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 THE LffiRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 prUi68 
 
 .G3 
 
 1875 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00014386078 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/lifeofcharlottebOOgask_0 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
4^ 
 
 
 THE LIFE !_ 
 
 v 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE, 
 
 ATJTnOR OF \. '2 
 
 " JANE EYRE," " SHIRLEY," " VILLETTE," &n 
 
 E. C. GASKELL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF *'MARY BARTON," *'RUTH, ' KTO. 
 
 "Oh my God, ' /^ / J Y 
 
 ■ ITion hast knowledge, only Tho:i, ; 
 
 How dreary 'tis for women to sit still 
 
 On winter nights by solitary fires 
 
 And hear the nations praising them far off/' 
 
 AcKOEA Leigh. 
 
 TWO VOLS. COMPLETE I^^ ONE. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 NEW TOEK: 
 D. APPLETON^ AND COMPANY, 
 
 549 & 551 BROADWAY. 
 
 1875. 
 
OONTEKTS OF VOL. T, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 Description of Keighley and its neighbourhood— Haworth Parsonage 
 and Church — Tablets of the Bronte family, . . .1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Characteristics of Yorkshiremen — Manufactures of the West Riding — 
 Descendants of the Puritans — A characteristic incident — Former 
 state of the country — Isolated country houses — Two Yorkshire 
 squires — Rude sports of the people — Rev. William Grimshaw, Cu- 
 rate of Haworth — His opinion and treatment of his parishioners — 
 The " arvills," or funeral feasts — Haworth Field-Kirk — Church- 
 riots at Haworth on the appointment of Mr. Redhead as Perpetual 
 Curate — Arrival of Mr. Bronte at Haworth, . . .9 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 The Rev. Patrick Bronte — His marriage with Miss Branwell of Pen- 
 zance — Social customs in Penzance — The Branwell family — Letters 
 of Miss Branwell to Mr. Bronte — ^Marriage of Mrs. Bronte — Thorn- 
 ton, the birth-place of Charlotte Bronte — Removal to Haworth — 
 Description of the Parsonage— The people of Haworth— The BrontS 
 family at Haworth— Early training of the little Brontes— Character- 
 istic anecdotes of Mr. Bronte— Death of Mrs. Bronte— Tillage scan- 
 dal—Studies of the Bronte family— Mr. Bronte^s account of hia 
 children, ..,,,. ^ , 89 
 
 3< 
 
 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGI 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Miss Branwell comes to Hawcrth — Account of Cowan's Bridge (Lo- 
 wood) School and the Rev. Cams Wilson — Originals of "Miss 
 Scatcherd," "Helen Burns," and "Miss Temple" — Outbreak of fe- 
 ver in the school — Characteristics of the Bronte sisters — Deaths of 
 Maria and Elizabeth Bronte, . . . , .51 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 The old servant Tabby — Patrick Branwell Bronte — Charlotte Bronte's 
 catalogue of her juvenile productions, with specimen page — ^Ex- 
 tract from the introduction to " Tales of the Islanders " — " History 
 of the year 1829 " — Charlotte's taste for Art — Extracts from other 
 early writings in MS. — Charlotte's mental tendencies and home du- 
 ties — A strange occurrence at the Parsonage — A youthful effusion 
 in verse, ........ 67 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 Personal description of Charlotte Bronte — Miss Wooler's school at Roe 
 Head — Oakwell Hall and its legends — Charlotte's first appearance 
 at soaool — Her youthful character and political feelings — School 
 days at Miss Wooler's — ^Mr. Cartwright and the Luddites — ^Mr. Rob- 
 erson of Ileald's Hall — Chapel scenes and other characteristics of 
 Heckmondwike and Gomersall, , . . , .83 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte leaves school, and returns home to instruct her sis- 
 ters — ^Books at the Parsonage — A dreary winter — Letters to a friend 
 visiting London for the first time — On the choice of Books — On 
 dancing — Character and'talents of Branwell Bronte — Plans for his 
 advancement — Prospect of separation, . . . .105 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Charlotte as teacher at Miss Wooler's school — Emily's home-sickness 
 — Letters indicative of Charlotte's despondency and melancholy — 
 The sisters at home — Winter evenings at Haworth— -Charlotte 
 
CONTENTS. VJl 
 
 PAGB 
 
 writes to Southey, and Branwell to Wordsworth — Branwell's letter 
 and verses— Prospect of losing the society of a friend; — Charlotte's 
 correspondence with Southey — Letter written in a state of despond- 
 ency — Accident to the old servant, and characteristic kindness of 
 the Brontes — Symptoms of illness in Anne Bronte — Charlotte's 
 first proposal of marriage^ — Charlotte and Anne go out as govern- 
 esses — ^Experiences of governess life — Advent of the first Curate 
 at Haworth — A second proposal of marriage — A visit to the sea- 
 side, . . . . . , . . .122 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Branwell Bronte still at home — Miss Branwell and her nieces — Plan of 
 keeping a school — Charlotte commences her first story — The Cu- 
 rates at Haworth — Charlotte's sentiments on marriage — She seeks 
 and obtains a situation as governess, . , . ^160 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Second experience of governess life — Project of a school revived, find 
 plans for its realization — Miss Wooler's ofier of her school declined, 182 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Mr. Bronte accompanies his daughters to Brussels — Charlotte's im- 
 pressions of the place — The Pensionnat of Madame Heger and its 
 inmates — ^^L Heger's method of teaching French — Charlotte's exer- 
 cises in French composition— Her impressions of the Belgians — Ar- 
 rangements of the Pensionnat — Charlotte's conduct as English 
 teacher — Loss of a young friend — Death of Miss Branwell, and re- 
 turn to Haworth — M. Heger's letter to Mr. Bronte, . .101 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Charlotte returns to Brussels — Her account of Carnival and Lent — Sol 
 itariness of the English teacher in ths Pensionnat — Her devoir 
 "Sur la nom de Napoleon" — ^Depression, loneliness, and home- 
 sickness — ^Estrangement from Madame Heger, and return (o Ha- 
 worth — Traits of kindness—Emily and her dog " Keeper," . 22? 
 
VllI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 I'lan of school-keeping revived and abandoned — Deplorable conduct of 
 Branwell Bronte and its consequences, .... ^o2 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ^•iblication of the Poems of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell — Letter to 
 Miss Wooler — Preparation for publishing the sisters' first fictions 
 — Letter of advice to a young fneini, . . , . » 870 
 
co:ntents of vol. n. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 Mr. Bronte afflicted with blindness, and relieved by a Bucccssfiil ope- 
 ration for cataract — Charlotte Bronte's first work of fiction, " The 
 Professor" — She commences " Jane Eyre" — Circumstances attend- 
 ing its composition — Her ideas of a heroine — Her attachment to 
 home — Haworth in December — A letter of confession and counsel, I 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 State of Charlotte Bronte's health at the commencement of 184:7 — Fam- 
 ily trials — " Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey " accepted by a 
 publisher — " The Professor" rejected— Completion of " Jane Eyre," 
 its reception and publication — The reviews of "Jane Eyre," and the 
 author's comments on them — Her father's reception of the book — 
 Public interest excited by " Jane Eyre " — Dedication of the second 
 edition to Mr. Thackeray — Correspondence of Currer Bell with Mr. 
 Lewes on " Jane Eyre " — ^Publication of " Wuthering Heights " and 
 ** Agnes Grey "—Miss Bronte's account of the authoress of " Wuth- 
 ering Heights" — Domestic anxieties of the Bronte sisters-^Currer 
 Bell's correspondence with Mr. Lewes — Unhealthy state of Haworth 
 • — Charlotte Bronte on the revolutions of 1848 — Her repudiation of 
 
 \ authorship-— Anne Bronte's second tale, " The Tenant of Wildfell 
 xiall" — ^Misunderstanding as to the individuality of the three Bells, 
 and its results — Currer and Acton Bell visit London — Charlotte 
 Bronte's account of her visit — The Chapter Cofiee House — The 
 Clergy Daughters' School at Casterton— Death of Branwell BrontG 
 ■i— Illness and death of Emily Bronte, , , , ,14 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The " Quarterly Review " on " Jane Ejre" — Severe illness of Anne 
 Bronte — Her last verses — She is removed to Scarborough — Her last 
 hours, and death and burial there — Charlotte's return to Haworth, 
 and her loneliness, . ... . . . . 7C 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 Commencement and completion of ** Shirley" — Originals of the charac- 
 ters, and circumstances under which it was written— Loss on rail- 
 way shares — Letters to Mr. Lewes and other friends on ** Shirley," 
 and the reviews of it — Miss Bronte visits London, meets Mr. Thack- 
 eray, and makes the acquaintance of Miss Martineau — Her impres- 
 sions of literary men, . . . . • . .98 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 " Currer Bell" identified as Miss Bronte at Haworth and the vicinity — 
 Her letter to Mr. Lewes on his review of *^ Shirley " — Solitude and 
 heavy mental sadness and anxiety — She visits Sir J. and Lady Kay 
 Shuttleworth — Her comments on critics, and remarks on Thacke- 
 ray's " Pendennis " and Scott's ** Suggestions on Female Education " 
 — Opinions of ''Shirley" by Yorkshire readers, . . .114 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 A.n unhealthy spring at Haworth — Miss Bponte's proposed visit to Lon- 
 don — Her remarks on " The Leader" — Associations of her walks on 
 the moors — Letter to an unknown admirer of her works — Incidents 
 of her visit to London — Her impressions of a visit to Scotland — Her 
 portrait, by Richmond — Anxiety about her father, . , .123 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 Visit to Sir J. and Lady Kay Shuttleworth — The biographer's impres- 
 sions of Miss Bronte — Miss Bronte's account of her visit to the 
 Lakes of Westmoreland— Her disinclination for acquaintance and 
 visiting — Remarks on " Woman's Mission," Tennyson's " In Me- 
 moriam," &c. — Impressions of her visit to Scotland — Remarks on a 
 review in the *' Palladium," . . . • • . 140 
 
CONTENTS, VH 
 
 PAGI 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Intended repablication of " Wuthering Heights" and *' Agnes Grey" 
 — Reaction after her visit to Scotland — Her first meeting with Mr. 
 Lewes — Her opinion of Balzac and George Sand — A characteristic 
 incident — Account of a friendly visit to Haworth Parsonage — Re- 
 marks on ^* The Roman," by Sydney Dobell, and on the character 
 of Dr. Arnold— Letter to Mr. Dobell, . . . .150 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Miss Bronte's visit to Miss Martineau, and estimate of her hostess — 
 Remarks on Mr. Ruskin's " Stones of Venice " — Preparations for 
 another visit to London — Letter to Mr. Sydney Dobell : the moors 
 in autumn — Mr. Thackeray's second lecture at Willis's Rooms, and 
 sensation produced by Currer Bell's appearance there — Her account 
 of her visit to London — She breakfasts with Mr. Rogers, visits the 
 Great Exhibition, and sees Lord Westminster's pictures — Return to 
 Haworth and letter thence — Her comment on Mr. Thackeray's Lec- 
 ture — Counsel on development of character, . . .104 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Remarks on friendship — Letter to Mrs. Gaskell on her and Miss Mar- 
 tineau's views of the Great Exhibition and Mr. Thackeray's lecture, 
 and on the " Saint's Tragedy " — ^Miss Bronte's feelings towards 
 children — Her comments on Mr. J. S. Mill's article on the Emanci- 
 pation of women — More illness at Haworth Parsonage — Letter on 
 Emigration — Periodical returns of illness — ^Miss Wooler visits Ha- 
 worth — Miss Bronte's impressions of her visit to London — Her ac- 
 count of the progress of ^' Villette" — Her increasing illness and 
 sufferings during winter — Her letter-on Mr. Thackeray's *' Esmond ' 
 — Revival of sorrows and accessions of low spirits — Remarks on 
 some recent books — Retrospect of the winter of 1851-2 — Letter to 
 Mrs. Gaskell on '' Ruth," . . ^ . . . .184 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Hiss Bronte revisits Scarborough — Serious illness and ultimate conva- 
 lescence of her father — Her own illness — ^* ViUette" nearly comple- 
 
Vlll CONTENTS 
 
 PAGl 
 
 ted — Further remarks on " Esmond''' and ^* Uncle Tom s Cabin ' — 
 Letter respecting "Villette"- — Another letter about "Villette" — 
 More remarks on " Esmond " — Completion of ** Villette " — In- 
 stance of extreme sensibility, . . . . . . 210 
 
 CHAPTEH XII. 
 Tbe biographer's difficulty — Deep and enduring attachment of Mr. 
 Nicholls for Miss Bronte — Instance of her self-abnegation — She 
 again visits London — Impressions of this visit — Letter to Mrs. Gas- 
 kell — Reception of the critiques on "Villette" — ^Misunderstanding 
 with Miss Martineau — Letter on Mr. Thackeray's portrait — Visit of 
 ihe Bishop of Kipon to Haworth Parsonage — Her wish to see the 
 unfavourable critiques on her works — Her nervous shyness of 
 strangers, and its cause — Letter on Mr. Thackeray's lectures, . 225 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Letter to Mrs. Gaskell on writing fiction, &c. — The biographer's ac- 
 count of her visit to Haworth, and reminiscences of conversations 
 with Miss Bronte — Letters from Miss Bronte to her friends — Her 
 engagement to Mr. Nicholls, and preparations for the marriage — 
 The marriage ceremony and wedding tour — Her happiness in the 
 married state — New symptoms of illness, and their cause — The two 
 last letters written by Mrs. Nicholls — An alarming change— Her 
 death, . . . • . . . . .242 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Mourners at the fareral—Concluaion, . . , , 267 
 
LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BliONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Leeds and Bradford railway runs along a deep 
 valley of the Aire ; a slow and sluggish stream, com- 
 pared to the neighbouring river of Wharfe. Keighley sta- 
 tion is on this line of railway, about a quarter of a mile 
 from the town of the same name. The number of inhabi- 
 tants and the importance of Keighley have been very greatly 
 increased during the last twenty years, owing to the rapidly 
 extended market for worsted manufactures, a branch of in- 
 dustry that mainly employs the factory population of this 
 part of Yorkshire, which has Bradford for its centre and 
 metropolis. 
 
 Keighley is in process of transformation from a populous, 
 old-fashioned village, into a still more populous and flourish- 
 ing town. It is evident to the stranger, that as the gable- 
 ended houses, which obtrude themselves corner-wise on the 
 widening street, fall vacant, they are pulled down to allow 
 of greater space for traffic, and a more modern style of 
 architecture. The quaint and narrow shop-windows of fifty 
 years ago, are giving way to large panes and plate-glass. 
 Nearly every dwelling seems devoted to some branch of 
 commerce. In passing hastily through the town, one hardly 
 1 
 
2 LIFE OF CnAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 perceives where the necessary lawyer and doctor can live, sa 
 little appearance is there of any dwellings of the professional 
 middle-class, such as abound in our old cathedral towns. 
 In fact, nothing can be more opposed than the state of 
 society, the modes of thinking, the standards of reference 
 on all points of morality, manners, and even politics and 
 religion, in such a new manufacturing place as Keighley in 
 the north, and any stately, sl^py, picturesque cathedral 
 town in the south. Yet the aspect of Keighley promises 
 well for future stateliness, if not picturesqueness. Grey 
 stone abounds ; and the rows of houses built of it have a 
 kind of solid grandeur connected with their uniform and en- 
 during lines. The frame-work of the doors, and the lintels 
 of the windows, even in the smallest dwellings, are made of 
 blocks of stone. There is no painted wood to require con- 
 tinual beautifying, or else present a shabby aspect ; and tlie 
 stone is kept scrupulously clean by the notable Yorkshire 
 housewifes. Such glimpses into the interior as a passer-by 
 obtains, reveal a rough abundance of the means of living, 
 and diligent and active habits in the women. But the 
 voices of the people are hard, and their tones discordant, 
 promising little of the musical taste that distinguishes the 
 district, and which has already furnished a Carrodus to the 
 musical world. The names over the shops (of which the one 
 just given is a sample) seem strango even to an inhabitant 
 of the neighbouring county, and have a peculiar smack and 
 flavour of the place. 
 
 The town of Keighley never quite melts into country on 
 the road to Haworth, although the houses become more 
 sparse as the traveller journeys upwards to the grey round 
 A ills that seem to bound his journey in a westerly direction. 
 First come some villas; just sufficiently retired from the 
 road to show that they can scarcely belong to any one liabla 
 ^ be summoned in a hurry^ at the call of sutferiD^ or dan- 
 
KEIGHLEY AND HAWOKTII. 3 
 
 ger, from his comfortable fire-side ; the lawyer, the doctor, 
 and the clergyman, live at hand, and hardly in the suburbs 
 with a screen of shrubs for concealment. 
 
 In a town one does not look for vivid colouring; what 
 there may be of this is furnished by the wares in the shops, 
 not by foliage or atmospheric effects; but in the country 
 some brilliancy and vividness seems to be instinctively ex 
 pected, and there is consequently a slight feeling of disap- 
 pointment at the grey neutral tint of every object, near or 
 far off, on the way from Keighley to Haworth. The dis- 
 tance is about four miles ; and, as I have said, what with 
 villas, great worsted factories, rows of workmen's houses 
 with here and there an old-fashioned farm-house and out- 
 buildings, it can hardly be called " country '' any part of the 
 way. For two miles the road passes over tolerably level 
 ground, distant hills on the left, a "beck" flowing through 
 meadows on the right, and furnishing water power, at cer- 
 tain points, to the factories built on its banks. The air is 
 dim and lightless with the smoke from all these habitations 
 and places of business. The soil in the valley (or "bottom," 
 to use the local term) is rich ; but, as the road begins to 
 ascend, the vegetation becomes poorer ; it does not flourish, 
 it merely exists ; and, instead of trees, there are only 
 bushes and shrubs about the dwellings. Stone dykes are 
 everywhere used in place of hedges; and what crops there 
 are, on the patcnes of arable land, consist of pale, hungry- 
 looking, grey-green oats. Eight before the traveller on this 
 road rises Haworth village; he can see it for two miles 
 before he arrives, for it is situated on the side of a pretty 
 steep hill, with a background of dun and purple moors, 
 rising and sweeping away yet higher than the church, which 
 is built at the very summit of the long narrow street. AD 
 round the horizon there is this same line of sinuous wave- 
 like hills ; the scoops into which they fall only revealing 
 
i: LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 other hills beyond, of similar colour and shape, crowned with 
 wild, bleak moors — grand, from the ideas of solitude and 
 loneliness which they suggest, or oppressive from the feeling 
 which they give of being pent-up by some monotonous and 
 illimitable barrier, according to the mood of mind in which 
 the spectator may be. 
 
 For a short distance the road appears to turn away 
 from Haworth, as it winds round the base of the shoulder 
 of a hill ; but then it crosses a bridge over the " beck," 
 and the ascent through the village begins. The flag-stones 
 with which it is paved are placed end-ways, in order to give 
 a better hold to the horses' feet ; and, even with this help, 
 they seem to be in constant danger of slipping backwards. 
 The old stone houses are high compared to the width of the 
 street, which makes an abrupt turn before reaching the more 
 level ground at the head of the village, so that the steep as- 
 pect of the place, in one part, is almost like that of a wall. 
 But this surmounted, the church lies a little off the main 
 road on the left; a hundred yards, or so, and the driver 
 relaxes his care, and the horse breathes more easily, as they 
 pass into the quiet little by-street that leads to Haworth 
 Parsonage. The churchyard is on one side of this lane, the 
 school-house and the sexton's dwelling (where the curates 
 formerly lodged) on the other. 
 
 The parsonage stands at right angles to the road, facing 
 down upon the church ; so that, in fact, parsonage, church, 
 and belfried school- house, form three sides of an irregular 
 oblong, of which the fourth is open to the fields and moors 
 that lie beyond. The area of this oblong is filled up hj a 
 crowded churchyard, and a small garden or court in front of 
 the clergyman's house. As the entrance to this from the 
 r:»ad is at the side, the path goes round the corner into the 
 little plot of ground. Underneath the windows is a narrow 
 floTer-border, carefully tended in days of yore, although only 
 
HAWOKTH CHURCH. 5 
 
 the most hardy plants could be made to grow there. Within 
 the stone wall, which keeps out the surrounding churchyard, 
 are bushes of elder and lilac ; the rest of the ground is occu- 
 pied by a square grass plot and a gravel walk. The house 
 is of grey stone, two-stories high, heavily roofed with flags, 
 in order to resist the winds that might strip off a lighter 
 covering. It appears to have been built about a hundred 
 years ago, and to consist of four rooms on each story; the 
 two windows on the right (as the visitor stands, with his 
 back to the church, ready to enter in at the front door) 
 belonging to Mr. Bronte's study, the two on the left to the 
 family sitting-room. Everything about the place tells of the 
 most dainty order, the most exquisite cleanliness. The 
 door-steps are spotless; the small old-fashioned window- 
 panes glitter like looking-glass. Inside and outside of that 
 house cleanliness goes up into its essence, purity. 
 
 The little church lies, as I mentioned, above most of the 
 houses in the village; and the graveyard rises above the 
 church, and is terribly full of upright tombstones. The 
 chapel or church claims greater antiquity than any other in 
 that part of the kingdom ; but there is no appearance of this 
 in the external aspect of the present edifice, unless it be in 
 the two eastern windows, which remain unmodernized, and 
 in the lower part of the steeple. Inside, the character of the 
 pillars shows that they were constructed before the reign of 
 Henry VII. It is probable that there existed on this ground 
 a " field-kirk," or oratory, in the earliest times; and, from 
 the archbishop's registry at York, it is ascertained that there 
 was a chapel at Haworth in 1317. The inhabitants refer 
 inquirers concerning the date to the following inscription on 
 a stone in the church tower : — 
 
 " Hie fecit Csenobium Monachorum Auteste fundator. A. D. sex- 
 centissimo." 
 
6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 That is to say, before the preaching of Christianity in 
 Northumbria. Whitaker says that this mistake originated 
 in the illiterate copying out, by some modern stone-cutter, 
 of an inscription in the character of Henry the Eighth's time 
 on an adjoining stone : — 
 
 ** Orate pro bono statu Eutest Tod." 
 
 " Now every antiquary knows that the formula of prayer * bono state * 
 always refers to the living. I suspect this singular Christian name hai 
 been mistaken by the stone-cutter for Austet, a contraction of Eustatius, 
 but the word Tod, which has been mis-read for the Arabic iigures 600 is 
 perfectly fair and legible. On the presumption of this foolish claim to 
 antiquity, the people would needs set up for independence, and contest 
 the right of the Vicar of Bradford to nominate a curate at Haworth." 
 
 I have given this extract, in order to explain the imagina- 
 ry groundwork of a commotion which took place in Haworth 
 about five and thirty years ago, to which I shall have occa- 
 sion to allude again more particularly. 
 
 The interior of the church is common-place ; it is neither 
 old enough nor modern enough to compel notice. The pews 
 are of black oak, with high divisions ; and the names of those 
 to whom they belong are painted in white letters on the 
 doors. There are neither brasses, nor altar-tombs, nor monu- 
 ments, but there is a mural tablet on the right-hand side of 
 the communion-table, bearing the following inscriptbn • — 
 
 • HEEE 
 
 LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 MARIA BRONTE, WIFE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 liEV. P. BEONTE, A.B., MINISTEE OF HAWOEXn. 
 
 HER SOTJL 
 DEPAETED TO THE SAVIOIJE, SEPT. IStH, 1821, 
 IN THE SOtH YEAR OF HER AGE. 
 "Be ye also ready : for in such an hour as ye think not th3 Son of 
 V an Cometh.** — Matthew xxiv. 44. 
 
TABLETS OF THE BEONTE FAMILY. 7 
 
 ALSO HERE LIE THE EEMAIN8 OF 
 
 MARIA BRONTE, DAUGHTER OF THE AFORESAID; 
 
 SHE DIED 0:f THE 
 
 Gtk of may, 1825, in the 12Tn year of her age, 
 
 AND OF 
 
 ELIZABETH BRONTE*, HER SISTER, 
 
 irna died june 15th, 1825, in the 11th year of her age. 
 
 " Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become aa 
 little cli'ldren, ye ohall not enter into the kingdom of lieaTCn.* — Matthew 
 xviii. 3. 
 
 here also lie the remains cp 
 
 PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTE, 
 
 TV no died SEPT. 24th, 1848, aged 30 years. 
 
 AND OF 
 
 EMILY JANE BRONTE, 
 
 WHO DIED DEO. 19tH, 1848, AGED 29 YEARS, 
 
 SON AND DAUGHTER OF THE 
 
 REV. P. BRONTE, INCUMBENT. 
 
 THIS STONE IS ALSO DEDICATED TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF ANNE BRONTE, 
 YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF THE RET. P. BRONTE, A.B. 
 
 SHE DIED, AGED 27 YEARS, MAY 28tH, 1849, 
 AND WAS BURIED AT THE OLD CHURCH, SCARBORO'. 
 
 At the upper part of this tablet ample space is allowed 
 between the lines of the inscription ; when the first memorials 
 were written down, the survivors, in their fond affection, 
 thought little of the margin and verge they were leaving for 
 those who were still living. But as one dead member of the 
 household follows another fast to the grave, the lines are 
 pressed together, and the letters become small and cramped. 
 Aifter the record of Anne's death, there is room for no other. 
 
 But one more of that generation — the last of that nur- 
 
8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 sery of six little motherless cliildren — was yet to follow, 
 before the survivor, the childless and widowed father, found 
 his rest. On another tablet, below the first, the following 
 record has been added to that mournful list : — 
 
 ADJOINING LIE THE EEMAIXS OF 
 CHARLOTTE, WIFE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 EEY. ARTHUR BELL NICHOLLS. A.B., 
 
 AND DAUGHTER OF THE RET. P. BRONTE, A.B., INCUMBENT. 
 
 BHS DIED MARCH 81 ST, 1855, IIT THE 39tH 
 
 TEAR Oy HER AGE. 
 
CHxiRACTERISTICS OF YOKKSIIIFwEMEN 
 
 CHAPTER ir. 
 
