning;

when we had got about half a mile on the moors, Arthur suggested the idea of the waterfall; after the melted

snow, he said, it would be fine. I had often wished to see it in its winter power,so we walked on. It was

fine indeed; a perfect torrent racing over the rocks, white and beautiful! It began to rain while we were

watching it, and we returned home under a streaming sky. However, I enjoyed the walk inexpressibly, and

She did not achieve this walk of seven or eight miles, in such weather, with impunity. She began to shiver

soon after her return home, in spite of every precaution, and had a bad lingering sore throat and cold, which

"Did I tell you that our poor little Flossy is dead? She drooped for a single day, and died quietly in the night

without pain. The loss even of a dog was very saddening; yet, perhaps, no dog ever had a happier life, or an

On Christmasday she and her husband walked to the poor old woman (whose calf she had been set to seek

in former and less happy days), carrying with them a great spicecake to make glad her heart. On

Christmasday many a humble meal in Haworth was made more plentiful by her gifts.

Early in the new year (1855), Mr. and Mrs. Nicholls went to visit Sir James Kay Shuttleworth at Gawthorpe.

They only remained two or three days, but it so fell out that she increased her lingering cold, by a long walk

Soon after her return, she was attacked by new sensations of perpetual nausea, and everrecurring faintness.

After this state of things had lasted for some time; she yielded to Mr. Nicholls' wish that a doctor should be

sent for. He came, and assigned a natural cause for her miserable indisposition; a little patience, and all would

go right. She, who was ever patient in illness, tried hard to bear up and bear on. But the dreadful sickness

increased and increased, till the very sight of food occasioned nausea. "A wren would have starved on what

she ate during those last six weeks," says one. Tabby's health had suddenly and utterly given way, and she

died in this time of distress and anxiety respecting the last daughter of the house she had served so long.

Martha tenderly waited on her mistress, and from time to time tried to cheer her with the thought of the baby

that was coming. "I dare say I shall be glad some time," she would say; "but I am so illso weary" Then

she took to her bed, too weak to sit up. From that last couch she wrote two notesin pencil. The first, which

"I must write one line out of my weary bed. The news of M's probable recovery came like a ray of joy

to me. I am not going to talk of my sufferingsit would be useless and painful. I want to give you an

assurance, which I know will comfort youand that is, that I find in my husband the tenderest nurse, the

kindest support, the best earthly comfort that ever woman had. His patience never fails, and it is tried by sad

days and broken nights. Write and tell me about Mrs. 's case; how long was she ill, and in what way?

Papathank God!is better. Our poor old Tabby is DEAD and BURIED. Give my kind love to Miss

"A few lines of acknowledgment your letter SHALL have, whether well or ill. At present I am confined to

my bed with illness, and have been so for three weeks. Up to this period, since my marriage, I have had

excellent health. My husband and I live at home with my father; of course, I could not leave HIM. He is

pretty well, better than last summer. No kinder, better husband than mine, it seems to me, there can be in the

world. I do not want now for kind companionship in health and the tenderest nursing in sickness. Deeply I

sympathise in all you tell me about Dr. W. and your excellent mother's anxiety. I trust he will not risk another

operation. I cannot write more now; for I am much reduced and very weak. God bless you all.Yours

I do not think she ever wrote a line again. Long days and longer nights went by; still the same relentless

nausea and faintness, and still borne on in patient trust. About the third week in March there was a change; a

low wandering delirium came on; and in it she begged constantly for food and even for stimulants. She

swallowed eagerly now; but it was too late. Wakening for an instant from this stupor of intelligence, she saw

her husband's woeworn face, and caught the sound of some murmured words of prayer that God would

spare her. "Oh!" she whispered forth, "I am not going to die, am I? He will not separate us, we have been so

Early on Saturday morning, March 31st, the solemn tolling of Haworth churchbell spoke forth the fact of

her death to the villagers who had known her from a child, and whose hearts shivered within them as they

I have always been much struck with a passage in Mr. Forster's Life of Goldsmith. Speaking of the scene

"The staircase of Brick Court is said to have been filled with mourners, the reverse of domestic; women

without a home, without domesticity of any kind, with no friend but him they had come to weep for; outcasts

of that great, solitary, wicked city, to whom he had never forgotten to be kind and charitable."

This came into my mind when I heard of some of the circumstances attendant on Charlotte's funeral.

Few beyond that circle of hills knew that she, whom the nations praised far off, lay dead that Easter mooring.

Of kith and kin she had more in the grave to which she was soon to be borne, than among the living. The two

mourners, stunned with their great grief, desired not the sympathy of strangers. One member out of most of

the families in the parish was bidden to the funeral; and it became an act of selfdenial in many a poor

household to give up to another the privilege of paying their last homage to her; and those who were excluded

from the formal train of mourners thronged the churchyard and church, to see carried forth, and laid beside

her own people, her whom, not many months ago, they had looked at as a pale white bride, entering on a new

Among those humble friends who passionately grieved over the dead, was a village girl who had been

seduced some little time before, but who had found a holy sister in Charlotte. She had sheltered her with her

help, her counsel, her strengthening words; had ministered to her needs in her time of trial. Bitter, bitter was

the grief of this poor young woman, when she heard that her friend was sick unto death, and deep is her

mourning until this day. A blind girl, living some four miles from Haworth, loved Mrs. Nicholls so dearly

that, with many cries and entreaties, she implored those about her to lead her along the roads, and over the

moorpaths, that she might hear the last solemn words, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure

and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ."

I have little more to say. If my readers find that I have not said enough, I have said too much. I cannot

measure or judge of such a character as hers. I cannot map out vices, and virtues, and debatable land. One

who knew her long and well,the "Mary" of this Lifewrites thus of her dead friend:

"She thought much of her duty, and had loftier and clearer notions of it than most people, and held fast to

them with more success. It was done, it seems to me, with much more difficulty than people have of stronger

nerves, and better fortunes. All her life was but labour and pain; and she never threw down the burden for the

sake of present pleasure. I don't know what use you can make of all I have said. I have written it with the

strong desire to obtain appreciation for her. Yet, what does it matter? She herself appealed to the world's

judgment for her use of some of the faculties she had,not the best,but still the only ones she could turn

to strangers' benefit. They heartily, greedily enjoyed the fruits of her labours, and then found out she was

much to be blamed for possessing such faculties. Why ask for a judgment on her from such a world?"

But I turn from the critical, unsympathetic publicinclined to judge harshly because they have only seen

superficially and not thought deeply. I appeal to that larger and more solemn public, who know how to look

with tender humility at faults and errors; how to admire generously extraordinary genius, and how to

reverence with warm, full hearts all noble virtue. To that Public I commit the memory of Charlotte Bronte.