 For a riglit understanding of the life of my dear friend, 
 Charlotte Bronte, it appears to me more necessary in her 
 case than in most others, that the reader should be made 
 acquainted with the peculiar forms of population and society 
 amidst which her earliest years were passed, and from which 
 both her own and her sisters' first impressions of human life 
 must have been received. I shall endeavour, therefore, before 
 proceeding further with my work, to present some idea of 
 the character of the people of Haworth, and the surround- 
 ing districts. 
 
 Even an inhabitant of the neighbouring county of Lan- 
 caster is struck by the peculiar force of character which the 
 Yorkshiremen display. This makes them interesting as a 
 race ; while, at the same time, as individuals, the remarkable 
 degree of self-sufficiency they possess gives them an air of in- 
 dependence rather apt to repel a stranger. I use this ex- 
 pression, " self-sufficiency " in the largest sense. Conscious' 
 of the strong sagacity and the dogged power of will which 
 seem almost the birthright of the natives of the West 
 Riding, each man relies upon himself, and seeks no help at 
 the hands of his neighbour. From rarely requiring the as- 
 sistance of others, he comes to doubt the power of bestowing 
 it; from the general success of his effi^rts, he grows to 
 depend upon them, and to over-esteem his own energy and 
 1* 
 
/O LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BKON'iE, 
 
 power. He belongs to that keen, yet short-siglited class, wli« 
 consider suspicion of all whose honesty is not proved as a 
 sign of wisdom. The practical qualities of a man are held 
 in great respect ; but the want of faith in strangers and un- 
 tried modes of action, extends itself even to the manner in 
 which the virtues are regarded ; and if they produce no im- 
 wediate and tangible result, they are rather put aside as unfit 
 for this busy, striving world ; especially if they are more of 
 a passive than an active character. The affections are 
 strong, and their foundations lie deep : but they are not- 
 such affections seldom are — wide- spreading ; nor do they 
 show themselves on the surface. Indeed, there is little dis- 
 play of any of the amenities of life among this wild, rough 
 population. Their accost is curt ; their accent and tone of 
 speech blunt and harsh. Something of this may, probably, 
 be attributed to the freedom of mountain air and of isolated 
 hill-side life ; something be derived from their rough Norse 
 ancestry. They have a quick perception of character, and a 
 keen sense of humour ; the dwellers among them must be 
 prepared for certain uncomplimentary, though most likely 
 true, observations, pithily expressed. Their feelings are 
 not easily roused, but their duration is lasting. Hence there 
 is much close friendship and faithful service ; and for a cor- 
 rect exemplifica bion of the form in which the latter fre- 
 quently appears, I need only refer the reader of ^' Wuthering 
 Heights " to the character of " Joseph." 
 
 From the same cause come also enduring grudges, in some 
 cases amounting to hatred, which occasionally has been be- 
 queathed from generation to generation. I remember Miss 
 BrontS once telling me that it was a saying round about 
 Haworth, " Keep a stone in thy pocket seven year ; turn it, 
 and keep it seven year longer, that it may be ever ready to 
 thine hand when thine enemy draws near." 
 
 The West Biding men are sleuth-hounds in pursuit of 
 
ilANUFACTUEES OF THE WEST RIDING, 11 
 
 money. Miss Bronte related to my husband a curious in- 
 stance illustrative of this eager desire for riches. A man 
 that she knew, who was a small manufacturer, had engaged in 
 many local speculations, which had always turned out well, 
 and thereby rendered him a person of some wealth. He was 
 rather past middle age, when he bethought him of insuring 
 his life ; and he had only just taken out his policy, when he 
 fell ill of an acute disease which was certain to end fatally in 
 a very few days. The doctor, half-hesitatingly, revealed to 
 him his hopeless state. " By jingo ! " cried he, rousing up at 
 once into the old energy, " I shall do the insurance com- 
 pany ! I always was a lucky fellow !" 
 
 These men are keen and shrewd ; faithful and persevering 
 in following out a good purpose, fell in tracking an evil one. 
 They are not emotional ; they are not easily made into either 
 friends or enemies ; but once lovers or haters, it is difficult to 
 change their feeling. They are a powerful race both in mind 
 and body, both for good and for evil. 
 
 The woollen manufacture was introduced into this district 
 in the days of Edward IIL It is traditionally said that a 
 colony of Flemings came over and settled in the West Biding 
 to teach the inhabitants what to do with their wool. The 
 mixture of agricultural with manufacturing labour that ensued 
 and prevailed in the West Biding up to a very recent period, 
 sounds pleasant enough at this distance of time, when the 
 classical impression is left, and the details forgotten, or only 
 brought to light by those who explore the few remote parts 
 of England where the custom still lingers. The idea of the 
 mistress and her maidens spinning at the great wheels while? 
 the master was abroad, ploughing his fields, or seeing after 
 his flocks on the purple moors, is very poetical to look back 
 upon ; but when such life actually touches on our own days, 
 and we can hear particulars from the lips of those now living, 
 details of coarseness — -of the uncouthness of the rustic mirr 
 
12 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 glcd with tlie sharpness of the tradesman — of irregularitj 
 and fierce lawlessness — come out, that rather mar the vision 
 of pastoral innocence and simplicity. Still, as it is the ex- 
 ceptional and exaggerated characteristics of any period that 
 leave the most vivid memory behind them, it would be wrong, 
 and in my opinion faithless, to conclude that such and such 
 forms of society and modes of living were not best for the 
 period when they prevailed, although the abuses they may 
 have led into, and the gradual progress of the world, have 
 made it well that such ways and manners should pass away 
 for ever, and as preposterous to attempt to return to them, 
 as it would be for a man to return to the clothes of his 
 childhood. 
 
 The patent granted to Alderman Cockayne, and the 
 further restrictions imposed by James I. on the export of 
 undyed woollen cloths (met by a prohibition on the part of 
 the States of Holland of the import of English-dyed cloths), 
 injured the trade of the West Riding manufacturers con- 
 siderably. Their independence of character, their dislike of 
 authority, and their strong powers of thought, predisposed 
 them to rebellion against the religious dictations of such 
 men as Laud, and the arbitrary rule of the Stuarts ; and the 
 injury done by James and Charles to the trade by which 
 they gained their bread, made the great majority of them 
 Commonwealth men. I shall have occasion afterwards to 
 give one or two instances of the warm feelings and extensive 
 knowledge on subjects of both home and foreign politics 
 existing at the present day in the villages lying west and east 
 of the mountainous ridge that separates Yorkshire and Lan- 
 cashire ; the inhabitants of which are of the same race and 
 possess the same quality of character. 
 
 The descendants of many who served under Cromwell at 
 Dunbar, live on the same lands as their ancestors occupied 
 then ; and perhaps there is no part of England where the 
 
DESCENDANTS OF THE TUKIT^VNS. 13 
 
 traditional and fond recollections of tlie Commonwealth Lave 
 lingered so long as in that inhabited by the woollen manu- 
 facturing population of the West Riding, who had the re- 
 strictions taken off their trade by the Protector's admirable 
 commercial policy. I have it on good authority that, not 
 thirty years ago, the phrase, " in Oliver's days," was in com 
 mon use to denote a time of unusual prosperity. The class 
 of Christian names prevalent in a district is 5)ne indication 
 of the direction in which its tide of hero-worship sets. Grave 
 enthusiasts in politics or religion perceive not the ludicrous 
 side of those which they give to their children ; and some 
 are to be found, still in their infancy, not a dozen miles from 
 Haworth, that will have to go through life as Lamartine, 
 Kossuth, and Dembinsky. And so there is a testimony to 
 what I have said, of the traditional feeling of the district, in 
 the fact that the Old Testament names in general use among 
 the Puritans are yet the prevalent appellations in most 
 Yorkshire families of middle or humble rank, whatever their 
 religious persuasion may be. There are numerous records, 
 too, that show the kindly way in which the ejected ministers 
 were received by the gentry, as well as by the poorer part 
 of the inhabitants, during the persecuting days of Charles II 
 These little facts all testify to the old hereditary spirit of 
 independence, ready ever to resist authority which was con- 
 ceived to be unjustly exercised, that distinguishes the people 
 of the West Riding to the present day. 
 
 The parish of Halifax touches that of Bradford, in which 
 the chapelry of Haworth is included ; and the nature of the 
 ground in the two parishes is much of the same wild and 
 hilly description. The abundance of coal, and the number 
 of mountain streams in the district, make it highly favourable 
 to manufactures ; and accordingly, as I stated, the inhabit- 
 ants have for centuries been engaged in making cloth, as well 
 RS in agricultural pursuits. But the intercourse of tr;tde 
 
14 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 failed, for a long time, to bring amenity and civilization intc 
 tliese outlying hamlets, or widely scattered dwellings. Mr. 
 Hunter, in Ms " Life of Oliver Heywood," quotes a sentence 
 oat of a memorial of one James Rither, living in the reign 
 of Elizabeth, which is partially true to this day — 
 
 " They have no superior to court, no civilities to practise : 
 a sour and sturdy humour is the consequence, so that a stranger 
 \b shocked by a tone of defiance in every voice, and an air 
 of fierceness in every countenance." 
 
 Even now, a stranger can hardly ask a quesdon without 
 receiving some crusty reply, if, indeed, he receive any at all. 
 Sometimes the sour rudeness amounts to positive insult. 
 Yet, if the ^^ foreigner" takes all this churlishness good- 
 humouredly, or as a matter of course, and makes good any 
 claim upon their latent kindliness and hospitality, they are 
 faithful and generous, and thoroughly to be relied upon. As 
 a slight illustration of the roughness that pervades all classes 
 in these out-of-the-way villages, I may relate a little adven 
 ture which happened to my husband and myself, three year, 
 ago, at Addingham — 
 
 From Penigent to Pendle Hill, 
 
 From Linton to luOug-Addlngliam, 
 And all that Craven coasts dj^ tell, &;c. 
 
 one of the places that sent forth its fighting men to thv 
 famous old battle of Flodden Field, and a village not man^ 
 miles from Haworth. 
 
 We were driving along the street, when one of those 
 ne'er-do-well lads who seem to have a kind of magnetic power 
 for misfortunes, having jumped into the stream that runs 
 through the place, just where all the broken glass and bottles 
 are thrown, staggered naked and nearly covered with blood 
 intc a cottage before us. Besides receiving another bad cut 
 in the arm, he had completely laid open the artery, and was 
 
A CHAKACTEEISTIO INCIDENT. 15 
 
 in a fair way of bleeding to death — which, one of his rela- 
 tions comforted him by saying, would be likely to *^ save a 
 deal o' trouble." 
 
 When my husband had checked the effusion of blood 
 with a strap that one of the bystanders unbuckled from his 
 leg, he asked if a surgeon had been sent for. 
 
 *' Yoi," was the answer; "but we dunna think he'll 
 come." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " He's owd, yo seen, and asthmatic, and it's up-hill." 
 
 My husband, taking a boy for his guide, drove as fast as 
 he could to the surgeon's house, which was about three- 
 quarters of a mile off, and met the aunt of the wounded lad 
 leaving it. 
 
 " Is he coming ? " inquired my husband. 
 
 " Well, he didna' say he wouldna' come." 
 
 *'^But tell him the lad may bleed to death." 
 
 « I did." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 " Why, only, ' D n him ; what do I care.' " 
 
 It ended, however, in his sending one of his sons, who, 
 though not brought up to " the surgering trade," was able 
 to do what was necessary in the way of bandages and plais- 
 ters. The excuse made for the surgeon was, that " he was 
 near eighty, and getting a bit doited, and had had a matter 
 o' twenty childer." 
 
 Among the most unmoved of the lookers-on was the 
 brother of the boy so badly hurt ; and while he was lying in 
 a pool of blood on the flag floor, and crying out how much 
 his arm was " warching," his stoical relation stood coolly 
 gmoking his bit of black pipe, and uttered not a single word 
 of either sympathy or sorrow. 
 
 Forest customs, existing in the fringes of dark wood, 
 which clothed the declivity of the hills on either side, tended 
 
16 LITE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 to brutalize the population until the middle of the seven 
 teenth century. Execution by beheading was performed in 
 a summary way upon either men or women who were guilty 
 of but very slight crimes ; and a dogged, yet in some casea 
 fine, indifierence to human life was thus generated. The 
 roads were so notoriously bad, even up to the last thirty 
 years, that there was little communication between one 
 village and another; if the produce of industry could be 
 conveyed at stated times to the cloth market of the district, 
 it was all that could be done ; and, in lonely houses on the 
 distant hill-side, or by the small magnates of secluded ham- 
 lets, crimes might be committed almost unknown, certainly 
 without any great uprising of popular indignation calculated 
 to bring down the strong arm of the law. It must be 
 remembered that in those days there was no rural constabu- 
 lary ; and the few magistrates left to themselves, and gene- 
 rally related to one another, were most of them inclined to 
 tolerate eccentricity, and to wink at faults too much like 
 their own. 
 
 Men hardly past middle life talk of the days of their 
 youth, spent in this part of the country, when, during the 
 winter months, they rode up to the saddle-girths in mud ; 
 when absolute business was the only reason for stirring be- 
 yond the precincts of home ; and when that business wa^ 
 conducted under a pressure of difiiculties which they 
 themselves, borne along to Bradford market in a swift first- 
 class carriage, can hardly believe to have been possible. 
 For instance, one woollen manufacturer says that, not five- 
 and-twenty years ago, he had to rise betimes to set off on a 
 winter's morning in order to be at Bradford with the great 
 waggon-load of goods manufactured by his father : this load 
 was packed over-night, but in the morning there was great 
 gathering around it, and flashing of lanterns, and examina- 
 tion of horses' feet, before the ponderous waggon got under 
 
ISOLATED DWELLINGS. 11 
 
 i^eigli ; and then some one had to go groping here and 
 there, on hands and knees, and always sounding with a staff 
 down the long, steep, slippery brow, to find where the horses 
 might tread safely, until they reached the comparative easy 
 going of the deep rutted main road. People went on horse- 
 back over the upland moors, following the tracks of the pack- 
 horses that carried the parcels, baggage, or goods from one 
 town to another, between which there did not happen to be A 
 highway. 
 
 But in the winter, all such communication was impcisi- 
 ble, by reason of the snow which lay long and late on the 
 bleak high ground. I have known people who, travelling by 
 the mail-coach over Blackstone Edge, had been snowed up 
 for a week or ten days at the little inn near the summit, and 
 obliged to spend both Christmas and New Year's Day there, 
 till the store of provisions laid in for the use of the land- 
 lord and his family falling short before the inroads of the 
 unexpected visitors, they had recourse to the turkeys, geese, 
 and Yorkshire pies with which the coach was laden; and 
 even these were beginning to fail, when a fortunate thaw 
 released them from their prison. 
 
 Isolated as the hill villages may be, they are in the 
 world, compared with the loneliness of the grey ancestral 
 houses to be seen here and there in the dense hollows of 
 the moorsw These dwellings are not large, yet they are 
 solid and roomy enough for the accommodation of those 
 who live in them and to whom the surrounding estates be- 
 long. The land has often been held by one family since 
 the days of the Tudors ; the owners are, in fact, the remains 
 of the old yeomanry — small squires, who are rapidly becom- 
 ing extinct as a claas, from one of two causes. Either 
 the possessor falls into idle, drinking habits, and so is obliged 
 eventually to sell his property : or he finds, if more shrewd 
 and adventurous, that the " beck " running down the moun* 
 
18 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tain side, or tlie minerals beneath his feet, can be turned into 
 a new source of wealth : and leaving the old plodding life ol 
 a landowner with small capital, he turns manufacturer, or 
 digs for coal, or quarries for stone. 
 
 Still there are those remaining of this class — dwellers in 
 the lonely houses far away in the upland districts — even at 
 the present day, who sufficiently indicate what strange eccen- 
 tricity — what wild strength of will — nay, even what unnatu- 
 ral power of crime was fostered by a mode of living in which 
 a man seldom met his fellows, and where public opinion was 
 only a distant and inarticulate echo of some clearer voice 
 sounding behind the sweeping horizon. 
 
 A solitary life cherishes mere fancies until they become 
 manias. And the powerful Yorkshire character which was 
 scarcely tamed into subjection by all the contact it met 
 with in " busy town or crowded mart," has before now broken 
 out into strange wilfulness in the remoter districts. A 
 singular account was recently given me of a landowner (living 
 it is true, on the Lancashire side of the hills, but of the same 
 blood and nature as the dwellers on the other) who was 
 supposed to be in the receipt of seven or eight hundred a 
 year, and whose house bore marks of handsome antiquity, 
 as if his forefathers had been for a long time people of con- 
 sideration. My informant was struck with the appearance of 
 the place, and proposed to the countryman who was accom- 
 panying him, to go up to it and take a nearer inspection. 
 The reply was, " Yo'd better not ; he'd threap yo down th' 
 loan. He's let fly at some folks' legs, and let shot lodgo 
 in 'em afore now, for going too near to his house." And 
 finding, on closer inquiry, that such was really the inhos- 
 pitable custom of this moorland squire, the gentleman gave 
 up his purpose. I believe that the savage yeoman is still 
 living. 
 
 Anotlier squire, of more distinguished family and largei 
 
' KUDE SrORTS OF YORKSHIRE. 19 
 
 property — one is thence led to imagine of better education, 
 but that does not always follow — died at his house, not many 
 miles from Haworth, only a few years ago. His great amuse- 
 ment and occupation had been cock-fighting. When he was 
 confined to his chamber with what he knew would be his last 
 illness, he had his cocks brought np there, and watched the 
 bloody battle from his bed. As his mortal disease increased, 
 and it became impossible for him to turn so as to follow the 
 combat, he had looking-glasses arranged in such a manner 
 around and above him, as he lay, that he could still seo 
 the cocks fighting. And in this manner he died. 
 
 These are merely instances of eccentricity compared to 
 the tales of positive violence and crime that have occurred 
 in these isolated dwellings, which still linger in the memories 
 of the old people of the district, and some of which were 
 doubtless familiar to the authors of " Wuthering Heights " 
 and " The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." 
 
 The amusements of the lower classes could hardly be 
 expected to be more humane than those of the wealthy and 
 better educated The gentleman who has kindly furnished 
 me with some of the particulars I have given, remembers 
 the bull-baijbings at Kochdale, not thirty years ago. The 
 bull was fastened by a chain or rope to a post in the river. 
 To increase the amount of water, as well as to give their 
 workpeople the opportunity of savage delight, the masters 
 were accustomed to stop their mills on the day when the 
 sport took place. The bull would sometimes wheel sud- 
 denly round, so that the rope by which he was fastened, 
 swept those who had been careless enough to come within 
 its range down into the water, and the good people of 
 Rochdale had the excitement of seeing one or two of their 
 neighbours drowned, as well as of witnessing the bull baited, 
 and the dogs torn and tossed. 
 
 The people of Haworth were not less strong and full of 
 
20 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 character than their neighbours on either side of the hilL 
 The village lies embedded in the moors, between the two 
 counties, on the old road between Keighley and Colne. 
 About the middle of the last century, it became famous in 
 the religious world as the scene of the ministrations of the 
 Ilev. William Grimshaw, curate of Haworth for twenty 
 years. Before this time, it is probable that the curates 
 were of the same order as one Mr. Nicholls, a Yorkshire 
 clergyman in the days immediately succeeding the Kefor- 
 mation, who was " much addicted to drinking and company- 
 keeping," and used to say to his companions " You must 
 not heed me but when I am got three feet above the earth," 
 that was, into the pulpit. 
 
 Mr. Grimshaw's life was written by Newton, Cowper's 
 friend ; and from it may be gathered some curious particu- 
 lars of the manner in which a rough population were swayed 
 and governed by a man of deep convictions, and strong 
 earnestness of purpose. It seems that he had not been in 
 any way remarkable for religious zeal, though he had led a 
 moral life, and been conscientious in fulfilling his parochial 
 duties, until a certain Sunday in September, 1744, when tho 
 servant, rising at five, found her master already engaged in 
 prayer ; she stated that, after remaining in his chamber for 
 some time, he went to engage in religious exercises in the 
 house of a parishioner, then home again to pray ; thence, still 
 fasting, to the church, where, as he was reading the second 
 lesson, he fell down, and, on his partial recovery, had to be 
 led from the church. As he went out, he spoke to the con- 
 gregation, and told them not to disperse, as he had something 
 to say to them, and would return presently. He was taken 
 to the clerk's house, and again became insensible. His ser- 
 vant rubbed him, to restore the circulation ; and when he 
 was brought to himself " he seemed in a great rapture," and 
 the first words he uttered were " I have had a glorious vision 
 
MR. GRIMSHAW OF IIAWORTn. 21 
 
 from the third heaven." He did not say what he had seen, 
 but returned into the church, and began the service again, 
 at two in the afternoon, and went on until seven. 
 
 From this time he devoted himself, with the fervour of a 
 Wesley, and something of the fanaticism of a Whitfield, to 
 calling out a religious life among his parishioners. They 
 had been in the habit of playing at foot-ball on Sunday, 
 using stones for this purpose ; and giving and receiving 
 challenges from other parishes. There were horse-races 
 held on the moors just above the village, which were peri- 
 odical sources of drunkenness and profligacy. Scarcely a 
 wedding took place without the rough amusement of foot 
 races, where the half naked runners were a scandal to all 
 decent strangers. The old custom of "arvills," or funeral 
 feasts, led to frequent pitched battles between the drunken 
 mourners. Such customs were the outward signs of the 
 kind of people with whom Mr. Grimshaw had to deal. But, 
 by various means, some of the most practical kind, he 
 wrought a great change in his parish. In his preaching he 
 was occasionally assisted by Wesley and Whitfield, and at 
 such times the little church proved much too small to hold 
 the throng that poured in from distant villages, or lonely 
 moorland hamlets ; and frequently they were obliged to 
 meet in the open air ; indeed, there was not room enough 
 in the church even for the communicants. Mr. Whitfield 
 was once preaching in Haworth, and made use of some such 
 expression, as that he hope^i there was no need to say much 
 to this congregation, as they had sat under so pious and 
 godly a minister for so many years ; " whereupon Mr. 
 Grimshaw stood up in his place, and said with a loud voice, 
 * Oh, sir ! for God's sake do not* speak so. I pray you do 
 not flatter them. I fear the greater part of them are going 
 to hell with their eyes open.' " But if they were so bound, 
 it was not for want of exertion on Mr. Grimshaw's part to 
 
22 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 prevent them. He used to preach twenty or thirty times ^ 
 week in private houses. If he perceived any one inattentive 
 to his prayers, he would stop and rebuke the offender, and 
 not go on till he saw every one on their knees. He waci 
 very earnest in enforcing the strict observance of Sunday ; 
 and would not even allow his parishioners to walk in the 
 fields between services. He sometimes gave out a very long 
 Psalm (tradition says the 119th), and while it was being sung, 
 he left the reading-desk, and taking a horsewhip went into the 
 public-houses, and flogged the loiterers into church. They 
 were swift who could escape the lash of the parson by 
 sneaking out the back way. He had strong health and an 
 active body, and rode far and wide over the hills, " awaken- 
 ing " those who had previously had no sense of religion. 
 To save time, and be no charge to the families at whose 
 houses he held his prayer-meetings, he carried his provisions 
 with him ; all the food he took in the day on such occasions 
 consisting simply of a piece of bread and butter, or dry bread 
 and a raw onion. 
 
 The horse-races were justly objectionable to Mr. Grim- 
 shaw ; they attracted numbers of profligate people to Haworth, 
 and brought a match to the combustible materials of the 
 place, only too ready to blaze out into wickedness. The 
 story is, that he triad all means of persuasion, and even in- 
 timidation, to have the races discontinued, but in vain. At 
 length, in despair, he prayed with such fervor of earnestness 
 that the rain came down in torrents, and deluged the ground, 
 so that there was no footing for man or beast, even if the 
 multitude had been willing to stand such a flood let down 
 from above. And so Haworth races were stopped, and have 
 never been resumed to this day. Even now the memory of 
 this good man is held in reverence, and his faithful ministra- 
 tions and real virtues are one of the boasts of the parish. 
 
 But after his time, I fear there was a falling back into 
 
THE " ARVILL," OR FUNERAL FEAST. 23 
 
 the wild rough heathen ways, from which he had pulled 
 them up, as it were, bj the passionate force of his individual 
 character. He had built a chapel for the Wesleyan Metho- 
 dists, and not very long after the Baptists established them- 
 selves in a place of worship. Indeed, as Dr. Whitaker says, 
 the people of this district are " strong religionists ; " only, 
 fifty years ago, their religion did not work down into their 
 lives. Half that length of time back, the code of morals 
 seemed to be formed upon that of their Norse ancestors. Ke- 
 venge was handed down from father to son as an hereditary 
 duty ; and a great capability for drinking, without the head 
 being affected, was considered as one of the manly virtues. 
 The games of foot-ball on Sundays, with the challenges to 
 the neighbouring parishes, were resumed, bringing in an in- 
 flux of riotous strangers to fill the public-houses, and make 
 the more sober-minded inhabitants long for good Mr. Grim- 
 shaw's stout arm, and ready horsewhip. The old custom of 
 " arvills " was as prevalent as ever. The sexton, standing at 
 the foot of the open grave, announced that the " arvill " 
 would be held at the Black Bull, or whatever public-house 
 . might be fixed upon by the friends of the dead ; and thither 
 the mourners and their acquaintances repaired. The origin 
 of the custom had been the necessity of furnishing some re- 
 freshment for those who came from a distance, to pay the 
 last mark of respect to a friend. In the life of Oliver Hey- 
 wood there are two quotations, which show what sort of food 
 was provided for ^' arvills " in quiet Nonconformist connec- 
 tions in the seventeenth century ; the first (from Thoresby) 
 tells of " cold possets, stewed prunes, cake, and cheese," as 
 being the arvill after Oliver Heywood's funeral. The second 
 gives, as rather shabby, according to the notion of the times 
 (1673), " nothing but a bit of cake, draught of wine, pibco 
 of rosemary, and pair of gloves. '^ 
 
 But the arvills at Haworth were often far mere jovial 
 
24 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 doings. Among the poor, the mourners were only ex- 
 pected to provide a kind of spiced roll for each person; 
 and the expense of the liquors — rum, or ale, or a mixture 
 of both called " dog's nose " — was generally defrayed by 
 each guest placing some money on a plate, set in the middle 
 of the table. Richer people would order dinner for their 
 friends. At the funeral of Mr. Charnock (the next succes- 
 gor but one to Mr. Grimshaw in the incumbency), above 
 eighty people were bid to the arvill, and the price of the 
 feast was 45. 6c?. per head, all of which was defrayed by the 
 friends of the deceased. As* few " shirked their liquor," 
 there were very frequently " up-and-down-fights '^ before the 
 close of the day ; sometimes with the horrid additions of 
 " pawsing " and " gouging," and biting. 
 
 Although I have dwelt on the exceptional traits in the 
 characteristics of these stalwart West-Ridingers, such as 
 they were in the first quarter of this century, if not a few 
 years later, I have little doubt that in the every-day life of 
 the people so independent, wilful, and full of grim humour, 
 there would be much found even at present that would shock 
 those accustomed only to the local manners of the south ; 
 and, in return, I suspect the shrewd, sagacious, energetic 
 Yorkshire man would hold such " foreigners " in no small 
 contempt. 
 
 I have said it is most probable that where Haworth 
 Church now stands, there was once an ancient "field-kirk," 
 or oratory. It occupied the third or lowest class of ecclesi- 
 astical structures, according to the Saxon law, and had no 
 right of sepulture, or administration of sacraments. It was 
 so called because it was built without enclosure, and open 
 tx) the adjoining fields or moors. The founder, according to 
 the laws of Edgar, was bound, without subtracting from his 
 tithes, to maintain the ministering priest out of the remain- 
 ing nine parts of his income. After the Reformation, the 
 
HAWOETH FIELD- KIRK. 25 
 
 right of choosing their clergyman, at any of those chapels 
 of ease, which had formerly been field-kirks, was vested in 
 the freeholders and trustees subject to the approval of the 
 vicar of the parish. But owing to some negligence, this 
 right has been lost to the freeholders and trustees at Haworth, 
 ever since the days of Archbishop Sharp ; and the power of 
 choosing a minister has lapsed into the hands of the Vicar of 
 Bradford. So runs the account, according to one authority. 
 Mr. Bronte says, — " This living has for its patrons the Vicar 
 of Bradford and certain trustees. My predecessor took the 
 living with the consent of the Vicar of Bradford, but in 
 opposition to the trustees ; in consequence of which he was 
 so opposed that, after only three weeks' possession, he was 
 compelled to resign." 
 
 In conversing on the character of the inhabitants of the 
 West Riding with Dr. Scoresby, who had been for some 
 time Vicar of Bradford, he alluded to certain riotous trans- 
 actions which had taken place at Haworth on the presenta- 
 tion of the living to Mr. Redhead, Mr. Bronte's predecessor ; 
 and said that there had been so much in the particulars 
 indicative of the character of the people, that he advised me 
 to inquire into them. I have accordingly done so, and, from 
 the lips of some of the survivors among the actors and 
 spectators, I have learnt the means taken to eject the nomi- 
 nee of the Vicar. 
 
 The previous incumbent, next but one in succession to 
 Mr. Grimshaw, had been a Mr. Charnock. He had a long 
 illness which rendered him unable to discharge his duties 
 without assistance, and Mr. Redhead came to help him. As 
 long as Mr. Charnock lived, his curate gave the people much 
 satisfaction, and was highly regarded by them. But the 
 case was entirely altered when, at Mr. Charnock's death in 
 1810 *»hey conceived that the trustees had been unjustly de- 
 void. I, — 2 
 
26 LITE OF CHAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 prived of their rights by the Vicar of Bradford, who ap« 
 pointed Mr. Redhead as perpetual curate. 
 
 The first Sunday ho officiated, Haworth church was filled 
 even to the aisles ; most of the people wearing the wooden 
 clogs of the district. But while Mr. Bedhead was reading 
 the second lesson, the whole congregation, as by one impulse, 
 began to leave the church, making all the noise they could 
 with clattering and clumping of clogs, till, at length, Mr. 
 Bedhead and the clerk were the only two left to continue 
 the service. This was bad enough, but the next Sunday the 
 proceedings were far worse. Then, as befoi-e, the church 
 was well filled, but the aisles were left clear ; not a creature, 
 not an obstacle was in the way. The reasons for this was 
 made evident about the same time in the reading of the 
 service as the disturbances had begun the previous week. A 
 man rode into the church upon an ass, with his face turned 
 towards the tail, and as many old hats piled on his head, as 
 he could possibly carry. He began urging his beast round 
 the aisles, and the screams, and cries, and laughter of the 
 congregation entirely drowned all sound of Mr. Bedhead's 
 voice ; and, I believe, he was obliged to desist. 
 
 Hitherto they had not proceeded to anything like per' 
 sonal violence; but on the third Sunday they must have 
 been greatly irritated at seeing Mr. Bedhead, determined to 
 brave their will, ride up the village street, accompanied by 
 several gentlemen from Bradford. They put up their horses 
 at the Black Bull — the little inn close upon the churchyard, 
 for the convenience of arvills as well as for other purposes 
 — and went into church. On this the people followed, with 
 a chimney-sweeper, whom they had employed to clean the 
 chimneys of some outbuildings belonging to the church that 
 very morning, and afterwards plied with drink till he was in 
 a state of solemn intoxication. They placed him right before 
 tl^e reading-dcskj where his blackened &ce nodded a drunken, 
 
CHURCH-EIOTS AT IIAWC RTII. 27 
 
 stupid assent to all that Mr. Redhead said. At last, either 
 prompted by some mischief-maker, or from some tipsy im- 
 pulse, he clambered up the pulpit stairs, and attempted to 
 embrace Mr. Redhead. Then the profane fuw grew fast 
 and furious. They pushed the soot-covered chimney-sweeper 
 against Mr. Redhead, as he tried to escape. They threw both 
 him and his tormentor down on the ground in the church- 
 yard where the soot bag had been emptied, and, though, at 
 last, Mr. Redhead escaped into the Black Bull, the doors 
 of which were immediately barred, the people raged with- 
 out, threatening to stone him and his friends. One of my 
 informants is an old man, who was the landlord of the Black 
 Bull at the time, and he stands to it that such was the 
 temper of the irritated mob, that Mr. Redhead was in real 
 danger of his life. This man, however, planned an escape 
 for his unpopular inmates. The Black Bull is near the top 
 of the long, steep Haworth street, and at the bottom, close by 
 the bridge, on the road to Keighley, is a turnpike. Giving 
 directions to his hunted guests to steal out at the back door 
 (through which, probably, many a ne'er-do-weel has escaped 
 from good Mr. Grimshaw's horsewhip), the landlord and 
 some of the stable boys rode the horses belonging to the 
 party from Bradford backwards and forwards before hia 
 front door, among the fiercely-expectant crowd. Through 
 some opening between the houses, those on the horses saw 
 Mr. Redhead and his friends creeping along behind the 
 street ; and then, striking spurs, they dashed quickly down 
 to the turnpike ; the obnoxious clergymen and his friends 
 mounted in haste, and had sped some distance before the 
 people found out that their prey had escaped, and came run- 
 ning to the closed turnpike gate. 
 
 This was Mr. Redhead's last appearance at Haworth foi 
 many years. Long afterwards, he came to preach and in 
 his sermon to a large and attentive congregation, he good- 
 
28 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BROKTE. 
 
 humoured ly reminded them of the circumstances which I 
 have described. They gave him a hearty welcome, for they 
 owed him no grudge ; although before they had been ready 
 enough to stone him, in order to maintain what they con- 
 sidered to be their rights. 
 
 Into the midst of this lawless, yet not unkindly popula- 
 tion, Mr. Bronte brought his wife and six little children, in 
 February, 1820. There are those yet alive who remember 
 seven heavily laden carts lumbering slowly up the long stone 
 street, bearing the '' new parson's " household goods to his 
 future abode. 
 
 One wonders how the bleak aspect of her new home — the 
 low, oblong, stone parsonage, high up, yet with a still higher 
 back-ground of sweeping moors — struck on the gentle, deli- 
 cate wife, whose helath even then was failing. 
 
THE KEY. TATRICK BRONTE. 2? 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 The Eev. Patrick Bronte is a native of the County Down in 
 Ireland. His father, Hugh Bronte, was left an orphan at an 
 early age. He came from the south to the north of the 
 island, and settled in the parish of Ahaderg, near Lough- 
 brickland. There was some family tradition that, humble as 
 Hugh Bronte's circumstances were, he was the descendant of 
 an ancient family. But about this neither he nor his de- 
 scendants have cared to inquire. He made an early mar- 
 riage, and reared and educated ten children on the proceeds 
 of the few acres of land which he farmed. This large family 
 were remarkable for great physical strength, and much per- 
 sonal beauty. Even in his old age, Mr. Bronte is a striking 
 looking man, above the common height, with a nobly shaped 
 head, and erect carriage, In his youth he must have been 
 unusually handsome. 
 
 He was born on Patrickmas day (March 17), 1777, and 
 early gave tokens of extraordinary quickness and intelligence. 
 He had also his full share of ambition; and of his strong 
 sense and forethought there is a proof in the fact, that, know- 
 ing that his father could afford him no pecuniary aid, and 
 that he must depend upon his own exertions, he opened a 
 public school at the early age of sixteen ; and this mode of 
 living he continued to follow for ^ve or six years. He then 
 became a tutor in the family of the Rev. Mr. Tighe, re tor of 
 
30 LIFE OF CIIAELoTTE BEONTE. 
 
 Druingooland parish. Thence he proceeded to St. John's! 
 College, Cambridge, where he was entered in July, 1802, 
 being at the time five-and- twenty years of age. After nearly 
 four years' residence, he obtained his B. A. degree, and was 
 ordained to a curacy in Essex, whence he removed into 
 Yorkshire. The course of life of which this is the outline, 
 shows a powerful and remarkable character, originating and 
 pursuing a purpose in a resolute and independent manner. 
 Here is a youth — a boy of sixteen — separating himself from 
 his family, and determining to maintain himself; and that, 
 not in the hereditary manner by agricultural pursuits, but 
 by the labour of his brain. 
 
 I suppose, from what I have heard, that Mr. Tighe 
 became strongly interested in his children's tutor, and may 
 have aided him, not only in the direction of his studies, but 
 in the suggestion of an English university education, and in 
 advice as to the mode in which he should obtain entrance 
 there. Mr. Bronte has now no trace of his Irish origin 
 remaining in his speech; he never could have shown his 
 Celtic descent in the straight Greek lines and long oval of 
 his face ; but at five-and-twenty, fresh from the only life he 
 had ever known, to present himself at the gates of St. John's 
 proved no little determination of will, and scorn of ridicule. 
 
 While at Cambridge, he became one of a corps of volun- 
 teers, who were then being called out all over the country to 
 resist the apprehended invasion by the French. I have 
 heard him allude, in late years, to Lord Palmerston as one 
 who had often been associated with him then in the mimic 
 military duties which they had to perform. 
 
 We take him up now settled as a curate at Hartshead, iu 
 Yorkshire — far removed from his birth-place and all his 
 Irish connections ; with whom, indeed, he cared little to keep 
 up any intercourse, and whom he never, I believe, re-visited 
 after becoming a student at Cambridge. 
 
SOCIAL CUSTOMS EN" PENZAKCE. 81 
 
 Hartshead is a very small village, lying to the cast of 
 Iluddersfield and Halifax ; and, from its high situation — on 
 a mound, as it were, surrounded by a circular basin — com 
 manding a magnificent view. Mr. Bronte resided here for 
 five years ; and, while the incumbent of Hartshead, he wooed 
 and married Maria Branwell. 
 
 She was the third daughter of Mr. Thomas Branwell, 
 merchant, of Penzance. Her mother's maiden name was 
 Carne : and, both on father's and mother's side, the Branwell 
 family were sufficiently well descended to enable them to mix 
 in the best society that Penzance then afibrded. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Branwell would be living — their family 3f four daugh- 
 ters and one son, still children — during the existence of that 
 primitive state of society which is well described by Dr. Davy 
 in the life of his brother. 
 
 " In the same town, when the population was about 
 2,000 persons, there was only one carpet, the floors of rooms 
 were sprinkled with sea-sand, and there was not a single 
 silver fork.^ 
 
 " At that time, when our colonial possessions were very 
 limited, our army and navy on a small scale, and there was 
 comparatively little demand for intellect, the younger sons 
 of gentlemen were often of necessity brought up to some 
 trade or mechanical art, to which no discredit, or loss of 
 caste, as it were, was attached. The eldest son, if not 
 allowed to remain an idle country squire, was sent to Oxford 
 or Cambridge, preparatory to his engaging in one of the 
 three liberal professions of divinity, law, or physic; the 
 second son was perhaps apprenticed to a surgeon or apo- 
 thecary, or a solicitor ,* the third to a pewterer or watch- 
 maker ; the fourth to a packer or mercer, and so on, were 
 there more to be provided for." 
 
 " After their apprenticeships were finished, the young 
 men almost invariably went to London to perfect themselves 
 
32 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 in their respectiye trade or art : and on their return into the 
 country, when settled in business, they were not excluded 
 from what would now be considered genteel society. Visit- 
 ing then was conducted differently from what it is at present. 
 Dinner-parties were almost unknown, excepting at the annual 
 feast-time. Christmas, too, was then a season of peculiar 
 indulgence and conviviality, and a round of entertainments 
 was given, consisting of tea and supper. Excepting at theso 
 two periods, visiting was almost entirely conlined to tea- 
 parties, which assembled at three o'clock, broke up at nine, 
 and the amusement of the evening was commonly some round 
 game at cards, as Pope Joan, or Commerce. The lower 
 class was then extremely ignorant, and all classes were very 
 superstitious ; even the belief in witches maintained its 
 ground, and there was an almost unbounded credulity re- 
 specting the supernatural and monstrous. There was scarcely 
 a parish in the Mount's Bay that was without a haunted 
 house, or a spot to which some story of supernatural horror 
 was not attached. Even when I was a boy, I remember a 
 house in the best street of Penzance which was uninhabited 
 because it was believed to be haunted, and which young peo- 
 ple walked by at night at a quickened pace, and with a beat- 
 ing heart. Amongst the middle and higher classes thera 
 was little taste for literature, and still less for science, and 
 their pursuits were rarely of a dignified or intellectual kind. 
 Hunting, shooting, wrestling, cock-fighting, generally ending 
 in drunkenness, were what they most delighted in. Smug- 
 gling was carried on to a great extent; and drunkenness, 
 and a low state of morals, were naturally associated with it. 
 Whilst smuggling was the means of acquiring wealth to bold 
 and reckless adventurers, drunkenness and dissipation occa- 
 fiioned the ruin of many respectable families. 
 
 I have given this extract because I conceive it beara 
 some reference to the life of Miss Eronte, whose strong mind 
 
THE BRAKWELL FAMILY. 33 
 
 and rivid imagination must have received tlieir first impres- 
 sions either from the servants (in that simple household, 
 almost friendly companions during the greater part of the 
 day) retailing the traditions or the news of Haworth village ; 
 or from Mr. Bronte, whose intercourse with his children ap- 
 pears to have been considerably restrained, and whose life, 
 both in Ireland and at Cambridge, had been spent under 
 peculiar circumstances ; or from her aunt, Miss Branwell, who 
 came to the parsonage, when Charlotte was only six or seven 
 years old, to take charge of her dead sister's family. This 
 aunt was older than Mrs. Bronte, and had lived longer among 
 the Penzance society, which Dr. Davy describes. But in the 
 Branwell family itself, the violence and irregularity of nature 
 did not exist. They were Methodists, and, as far as I can 
 gather, a gentle and sincere piety gave refinement and puritjf 
 of character, Mr. Branwell, the father, according to his de- 
 scendants' account, was a man of musical talent. He and 
 his wife lived to see all their children grown-up, and died 
 within a year of each other — he in 1808, she in 1809, when 
 their daughter Maria was twenty-five or twenty-six years of 
 age. I have been permitted to look over a series of nine 
 letters, which were addressed by her to Mr. Bronte, during 
 the brief term of their engagement in 1812. They are full 
 of tender grace of expression, and feminine modesty ; per- 
 vaded by the deep piety to which I have alluded as a family 
 characteristic. I shall make one or two extracts from them, 
 to show what sort of a person was the mother of Charlotte 
 Bronte : but first, I must state the circumstances under 
 which this Cornish lady met the scholar from Ahaderg, near 
 Loughbrickland. In the early summer of 1812, when she 
 would be twenty-nine, she came to visit her uncle, the Eever- 
 end John Fennel, who was at that time a clergyman of the 
 Church of England, living near Leeds, but who had previ 
 ously been a Methodist minister, Mr. Bronte was the in 
 VOL. I. — 2* 
 
34 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 cumbent of Hartshead ; and had tlie reputation in tlic neigli- 
 bourhood of being a very handsome fellow, full of Irish 
 enthusiasm, and with something of an Irishman's capability 
 of falling easily in love. Miss Branwell was extremely 
 email in person ; not pretty, but very elegant, and always 
 dressed with a quiet simplicity of taste, which accorded well 
 %vith her general character, and of which some of the details 
 call to mind the style of dress preferred by her daughter for 
 her favourite heroines. Mr. Bronte was soon captivated by 
 the little, gentle creature, and this time declared that it was 
 for life. In her first letter to him, dated August 26th, she 
 seems almost surprised to find herself engaged, and alludes 
 to the short time which she has known him. In the rest 
 there are touches reminding one of Juliet's — 
 
 ** But trust me, gentlemen, I'll prove more true 
 Than those that have more cunning to be strange.* 
 
 There are plans for happy pic-nic parties to Kirkstall 
 Abbey, in the glowing September days, when " Uncle, Aunt, 
 and Cousin Jane," — the last engaged to a Mr. Morgan, an- 
 other clergyman — were of the party ; all since dead, except 
 Mr. Bronte. There was no opposition on the part of any of 
 her friends to her engagement. Mr. and Mrs. Fennel sanc- 
 tioned it, and her brother and sisters in far-away Penzance 
 appear fully to have approved of it. In a letter dated Sep- 
 tember 18th, she says : — 
 
 " For some years I have been perfectly my own mistress, 
 subject to no control whatever ; so far from it, that my sis- 
 ters, who are many years older than myself, and even my 
 dear mother, used to consult me on every occasion of import- 
 ance, and scarcely ever doubted the propriety of my opinions 
 and actions : perhaps you will be ready to accuse me of vanity 
 in mentioning this, but you must consider that I do not boast 
 t)f it. I have many times felt it a disadvantage, and although, 
 
MISS bkanwell's letters. 35 
 
 I tliank God, it lias never led me into error, yet, in circum- 
 stances of uncertainty and doubt, I have deeply felt the want 
 of a guide and instructor." In the same letter she tells Mr. 
 Bronte, that she has informed her sisters of her engagement, 
 and that she should not see them again so soon as she had 
 intended. Mr. Fennel, her uncle, also writes to them by the 
 Bame post in praise of Mr. Bronte. 
 
 The journey from Penzance to Leeds in those days was 
 both very long and very expensive ; the lovers had not much 
 money to spend in unnecessary travelling, and, as Miss Bran- 
 well had neither father nor mother living, it appeared both a 
 discreet and seemly arrangement that the marriage should 
 take place from her uncle's house. There was no reason 
 either why the engagement should be prolonged. They were 
 past their first youth ; they had means sufficient for their 
 unambitious wants ; the living of Hartshead is rated in tho 
 Clergy List at 2021, per annum, and she was in the receipt 
 of a small annuity {50Z. I have been told) by the will of her 
 father. So, at the end of September, the lovers began to 
 talk about taking a house, for I suppose that Mr. Bronte up 
 to that time had been in lodgings ; and all went smoothly 
 and successfully with a view to their marriage in the ensuing 
 winter, until November, when a misfortune happened, which 
 she thus patiently and prettily describes : — 
 
 ^' I suppose you never expected to be much the richer for 
 me, but I am sorry to inform you that I am still poorer than 
 I thought myself. I mentioned having sent for my books, 
 clothes, &c. On Saturday evening, about the time when 
 you were writing the description of your imaginary ship- 
 wreck, I was reading and feeling the effects of a real one, 
 having then received a letter from my sister, giving me an 
 account of the vessel in which she had sent my box being 
 fitranded on the coast of Devonshire^ in consequence of which 
 the box was dashed to pieces with the violence of the sea, 
 
36 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 and all my little property, with the exception of a very fe\r 
 articles, being swallowed tip in the mighty deep. If this 
 should not prove the prelude to something worse I shall 
 think little of it, as it is the first disastrous circumstance 
 which has occurred since I left my home." 
 
 The last of these letters is dated December the 5th, 
 Miss Branwell and her cousin intended to set about making 
 the wedding-cake in the following week, so the marriage 
 could not be far off. She had been learning by heart a 
 " pretty little hymn " of Mr. Bronte's composing ; and read- 
 ing Lord Lyttelton's "Advice to a Lady," on which she 
 makes some pertinent and just remarks, showing that she 
 thought as well as read. And so Maria Branwell fades out 
 of sight ; we have no more direct intercourse with her ; we 
 hear of her as Mrs. Bronte, but it is as an invalid, not far 
 from death ; still patient, cheerful and pious. The writing 
 of these letters is elegant and neat ; while there are allusions 
 to household occupations — such as making the wedding-cake 
 — there are also allusions to the books she has read, or is 
 reading, showing a well-cultivated mind. Without having 
 any thing of her daughter's rare talents, Mrs. Bronte must 
 have been, I imagine, that unusual character, a well-balanced 
 and consistent woman. The style of the letters is easy and 
 good ; as is also that of a paper from the same hand, entitled 
 " The Advantages of Poverty in Religious Concerns," which 
 was written rather later, with a view to publication in some 
 periodical. 
 
 She was married, from her uncle's house, in Yorkshire 
 on the 29th of December, 1812 ; the same day was also the 
 wedding-day of her younger sister, Charlotte Branwell, in 
 distant Penzance. I do not think that Mrs. Bronte ever 
 revisited Cornwall, but she has left a very pleasant imprcs- 
 sion on the minds of those relations who yet survive ; they 
 speak of her as *' their favourite aunt and one to whom they, 
 
ME. BRONTE^S FAMILY AND PAKSONAGE. 37 
 
 as well as all the family, looked up, as a person of talent and 
 great amiability of disposition ;" and, again, as " meek and 
 retiring, while possessing more than ordinary talents, which 
 she inherited from her father, and her piety was genuine and 
 unobtrusive." 
 
 Mr. Bronte remained for five years at Hartshead, in the 
 parish of Dewsbury. There he was married, and his two 
 children, Maria and Elizabeth, were born. At the expiration 
 of that period, he had the living of Thornton, in Bradford 
 parish. Some of those great West Biding parishes are al- 
 most like bishoprics for their amount of population and num- 
 ber of churches. Thornton church is a little episcopal chapel 
 of ease, rich in Nonconformist monuments, as of Accepted 
 Leister and his friend Dr. Hall. The neighbourhood is deso- 
 late and wild ; great tracks of bleak land, enclosed by stone 
 dykes, sweeping up Clayton heights. The church itself looks 
 ancient and solitary, and as if left behind by the great stone 
 mills of a flourishing Independent firm, and the solid square 
 chapel built by the members of that denomination. Alto- 
 gether not so pleasant a place as Hartshead, with its ample 
 outlook over cloud-shadowed, sun-flecked plain, and hill 
 rising beyond hill to form the distant horizon. 
 
 Here, at Thornton, Charlotte Bronte was born, on the 
 21st of April, 1816. Fast on her heels followed Patrick 
 Branwell, Emily Jaae, and Anne. After the birth of this 
 last daughter, Mrs. Bronte's health began to decline. It is 
 hard work to provide for the little tender wants of many 
 young children where the means are but limited. The neces- 
 saries of food and clothing are much more easily supplied 
 than the almost equal necessaries of attendance, care, sooth- 
 ing, amusement, and sympathy. Maria Bronte, the eldest of 
 six, could only have been a few months more than six years 
 old, when Mr. Bronte removed *to Haworth, on February 
 25th, 1820. Those who knew her then, describe her as 
 
88 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 grave, tliouglitful, and quiet, to a degree far beyond her 
 years. Her childhood was no childhood ; the cases are rare 
 in which the possessors of great gifts have known the bless- 
 ings of that careless happy time ; their unusual powers stir 
 within them, and instead of the natural life of perception,— 
 the objective, as the Germans call it — they begin the deeper 
 life of reflection — the subjective. 
 
 Little Maria Bronte was delicate and small in appear- 
 ance, which seemed to give greater effect to her wonderful 
 precocity of intellect. She must have been her mother's 
 companion and helpmate in many a household and nursery 
 experience, for Mr. Bronte was, of course, much engaged in 
 his study ; and besides, he was not naturally fond of children, 
 and felt their frequent appearance on the scene as a drag 
 both on his wife's strength, and as an interruption to thu 
 comfort of the household. 
 
 Ilaworth Parsonage is — as I mentioned in the first chap- 
 ter — an oblong stone house, facing down the hill on which 
 tlie village stands, and with the front door right opposite to 
 the western door of the church, distant about a hundred 
 yards. Of this space twenty yards or so in depth are occu- 
 pied by the grassy garden, which is scarcely wider than the 
 house. The grave-yard goes round house and garden, on all 
 sides but one. The house consists of four rooms on each 
 floor, and is two stories high. When the Brontes took pos- 
 session, they made the larger parlour, to the left of the en- 
 trance, the family sitting-room, while that on the right was 
 appropriated to Mr. Bronte as a study. Behind this was tho 
 kitchen ; behind the former, a sort of flagged store-room. 
 Up-stairs were four bed-chambers of similar size, with the 
 addition of a small apartment over the passage, or *' lobby " 
 as we call it in the north. This was to the front, the stair- 
 case going up right opposite to the entrance. There is tha 
 pleasant old fashion of window seats all through the nouse \ 
 
LIFE AT HAWOPwTII. 39 
 
 and one can see that tlie parsonage was built in the days 
 when wood was plentiful, as the massive stair-bannisters, and 
 the wainscots, and the heavy window frames testify. 
 
 This little extra up stairs room was appropriated to the 
 children. Small as it was, it was not called a nursery ; in- 
 deed, it had not the comfort of a fireplace in it ; the servants 
 —two rough affectionate warm-hearted, wasteful sisters, who 
 cannot now speak of the family without tears — called the 
 room the " children's study." The age of the eldest student 
 was perhaps by this time seven. 
 
 The people in Haworth were none of them very poor. 
 Many of them were employed in the neighbouring worsted 
 mills ; a few were mill-owners and manufacturers in a small 
 way ; there were also some shopkeepers for the humbler and 
 every-day wants ; but for medical advice, for stationery, 
 books, law, dress, or dainties, the inhabitants had to go to 
 Keighley. There were several Sunday-schools ; the Baptists 
 had taken the lead in instituting them, the Wesleyans had 
 followed, the Church of England had brought up the rear. 
 Good Mr. Grimshaw, Wesley's friend, had built an humble 
 Methodist chapel, but it stood close to the road leading on 
 to the moor ; the Baptists then raised a place of worship, 
 with the distinction of being a few yards back from the high- 
 way ; and the Methodists have since thought it well to erect 
 another and a larger chapel, still more retired from the road. 
 Mr. Bronte was ever on kind and friendly terms with each 
 denomination as a body ; but from individuals in the village 
 the family stood aloof, unless some direct service was re- 
 quired, from the first. " They kept themselves very close,'' 
 is the account given by those who remember Mr. and Mrs. 
 Bronte's coming amongst them. I believe many of the 
 Yorkshiremen would object to the system of parochial visit- 
 ing ; their surly independence would revolt from the idea of 
 any one having a right, from his office, to inquire, to counsel, 
 
40 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 or to admonish tbem. The old hill-spirit lingers in them, 
 which coined the rhyme, inscribed on the under part of one 
 of the seats in the Sedilia of Whalley Abbey, not many mile« 
 from Haworth, 
 
 " Who mells wi* what another does 
 Had best go home and shoe his goose." 
 
 I asked an inhabitant of a district close to Haworth, what 
 sort of a clergyman they had at the church which he at- 
 tended. 
 
 " A rare good one," said he ; " he minds his own busi- 
 ness, and ne'er troubles himself with ours." 
 
 Mr. Bronte was faithful in visiting the sick, and all those 
 who sent for him, and diligent in attendance at the schools ; 
 and so was his daughter Charlotte too ; but, cherishing and 
 valuing privacy themselves, they were perhaps over-delicate 
 in not intruding upon the privacy of others. 
 
 From their first going to Haworth, their walks were di- 
 rected rather out towards the heathery moors, sloping up- 
 wards behind the parsonage, than towards the long descend- 
 ing village street. A good old woman, who came to nurse 
 Mrs. Bronte in the illness — an internal cancer — which grew 
 and gathered npon her, not many months after her arrival at 
 Haworth, tells me that at that time the six little creatures 
 used to walk out, hand in hand, towards the glorious wild 
 moors, which in after days they loved so passionately ; the 
 elder ones taking thoughtful care for the toddling wee things. 
 
 They were grave and silent beyond their years; sub 
 dued, probably, by the presence of serious illness in the 
 house ; for, at the time which my informant speaks of, Mrs. 
 Bronte was confined to the bed-room from which she never 
 eame forth alive. " You would not have known there was a 
 child in the house, they were such still, noiseless, good little 
 creatures, Maria would shut herself up " (Maria, bu* 
 
THE LITTLE BRONTES. 41 
 
 eevcn !) " in the children's study with a newspaper, and be 
 able to tell one every thing when she came out ; debates in 
 parliament, and I don't know what all. She was as good as 
 a mother to her sisters and brother. But there never were 
 such good children. I used to think them spiritless, they 
 were so different to any children I had ever seen. In part, 
 I set it down to a fancy Mr. Bronte had of not letting them 
 have flesh-meat to eat. It was from no wish for saving, for 
 there was plenty and even waste in the house, with young 
 servants and no mistress to see after them ; but he thought 
 that children should be brought up simply and hardily : so 
 they had nothing but potatoes for their dinner ; but they 
 never seemed to wish for anything else ; they were good little 
 creatures. Emily was the prettiest." 
 
 Mrs. Bronte was the same patient, cheerful person as 
 we have seen her formerly ; very ill, suffering great pain, 
 but seldom if ever complaining ; at her better times begging 
 her nurse to raise her in bed to let her see her clean the 
 grate, " because she did it as it was done in Cornwall ; " de- 
 votedly fond of her husband, who warmly repaid her affec- 
 tion, and suffered no one else to take the night-nursing ; 
 but, according to my informant, the mother was not very 
 anxious to see much of her children, probably because the 
 sight of them, knowing how soon they were to be left mo- 
 therless, would have agitated her too much. So the little 
 things clung quietly together, for their father was busy in 
 his study and in his parish, or with their mother, and they 
 took their meals alone ; sat reading, or whispering low, in 
 the ** children's study," or wandered out on the hill-side, 
 hand in hand. 
 
 The ideas of Rousseau and Mr. Bay on education had 
 
 , filtered down through many classes, and spread themselvea 
 
 widely out. I imagine, Mr. Bronte must have formed some 
 
 of his opinions on the management of children from these 
 
42 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 two theorists. His practice was not half so wild or extra- 
 ordinary as that to which an aunt of mine was subjected by 
 a disciple of Mr. Day's. She had been taken by this gen- 
 tleman and his wife, to live with them as their adopted 
 child, perhaps about five -and- twenty-years before the time 
 of which I am writing. They were wealthy people and 
 kind-hearted, but her food and clothing were of the very 
 simplest and rudest description, on Spartan principles. A 
 healthy merry child she did not much care for dress or eating ; 
 but the treatment which she felt as a real cruelty was this. 
 They had a carriage, in which she and the favourite dog 
 were taken an airing on alternate days; the creature whose 
 turn it was to be left at home being tossed in a blanket — an 
 operation which my aunt especially dreaded. Her affright 
 at the tossing was probably the reason why it was persevered 
 in. Dressed-up ghosts had become common, and she did 
 not care for them, so the blanket exercise was to be the next 
 mode of hardeniog her nerves. It is well known that Mr. 
 Day broke off his intention of marrying Sabrina, the girl 
 whom he had educated for this purpose, because, within a 
 few weeks of the time fixed for the wedding, she was guilty 
 of the frivolity, while on a visit from home, of wearing thin 
 sleeves. Yet Mr. Day and my aunt's relations were benev- 
 olent people, only strongly imbued with the crotchet that Dy 
 a system of training might be educed the hardihood and 
 simplicity of the ideal savage, forgetting the terrible isolation 
 of feelings and habits which their pupils would experience, 
 in the future life which they must pass among the corrup- 
 tions and refinements of civilization. 
 
 Mr. Bronte wished to make his children hardy, and in- 
 different to the pleasures of eating and dress. In the latter 
 he succeeded, as far as regarded his daughters ; but he went 
 at his object with imsparing earnestness of purpose. Mrs. 
 Bvontti'si nurse told me that one day when the children had 
 
PRACTICAL LESSONS. 43 
 
 been out on the moors, and rain had come on, she thought 
 their feet would be wet, and accordingly she rummaged out 
 some coloured boots which been given to them by a friend 
 — the Mr. Morgan who married " Cousin Jane," she be- 
 lieves. These little pairs she ranged round the kitchen fire 
 to warm ; but, when the children came back, the boots were 
 nowhere to be found ; only a very strong odour of burnt 
 leather was perceived. Mr. Bronte had come in and seen 
 them ; they were too gay and luxurious for his children, and 
 would foster a love of dress ; so he had put them into the fire. 
 He spared nothing that offended his antique simplicity. 
 Long before this, some one had given Mrs. Bronte a silk 
 gown ; either the make, the colour, or the material, was not 
 according to his notions of consistent propriety, and Mrs. 
 Bronte in consequence never wore it. But, for all that, she 
 kept it treasured up in her drawers, which were generally 
 locked. One day, however, while in the kitchen, she re- 
 membered that she had left the key in her drawer, and, 
 hearing Mr. Bronte up-stairs, she augured some ill to her 
 dress, and, running up in haste, she found it cut into shreds. 
 His strong, passionate, Irish nature was, in general, com- 
 pressed down with resolute stoicism ; but it was there not- 
 withstanding all his philosophic calm and dignity of de- 
 meanour. He did not speak when he was annoyed or dis- 
 pleased, but worked off his volcanic wrath by firing pistols 
 out of the back-door in rapid succession. Mrs. Bronte, 
 lying in bed up-stairs, would hear the quick explosions, and 
 know that something had gone wrong ; but her sweet nature 
 thought invariably of the bright side, and she would say, 
 " Ought I not to be thankful that he never gave me an 
 angry word ?" Now and then his anger took a different 
 form, but still speechless. Once he got the hearth-rug, and 
 stuffing it up the grate, deliberately set it on fire, and ro- 
 wained in the room in spite of the stench, until it had smoul- 
 
i4 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 dered and shrivelled away into uselessness. Another tiino 
 he took some chairs, and sawed away at the backs till they 
 were reduced to the condition of stools. 
 
 He was an active walker, stretching away over the moors 
 for many miles, noting in his mind all natural signs of wind 
 and weather, and keenly observing all the wild creatures 
 that came and went in the loneliest sweeps of the hills. He 
 has seen eagles stooping low in search of food for their young; 
 no eagle is ever seen on those mountain slopes now. He 
 fearlessly took whatever side in local or national politics ap- 
 peared to him right. In the days of the Luddites, he had 
 been for the peremptory interference of the law, at a time 
 when no magistrate could be found to act, and all the pro- 
 perty of the West Kiding was in terrible danger. He be- 
 came unpopular there among the mill-workers, and he es- 
 teemed his life unsafe if he took his long and lonely walks 
 unarmed; so he began the habit, which has continued to 
 this day, of invariably carrying a loaded pistol about with 
 him. It lay on his dressing-table with his watch ; with his 
 watch it was put on in the morning ; with his watch it was 
 taken off at night. Many years later, during his residence 
 at Haworth, there was a strike ; the hands in the neighbour- 
 hood felt themselves aggrieved by the masters, and refused 
 to work ; Mr. Bronte thought they had been unjustly and 
 unfairly treated, and he assisted them by all the means in 
 his power to " keep the wolf from their doors," and avoid 
 the incubus of debt. Several of the more influential inhab- 
 itants of Haworth were mill-owners ; they remonstrated 
 pretty sharply with him, but he believed that his conduct 
 was right, and persevered in it. His opinions might be often 
 both wild and erroneous, his principles of action eccentric 
 and strange, his views of life partial, and almost misanthro- 
 pical ; but not one opinion that he held could be stirred or 
 modified by any worldly motive ; he acted up to his princi* 
 
charlotte's mother. 45 
 
 pies of action ; and, if any touch of misanthropy mingled with 
 his view of mankind in general, his conduct to the individ- 
 uals who came in personal contact with him did not agree 
 with such view. It is true that he had strong and vehe- 
 ment prejudices, and was obstinate in maintaining them, and 
 that he was not dramatic enough in his perceptions to see 
 how miserable others might be in a life that to him was all- 
 sufficient. But I do not pretend to be able to harmonize points 
 of character, and account for them, and bring them all into 
 one consistent and intelligible whole. The farLily with 
 whom I have now to do shot their roots down deeper than 
 I can penetrate. I cannot measure them, much less is it for 
 me to judge them. I have named these instances of eccen- 
 tricity in the father because I hold the knowledge of them 
 to be necessary for a right understanding of the life of his 
 daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Bronte died in September, 1821, and the lives of 
 those quiet children must have become quieter and lonelier 
 stilL Charlotte tried hard, in after years, to recall the re- 
 membrance of her mother, and could bring back two or three 
 pictures of her. One was when, sometime in the evening 
 light, she had been playing with her little boy, Patrick 
 Branwell, in the parlour of Haworth Parsonage. But the 
 recollections of four or five years old are of a very fragment- 
 ary character. 
 
 Owing to some illness of the digestive organs, Mr. Bronte 
 was obliged to be very careful about his diet; and, in order 
 to avoid temptation, and possibly to have the quiet necessary 
 for digestion, he had begun, before his wife's death, to take 
 his dinner alone, — a habit which he always retained. He 
 did not require companionship, therefore he did not seek it, 
 either in his walks, or in his daily life. The quiet regularity 
 of his domestic hours was only broken in upon by church- 
 Wardens, and visitors on parochial business ; and sometimes 
 
4:6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 by a nelglibouring clergyman, who came down tlie liills, across 
 the moors, to mount up again to Haworth Parsonage, and 
 spend an evening there. But, owing to Mrs. Bronte's death 
 so soon after her husband had removed into the district, and 
 also to the distances, and the bleak country to be traversed, 
 the wives of these clerical friends did not accompany their 
 husbands ; and the daughters grew up out of childhood into 
 girlhood, bereft, in a singular manner, of all such society as 
 would have been natural to their age, sex, and station. 
 There was one family residing near Haworth who had been 
 remarkably attentive and kind to Mrs. Bronte in her illness, 
 and who had paid the children the attention of asking them 
 occasionally to tea; and as the story connected with this 
 family, and which, I suspect, dissolved their intercourse with 
 their neighbours, made a deep impression on Charlotte's mind 
 in her early girlhood, I may as well relate it here. It will 
 serve as a specimen of the wild stories afloat in an isolated 
 village, for as to its truth in minor particulars, I will not 
 vouch ; no more did she, the principal event having occurred 
 when she was too young to understand its full import, and 
 the tale having been heard with the addition, probably, of 
 the whispered exaggerations of the uneducated. The family 
 were Dissenters, professing some rather rigid form of religion. 
 The father was a woollen manufacturer and moderately 
 wealthy ; at any rate, their style of living appeared " grand " 
 to the simple children who bounded their ideas by the frugal 
 habits of the parsonage. These people had a green-house, 
 the only one in the neighbourhood ; a cumbrous building; with 
 more wood and wall than glass, situated in a garden which 
 was divided from the house by the high road to Haworth. 
 They had a large family; and one of the elder daughters 
 was married to a wealthy manufacturer "beyond Keighley;'* 
 she was near her confinement, when she begged that a favourite 
 young sister might go and pay her a visit, and remain with 
 
 \ 
 
i1 
 
 her till her baby was born. The request was complied with ; 
 the young girl — fifteen or sixteen years of age — went. She 
 came home, after some weeks spent in her brother-in-law's 
 house, ill and dispirited. Inquiries were made of her by 
 her parents, and it was discovered that she had been seduced 
 by her sister's wealthy husband ; and that the consequences 
 of this wickedness would soon become apparent. Her angry 
 and indignant father shut her up in her room, until he could 
 decide how to act ; her elder sisters flouted at and scorned 
 her. Only her mother, and she was reported to be a stern 
 woman, had some pity on her. The tale went, that passers 
 along the high-road at night time saw the mother and young 
 daughter walking in the garden, weeping, long after the 
 household were gone to bed. Nay, more ; it was whispered 
 that they walked and wept there still, when Miss Bronte told 
 me the tale — though both had long mouldered in their 
 graves. The wild whisperers of this story added, that the 
 cruel father, maddened perhaps by the disgrace which had 
 fallen upon a " religious " family, oJGfered a sum of money to 
 any one who would marry his poor fallen daughter ; that a 
 husband was found, who bore her away from Haworth, and 
 broke her heart, so that she died while even yet a child. 
 
 Such deep passionate resentment would have seemed not 
 unnatural in a man who took a stern pride in his character 
 for religious morality; but the degrading part, after all, was 
 this. The remaining members of the family, elder sisters 
 even, went on* paying visits at their wealthy brother-in-law's 
 house, as if his sin was not a hundred-fold more scarlet than 
 the poor young girl's, whose evil-doing had been so hardly 
 resented, and so coarsely hidden. The strong feeling of the 
 country-side still holds the descendants of this family as 
 accursed. They fail in business, or they fail in health. 
 
 At this house, I believe, the little Brontes paid theii 
 only visits ; and these visits ceased before long. 
 
4:8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 But the children did not want society. To small infan- 
 tine gaieties they were unaccustomed. They were all in all 
 to each other. I do not suppose that there ever was a fam- 
 ily more tenderly bound to each other. Maria read 
 the newspapers, and reported intelligence to her younger 
 eisters which it is wonderful they could take an interest in. 
 But I suspect that they had no " children's books," and their 
 eager minds " browzed undisturbed among the wholesome 
 pasturage of English literature," as Charles Lamb expresses 
 it. The servants of the household appear to have been 
 much impressed with the little Brontes' extraordinary 
 cleverness. In a letter which I had from him on this sub- 
 ject, their father writes : — " The servants often said they 
 had never seen such a clever little child " (as Charlotte), 
 " and that they were obliged to be on their guard as to what 
 they said and did before her. Yet she and the servants 
 always lived on good terms with each other." 
 
 These servants are yet alive ; elderly women residing in 
 Bradford. They retain a faithful and fond recollection of 
 Charlotte and speak of her unvarying kindness from the 
 *Hime when she was ever such a little child!" when she 
 would not rest till she had got the old disused cradle sent 
 from the parsonage to the house where the parents of one of 
 them lived, to serve for a little infant sister. They tell of 
 one long series of kind and thoughtful actions from this 
 early period to the last weeks of Charlotte Bronte's life ; 
 and, though she had left her place many jears ago, one of 
 these former servants went over from Bradford to Haworth 
 on purpose to see Mr. Bronte, and off'er him her true sym- 
 pathy when his last child died. There might not be many 
 to regard the Brontes with affection, but those who once 
 loved them, loved them long and well. 
 
 I return to the father's letter. He says : — 
 
 ** When mere children, as soon as they could read and write, 
 
MR. bkonte's letter. 4.9 
 
 Charlotte and her brothers and sisters used to invent and 
 act little plays of their own, in which the Duke of Welling- 
 ton, my daughter Charlotte's hero, was sure to come off 
 conqueror; when a dispute would not unfrequently arise 
 amongst them regarding the comparative merits of him, 
 Buonaparte, Hannibal, and Caesar. When the argument got 
 warm, and rose to its height, as their mother was then dead, 
 I had sometimes to come in as arbitrator, and settle the 
 dispute according to the best of my judgment. Generally, 
 in the management of these concerns, I frequently thought 
 that I discovered signs of rising talent, which I had seldom 
 or never before seen in any of their age A circum- 
 stance now occurs to my mind which I may as well mention. 
 When my children were very young, when, as far as I can 
 remember, the oldest was about ten years of age, and the 
 youngest about four, thinking they knew more than I had 
 yet discovered, in order to make them speak with less timid- 
 ity, I deemed that if they were put under a sort of cover I 
 might gain my end ; and happening to have a mask in the 
 house, I told them all to stand and speak boldly from under 
 cover of the mask. 
 
 " I began with the youngest (Anne, afterwards Acton 
 Bell), and asked what a child like her most wanted ; she 
 answered, * Age and experience.' I asked the next (Emily, 
 afterwards Ellis Bell), what I had best do with her brother 
 Branwell, who was sometimes a naughty boy ; she answered, 
 * Reason with him, and when he won't listen to reason, whip 
 Iiim.' I asked Branwell what was the best way of knowing 
 the difference between the intellects of men and women ; he 
 answered, ' By considering the difference between them as to 
 their bodies.' I then asked Charlotte what was the best 
 book in the world ; she answered, * The Bible.' And what 
 was the next best ; she answered, ^ The Book of Nature,' 
 I then asked the next what was the best mode of education 
 
 VOL. I — 3 
 
60 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 for a woman ; she answered, ' That which would make hei 
 rule her house well.' Lastly I asked the oldest what waa 
 the best mode of spending time ; she answered, * By laying 
 it out in preparation for a happy eternity.' I may not have 
 given precisely their words, but I have nearly done so, as 
 they made a deep and lasting impression on my memory. 
 The substance, however, was exactly what I have stated. 
 
 The strange and quaint simplicity of the mode taken by 
 the father to ascertain the hidden characters of his children, 
 and the tone and character of these questions and answers, 
 show the curious education which was made by the circum- 
 stances surrounding the Brontes. They knew no other 
 children. They knew no other modes of thought than what 
 were suggested to them by the fragments of clerical conver- 
 sation which they overheard in the parlour, or the subjects 
 of village and local interest which they heard discussed in 
 the kitchen. Each had their own strong characteristic 
 flavour. 
 
 They took a vivid interest in the public characters, and 
 the local and foreign politics discussed in the newspapers. 
 Long before Maria Bronte died, at the age of eleven, her 
 father used to say he could converse with her on any of the 
 leading topics of the day with as much freedom and pleasure 
 as with any grown-up person. 
 
, MISS BRANWELL AT HAWOKTH. 51 
 
 CHAPTEH IV. 
 
 About a yeiir after Mrs. Bronte's death, one of her eldei 
 sisters came from Penzance to superintend her brother-in- 
 law's household, and look after his children. Miss Bran- 
 well was, I believe, a kindly and conscientious woman, with 
 a good deal of character, but with the somewhat narrow 
 ideas natural to one who had spent nearly all her life in the 
 same place. She had strong prejudices, and soon took a dis- 
 taste to Yorkshire. From Penzance, where plants which we 
 in the north call greenhouse flowers grow in great profusion > 
 and without any shelter even in the winter, and where the 
 soft warm climate allows the inhabitants, if so disposed, to 
 live pretty constantly in the open air, it was a great change 
 for a lady considerably past forty to come and take up her 
 abode in a place where neither flowers nor vegetables would 
 flourish, and where a tree of even moderate dimensions might 
 be hunted for far and wide ; where the snow lay long and 
 late on the moors, stretching bleakly and barely far up from 
 the dwelling which was henceforward to be her home ; and 
 where often, on autumnal or winter nights, the four winds 
 of heaven seemed to meet and rage together, tearing round 
 the house as if they were wild beasts striving to find an en- 
 trance. She missed the small round of cheerful, social 
 visiting perpetually going on in a country town ; she missed 
 the friends she had known from her childhood, some of whom 
 
52 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 had been her parents' friends before they were hers ; she 
 disliked many of the customs of the place, and particularly 
 dreaded the cold damp arising from the flag floors in the 
 passages and parlours of Haworth Parsonage. The stairs, 
 too, I believe, are made of stone ; and no wonder, when 
 ctone quarries are near, and trees are far to seek. I have 
 heard that Miss Branwell always went about the house in 
 pattens, clicking up and down the stairs, from her dread 
 of catching cold. For the same reason, in the later years 
 of her life, she passed nearly all her time, and took most of 
 her meals, in her bed-room. The children respected her, 
 and had that sort of afi*ection for her which is generated by 
 esteem ; but I do not think they every freely loved her. It 
 was a severe trial for any one at her time of life to change 
 neighbourhood and habitation so entirely as she did ; and the 
 greater her merit. 
 
 I do not know whether Miss Branwell taught her nieces 
 any thing besides sewing, and the household arts in which 
 Charlotte afterwards was such an adept. Their regular les- 
 sons were said to their father ; and they were always in the 
 habit of picking up an immense amount of miscellaneous in- 
 formation for themselves. But a year or so before this time, 
 a schooL had been begun in the North of England for the 
 daughters of clergymen. The place was Cowan's Bridge, a 
 small hamlet on the coacli-road between Leeds and Kendal, 
 and thus easy of access from Haworth, as the coach ran daily, 
 and one of its stages was at Keighley. The yearly expense 
 for each pupil (according to the entrance-rules given in the 
 Report for 1842, and I believe they had not been increased 
 since the establishment of the schools in 1823) was as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " Eule 11. The terms for clothing, lodging, boarding, 
 and educating, are 14Z. a year ; half to be paid in advance, 
 when the pupijs are sent ; and also 11. entrance money, for 
 
COWAN'S BRIDGE (lOWOOD) SCHOOL. 53 
 
 the use of books, &c. The system of education comprehends 
 history, geography, the use of the globes, grammar, writing 
 and arithmetic, all kinds of needlework, and the nicer kinds 
 of household work — such as getting up fine linen, ironing, &c 
 If accomplishments are required, an additional charge of ol 
 a year is made for music or drawing, each." 
 
 Rule 3d requests that the friends will state the line of 
 education desired in the case of every pupi], having a pro- 
 spective regard to her future prospect?. 
 
 Eule 4th states the clothing and toilette articles whicu 
 a girl is expected to bring with her ; and thus concludes : 
 " The pupils all appear in the same dress. They wear plain 
 straw cottage bonnets, in summer white frocks on Sundays, 
 and nankeen on other days ; in winter, purple stuff frocks, 
 and purple cloth cloaks. For the sake of uniformity, there- 
 fore, they are required to bring 3Z. in lieu of frocks, pelisse, 
 bonnet, tippet, and frills ; making the whole sum which each 
 pupil brings with her to the school — 
 
 71. half-year in advance. 
 1/. entrance for books. 
 1^. entrance for clothes. 
 
 The 8th rule is — " All letters and parcels are inspected 
 by the superintendent ; " but this is a very prevalent regula- 
 tion in all young ladies' schools, where I think it is generally 
 understood that the schoolmistress may exercise this privi- 
 lege, although it is certainly unwise in her to insist too 
 frequently upon it. 
 
 There is nothing at all remarkable in any of the other 
 regulations, a copy of which was doubtless in Mr. Bronte's 
 hands when he formed the determination to send his daugh- 
 ters to Cowan's Bridge School; and he accordingly took 
 Maria and Elizabeth thither in July, 1824. 
 
 I now come to a part of my subject which I find great 
 
54 IJFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 difficulty in treating, "because the evidence relating to it on 
 each side is so conflicting that it seems almost impossible to 
 arrive at the truth. Miss Bronte more than once said to 
 me, that she should not have written what she did of 
 Lowood in " Jane Eyre," if she had thought the place would 
 have been so immediately identified with Cowan's Bridge, 
 although there was not a word in her account of the institu- 
 tion hut what was true at the time when she knew it ; she 
 also said that she had not considered it necessary, in a work 
 of fiction, to state every particular with the impartiality that 
 might be required in a court of justice, nor to seek out 
 motives, and make allowances for human feelings, as she 
 might have done, if dispassionately analyzing the conduct 
 of those who had the superintendence of the institution. I 
 believe she herself would have been glad of an opportunity 
 to correct the over-strong impression whicfi was made upon 
 the public mind by her vivid picture, though even she, sufi*er- 
 ing her whole life long, both in heart and body, from the 
 consequences of what happened there, might have been apt, 
 to the last, to take her deep belief in facts for the facts them- 
 selves — her conception of truth for the absolute truth. 
 
 A wealthy clergyman, living near Kirby Lonsdale, the 
 Reverend William Carus Wilson, was the prime mover in 
 the establishment of this school. He was an energetic man, 
 sparing no labour for the accomplishment of his ends, and 
 willing to sacrifice everything but power. He saw that it 
 was an extremely difficult task for clergymen with limited 
 incomes to provide for the education of their children ; and 
 he devised a scheme, by which a certain sum was raised an- 
 nually in subscription, to complete the amount required to 
 furnish a solid and sufficient English education, for which 
 the parent's payment of 14Z. a year would not have been 
 sufficient. Indeed that made by the parents was considered 
 to be exclusively appropriated to the expenses of lodging and 
 
THE KEV. CARUS WILSON. 55 
 
 boarding, and the education provided for by the subscrip- 
 tions. Twelve trustees were. appointed; Mr. Wilson being 
 not only a trustee, but the treasurer and secretary ; in fact, 
 taking most of the business arrangements upon himself; a 
 responsibility which appropriately fell to him, as he lived 
 nearer the school than any one else who was interested in it. 
 So hu character for prudence and judgment was to a certain 
 degree implicated in the success or failure of Cowan's Bridge 
 School ; and the working of it was for many years the great 
 object and interest of his life. But he was apparently un- 
 acquaintod with the prime element in good administration — • 
 seeking out thoroughly competent persons to fill each depart- 
 mect, and then making them responsible for, and judging 
 them by, the result, without perpetual and injudicious inter- 
 ference with the details. So great was the amount of good 
 which Mr. Wilson did, by his constant, unwearied superin- 
 tendence, that I cannot help feeling sorry that, in his old age 
 and declining health, the errors, which he certainly commit- 
 ted, should have been brought up against him in a form 
 which received such wonderful force from the touch of Miss 
 Bronte's great genius. As I write, I have before me his 
 last words on ^giving up the secretaryship in 1850 — he 
 speaks of the " withdrawal, from declining health, of an eye, 
 which, at all events, has loved to watch over the schools with 
 an honest and anxious interest," — and again he adds, " that 
 he resigns, therefore, with a desire to be thankful for all that 
 God has been pleased to accomplish through his instru- 
 mentality (the infirmities and unworthinesses of which ho 
 deeply feels and deplores.)" 
 
 Cowan's Bridge is a cluster of some six or seven cot- 
 tages, gathered together at both ends of a bridge, over which 
 the high road from Leeds to Kendal crosses a little stream, 
 called the Leek. This high road is nearly disused now ; but 
 formerly^ when the buyers from the West Riding manufac- 
 
5b LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 turing districts had frequent occasion to go up into the North 
 to purchase the wool of the Westmoreland and Cumberland 
 farmers, it was doubtless much travelled ; and perhaps the 
 hamlet of Cowan's Bridge had a more prosperous look than 
 it bears at present. It is prettily situated ; just where the 
 Leck-fells swoop into the plain ; and by the course of th 
 beck alder-trees and willows and hazel bushes grow. Th 
 current of the stream is interrupted by broken pieces of grey 
 rock ; and the waters flow over a bed of large round white 
 pebbles, which a flood heaves up and moves on either side 
 out of its impetuous way till in some parts they almost form 
 a wall. By the side of the little, shallow, sparkling, vigor- 
 ous Leek, run long pasture fields, of the fine short grass com- 
 mon in high land ; for though Cowan's Bridge is situated on 
 a plain, it is a plain from which there is many a fall and long 
 descent before you and the Leek reach the valley of the 
 Lune. I can hardly understand how the school there came 
 to be so unhealthy, the air all round about was so sweet and 
 thyme-scented, when I visited it last summer. But at this 
 day, every one knows that the site of a building intended for 
 numbers should be chosen with far greater care than that of 
 a private house, from the tendency to illness, both infectious 
 and otherwise, produced by the congregation of people in 
 close proximity. 
 
 The house is still remaining that formed part of that 
 occupied by the school. It is a long, low bow-windowed 
 cottage, now divided into two dwellings. It stands facing 
 the Leek, between which and it intervenes a space, about 
 seventy yards deep, that was once the school garden. Run- 
 ning from this building, at right angles with what now re- 
 mains of the school-house, there was formerly a bobbin-mill 
 connected with the stream, where wooden reels were made 
 out of the alders which grow profusely in such ground aa 
 that surrounding Cowan's Bridge. Mr. Wilson adapted tliis 
 
ARRANGEMENTS OF COWAn's BRIDGE SCHOOL. 57 
 
 mill to his purpose ; there were school-rooms on the lower 
 floor, and dormitories on the upper. The present cottage 
 was occupied by the teachers' rooms, the dining-room and 
 kitchens, and some smaller bed-rooms. On going into this 
 building, I found one part, that nearest to the high road, 
 converted into a poor kind of public-house, then to let, and 
 having all the squalid appearance of a deserted place, which 
 rendered it difficult to judge what it would look like when 
 neatly kept up, the broken panes replaced in the windows, 
 and the rough-cast (now cracked and discoloured) made 
 white and whole. The other end forms a cottage, with the 
 low ceilings and stone floors of a hundred years ago ; the 
 windows do not open freely and widely ; and the passage up- 
 stairs, leading to the bed-rooms, is narrow and tortuous ; 
 altogether, smells would linger about the house, and damp 
 cling to it. But sanitary matters were little understood 
 thirty years ago ; and it was a grdat thing to get a roomy 
 building close to the high road, and not too far from the 
 habitation of Mr. Wilson, the originator of the educational 
 scheme. There was much need of such an institution ; num- 
 bers of ill-paid clergymen hailed the prospect with joy, and 
 eagerly put down the names of their children as pupils when 
 the establishment should be ready to receive them. Mr. 
 Wilson was, no doubt, pleased by the impatience with which 
 the realization of his idea was anticipated, and opened the 
 school with less than a hundred pounds in hand, and, as far 
 as I can make out, from seventy to eighty pupils. 
 
 Mi*. Wilson felt, most probably, that the responsibility of 
 the whole plan rested upon him. The payment made by the 
 parents was barely enough for food and lodging ; the sub- 
 scriptions did not flow very freely into an untried scheme ; 
 and great economy was necessary in all the domestic arrange- 
 ments. He determined to enforce this by frequent personal 
 inspection ; and his love of authority seems to have led to a 
 VOL. L— 3* 
 
68 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 great deal of unnecessary and irritating meddling with little 
 matters. Yet, althougli there was economy in providing for 
 the household, there does not appear to have been any parsi- 
 mony. The meat, flour, milk, &c., were contracted for, but 
 were of very fair quality ; and the dietary, which has been 
 shown to me in manuscript, was neither bad nor unwhole- 
 Bome ; nor, on the whole, was it wanting in Tariety. Oat- 
 meal porridge for breakfast ; a piece of oat-cake for those 
 who required luncheon ; baked and boiled beef, and mutton, 
 potato-pie, and plain homely puddings of different kinds for 
 dinner. At five o'clock, bread and milk for the younger 
 ones ; and one piece of bread (this was the only time at which 
 the food was limited) for the elder pupils, who sat up till a 
 later meal of the same description. Mr. Wilson himself 
 ordered in the food, and was anxious that it should be of 
 good quality. But the cook, who had much of his confi- 
 dence, and against whom for a long time no one durst utter 
 a complaint, was careless, dirty, and wasteful. To some 
 children oatmeal porridge is distasteful, and consequently un- 
 wholesome, even when properly made; at Cowan's Bridge 
 School it was too often sent up, not merely burnt, but with 
 offensive fragments of other substances discoverable in it. 
 The beef, that should have been carefully salted before it was 
 dressed, had often become tainted from neglect ; and girls, 
 who were schoolfellows with the Brontes, during the reign 
 of the cook of whom I am speaking, tell me that the house 
 seemed to be pervaded, morning, noon, and night, by the 
 odour of rancid fat that steamed out of the oven in which 
 much of their food was prepared. There was the oame care- 
 lessness in making the puddings ; one of those ordered was 
 rice boiled in water, and eaten with a sauce of treacle and 
 sugar; but it was often uneatable, because the water had 
 been taken out of the rain-tub, and was strongly impreg- 
 vtated with the dust lodging on the roof, whence it had 
 
DIET OF THE PUPILS. 59 
 
 trickled down into the old wooden cask, which also added its 
 own flavour to that of the original rain water. The milk, 
 too, was often " bingy,'' to use a country expression for a 
 kind of taint that is far worse than sourness, and suggests 
 the idea that it is caused by want of cleanliness about the 
 milk pans, rather than by the heat of the weather. On Satur- 
 days, a kind of pie, or mixture of potatoes and meat, was 
 Bcrved up, which was made of all the fragments accumulated 
 during the week. Scraps of meat from a dirty and disorderly 
 larder, could never be very appetizing ; and, I believe, that 
 this dinner was more loathed than any in the early days of 
 Cowan's Bridge School. One may fancy how repulsive such 
 fare would be to children whose appetites were small, and 
 who had been accustomed to food, far simpler perhaps, but 
 prepared with a delicate cleanliness that made it both tempt- 
 ing and wholesome. Many a meal the little Brontes went 
 without food, although craving with hunger. They were not 
 strong^ when they came, having only just recovered from a 
 complication of measles and hooping-c(fagh ; indeed, I sus- 
 pect they had scarcely recovered ; for there was some consul- 
 tation on the part of the school authorities whether Maria 
 and Elizabeth should be received or not, in July 1824, Mr. 
 Bronte came again, in the September of that year, bringing 
 with him Charlotte and Emily to be admitted as pupils. 
 
 It appears strange that Mr. Wilson should not have been 
 informed by the teachers of the way in which the food was 
 served up ; but we must remember that the cook had been 
 known for some time to the Wilson family, while the teach- 
 ers were brought together for an entirely different work— - 
 that of education. They were expressly given to understand 
 that such was their department ; the buying in and manage- 
 ment of the provisions rested with Mr. Wilson and the cook. 
 The teachers would, of course, be unwilling to lay any com- 
 plaints on the subject before him ; and when he heard of 
 
60 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 them, his reply was to the effect that the children were tc 
 be trained up to regard higher things than dainty pampering 
 of the appetite, and (apparently unconscious of the fact, that 
 daily loathing and rejection of food is sure to undermine the 
 health) he lectured them on the sin of caring over-much for 
 carnal things. 
 
 There was another trial of health common to all the girls. 
 The path from Cowan's Bridge to Tunstall Church, where 
 Mr. Wilson preached, and where they all attended on the 
 Sunday, is more than two miles in lengtn, and goes sweeping 
 along the rise and. fall of the unsheltered country, m a way 
 to make it a fresh and exhilarating walk in feummer, but a 
 bitter cold one in winter, especially to children who^^e thin 
 blood flowed languidly in consequence of their half-starved 
 condition. The church was not warmed, there being no 
 means for this purpose. It stands in the midst of fields, and 
 the damp mists must have gathered round the walls, and 
 crept in at the windows. The girls took their cold dinner 
 with them, and ate it between the services, in a chaniber over 
 the entrance, opening out of the former galleries. The ar- 
 rangements for this day were peculiarly trying to delicate 
 children, particularly to those who were spiritless, and long- 
 ing for home, as poor Maria Bronte must have been. For 
 her ill health was increasing ; the old cough, the remains of 
 the hooping-cough, lingered about her ; she was far superior 
 in mind to any of her play-feliows and companions, and was 
 lonely amongst them from that very cause ; and yet she had 
 faults so annoying that she was in constant disgrace with her 
 teachers, and an object of merciless dislike to one of them, 
 who is depicted as ^* Miss Sctitcherd " in " Jane Eyre," and 
 whose real name I will be merciful enough not to disclose. 
 1 need hardly say, that Helen Burns is as exact a transcript 
 of Maria Bronte as Charlotte's wonderful power of repro- 
 ducing character could give. Her heart, to the latest day on 
 
"miss SCATCHEKd" and " HELEN BUliNS." 61 
 
 wliicli we met, still beat with unavailing indignation at the 
 worrying and the cruelty to which her gentle, patient, dying 
 sister had been subjected by this woman. Not a word of 
 that part of " Jane Eyre " but is a literal repetition of scener 
 between the pupil and the teacher. Those who had beep 
 pupils at the same time knew who must have (vritten the 
 book, from the force with which Helen Burns' sufferings 
 are described. They had, before that, recognized the de- 
 scription of the sweet dignity and benevolence of Miss Tem- 
 ple as only a just tribute to the merits of one whom all that 
 knew her appear to hold in honour ; but when Miss Scatcherd 
 was held up to opprobrium they also recognized in the writer 
 of ^' Jane Eyre " an unconsciously avenging sister of the 
 sufferer. 
 
 One of tbese fellow-pupils of Charlotte and Maria 
 Bronte's, among other statements even worse, gives me the 
 following : — The dormitory in which Maria slept was a long 
 room, holding a row of narrow little beds on each side, occu- 
 pied by the pupils ; and at the end of this dormitory theio 
 was a small bed-chamber opening out of it, appropriated to 
 the use of Miss Scatcherd. Maria's bed stood nearest to th^ 
 door of this room. One morning, after she had become sc 
 serioiLsly unwell as to have had a blister applied to her side 
 (the sore from which was not perfectly healed), when th< 
 getting-up bell was heard, poor Maria moaned out that she 
 was so ill, so very ill, she wished she might stop in bed ; and 
 some of the girly urged her to do so, and said they would 
 explain it all to Miss Temple, the superintendent. But Miss 
 Scatcherd was close at hand, and her anger would have to 
 be faced before Miss Temple's kind thoughtfulness could in- 
 terfere ; so the sick child began to dress, shivering with cold, 
 as, without leaving her bed, she slowly put on her black 
 worsted stockings over her thin white legs (my informant 
 spoke as if she saw it yet, and her whole face flushed out 
 
G2 LIFE OF CITARLOriE BRONTE. 
 
 undying indignation). Just then Miss Scatcherd issued from 
 her room, and, without asking for a word of explanation from 
 the sick and frightened girl, she took her by the arm, on the 
 side to which the blister had been applied, and by one vigor- 
 ous movement whirled her out into the middle of the floor, 
 abusing her all the time for dirty and untidy habits. There 
 she left her. My informant says, Maria hardly spoke, except 
 to beg some of the more indignant girls to be calm ; but, in 
 bIow, trembling movements, with many a pause, she went 
 down stairs at last, — and was punished for being too late. 
 
 Any one may fancy how such an event a^s this would 
 rankle in Charlotte's mind. I only wonder that she did not 
 remonstrate against her father's decision to send her and 
 Emily back to Cowan's Bridge, after Maria's and Elizabeth's 
 deaths. But frequently children are unconscious of the effect 
 which some of their simple revelations would have in altering 
 the opinions entertained by their friends of the persons placed 
 around them. Besides, Charlotte's earnest vigorous mind 
 saw, at an unusually early age, the immense importance of 
 education, as furnishing her with tools which she had the 
 strength and the will to wield, and she would be aware that 
 the Cowan's Bridge education was, in many points, the best 
 that her father could provide for her. 
 
 Before Maria Bronte's death, that low fever broke out, 
 in the spring of 1825, which is spoken of in " Jane Eyre." 
 Mr. Wilson was extremely alarmed at the first symptoms of 
 this ; his self-confidence was shaken ; he did not understand 
 what kind of illness it could be, that made the girls too dull 
 and heavy to understand remonstrances, or be roused by 
 texts and spiritual exhortation ; but caused them to sink 
 away into dull stupor, and half-unconscious listlessness. He 
 went to a kind motherly woman, who had had some connec- 
 tion with the school — as laundress, I believe — and asked her 
 to cora^ %nd tell him what wr« the matter with them. She 
 
FEVER IN THE SCHOOL. 63 
 
 made herself ready, and drove with him in his gig. When 
 she entered the school-room, she saw from twelve to fifteen 
 girls lying abont ; some resting their aching heads on the 
 table, others on the ground ; all heavy-eyed, flushed, indif- 
 ferent, and weary, with pains in every limb. Some peculiar 
 odour, she says, made her recognise that they were sickening 
 for " the fever ; " and she told Mr. Wilson so, and that she 
 could not stay there for fear of conveying the infection to 
 her own children ; but he half commanded, and half en- 
 treated her to remain and nurse them ; and finally mounted 
 his gig and drove away, while she was still urging that she 
 must return to her own house, and to her domestic duties, 
 for which she had provided no substitute. However, when 
 she was left in this unceremonioi^s manner, she determined 
 to make the best of it ; and a most efficient nurse she proved, 
 although, as she says, it was a dreary time. Mr. Wilson 
 supplied every thing ordered by the doctors of the best 
 quality, and in the most liberal manner ; he even sent for 
 additional advice, in the person of his own brother-in-law, a 
 very clever medical man in Kirby, with whom he had not 
 been on good terms for some time previously ; and it was 
 this doctor who tasted and condemned the daily food of the 
 girls by the expressive action of spitting out a portion which 
 he had taken in order to taste it. About forty of the girls 
 suffered from this fever, but none of them died at Cowan's 
 Bridge, though one died at her own home, sinking under the 
 state of health which followed it. None of the Bronte's had 
 the fever. But the same causes, which affected the health 
 of the other pupils through typhus, told more slowly, but not 
 less surely, upon their constitutions. The principal of these 
 causes was the food. 
 
 The bad management of the cook was chiefly to be 
 }lamed for this ; she was dismissed, and the woman who had 
 oeei? forced against her will to serve as head nurse, took the 
 
64: LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 place of housekeeper ; and henceforward the food was so well 
 prepared that no one could ever reasonably complain of it. 
 Of course it cannot be expected that a new institution, com- 
 prising domestic and educational arrangements for nearly a 
 hundred persons, should work quite smoothly at the beginning, 
 and all this occurred during the first two years of the estab- 
 lishment. But Mr. Wilson seems to have had the unlucky 
 gift of irritating even those to whom he meant kindly, and 
 for whom he was making perpetual sacrifices of time and 
 money, by never showing any respect for their independence 
 of opinion and action. He had, too, so little knowledge of 
 human nature as to imagine that, by constantly reminding 
 the girls of their dependent position, and the fact that they 
 were receiving their education from the charity of others, he 
 could make them lowly and humble. Some of the more sen- 
 sitive felt this treatment bitterly, and instead of being as 
 grateful as they should have been for the real benefits they 
 were obtaining, their mortified pride rose up from its fall a 
 hundred-fold more strong. Painful impressions sink deep 
 into the hearts of delicate and sickly children. What the 
 healthy suffer from but momentarily, and then forget, those 
 who are ailing brood over involuntarily, and remember long 
 — perhaps with no resentment, but simply as a piece of sufier- 
 ing that has been stamped into their very life. The pictures^ 
 ideas, and conceptions of character received into the mind of 
 the child of eight years old, were destined to be reproduced 
 in fiery words a quarter of a century afterwards. She saw 
 only one side, and that the unfavourable side of Mr. Wilson 
 but many of those who knew him, assure me of the wonderful 
 fidelity with which his disagreeable qualities, his spiritual 
 pride, his love of power, his ignorance of human nature and 
 ooDsequent want of tenderness are represented ; while, at the 
 Bame time, they regret that the delineation of these should 
 have obliterated, as it were, nearly all that was noble and 
 conscientious. 
 
THE BRONTE SISTEKS. ()5 
 
 The recollections left of the four E rente sisters at this 
 period of their lives, on the minds of those who associated 
 with them, are not very distinct. Wild, strong hearts, and 
 powerful minds, were tidden under an enforced propriety 
 and regularity of demeanour and expression, just as their 
 faces had been concealed by their father, under his stiff, 
 unchanging mask. Maria was delicate, unusually clever and 
 thoughtful for her age, gentle, and untidy. Of her frequent 
 disgrace from this last fault — of her sufferings, so patiently 
 borne — I have already spoken. The only glimpse we get of 
 Elizabeth, through the few years of her short life, is con- 
 tained in a letter which I have received from Miss " Temple." 
 " The second, Elizabeth, is the only one of the family of 
 whom I have a vivid recollection, from her meeting with a 
 somewhat alarming accident, in consequence of which I had 
 her for some days and nights in my bed-room, not only for 
 the sake of greater quiet, but that I might watch over her 
 myself. Her head was severely cut, but she bore all the 
 consequent suffering with exemplary patience, and by it won 
 much upon my esteem. Of the two younger ones (if two 
 there were) I have very slight recollections, save that one, a 
 darling child, under five years of age, was quite the pet 
 nursling of the school." This last would be Emily. Char- 
 lotte was considered the most talkative of the sisters — a 
 " bright, clever little child." Her great friend was a certain 
 " Mellany Hane" (so Mr. Bronte spells the name), a West 
 Indian, whose brother paid for her schooling, and who had 
 no remarkable talent except for music, which her brother's 
 circumstances forbade her to cultivate. She was " a hungry, 
 good-natured, ordinary girl;" older than Charlotte, and ever 
 ready to protect her from any petty tyranny or encroach- 
 ments on the part of the elder girls. Charlotte always 
 remembered her with affection and gratitude. 
 
 I have quoted the word "bright" in the account of 
 
66 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE liRONTE. 
 
 Charlotte. I suspect that this year of 1825 was the last 
 time it could ever be applied to her. In this spring, Maria 
 became so rapidly worse that Mr. Bronte was sent for. Ho 
 had not previously been aware of her illness, and the condi- 
 tion in which he found her was a terrible shock to him. He 
 took her home by the Leeds coach, the girls crowding out 
 into the road to follow her with their eyes over the bridge 
 past the cottages, and then out of sight for ever. She died 
 a very few days after her arrival at home. Perhaps the 
 news of her death, falling suddenly into the life of which her 
 patient existence had formed a part, only a little week or so 
 before, made those who remained at Cowan's Bridge look 
 with more anxiety on Elizabeth's symptoms, which also 
 turned out to be consumptive. She was sent home in charge 
 of a confidential servant of the establishment ; and she, too, 
 died in the early summer of that year. Charlotte was thus 
 suddenly called into the responsibilities of eldest sister in a 
 motherless family. She remembered how anxiously her dear 
 sister Maria had striven, in her grave earnest way, to be a 
 tender helper and a counsellor to them all ; and the duties 
 that now fell upon her seemed almost like a legacy from the 
 gentle little sufferer so lately dead. 
 
 Both Charlotte and Emily returned to school after the 
 Midsummer holidays in this fatal year. But before the next 
 winter, it was thought desirable to advise their removal from 
 school, as it was evident that the damp situation of the house 
 at Cowan's Bridge did not suit their health. 
 
THE OLD SERVANT TABBY. 67 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 For the reason just stated, the little girls were sent home in 
 the autumn of 1825, when Charlotte was little more than 
 nine years old. 
 
 About this time, an elderly woman of the village came to 
 live as a servant at the parsonage. She remained there, as 
 a member of the household, for thirty years ; and from the 
 (ength of her faithful service, and the attachment and respect 
 which she inspired, is deserving of mention. Tabby was a 
 thorough specimen of a Yorkshire woman of her class, in 
 dialect, in appearance, and in character. She abounded in 
 strong practical sense and shrewdness. Her words were far 
 from flattery ; but she would spare no deeds in the cause of 
 those whom she kindly regarded. She ruled the children 
 pretty sharply ; and yet never grudged a little extra trouble 
 to provide them with such small treats as came within her 
 power. In return, she claimed to be looked upon as a 
 humble friend ; and many years later, Miss Bronte told me she 
 found it somewhat difficult to manage, as Tabby expected to 
 be informed of all the family concerns, and yet had grown so 
 deaf that what was repeated to her became known to who- 
 ever might be in or about the house. To obviate this pub- 
 lication of what it might be desirable to keep secret, Misa 
 Bronte used to take her out for a walk on the solitary moors; 
 where, when both were seated on a tuft of heather, in some 
 
68 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 high and lonely place, she could acquaint the old woman, at 
 leisure, with all that she wanted to hear. 
 
 Tabby had lived in Haworth in the days when the pack- 
 horses went through once a week, with their tinkling bells 
 and gay worsted adornment, carrying the produce of the 
 country from Keighley over the hills to Colne and Burnley. 
 What is more, she had known the " bottom," or valley, in 
 those primitive days when the fairies frequented the margin 
 of the " beck " on moonlight nights, and had known folk 
 who had seen them. But that was when there were no mills 
 in the valleys ; and when all the wool-spinning was done by 
 hand in the farm-houses round. " It wur the factories as 
 had driven 'em away," she said. No doubt she had many a 
 tale to tell of by- gone days of the country side ; old ways of 
 living, former inhabitants, decayed gentry, who had melted 
 away, and whose places knew them no more ; family trage- 
 dies, and dark superstitious dooms; and in telling these 
 things without the least consciousness that there might ever 
 be anything requiring to be softened down, would give at full 
 length the bare and simple details. 
 
 Miss Branwell instructed the children at regular hours in 
 all she could teach, making her bed-chamber into their school- 
 room. Their father was in the habit of relating to them any 
 public news in which he felt an interest ; and from the opin- 
 ions of his strong and independent mind they would gather 
 much food for thought ; but I do not know whether he gave 
 them any direct instruction. Charlotte's deep thoughtful 
 spirit appears to have felt almost painfully the tender re- 
 sponsibility which rested upon her with reference to her re- 
 maining sisters. She was only eighteen months older than 
 Emily ; but Emily and . Anne were simply companions and 
 playmates, while Charlotte was motherly friend and guardian 
 to both ; and this loving assumption of duties beyond lier 
 years, made her feel considerably older than she really was 
 
JAC SmiLS OF A PAGE CF 3^,$ 
 
 
 cA^»«A9$7.fe .-^ t% ••<»»y a f «i*ey t?A«w».v>' A-^i y. -* i. X ^vv*»U y.*tktV VAva. t*«i*v»." **vw«^ ppi-W v o.v»s»*v 
 
 
PATRICK BE AN WELL BRONTE. 6& 
 
 Patrick Branwell, their only brother, was a boy of re- 
 markable promise, and, in some ways, of extraordinary pre- 
 cocity of talent. Mr. Bronte's friends advised him to send 
 his son to school ; but, remembering both the strength of 
 will of his own youth and his mode of employing it, he be- 
 lieved that Patrick was better at home, and that he himself 
 could teach him well, as he .had taught others before. So 
 Patrick, or as his family called him, Branwell, remained at 
 Haworth, working hard for some hours a day with his father ; 
 but, when the time of the latter was taken up with his pa- 
 rochial duties, the boy was thrown into chance companionship 
 with the lads of the village — for youth will to youth, and 
 boys will to boys. 
 
 Still, he was associated in many of his sisters' plays and 
 amusements. These were mostly of a sedentary and intel- 
 lectual nature. I hav6 had a curious packet confided to me, 
 containing an immense amount of manuscript, in an inconceiv- 
 ably small space ; tales, dramas, poems, romances, written prin- 
 cipally by Charlotte, in a hand which it is almost impossible to 
 decipher without the aid of a magnifying glass. No descrip- 
 tion will give so good an idea of the extreme minuteness of 
 the writing as the annexed fac-simile of a page. 
 
 Among these papers there is a list of her works, which I 
 copy, as a curious proof how early the rage for literary com- 
 position had seized upon her : — 
 
 CATALOGUE OE MY BOOKS, WITH TUE PERIOD OF THEIR COM- 
 PLETION UP TO AUGUST 3ed, 1830. 
 
 Two romantic tales in one volume ; viz.. The Twelve 
 Adventurers and the Adventures in Ireland, April 2nd, 
 1829. 
 
 The Search after Happiness, a Tale, Aug. 1st, 1829. 
 
 Leisure Hours, a Tale, and two Fragments, July 6tn, 
 1829. 
 
70 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 The Adventures of Edward de Crack, a Tale, Feb. 2nd^ 
 1830. 
 
 The Adventures of Ernest Alembert, a Tale, May 26th, 
 1830. 
 
 An interesting Incident in the Lives of some of the most 
 eminent Persons of the Age, a Tale, June 10th, 1830. 
 
 Tales of the Islanders, in four volumes. Contents of 
 the 1st Yol. : — 1. An Account of their Origin ; 2. A De- 
 scription of Vision Island ; 3. Ratten's Attempt ; 4. Lord 
 Charles Wellesley and the Marquis of Douro s Adventure ; 
 completed June 31st, 1829. 2nd Vol. :— 1. The School- 
 rebellion ; 2. The strange Incident in the Duke of Welling- 
 ton's Life ; 3. Tale to his Sons ; 4. The Marquis of Douro 
 and Lord Charles Wellesley's Tale to his little King and 
 Queens; completed Dec. 2nd, 1829. 3rd Vol. :— 1. The 
 Duke of Wellington's Adventure in the Cavern; 2. The 
 Duke of Wellington and the little King's and Queen's visit 
 to the Horse-Guards ; completed May 8th, 1830. 4th 
 Vol. : — 1. The three old Washerwomen of Strathfieldsaye ; 
 
 2. Lord C. Wellesley's Tale to his Brother ; completed July 
 30th, 1830. 
 
 Characters of Great Men of the Present Age, Dec. 17th, 
 1829. 
 
 The Young Men's Magazines, in Six Numbers, from 
 August to December, the latter months' double number, 
 completed December the 12th, 1829. General index to 
 their contents : — 1. A True Story ; 2. Causes of the War ; 
 
 3. A Song; 4. Conversations; 5. A True Story continued: 
 6. The Spirit of Cawdor; 7. Interior of a Pothouse, a 
 Poem ; 8. The Glass Town, a Song ; 9. The Silver Cup, a 
 Tale; 10. The Table and Vase in the Desert, a Song; 11. 
 Conversations; 12. Scene on the Great Bridge; 13. Song 
 of the Ancient Britons ; 14. Scene in my Tun, a Tale ; 15. 
 An American Tale ; 16. Lines written on seeing the Garden 
 
JUV^EI^ILE WORKS IN MANUSCKIPT. Tj 
 
 of a Genius; 17. The Lay of the Glass Town; 18. The 
 Swiss Artist, a Tale ; 19. Lines on the transfer of this 
 Magazine; 20. On the Same, by a different hand; 21. 
 Chief Geni in Council ; 22. Harvest in Spain ; 23. The 
 Swiss Artist continued ; 24. Conversations. 
 
 The Poetaster, a Drama, in 2 volumes, July 12th, 1830. 
 
 A Book of Rhymes, finished December 17th, 1829; 
 Contents : — 1. The Beauty of Nature ; 2. A Short Poem ; 
 8. Meditations while Journeying in a Canadian Forest ; 4. 
 A Song of an Exile ; 5. On Seeing the Euins of the Tower 
 of Babel ; 6. A Thing of 14: lines ; 7. Lines written on the 
 Bank of a River one fine Summer Evening ; 8. Spring, a 
 Song ; 9. Autumn, a Song. 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems, finished May 30th, 1830. Con- 
 tents :— 1. The Churchyard ; 2. Descriptions of the Duke 
 of Wellington's Palace on the Pleasant Banks of the Lusiva ; 
 this article is a small prose tale or incident ; 3. Pleasure ; 
 4. Lines written on the Summit of a high Mountain of the 
 North of England ; 5. Winter ; 6. Two Fragments, namely, 
 1st, The Vision ; 2nd, A Short untitled Poem ; The Even- 
 ing Walk, a Poem, June 23rd, 1830. 
 
 Making in the whole twenty-two volumes. 
 
 C. Bkonte, August 3, 1830. 
 
 As each volume contains from sixty to a hundred pages, 
 and the size of the page lithographed is rather less than the 
 average, the amount of the whole seems very great, if we 
 remember that it was all written in about fifteen months. 
 So much for the quantity; the quality strikes me as of 
 singular merit for a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Both as a 
 specimen of her prose style at this time, and also as re-^oaling 
 something of the quiet domestic life led by these children, I 
 take an extract from the introduction to " Tales of the Isl- 
 unders," the title of one of their *^ Little Magazines : " — 
 
^"2 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 '' June the 31s/, 1829. 
 " The plaj of the ' Ishmders ' was formed in December, 
 1827, in the following manner. One night, about the time 
 when the cold sleet and stormy fogs of November are suc- 
 ceeded by the snow-storms, and high piercing night-winds of 
 confirmed winter, we were all sitting round the warm blazing 
 kitchen fire, having just concluded a quarrel with Tabby 
 concerning the propriety of lighting a candle, from which 
 she came off victorious, no candle having been produced. 
 A long pause succeeded, which was at last broken by Bran- 
 well saying, in a lazy manner, ^ I don't know what to do.' 
 This was echoed by Emily and Anne. 
 " Tahhy, * Wha ya may go t' bed.' 
 ^^ Branwell. ^ I'd rather do any thing than that.' 
 " Charlotte, ^ AVhy are you so glum to-night, Tabby V 
 Oh ! suppose we had each an island of our own.' 
 
 ^^ BranwelL ^ If we had I would choose the Island of 
 Man.' 
 
 " Charlotte. ^ And I would choose the Isle of Wight.' 
 " Emily. ^ The Isle of Arran for me.' 
 ^^ Anne. ^ And mine should be Guernsey.' 
 '^ We then chose who should be chief men in our islands. 
 Branwell chose John Bull, Astley Cooper, and Leigh Hunt ; 
 Emily, Walter Scott, Mr. Lockhart, Johnny Lockhart ; Anne, 
 Michael Sadler, Lord Bentinck, Sir Henry Halford. I chose 
 the Duke of Wellington and two sons, Christopher North and 
 Co., and Mr. Abernethy. Here our conversation was inter- 
 rupted by the, to us, dismal sound of the clock striking 
 seven, and we were summoned off to bed. The next day we 
 added many others to our list of men, till we got almost all 
 the chief men of the kingdom. After this, for a long time, 
 nothing worth noticing occurred. In June, 1828, we erected 
 a school on a fictitious island, which was to contain 1,000 
 children. The manner of the building was as follows. The 
 
HEK "history of THE YEAR 1829." 73 
 
 Island was fifty miles in circumference, and certainly ap- 
 peared more like the work of enchantment than any thing 
 real," &c. 
 
 Two or three things strike me much in this fragment ; 
 one is the graphic vividness with which the time of the year, 
 the hour of the evening, the feeling of cold and darkness 
 outside, the sound of the night-winds sweeping over th 
 desolate snow-covered moors, coming nearer and nearer, and 
 at last shaking the very door of the room where they were 
 sitting — for it opened out directly on that bleak, wide ex- 
 panse — is contrasted with the glow, and busy brightness of 
 the cheerful kitchen where these remarkable children are 
 grouped. Tabby moves about in her quaint country-dress, 
 iVugal, peremptory, prone to find fault pretty sharply, yet 
 allowing no one else to blame her children, we may feel sure. 
 A.nother noticeable faqt is the intelligent partisanship with 
 A^hich they choose their great men, who are almost all stanch 
 Tories of the time. Moreover, they do not confine them- 
 selves to local heroes ; their range of choice has been widened 
 by hearing much of what is not usually considered to interest 
 children. Little Anne, aged scarcely eight, picks out the 
 politicians of the day for her chief men. 
 
 There is another scrap of paper, in this all but illegible 
 handwriting, written about this time, and which gives some 
 idea of the sources of their opinions. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF THE YEAR 1829. 
 
 " Once Papa lent my sister Maria a book. It was an 
 old geography-book ; she wrote on its blank leaf, ^ Papa lent 
 me this book.' This book is a hundred and twenty years 
 old ; it is at this moment lying before me. While I write 
 this I am in the kitchen of the Parsonage, Ilaworth ; Tabby, 
 the servant, is washing up the breakfast-things, and Anne, 
 VOL. I. — 4 
 
74 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BPwONTE. 
 
 my youngest sister (Maria was my eldest), is kneeling on a 
 chair, looking at some cakes which Tabby has been baking 
 for us. Emily is in the parlor, brushing the carpet.. Papa 
 and Branwell are gone to Keighley. Aunt is up-stairs in 
 her room, and I am sitting by the table writing this in the 
 kitchen. Keighley is a small town four miles from bere. 
 I^apa and Branwell are gone for the newspaper, the * Leeds 
 Intelligencer,' a most excellent Tory newspaper, edited by 
 Mr. Wood, and the proprietor, Mr. Henneman. We take 
 two and see three newspapers a week. We take the ^ Leeds 
 Intelligencer,' Tory, and the ^ Leeds Mercury,' Whig, edited 
 by Mr. Baines, and his brother, son-in-law, and his two sons, 
 Edward and Talbot. We see the * John Bull ; ' it is a high 
 Tory, very violent. Mr. Driver lends us it, as likewise 
 ^ Blackwood's Magazine,' the most able periodical there is. 
 The Editor is Mr. Christopher North, an old man seventy- 
 four years of age ; the 1st of April is his birtb-day ; his com- 
 pany are Timothy Tickler, Morgan O'Doherty, Macrabin 
 Mordecai, Mullion, Warnell, and James Hogg, a man of 
 most extraordinary genius, a Scottish shepherd. Our plays 
 were established ; ' Young Men,' June, 1826 ; Our Fellows,' 
 July, 1827; * Islanders,' December, 1827. These are our 
 three great plays, that are not kept secret. Emilj^'s and my 
 best plays were established the 1st of December, 1827; the 
 others March, 1828. Best plays mean secret plays, they 
 are very nice ones. All our plays are very strange ones. 
 Their nature I need not write on paper, for I think I shall 
 always remember them. The ^ Young Men's' play took its 
 rise from some wooden soldiers Branwell had ; 'Our Fellows ' 
 from 'jEsop's Fables ' ; and the * Islanders ' from several 
 events which happened. I will sketch out the origin of our 
 plays more explicitly if I can. First, ' Young Men.' Papa 
 brought Branwell some wooden soldiers at Leeds ; when 
 Papa came hpnac it was night, and we were in bed, so next 
 
THE TASTE FOR ART. 75 
 
 morning Bran well came to our door with a box of soldiers. 
 Emily and I jumped out of bed, and I snatched up one and 
 exclaimed, ' This is the Duke of Wellington ! This shall be 
 the Duke ! ' When I had said this Emily likewise took one 
 up and said it should be hers ; when Anne came down, she 
 said one should be hers. Mine was the prettiest of the 
 whole, and the tallest, and the most perfect in every part. 
 Emily's was a grave looking fellow, and we called him 
 * Gravey.' Anne's was a queer little thing, much like her- 
 self, and we called him * Waiting-boy.' Branwell chose his, 
 and called him * Buonaparte.' " 
 
 The foregoing extract shows something of the kin^ of 
 reading in which the little Brontes were interested ; but 
 their desire for knowledge must have been excited in many 
 directions, for I find a " list of painters whose works I wish 
 to see," drawn up by Charlotte Bronte when she was scarce- 
 ly thirteen : — 
 
 *' Guido Reni, Julio Romano, Titian, Raphael, Michaei 
 Angelo, Coreggio, Annibal Carracci, Leonardo da Vinci, Era 
 Bartolomeo, Carlo Cignani, Vandyke, Rubens, Bartolomeo 
 Ramerghi." 
 
 Here is this little girl, in a remote Yorkshire parsonage, 
 who has probably never seen anything worthy the name of a 
 painting in her life, studying the names and characteristics 
 of the great old Italian and Flemish masters, whose works 
 she longs to see sometime, in the dim future that lies before 
 her ! There is a paper remaining which contains minuto 
 studies of, and criticisms upon, the engravings in " Friend- 
 ship's Offering for 1829 ; " showing how she had early form- 
 ed those habits of close observation, and patient analysis of 
 cause and effect, which served so well in after-life as hand- 
 maids to her genius. 
 
 The way in which Mr. Bronte made his children sympa- 
 thize with him in his great interest in poK [cz^ must havo 
 
76 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 done mucli to lift tliem above the chances of their minds be- 
 ing limited or tainted bj petty local gossip. I take the only 
 other remaining personal fragment out of " Tales of the Isl- 
 anders ; " it is a sort of apology, contained in the introduc- 
 tion to the second volume, for their not having been contin- 
 ued before ; the writers had been for a long time too busy, 
 and lately too much absorbed in politics. 
 
 "Parliament was opened, and the great Catholic ques- 
 tion was brought forward, and the Duke's measures were dis- 
 closed, and all was slander, violence, party-spirit, and con- 
 fusion. Oh, those six months, from the time of the King's 
 speech to the end ! Nobody could write, think, or speak on 
 any subject but the Catholic question, and the Duke of Wel- 
 lington, and Mr. Peel. I remember the day when the In- 
 telligence Extraordinary came with Mr. Peel's speech in it, 
 containing the terms on which the Catholics were to be let 
 in ! With what eagerness papa tore off the cover, and how 
 we all gathered round him, and with what breathless anxiety 
 we listened, as one by one they were disclosed, and explain- 
 ed, and argued upon so ably and so well ; and then when it 
 was all out, how aunt said that she thought it was excellent, 
 and that the Catholics could do no harm with such good se- 
 curity. I remember also the doubts as to whether it would 
 pass the House of Lords, and the prophecies that it would 
 not ; and when the paper came which was to decide the 
 question, the anxiety was almost dreadful with which wo 
 listened to the whole affair : the opening of the doors ; the 
 hush ; the royal dukes in their robes, and the great duke in 
 green sash and waistcoat ; the rising of all the peeresses 
 when he rose ; the reading of his speech — ^papa saying that 
 his words were like precious gold ; and lastly, the majority 
 of one to four (sic) in favor of the Bill. Dut this is a di- 
 gression." &c. &c. 
 
 This must have been written when she was between thir 
 teen and fourteen. 
 
POLITICAL AND IMAGINATIVE IDEAS. 7T 
 
 It will be interesting to some of my readers to know 
 wliat was the character of her purely imaginative writing at 
 this period. While her description of any real occurrence 
 is, as we have seen, homely, graphic, and forcible, when she 
 gives way to her powers of creation, her fancy and her lan- 
 guage alike run riot, sometimes to the very borders of appa- 
 rent delirium. Of this wild weird writing, a single example 
 will suffice. It is a letter to the editor of one of the '^ Little 
 Magazines." 
 
 Sir, — It is well known that the Genii have declared that 
 unless they perform certain arduous duties every year, of a 
 mysterious nature, all the worlds in the firmament will be 
 burnt up, and gathered together in one mighty globe, which 
 will roll in solitary grandeur through the vast wilderness of 
 space, inhabited only by the four high princes of the Genii, 
 till time shall be succeeded by Eternity ; and the impudence 
 of this is only to be paralleled by another of their asser- 
 tions, namely, * that by their magic might they can reduce 
 the world to a desert, the purest waters to streams of livid 
 poison, and the clearest lakes to stagnant waters, the pesti- 
 lential vapours of which shall slay all living creatures, except 
 the blood-thirsty beast of the forest, and the ravenous bird of 
 the rock. But that in the midst of this desolation the palace 
 of the Chief Geni shall rise sparkling in the wilderness, and 
 the horrible howl of their war cry shall spread over the land 
 at morning, at noontide and night ; but that they shall have 
 their annual feast over the bones of the dead, and shall 
 yearly rejoice with the joy of victors. I think, sir, that the 
 horrible wickedness of this needs no remark, and therefore I 
 baste to subscribe myself, &c. 
 ''July 14, 1829." 
 
 It IS not unlikely that the foregoing letter may have had 
 
78 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Eome allegorical or political reference, invisible to our eyes, 
 but very clear to the bright little minds for whom it was 
 intended. Politics were evidently their grand interest ; the 
 Duke of Wellington their demi-god. All that related to him 
 belonged to the heroic age. Did Charlotte want a knight- 
 errant, or a devoted lover, the Marquis Douro, or Lord 
 Charles Wellesley, came ready to her hand. There is hardly 
 one of her prose writings at this time in which they aro 
 not the principal personages, and in which their " august 
 father " does not appear as a sort of Jupiter Tnnans, or Deus 
 ex Machina. 
 
 As one evidence how Wellesley haunted her imagination, 
 I copy out a few of the titles to her papers in the various 
 magazines. 
 
 " Liffey Castle," a Tale by Lord C. Wellesley. 
 
 " Lines to the Kiver Aragua," by the Marquis of Douro. 
 
 " An Extraordinary Dream," by Lord C. Wellesley. 
 
 '' The Green Dwarf, a Tale of the Perfect Tense," by the 
 Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley. 
 
 " Strange Events," by Lord C. A. F. Wellesley. 
 
 Life in an isolated village, or a lonely country house, pre- 
 sents many little occurrences which sink into the mind of 
 childhood, there to be brooded over. No other event may 
 have happened, or be likely to happen, for days, to push this 
 aside, before it has assumed a vague and mysterious import- 
 ance. Thus, children leading a secluded life are often 
 thoughtful and dreamy : the impressions made upon them by 
 the world without — the unusual sights of earth and sky — the 
 accidental meetings with strange faces and figures — (rare 
 occurrences in those out-of-the-way places) — are sometimes 
 magnified by them into things so deeply significant as to 
 be almost supernaturaL This peculiarity I perceive very 
 etrongly in Charlotte's writings at this time. Indeed, under 
 the circumstances, it is no peculiarity. It has been common 
 
MENTAL TENDENCIES AND HOME DUTIES. 79 
 
 to all, from the Chaldean shepherds, the " lonely herdsman 
 stretched on the green sward through half a summer's day '' 
 — the solitary monk — to all whose impressions from without 
 have had time to grow and vivify in the imagination, till they 
 have been received as actual personifications, or supernatural 
 visions, to doubt which would be blasphemy. 
 
 To counterbalance this tendency in Charlotte, was the 
 Btrong common sense natural to her, and daily called into 
 exercise by the requirements of her practical life. Her duties 
 were not merely to learn her lessons, to read a certain quan- 
 tity, to gain certain ideas : she had, besides, to brush rooms, 
 to run errands, to help the simpler forms of cooking, to be by 
 turns play-fellow and , monitress to her younger sisters and 
 brothers, to make and to mend, and to study economy under 
 her careful aunt. Thus we see that, while her imagination 
 received powerful impressions, her excellent understanding 
 had full power to rectify them before her fancies became 
 realities. On a scrap of paper, she has written down the 
 following relation : — 
 
 " June 22, 1830, 6 o\lock p. m. 
 Haivorih^ near Bradford, 
 
 " The following strange occurrence happened on the 
 22nd of June, 1830 : — At that time papa was very ill, confined 
 to his bed, and so weak that he could not rise without assist- 
 ance. Tabby and I were alone in the kitchen, about half- 
 past nine, ante meridian. Suddenly we heard a knock at the 
 door; Tabby rose and opened it. An old man appeared 
 standing without, who accosted her thus: — 
 
 " Old Man. — ^ Does the parson live here ?' 
 
 " Tally.—' Yes.' 
 
 " OM Man, — • I wish to see him. 
 
 1* Tabby. — ' He is poorly in bed.' 
 
80 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " Old Man. — ^ I have a message for him ' 
 
 " Tally.—'' Who from V 
 
 " Old Man.—'- From the Lord." 
 
 " Tally.—' Who V 
 
 ^* Old Man. — ^ The Lord. He desires me to say that 
 tlie bridegroom is comiDg, and that we must prepare to meet 
 him ; that the cords are about to be loosed, and the golden 
 bowl broken ; the pitcher broken at the fountain.' 
 
 " Here he concluded his discourse, and abruptly went 
 his way. As Tabby closed the door, I asked her if she knew 
 him. Her reply was, that she had never seen him before, 
 nor any one like him. Though I am fully persuaded that he 
 was some fanatical enthusiast, well meaning, but utterly 
 ignorant of true piety ; yet I could not forbear weeping at 
 his words, spoken so unexpectedly at that particular pe- 
 riod.'' 
 
 Though the date of the following poem is a little uncer- 
 tain, it may be most convenient to introduce it here. It 
 must have been written before 1833, but how much earlier 
 there are no means of determining. I give it as a specimen 
 of the remarkable poetical talent shown in the various dimi- 
 nutive writings of this time ; at least, in all of them which 
 I have been able to read. 
 
 THE WOUNDED STAG. 
 
 Passing amid the deepest shade 
 
 Of the wood's sombre heart, 
 Last night I saw a wonnded deer 
 
 Laid lonely and apart. 
 
 Such light as pierced the crowded boughs 
 
 (Light scattered, scant and dim,) 
 Passed through the fern that form'd his couch 
 
 And centred full on him. 
 
A YOUTHFUL EFFUSION. 8.1 
 
 Pain trembled in his weary limbs, 
 
 Pain filled Ms patient eye, 
 Pain crushed amid the shadowy fern 
 
 His branchy crown did lie. 
 
 Where were his comrades ? where his mate ? 
 
 All from his death-bed gone I 
 And he, thus struck and desolate, 
 
 Suffered and bled alone. 
 
 Did he feel what a man might feel 
 
 Friend-left, and sore distrest ? 
 Did, Pain's keen dart, and GriePs sharp stiiig 
 
 Strive in his mangled breast ? 
 
 Did longing for affection lost 
 
 Barb every deadly dart ; 
 Love unrepaid, and Faith betrayed, 
 
 Did these torment his heart ? 
 
 No ! leave to man his proper doom ? 
 
 These are the pangs that rise 
 Aroand the bed of state and gloom, 
 
 Wheix) Adani'g offspring dies! 
 
82 T.IFE OF CHAKLOTTE BKONTK 
 
 CHAPTER VT. 
 
 Tujfi is perhaps a fitting time to give some personal descrip- 
 tion of Miss Bronte. In 1831, she was a quiet, thoughtful 
 girl, of nearly fifteen years of age, very small in figure — • 
 " stunted " was the word she applied to herself, — ^but as her 
 limbs and head were in just proportion to the slight, fragile 
 body, no word in ever so slight a degree suggestive of de- 
 formity could properly be applied to her ; with soft, thick, 
 brown hair, and peculiar eyes, of which I find it difficult to 
 give a description, as they appeared to me in her later life. 
 They were large, and well shaped ; their colour a reddish 
 brown ; but if the iris was closely examined, it appeared to 
 be composed of a great variety of tints. The usual expres- 
 sion was of quiet, listening intelligence ; but now and then, 
 on some just occasion for vivid interest or wholesome indig- 
 nation, a light would shine out, as if some spiritual lamp had 
 been kindled, which glowed behind those expressive orbs. I 
 never saw the like in any other human creature. As for the 
 rest of her features, they were plain, large, and ill set ; but, 
 unless you began to catalogue them, you were hardly aware 
 of the fact, for the eyes and power of the countenance over 
 balanced every physical defect ; the crooked mouth and the 
 large nose were forgotten, and the whole face arrested the 
 attention, and presently attracted all those whom she herself 
 would have cared to attract. Her hands and feet were the 
 smallest I ever saw ; when one of the former was placed in 
 
MISS WOOLEH'S SCHOOL AT KOE HEAD. 83 
 
 mine, it was like the soft touch of a bird in the middle of 
 m J palm. The delicate long fingers had a peculiar fineness 
 of sensation, which was one reason why all her handiwork^ 
 of whatever kind — writing, sewing, knitting — was so clear 
 in its minuteness. She was remarkably neat in her whole 
 personal attire ; but she was dainty as to the fit of her shoes 
 and gloves. 
 
 I can well imagine that the grave serious composure, 
 which, when I knew her, gave her face the dignity of an old 
 Venetian portrait, was no acquisition of later years, but 
 dated from that early age wjien she found herself in the posi- 
 tion of an elder sister to motherless children. But in a girl 
 only just entered on her teens, such an expression would be 
 called, (to use a country phrase) "old-fashioned;" and in 
 1831, the period of which I now write, we must think of her 
 as a little, set, antiquated girl, very quiet in manners, and 
 very quaint in dress ; for, besides the influence exerted by 
 her father's ideas concerning the simplicity of attire befitting 
 the wife and daughters of a country clergyman (as evinced 
 in his destruction of the coloured boots and the silk gown), 
 her aunt, on whom the duty of dressing her nieces princi- 
 pally devolved, had never boen in society since she left 
 Penzance, eight or nine years before, and the Penzance fash- 
 ions of that day were still dear to her heart. 
 
 In January, 1831, Charlotte was sent to school again. 
 This time she went as a pupil to the Miss Woolers, who lived 
 at Roe Head, a cheerful roomy country house, standing a 
 little apart in a field, on the right of the road from Leeds to 
 Huddersfield. Two tiers of old fashioned semi-circular bow 
 windows run from basement to roof of Koe Head ; and look 
 down upon a long green slope of pasture-land, ending in the 
 pleasant woods of Kirklees, Sir George Armitage's park 
 Although Roe Head and Haworth are not twenty miles 
 apart, the aspect of the country is as totally dissimilar as if 
 
84: LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 tliey enjoyed a different climate. The soft curving and 
 heaving landscape around the former gives a strangei the 
 idea of cheerful airiness on the heights, and of sunny warmth . 
 in the broad green valleys below. It is just such a neigh- 
 bourhood as the monks loved, and traces of the old Plan- 
 tagenet times are to be met with everywhere, side by side 
 with the manufacturing interests of the West Riding of to- 
 day. Here, the park of Kirklees, full of sunny glades, 
 speckled with black shadows of immemorial yew-trees ; the 
 grey pile of building, formerly a " House of professed 
 Ladies ; " the mouldering stone in the iepth of the wood, 
 under which Robin Hood is said to lie ; close outside the 
 Park, an old stone gabled house now a roadside inn, but 
 which bears the name of the " Three Nuns," and has a pic- 
 tured sign to correspond. This quaint old inn is frequented 
 by fustian-dressed mill-hands from the neighbouring worsted 
 factories, which strew the high road from Leeds to Hudders- 
 field, and form the centres round which future villages 
 gather. Such are the contrasts of modes of living, and of 
 times and seasons^ brought before the traveller on the great 
 roads that traverse the West Riding. In no other part of 
 England, I fancy, are the centuries brought into such close, 
 strang3 contact as in the district in which Roe Head is sit- 
 uated Within a walk from Miss Wooler's house — on the 
 left of the road, coming from Leeds — lie the remains of 
 Howley Hall, now the property of Lord Cardigan, but 
 formerly belonging to a branch of the Saviles. Near to it 
 ia Lady Anne's well ; " Lady Anne, according to tradition, 
 having been worried and eaten by wolves as she sat at the 
 well, to which the indigo-dyed factory people from Rirstall 
 and Batley woollen mills yet repair on Palm Sunday, when 
 the waters possess remarkable medicinal efficacy ; and it is 
 litill believed tliat they assume a strange variety of colours 
 at six o'clock in the morning on that day. 
 
NEIGHBOURHOOD OF KOE HEAD. 85 
 
 All round the lands held by the farmer who lives in the 
 remains of Howley Hall, are stone houses of to-day, occupied 
 by the people who are making their living and their fortunes 
 by the woollen mills that encroach upon, and shoulder out 
 the proprietors of the ancient halls. These are to be seen 
 in every direction, picturesque, many-gabled, with heavy 
 tone carvings of coats of arms for heraldic ornament ; be- 
 longing to decayed families, from whose ancestral lands field 
 after field has been shorn away, by the urgency of rich manu- 
 facturers pressing hard upon necessity. 
 
 A smoky atmosphere surrounds these old dwellings of 
 former Yorkshire squires, and blights and blackens the an- 
 cient trees that overshadow them ; cinder-paths lead up to 
 them ; the ground round about is sold for building upon ; 
 but still the neighbours, though they subsist by a difi'erent 
 state of things, remember that their forefathers lived in agri- 
 cultural dependence upon the owners of these halls ; and 
 treasure up the traditions connected with the stately house- 
 holds that existed centuries ago. Take Oakwell Hall, for 
 instance. It stands in a rough-looking pasture-field, about a 
 quarter of a mile from the high road. It is but that distance 
 from the busy whirr of the steam-engines employed in the 
 woollen mills of Birstall ; and if you walk to it from Birstall 
 Station about meal- time, you encounter strings of mill-hands, 
 blue with woollen dye, and cranching in hungry haste over 
 the cinder-patJis bordering the high road. Turning off from 
 this to the right, you ascend through an old pasture-field, 
 and enter a short by-road, called the " Bloody Lane " — a 
 walk haunted by the ghost of a certain Captain Batt, the 
 reprobate proprietor of an old hall close by, in the days of 
 the Stuarts. From the " Bloody Lane,'' overshadowed by 
 trees, you come into the rough- looking field in which Oakwell 
 Hall is situated. It is known in the neighbourhood to be 
 the place described as " Field Head," Shirley's residence. 
 
86 LITE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 The enclosure in front, half court, half garden ; the panelled 
 hall, with the gallery opening into the bed-chambers running 
 round ; the barbarous peach-coloured drawing-room ; the 
 bright look-out through the garden-door upon the grassy 
 lawns and terraces behind, where the soft-hued pigeons still 
 ove to coo and strut in the sun, — are described in " Shirley." 
 Ihe scenery of that fiction lies close around ; the real events 
 which suggested it took place in the immediate neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 They show a bloody footprint in a bedchamber of Oak- 
 well Hall, and tell a story connected with it, and with the 
 lane by which the house is approached. Captain Batt was 
 believed to be far away ; his family was at Oakwell ; when 
 in the dusk, one winter evening, he came stalking along the 
 lane, and through the hall, and up the stairs, into his own 
 ?oom, where he vanished. He had been killed in a duel in 
 London that very same afternoon of December 9, 1684. 
 
 The stones of the Hall formed part of the more ancient 
 ?icarage, which an ancestor of Captain Batt's had seized in 
 the troublous times for property which succeeded the Re- 
 formation. This Henry Batt possessed himself of houses and 
 Eioney without scruple ; and, at last, stole the great bell of 
 Birstall Church, for which sacrilegious theft a fine was im- 
 posed on the land; and has to be paid by the owner of the 
 Hall to this day. 
 
 But the possession of the Oakwell property passed out 
 of the hands of the Batts at the beginning of the last cen- 
 tury ; collateral descendants succeeded, and left this pictu- 
 resque trace of their having been. In the great hall hangs 
 a mighty pair of stag's horns, and dependent from them a 
 printed card, recording the fact that, on the 1st of Septem- 
 ber, 1763, there was a great hunting-match, when this stag 
 was slain ; and that fourteen gentlemen shared in the chase, 
 and dined on the spoil in that hall, along with Fairfax 
 
ROE IIE.VD SCUOOL. 87 
 
 Fearneley, Esq., the owner. The fourteen names are given, 
 doubtless " mighty men of yore ; " but, among them all. Sir 
 Fletcher Norton, Attorney- General, and Major-General 
 Birch were the only ones with which I had any association 
 in 1855. Passing on from Oakwell there lie houses right 
 and left, which were well known to Miss Bronte when she 
 lived at Koe Head, as the hospitable homes of some of her 
 schoolfellows. Lanes branch off to heaths and commons on 
 the higher ground, which formed pleasant walks on holidays, 
 and then comes the white gate into the field path leading to 
 Roe Head itself. 
 
 One of the bow-windowed rooms on the ground floor, with 
 the pleasant look-out I have described, was the drawing- 
 room ; the other was the school-room. The dining-room was 
 on one side of the door, and faced the road. 
 
 The number of pupils ranged from seven to ten, during 
 the two years Miss Bronte was there ; and as they did not 
 require the whole of the house for their accommodation, the 
 third story was unoccupied, except by the ghostly idea of a 
 lady, whose rustling silk gown was sometimes heard by the 
 listeners at the foot of the second flight of stairs. 
 
 The kind motherly nature of Miss Wooler, and the small 
 number of the girls, made the establishment more like a pri- 
 vate family than a school. Moreover, she was a native of 
 the district immediately surrounding Koe Head, as were the 
 majority of her pupils. Most likely Charlotte Bronte, in 
 coming from Haworth, came the greatest distance of all. 
 E.'s home was five miles away ; two other dear friends (the 
 Rose and Jessie Yorke of " Shirley ") lived still nearer ; two 
 cr three came from Huddersfield ; one or two from Leeds. 
 
 I shall now quote, from a valuable letter which I have 
 received from Mary, one of these early friends : distinct and 
 graphic in expression, as becomes a cherished associate of 
 
88 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte's. The time referred to is her first ap 
 pearance at Roe Head, on January 19th, 1831. 
 
 " I first saw her coming out of a covered cart, in very 
 old-fashioned clothes, and looking very cold and miserable. 
 She was coming to school at Miss Wooler's. When she ap- 
 peared in the schoolroom, her dress was changed, but just as 
 Id. She looked a little old woman, so short-sighted that 
 she always appeared to be seeking something, and moving 
 her head from side to side to catch a sight of it. She was 
 very shy and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent. 
 When a book was given her, she dropped her head over it 
 till her nose nearly touched it, and when she was told to 
 hold her head up, up went the book after it, still close to her 
 nose, so that it was not possible to help laughing." 
 
 This was the first impression she made upon one of those 
 whose dear and valued friend she was to become in after-life. 
 Another of the girls recalls her first sight of Charlotte, on 
 the day she came, standing by the school-room window, look- 
 ing out on the snowy landscape, and crying, while all the 
 rest were at play. E. was younger than she, and her tender 
 heart was touched by the apparently desolate condition in 
 which she found the oddly-dressed, odd-looking little girl 
 that winter morning, as " sick for home she stood in tears," 
 in a new strange place, among new strange people. Any 
 over-demonstrative kindness would have scared the wild little 
 maiden from Haworth ; but E. (who is shadowed forth in 
 the Caroline Helstone of^ " Shirley ") managed to win confi- 
 dence, and was allowed to give sympathy. 
 
 To quote again from " Mary's " letter : — 
 
 " We thought her very ignorant, for she had never learnt 
 grammar at all, and very little geography." 
 
 This account of her partial ignorance is confirmed by her 
 other schoolfellows. But Miss Wooler was a lady of remark- 
 •ble intelligence and of delicate tender sympathy. She 
 
THE BRONTE MAGAZINE. 89 
 
 gave a proof of this in her first treatment of Charlotte. 
 The little girl was well read but not well grounded. Miss 
 Wooler took her aside and told her she was afraid that she 
 must place her in the second class for some time, till she 
 could overtake the girls of her own age in their knowledge 
 of grammar, &c. ; but poor Charlotte received this announce- 
 ment by so sad a fit of crying, that Miss Wooler's kind hean 
 was softened, and she wisely perceived that, with such a girl, 
 it would be better to place her in the first class, and allow 
 her to make up by private study in those branches where she 
 was deficient. 
 
 " She would confound us by knowing things that were 
 out of our range altogether. She was acquainted with most 
 of the short pieces of poetry that we had to learn by heart ; 
 would tell us the authors, the poems they were taken from, 
 and sometimes repeat a page or two, and tell us the plot. 
 She had a habit of writing in italics (printing characters) 
 and said she had learnt it by writing in their magazine. They 
 brought out a magazine once a month and wished it to look 
 as like print as possible. She told us a tale out of it. No 
 one wrote in it, and no one read it, but herself, her brother, 
 and two sisters. She promised to show me some of these 
 magazines ; but retracted it afterwards, and would never be 
 persuaded to do so. In our play hours she sate, or stood 
 still, with a book, if possible. Some of us ©nee urged her 
 to be on our side in a game at ball. She said she had never 
 played, and could not play. We made her try, but soon 
 found that she could not see the ball, so we put her out. 
 She took all our proceedings with pliable indiflPerence, and 
 always seemed to need a previous resolution to say ' No ' to 
 anything. She used to go and stand under the trees in tho 
 play-ground, and say it was pleasanter. She endeavoured to 
 explain this, pointing out the shadows, the peeps of sky, &c. 
 We understood but little of it. She said that at Cowan 
 
90 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 Bridge she used to stand iu the burn, on a stone to watch 
 the water flow bj. I told her she should have gone fishing ; 
 she said she never wanted. She always showed physical 
 feebleness in everything, She ate no animal food at school. 
 It was about this time I told her she was very ugly. Some 
 years afterwards, I told her I thought I had been very im- 
 pertinent. She replied, * You did me a great deal of good, 
 Polly, so don't repent of it.' She used to draw much better, 
 and more quickly, than anything we had seen before, and 
 knew much about celebrated pictures and painters. When- 
 ever an opportunity offered of examining a picture or cut of 
 any kind, she went over it piecemeal, with her eyes close to 
 the paper, looking so long that we used to ask her ' what she 
 saw in it.' She could always see plenty, and explained it 
 very well. She made poetry and drawing, at least exceed- 
 ingly interesting to me ; and then I got the habit, which I 
 have yet, of referring mentally to her opinion on all matters 
 of that kind, along with many more, resolving to describe 
 such and such things to her, until I start at the recollection 
 that I never shall." 
 
 To feel the full force of this last sentence — to show how 
 steady and vivid was the impression which Miss Bronte made 
 on those fitted to appreciate her — T must mention that the 
 writer of this letter, dated January 18th, 1856, in which 
 she thus speaks of constantly referring to Charlotte's opinion, 
 has never seen her for eleven years, nearly all of which 
 have been passed among strange scenes, in a new continent, 
 at the antipodes. 
 
 " We used to be furious politicians, as one could hard- 
 ly help being in 1832. She knew the names of the two 
 ministries ; the one that resigned, and the one that succeeded 
 and passed the Reform Bill. She worshipped the Duke of 
 Wellington, but said that Sir Robert Peel was not to be 
 trus^^d ; he did not act from principle like the rest, bul 
 
EXTRACT FROM A LETTER. 91 
 
 from expediency. I, being of the furious radical party^ 
 told her ^ how could any of them trust one another ; they 
 were all of them rascals ! ' Then she would launch out into 
 praises of the Duke of Wellington, referring to his actions ; 
 which I could not contradict, as I knew nothing about him. 
 She said she had taken an interest in politics ever since she 
 was five years old. She did not get her opinions from her 
 father — that is, not directly — but from the papers, &c., he 
 preferred." 
 
 In illustration of the truth of this, I may give an extract 
 from a letter to her brother, written from Roe Head, May, 
 17th, 1832 : — *' Lately I had begun to think that I had lost 
 all the interest which I used formerly to take in politics ; 
 but the extreme pleasure I felt at the news of the Keform 
 Bill's being thrown out by the House of Lords, and of the 
 expulsion, or resignation, of Earl Grey, &c., convinced me 
 that I have not as yet lost all my penchant for politics. I 
 am extremely glad that aunt has consented to take in * Fra- 
 zer's Magazine ; ' for, though I know from your description 
 of its general contents it will be rather uninteresting when 
 compared with * Blackwood,' still it will be better than re- 
 maining the whole year without being able to obtain a sight 
 of any periodical whatever ; and such would assuredly be our 
 case, as, in the little wild moorland village where we reside, 
 there would be no possibility of borrowing a work of that 
 description from a circulating library. I hope with you 
 that the present delightful weather may contribute to the 
 perfect restoration of our dear papa's health; and that it 
 may give aunt pleasant reminiscences of the salubrious cli 
 mate of her native place," &c. 
 
 To return to Mary's letter. 
 
 " She used to speak of her two elder sisters, Maria and 
 Elizabeth, who died at Cowan Bridge. I used to believe 
 them to have been wonders of talent and kindness. She told 
 
92 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 me, early one morning, that she had just been dreaming, 
 she had been told that she was wanted in the drawing-room, 
 and it was Maria and Elizabeth. I was eager for her to go 
 on, and when she said there was no more, I said, * but go on ! 
 Make it out/ I know you can.' She said she would not* 
 she wished she had not dreamed, for it did not go on nicely 
 they were changed ; they had forgotten what they used to 
 care for. They were very fashionably dressed, and began 
 criticising the room, &c. 
 
 " This habit of ^ making out ' interests for themselves, 
 that most children get who have none in actual life, was very 
 strong in her. The whole family used to ^ make out ' histo- 
 ries, and invent characters and events. I told her some- 
 times they were like growing potatoes in a cellar. She said, 
 sadly, * Yes ! I know we are ! ' " 
 
 What I have heard of her school days from other sources, 
 confirms the accuracy of the details in this remarkable let- 
 ter. She was an indefatigable student : constantly reading 
 and learning ; with a strong conviction of the necessity and 
 value of education, very unusual in a girl of fifteen. She 
 never lost a moment of time, and seemed almost to grudge 
 the necessary leisure for relaxation and play-hours, which 
 might be partly accounted for by the awkwardness in all 
 games occasioned by her shortness of sight. Yet, in spite of 
 these unsociable habits, she was a great favourite with her 
 school-fellows. She was always ready to try and do what 
 they wished, though not sorry when they called her awkward, 
 and left her out of their sports. Then, at night, she was an 
 invaluable story-teller, frightening them almost out of their 
 wits as they lay in bed. On one occasion the efiect was such 
 that she was led to scream out loud, and Miss Wooler, com- 
 ing up-stairs, found that one of the listeners had been seized 
 with violent palpitations, in consequence of the excitement 
 produced by Charlotte's story. 
 
HER SCHOOL-DAYS AT MISS WOOLEr's. 93 
 
 ller indefatigable craving for knowledge tempted Miss 
 Wooler on into setting her longer and longer tasks of read- 
 ing for examination ; and towards the end of the two years 
 that she remained as a pupil at Roe Head, she received her 
 first bad mark for an imperfect lesson. She had had a great 
 quantity of Blair's " Lectures on Belles-Lettres " to read ; 
 and she could not answer some of the questions upon it: 
 Charlotte Bronte had a bad mark. Miss Wooler was sorry, 
 and regretted that she had over-tasked so willing a pupil. 
 Charlotte cried bitterly. But her school-fellows were more 
 than sorry — they were indignant. They declared that the 
 infliction of ever so slight a punishment on Charlotte Bronte 
 Tras unjust — for who had tried to do her duty like her ? — and 
 testified their feeling in a variety of ways, until Miss Wooler-, 
 who was in reality only too willing to pass over her good 
 pupil's first fault, withdrew the bad mark, and the girls all 
 returned to their allegiance except " Mary," who took her 
 own way during the week or two that remained of the half- 
 year, choosing to consider Miss Wooler's injustice, in giving 
 Cliarlotte Bronte a longer task than she could possibly pre- 
 pare, as a reason for no longer obeying any of the school 
 regulations. 
 
 The number of pupils was so small that the attendance 
 to certain subjects at particular hours, common in larger 
 schools, was not rigidly enforced. When the girls were 
 ready with their lessons, they came to Miss Wooler to say 
 them. She had a remarkable knack of making them feel in- 
 terested in whatever they had to learn. They set to their 
 studies, not as to tasks or duties to be got through, but with 
 a healthy desire and thirst for knowledge, of which she had 
 managed to make them perceive the relishing savour. They 
 did not leave off reading and learning as soon as the compul- 
 sory pressure of school was taken away. They had been 
 taught to think, to analyze, to reject, to appreciate. Char- 
 
91 LIFE OF CIIARLOITE BRONTE. 
 
 lotte Bronte was happy in tlie choice made for her of the 
 second school to which she was sent. There was a robust 
 freedom in the out-of-doors life of her companions. The}' 
 played at merry games in the fields round the house : on 
 Saturday half-holidays they went long scrambling walks 
 down mysterious shady lanes, then climbing the uplands, and 
 thus gaining extensive views over the country, about which 
 so much had to be told, both of its past and present his- 
 tory. 
 
 Miss Wooler must have had in great perfecticfa the 
 French art, " conter," to judge from her pupil's recoxlections 
 of the tales she related during these long walks, of this old 
 house, or that new mill, and of the states of society conse- 
 quent on the changes involved by the suggestive dates of 
 either building. She remembered the times when watchers 
 cr wakeners in the night heard the distant word of command, 
 and the measured tramp of thousands of sad desperate men 
 receiving a surreptitious military training, in preparation for 
 some great day which they saw in their visions, when right 
 should struggle with might and come off victorious : when 
 the people of England, represented by the workers of York- 
 shire, Lancashire, and Nottinghamshire, should make their 
 voice heard in a terrible slogan, since their true and pitiful 
 complaints could find no hearing in Parliament. We forget, 
 noYT-a-days, so rapid have been the changes for the better, 
 how cruel was the condition of numbers of laborers at the 
 close of the great Peninsular war. The half-ludicrous nature 
 of some of their grievances has lingered on in tradition ; the 
 real intensity of their sufferings is now forgotten. They 
 were maddened and desperate ; and the country, in the 
 opinion of many, seemed to be on the verge of a precipice 
 from which it was only saved by the prompt and resolute 
 decision of a few in authority. Miss Wooler spoke of those 
 times ; of the mysterious nightly drillings ; of thousands on 
 
MR. CARTWRIGHT AND THE LUDDITES. 95 
 
 lonely moors ; of the muttered threats of individuals tod 
 closely pressed upon by necessity to be prudent; of the 
 overt acts, in which the burning of Cartwright's mill took a 
 prominent place ; and these things sank deep into the mind 
 of one, at least, among her hearers. 
 
 Mr. Cartwright was the owner of a factory called Raw- 
 folds, in Liversedge, not beyond the distance of a walk from 
 Roe Head. He had dared to employ machinery for the 
 dressing of woollen cloth, which was an unpopular measure 
 in 1812, when many other circumstances conspired to make 
 the condition of the mill-hands unbearable from the pressure 
 of starvation and misery. Mr. Cartwright was a very re- 
 markable man, having, as I have been told, some foreign 
 blood in him, the traces of which were very apparent in his 
 tall figure, dark eyes and complexion, and singular, though 
 gentlemanly bearing. At any rate, he had been much abroad, 
 and spoke French well, of itself a suspicious circumstance to 
 the bigoted nationality of those days. Altogether he was 
 an unpopular man, even before he took the last step of em- 
 ploying shears, instead of hands, to dress his wool. He was 
 quite aware of his unpopularity, and of the probable conse- 
 quences. He had his mill prepared for an assault. He took 
 up his lodgings in it ; and the doors were strongly barricaded 
 at night. On every step of the stairs there was placed a 
 roller, spiked with barbed points all round, so as to impede 
 the ascent of the rioters, if they succeeded in forcing the 
 doors. On the night of Saturday the 11th of April, 1812, 
 the assault was made. Some hundreds of starving cloth- 
 dressers assembled in the very field near Kirklees that 
 gloped down from the house which Miss Wooler afterwards 
 Inhabited, and were armed by their leaders with pistols, 
 Hatchets, and bludgeons, many of which had been extorted 
 by the nightly bands that prowled about the country, from 
 buch inhabitants of lonely houses as had provided themselves 
 
96 T.IFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 with these means of self-defence. The silent sullen multi- 
 tude marched in the dead of that spring-night to Rawfolds, 
 and giving tongue with a great shout, roused Mr. Cartwright 
 up to the knowledge that the long-expected attack was come. 
 He was within walls, it is true ; but against the fury of 
 hundreds he had only four of his own workmen and five 
 soldiers to assist him. These ten men, however, managed to 
 keep up such a vigorous and well-directed fire of musketry 
 that they defeated all the desperate attempts of the multi- 
 tude outside to break down the doors, and force a way into 
 the mill; and, after a conflict of twenty minutes, during 
 which two of the assailants were killed and several wounded, 
 they withdrew in confusion, leaving Mr. Cartwright master 
 of the field, but so dizzy and exhausted, now the peril was 
 past, that he forgot the nature of his defences, and injured 
 his leg rather seriously by one of the spiked rollers, in at- 
 tempting to go up his own staircase. His dwelling was near 
 the factory. Some of the rioters vowed that if he did not 
 give in, they would leave this, and go to his house, and mur- 
 der his wife and children. This was a terrible threat, for 
 "he had been obliged to leave his family with only one or two 
 soldiers to defend the house. Mrs. Cartwright knew what 
 they had threatened ; and on that dreadful night hearing, as 
 she thought, steps approaching, she snatched up her two in- 
 fant children, and put them in a basket up the great chimney, 
 common in old-fashioned Yorkshire houses. One of the two 
 children who had been thus stowed away, used to point out 
 with pride, after she had grown up to woman's estate, the 
 marks of musket-shot, and the traces of gunpowder on the 
 walls of her father's mill. He was the first that had ofiered 
 any resistance to the progress of the " Luddites," who had 
 become by this time so numerous as almost to assume the 
 character of an insurrectionary army. Mr. Cartwright's 
 conduct was so much admired by the neighbouring mill- 
 
MK. CAKTWKIGHT AND THE RTJDDEES. 97 
 
 owners that they entered into a subscription for his benefit, 
 which amounted in the end to 3,000?. 
 
 Not much more than a fortnight after this attack on 
 Eawfolds, another manufacturer who employed the obnoxious 
 machinery, was shot down in broad daylight, as he was pass- 
 ing over Crossland Moor, which was skirted by a small plan- 
 tation in which the murderers lay hidden. The readers of 
 " Shirley " will recognise these circumstances, which were 
 related to Miss Bronte years after they occurred, but on the 
 very spots where they took place, and by persons who remem- 
 bered full well those terrible times of insecurity to life and 
 property on the one hand, and of iitter starvation and blind 
 ignorant despair on the other. 
 
 Mr. Bronte himself- had been living amongst these very 
 people in 1812, as he was then clergyman at Hartshead, not 
 three miles from Rawfolds ; and, as I have mentioned, it was 
 in these perilous times that he began his custom of carrying 
 a loaded pistol continually about with him. For not only 
 his Tory politics, but his love and regard for the authority 
 of the law, made him despise the cowardice of the surround- 
 ing magistrates, who, in their dread of the Luddites, refused 
 to interfere, so as to prevent the destruction of property. 
 The clergy of the district were the bravest men by far. 
 There was a Mr. Roberson, of Heald's Hall, a friend of Mr. 
 Bronte's, who has left a deep impression of himself on the 
 public mind. He lived near Heckmondwike, a large, strag- 
 gling, dirty village, not two miles from Eoe Head. It was 
 principally inhabited by blanket weavers, who worked in 
 heir own cottages ; and Heald's Hall is the largest house in 
 he village, of which Mr. Roberson was the vicar. At his 
 own cost, he built a handsome church at Liversedge, on a 
 hill opposite the one on which his house stood, which was 
 the first attempt in the "West Riding to meet the wants of 
 the overgrown population, and made many personal sacrifices 
 
 VOL. I — 5 
 
98 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE EHONTE. 
 
 for his opinlonSj botli religious and political, which were of 
 the true old-fashioned Tory stamp. He hated everything 
 which he fancied had a tendency towards anarchy. He was 
 loyal in every fibre to Church and king ; and would have 
 proudly laid down his life, any day, for what he believed to 
 be right and true. But he was a man of an imperial will, 
 and by it he bore down opposition, till tradition represents 
 him as having something grimly demoniac about him. He 
 was intimate with Cartwright, and aware of the attack likely 
 to be made on his mill ; accordingly, it is said, he armed him- 
 self and his household, and was prepared to come to the res- 
 cue, in the event of a signal being given that aid was needed. 
 Thus far is likely enough. Mr. Eoberson had plenty of 
 warlike spirit in him, man of peace though he was. But, in 
 consequence of his having taken the unpopular side, exaggera- 
 tions of his character linger as truth in the minds of the 
 people ; and a fabulous story is told of his forbidding any 
 one to give water to the wounded Luddites, left in the mill- 
 yard, when he rode in the next morning to congratulate his 
 friend Cartwright on his successful defence. Moreover, this 
 stern, fearless clergyman had the soldiers that were sent to 
 defend the neighbourhood billeted at his house; and this 
 deeply displeased the work-people, who were to be intimidated 
 by the red-coats. Although not a magistrate, he spared no 
 pains to track out the Luddites concerned in the assassination 
 I have mentioned ; and was so successful in his acute un- 
 flinching energy, that it was believed he had been supernatu- 
 rally aided ; and the country people, stealing into the field 
 surrounding Heald's Hall on dusky winter evenings, years 
 after this time, declared that through the windows they saw 
 Parson Boberson dancing, in a strange red light, with black 
 demons all whirling and eddying round him He kept a 
 large boys' school ; and made himself both respected and 
 dreaded by his pupils. He added a grim kind of humour to 
 
BETTY HAD "A FOLLOWER." 99 
 
 liis strength of will ; and the former quality suggested to hia 
 fancy strange out-of-the-way kinds of punishment for any 
 refractory pupils : for instance, he made them stand on one 
 leg in a corner of the school-room, holding a heavy book in 
 each hand ; and once, when a boy had run away home, he 
 followed him on horseback, reclaimed him from his parents 
 and, tying him by a rope to the stirrup of his saddle, made 
 him run alongside of his horse for the many miles they had 
 to traverse before reaching Heald's Hall. One other illus- 
 tration of his character may be given. He discovered that 
 his servant Betty had " a follower ; " and, watching his time 
 till Richard was found in the kitchen, he ordered him into 
 the dining-room, where the pupils were all assembled. He 
 then questioned Richard whether he had come after Betty ; 
 and on his confessing the truth, Mr. Roberson gave the word, 
 " Off with him, lads, to the pump." The poor lover was 
 dragged to the courtyard, and the pump set to play upon 
 him ; and, between every drenching, the question was put to 
 uim, " Will you promise not to come after Betty again ? '" 
 for a long time Richard bravely refused to give in ; when 
 '* Pump again, lads ! " was the order. But, at last, the poor 
 ioaked " follower " was forced to yield, and renounce his 
 Beiwy. The Yorkshire character of Mr. Roberson would be 
 '.nco-iiiplete if I did not mention his fondness for horses. He 
 lived to be a very old man, dying sometime nearer to 1840 
 khan 1830 ; and even after he was eighty years of age, he 
 look gj sat delight in breaking refractory steeds ; if neces- 
 sary, ho would sit motionless on their backs for half-an-hour 
 ?r mor(^, to bring them to. There is a story current that 
 ^nee, in ;i passion, he shot his wife's favourite horse, and 
 feuried it near a quarry, where the ground, some years after, 
 miraculo\r:sly opened and displayed the skeleton; but the 
 real fact is, that it was an act of humanity to put a poor old 
 horse out of misery ; and that, to spare it pain, he shot it 
 
100 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 with his own hands, and buried it where the ground sinking 
 afterwards bj the working of a eoal-pit, the bones came to 
 light. The traditional colouring shows the animus with 
 which his memory is regarded by one set of people. By 
 aR-Q^her, the neighbouring clergy, who remember him riding, 
 in his old age, down the hill on which his house stood, upon 
 his strong white horse — his bearing proud and dignified, his 
 shovel hat bent over and shadowing his keen eagle eyes — 
 going to his Sunday duty, like a faithful soldier that dies in 
 harness — who can appreciate his loyalty to conscience, his 
 sacrifices for duty, and his stand by his religion — his memory 
 is venerated. In his extreme old age, a rubric-meeting was 
 held, at which his clerical brethren gladly subscribed to 
 present him with a testimonial of their deep respect and 
 regard. 
 
 This is a specimen of the strong character not seldom 
 manifested by the Yorkshire clergy of the Established 
 Church. Mr. Eoberson was a friend of Charlotte Bronte's 
 father ; lived within a couple of miles of Roe Head while 
 she was at school there ; and was deeply engaged in transac- 
 tions, the memory of which was yet recent when she heard 
 of them, and of the part which he had had in them. I may 
 now say a little on the character of the Dissenting popula- 
 tion immediately surrounding Boe Head ; for the " Tory and 
 clergyman's daughter," " taking interest in politics ever since 
 she was five years old," and holding frequent discussions with 
 such of the girls as were Dissenters and Radicals, was sure 
 to have made herself as much acquainted as she could with 
 the condition of those to whom she was opposed in opinion. 
 
 The bulk of the population were Dissenters, principally 
 Independents. In the village of Heckmondwike, at one end 
 of which Boe Head is situated, there were two large chapels, 
 belonging to that denomination, and one to the Methodists, 
 all of which were well filled two or three times on a Sunday 
 
SCENES AT HECKMONDWIKE CHAPELS. 101 
 
 besides having various prayer-meetings, fully attended, on 
 week-days. The inhabitants were a chapel-going people, 
 very critical about the doctrine of their sermons, tyrannical 
 to their ministers, and violent Radicals in politics. A friend, 
 • well acquainted with the place when Charlotte Bronte was 
 at school, has described some events which occurred then 
 among them : — 
 
 " A scene, which took place at the Lower Chapel at 
 Ileckmondwike, will give you some idea of the people at that 
 time. When a newly-married couple made their appearance 
 at chapel, it was the custom to sing the Wedding Anthem, 
 just after the last prayer, and as the congregation was quit- 
 ting the chapel. The band of singers who performed this 
 ceremony expected to have money given them, and often 
 passed the following night in drinking ; at least, so said the 
 minister of the place ; and he determined to put an end to 
 this custom. In this he was supported by many members of 
 the chapel and congregation ; but so strong was the demo- 
 cratic element, that he met with the most violent opposition, 
 and was often insulted when he went into the street. A 
 bride was expected to make her first appearance, and the 
 minister told the singers not to perform the anthem. On 
 their declaring they would, he had the large pew which they 
 usually occupied locked ; they broke it open : from the pul- 
 pit he told the congregation that, instead of their singing a 
 hymn, he would read a chapter. Hardly had he uttered the 
 first word, before up rose the singers, headed by a tall, fierce- 
 looking weaver, who gave out a hymn, and all sang it at the 
 very top of their voices, aided by those of their friends who 
 were in the chapel. Those who disapproved of the conduct 
 of the singers, and sided with the minister, remained seated 
 till the hymn was finished. Then he gave out the chapter 
 again, read it, and preached. He was just about to con- 
 clude with prayer, when up started the singers and screamed 
 
102 IJFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 forth another hymn. These disgraceful scenes were con« 
 tinued for many weeks, and so violent was the feeling, that 
 the different parties could hardly keep from blows as they 
 came through the chapel-yard. The minister, at last, left 
 the place, and along with him went many of the most tem- 
 perate and respectable part of the congregation, and the 
 singers remained triumphant. 
 
 " I believe that there was such a violent contest respect- 
 ing the choice of a pastor, about this time, in the upper chapel 
 at Heckmondwike, that the Riot Act had to be read at a 
 church-meeting. ' ' 
 
 Certainly, the soi-disant Christians who forcibly ejected 
 Mr. Redhead at Haworth, ten or twelve years before, held a 
 very heathen brotherhood with the soi-disant Christians of 
 Heckmondwike ; though the one set might be called mem- 
 bers of the Church of England, and the other Dissenters. 
 
 The letter from which I have taken the above extract 
 relates throughout to the immediate neighbourhood of the 
 place where Charlotte Bronte spent her school days, and 
 describes things as they existed at that very time. The 
 writer says, — " Having been accustomed to the respectful 
 manners of the lower orders in the agricultural districts, I 
 was, at first, much disgusted and somewhat alarmed at the 
 great freedom displayed by the working classes of Heck- 
 mondwike and Gromersall to those in a station above them. 
 The term * lass ' was as freely applied to any young lady, as 
 the word ^ wench ' is in Lancashire. The extremely untidy 
 appearance of the villages shocked me not a little, though I 
 must do the housewives the justice to say that the cottages 
 themselves were not dirty, and had an air of rough plenty 
 about them (except when trade was bad), that I had not been 
 accustomed to see in the farming districts. The heap of 
 coals on one side of the house-door, and the brewing tubs on 
 the other, and the frequent perfume of malt and hops as you 
 
CHARACTERISTICS OF HECKMONDWIKE. 103 
 
 v^alked along, proved that fire and " home-brewed" were to 
 be found at almost every man's hearth. Nor was hospital- 
 ity^ one of the main virtues of Yorkshire, wanting. Oat- 
 cake, cheese, and beer, were freely pressed upon the visitor. 
 
 ^* There used to be a yearly festival, half religious, half 
 social, held at Heckmondwike, called ^ The Lecture.' I fancy 
 it had come down from the times of the Nonconformists. A 
 sermon was preached by some stranger at the Lower Chapel, 
 on a week day evening, and the next day two sermons in suc- 
 cession were delivered at the Upper Chapel. Of course, tho 
 service was a very long one, and as the time was June, and 
 the weather often hot, it used to be regarded by myself and 
 my companions as no pleasurable way of passing the morn- 
 ing. The rest of the day was spent in social enjoyment ; 
 great numbers of strangers flocked to the place ; booths were 
 erected for the sale of toys and gingerbread (a sort of ^ Holy 
 Fair ') ; and the cottages having had a little extra paint and 
 white-washing, assumed quite a holiday look. 
 
 " The village of Gomersall " (where Charlotte Bronte's 
 frtend ^ Mary ' lived with her family), " which was a much 
 prettier place than Heckmondwike, contained a strange-look- 
 ing cottage, built of rough unhewn stones, many of them 
 projecting considerably, with uncouth heads and grinning 
 faces carved upon them ; and upon a stone above the door 
 was cut, in large letters, * Spite Hall.' It was erected by a 
 man in the village, opposite to the house of his enemy, who 
 had just finished for himself a good house, commanding a 
 beautiful view down the valley, which this hideous building 
 ^uite shut out." 
 
 Fearless — because this people were quite familiar to all 
 of them — amidst such a population, lived and walked the 
 gentle Miss Wooler's eight or nine pupils. She herself was 
 born and bred among this rough, strong, fierce set, and knew 
 the depth of goodness and loyalty that lay beneath their 
 
104 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 wild manners and insubordinate ways. And the girls talked 
 of the little world around them, as if it were the only world 
 that was ; and had their opinions and their parties, and their 
 fierce discussions like their elders — ^possibly, their betters. 
 And among them, beloved and respected by all, laughed at 
 occasionally by a few, but always to her face — lived, for two 
 jears, the plain, short-sighted, oddly-dressed, studious littlo 
 girl they called Charlotte Bronte. 
 
LEAYIKG SCHOOL. 105 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Miss Bronte left Roe Head in 1832, having won the affeo 
 tionate regard both of her teacher and her school- fellows, 
 and having formed there the two fast friendships which lasted 
 her whole life long ; the one with " Mary," who has not kept 
 her letters ; the other with " E." who has kindly entrusted 
 me with as much of her correspondence as she has preserved. 
 In looking over the earlier portion, I am struck afresh by 
 the absence of hope, which formed such a strong character- 
 istic in Charlotte. At an age when girls, in general, look 
 forward to an eternal duration of such feelings as they or 
 their friends entertain, and can therefore see no hindrance 
 to the fulfilment of any engagements dependent on the future 
 state of the affections, she is surprised that E. keeps her 
 promise to write. In after-life, I was painfully impressed 
 with the fact, that Miss Bronte never dared to allow herself 
 to look forward with hope ; that she had no confidence in the 
 future ; and I thought, when I heard of the sorrowful years 
 she had passed through, that it had been this pressure of 
 grief which had crushed all buoyancy of expectation out of 
 her. But it appears from the letters, that it must have 
 been, so to speak, constitutional ; or, perhaps, the deep pang 
 of losing her two elder sisters combined with a permanent 
 state of bodily weakness in producing her hopelessness. If 
 her trust in Grod had been less strong, she would have given 
 way to unbounded anxiety, at many a period of her life. Ah 
 5* 
 
106 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 it was, we shall see, she made a great and succesiful eiibrt to 
 leave " her times in His hands." 
 
 After her return home, she employed herself in teaching 
 her sisters, over whom she had had superior advantages. 
 She writes thus, July 21st, 1832, of her course of life at the 
 parsonage : — 
 
 " An account of one day is an account of all. In tho 
 morning, from nine o'clock till half-past twelve, I instruct 
 my sisters, and draw ; then we walk till dinner-time. After 
 dinner I sew till tea-time, and after tea I either write, read, 
 or do a little fancy work, or draw, as I please. Thus, in one 
 delightful, though somewhat monotonous course, my life is 
 passed. I have been only out twice to tea since I came 
 home. We are expecting company this afternoon, and on 
 Tuesday next we shall have all the female teachers of the 
 Sunday-school to tea." 
 
 It was about this time that Mr. Bronte provided his 
 children with a teacher in drawing, who turned out to be a 
 man of considerable talent, but very little principle. Al- 
 though they never attained to anything like proficiency, they 
 took great interest in acquiring this art ; evidently, from an 
 instinctive desire to express their powerful imaginations in 
 visible forms. Charlotte told me, that, at this period of her 
 life, drawing, and walking out with her sisters, formed the 
 two great pleasures and relaxations of her day. 
 
 The three girls used to walk upwards towards the " purple- 
 black ' ' moors, the sweeping surface of which was broken by 
 here and there a stone-quarry ; and if they had strength and 
 time to go far enough, they reached a waterfall, where the 
 beck fell over some rocks into the " bottom." They seldom 
 went downwards through the village. They were shy of 
 meeting even familiar faces, and were scrupulous about enter- 
 ing the house of the very poorest uninvited. They were 
 steady teachers at the Sunday-school, a habit which Char- 
 
FRENCH CORRESPONDENCE. 107 
 
 lotte kept up very faithfully, even after she was left alone ; 
 but they never faced their kind voluntarily, and always pre* 
 ferred the solitude and freedom of the moors. 
 
 In the September of this year, Charlotte went to pay her 
 first visit to her friend E. It took her into the neighbour- 
 hood of Roe Head, and brought her into pleasant contact 
 with many cf her old schoolfellows. After this visit, she 
 and her friend seem to have agreed to correspond in French, 
 for the sake of improvement in the language. But this im- 
 provement could not be great, when it could only amount 
 to a greater familiarity with dictionary words, and when 
 there was no one to explain to them that a verbal translation 
 of English idioms hardly constituted French composition ; 
 but the effort was laudable, and of itself shows how willing 
 they both were to carry on the education which they had be- 
 gun under Miss Wooler. I will give an extract which, what- 
 ever may be thought of the language, is graphic enough, and 
 presents us with a happy little family picture; the eldest 
 sister returning home to the two younger, after a fortnight's 
 absence. 
 
 " J'arrivait a Haworth en parfaite sauvete sans le moin- 
 dre accident ou malheur. Mes petites soeurs couraient hors 
 de la maison pour me rencontrer aussitot que la voiture se fit 
 voir, et elles m'cmbrassaient avec autant d'empressement, et 
 de plaisir, comme si j 'avals ete absente pour plus d'an. Mon 
 Papa, ma Tante, et le monsieur dont mon frere avoit parle, 
 furent tons assembles dans le Salon, et en pen de temps je 
 in'y rendis aussi. C'est souvent I'ordre du Ciel que quand on 
 a perdu un plaisir il y en a un autre pret a prendre sa place. 
 Ainsi je venoit de partir de tres chers amis, mais tout a 
 I'heure je revins a des parens aussi chers et bons dans le mo- 
 ment. Meme que vous me perdiez (ose-je croire que mon 
 depart vous etait un chagrin ?) vous attendites Tarrivce de 
 
108 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 votre frere, et de votre soeur. J'ai donne a nies soeurs leh 
 pommes que vous leur envoyiez avec tant de bont^ ; ellea 
 disent qu'elles sont sur que Mademoiselle E. est tres aimable 
 et bonne ; I'une et I'autre sont extremement impatientes de 
 vous voir ; j'espere qu'en peu de mois elles auront ce plaisir." 
 
 But it was some time before the friends could meet, and 
 meanwhile they agreed to correspond once a month. There 
 were no events to chronicle in the Haworth letters. Quiet 
 days, occupied in teaching, and feminine occupations in the 
 house, did not present much to write about ; and Charlotte 
 was naturally driven to criticize books. 
 
 Of these there were many in different plights, and ac- 
 cording to their plight, kept in different places. The well 
 bound were ranged in the sanctuary of Mr. Bronte's study ; 
 but the purchase of books was a necessary luxury to him, 
 and as it was often a choice between binding an old one, or 
 buying a new one, the familiar volume, Avhich had been 
 hungrily read by all the members of the family, was some- 
 times in such a condition that the bed-room shelf was con- 
 sidered its fitting place. Up and down the house, were to 
 be found many standard works of a solid kind. Sir Walter 
 Scott's writings, Wordsworth's and Southey's poems were 
 among the lighter literature ; while, as having a character 
 of their own — earnest, wild, and occasionally fanatical — may 
 be named some of the books which came from the Branwell 
 side of the family — from the Cornish followers of the saintly 
 John Wesley — and which are touched on in the account of 
 the works to which Caroline Helstone had access in " Shir- 
 ley '' : — " Some venerable Lady's Magazines, that had once 
 performed a voyage with their owner, and undergone a 
 storm " — (possibly part of the relics of Mrs. Bronte's pos- 
 sessions, contained in the ship wrecked on the coast of Corn- 
 wall) — " and whose pages were stained with salt water ; 
 Bome mad Methodist Magazines full of miracles and appari- 
 
HER -REMARKS ON " KENIL WORTH." 109 
 
 tions, and preternatural warnings, ominous dreams, and 
 frenzied fanaticism; and the equally mad Letters of Mrs. 
 Elizabeth Rowe from the Dead to the Living." 
 
 Mr. Bronte encouraged a taste for reading in his girls ; 
 and though Miss Branwell kept it in due bounds, by the 
 variety of household occupations, in which she expected 
 them not merely to take a part, but to become proficients, 
 thereby occupying regularly a good portion of every day, 
 they were allowed to get books from the circulating library 
 at Keighley ; and many a happy walk, up those long four 
 miles must they have had burdened with some new book in- 
 to which they peeped as they hurried home. Not that the 
 books were what would generally be called new ; in the be- 
 ginning of 1833, the two friends seem almost simultaneously 
 to have fallen upon " Kenilworth," and Charlotte writes as 
 follows about it : — 
 
 " I am glad you like * Kenil worth ; ' it is certainly more 
 resembling a romance than a novel : in my opinion, one of 
 the most interesting works that ever emanated from the 
 great Sir Walter's pen. Varney is certainly the personifica- 
 tion of consummate villany ; and in the delineation of his dark 
 and profoundly artful mind, Scott exhibits a wonderful know- 
 ledge of human nature, as well as surprising skill in embody- 
 ing his perceptions, so as to enable others to become participa- 
 tors in that knowledge." 
 
 Commonplace as this extract may seem, it is note-wortny 
 on two or three accounts : in the first place, instead of dis- 
 cussing the plot or story, she analyzes the character of Var- 
 ney ; and next, she, knowing nothing of the world, both 
 from her youth and her isolated position, has yet been so 
 accustomed to hear " human nature " distrusted, as to receive 
 the notion of intense and artful villany without surprise. 
 
 What was formal and set in her way of writing to E. 
 diminished as their personal acquaintance increased, and as 
 
110 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 eacli came to know the home of the other ; so that small de- 
 tails concerning people and places had their interest and 
 their significance. In the summer of 1833, she wrote to in- 
 vite her friend to come and pay her a visit. " Aunt thought 
 it would be better '' (she says) " to defer it until about the 
 middle of summer, as the winter, and even the spring sea* 
 eons, are remarkably cold and bleak among our mountains.'* 
 
 The first impression made on the visitor by the sisters of 
 her school-friend was, that Emily was a tall, long-armed girl, 
 more fully grown than her elder sister ; extremely reserved 
 in manner. I distinguish reserve from shyness, because I 
 imagine shyness would please, if it knew how ; whereas, re- 
 serve is indifferent whether it pleases or not. Anne, like her 
 eldest sister, was shy ; Emily was reserved. 
 
 Branwell was rather a handsome boy, with " tawny '' 
 hair, to use Miss Bronte's phrase for, a more obnoxious 
 colour. All were very clever, original, and utterly diff*erent 
 to any people or family E. had ever seen before. But, on 
 the whole, it was a happy visit to all parties. Charlotte 
 says, in writing to E., just after her return home — " Were I 
 to tell you of the impression you have made on every one 
 here, you would accuse me of flattery. Papa and aunt are 
 continually adducing you as an example for me to shape my 
 actions and behavioui' by. Emily and Anne say ^ they never 
 saw any one they liked so well as you.' And Tabby, whom 
 you have absolutely fascinated, talks a great deal more non- 
 sense about your ladyship than I care to repeat. It is no-w 
 so dark that, notwithstanding the singular property of seeing 
 in the night-time, which the young ladies at Koe Head used 
 to attribute to me, I can scribble no longer." 
 
 To a visitor at the parsonage, it was a great thing to 
 hayc Tabby's good word. She had a Yorkshire keenness 
 of perception into character, and it was not everybody sho 
 likttd. 
 
A DEEARY SEASON AT HAWOKTH. Ill 
 
 Haworth is built with an utter disregard of all sauitary 
 conditions : the great old churchyard lies above all the 
 houses, and it is terrible to think how the very water-springs 
 of the pumps below must be poisoned. But this winter of 
 1833-4 was particularly wet and rainy, and there were an 
 unusual number of deaths in the village. A dreary season 
 it was to the family in the parsonage : their usual walks ob- 
 structed by the spongy state of the moors — the passing and 
 funeral bells so frequently tolling, and filling the heavy air 
 with their mournful sound — and, when they were still, the 
 " chip, chip " of the mason, as he cut the grave-stones in a 
 shed close by. In many, living, as it were, in a church- 
 yard — for the parsonage is surrounded by it on three sides — 
 and with all the sights and sounds connected with the last 
 offices to the dead things of every-day occurrence, the very 
 familiarity would have bred indifierence. But it was other- 
 wise with Charlotte Bronte. One of her friends says : — " I 
 have seen her turn pale and feel faint when, in Hartshead 
 church, some one accidentally remarked that we were walk- 
 ing over graves." 
 
 About the beginning of 1834, E. went to London for the 
 first time. The idea of her friend's visit seems to have 
 stirred Charlotte strangely. She appears to have formed 
 her notions of its probable consequences from some of the 
 papers in the " British Essayists," " The Rambler," " The 
 Mirror," or "The Lounger," which may have been among 
 the English classics on the parsonage book-shelves ; for she 
 evidently imagines that an entire change of character for the 
 worse is the usual effect of a visit to " the great metropolis," 
 and is delighted to find that E. is E. still. And, as her 
 faith in her friend's stability is restored, her own imagination 
 is deeply moved by the ideas of what great wonders are to 
 be seen in that vast and famous city. 
 
112 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 '' Eaworth, Fehruary 20thj 1834. 
 *^ Your letter gave me real and heartfelt pleasure, 
 mingled with no jBmall share of astonishment. Mary had 
 previously informed me of your departure for London, and I 
 had not ventured to calculate on any communication from 
 you while surrounded by the splendours and novelties of that 
 great city, which has been called the mercantile metropolis 
 of Europe. Judging from human nature, I thought that a 
 little country girl, for the first time in a situation so well 
 calculated to excite curiosity, and to distract attention, would 
 lose all remembrance, for a time at least, of distant and 
 familiar objects, and give herself up entirely to the fascina- 
 tion of those scenes which were then presented to her view. 
 Your kind, interesting, and most welcome epistle showed 
 me, however,, that I had been both mistaken and unchari- 
 table in these suppositions. I was greatly amused at the tone 
 of nonchalance which you assumed, while treating of London 
 and its wonders. Did you not feel awed while gazing at St 
 Paul's and Westminster Abbey ? Had you no feeling of 
 intense and ardent interest, when in St. James's you saw the 
 palace where so many of England's kings have held their 
 courts, and beheld the representations of their persons on the 
 walls ? You should not be too much afraid of appearing 
 country-bred; the magnificence of London has drawn ex- 
 clamations of astonishment from travelled men, experienced 
 in the world, its wonders and beauti?s. Have you yet seen 
 anything of the great personages whom the sitting of Parlia- 
 ment now detains in London — the Duke of Wellington, Sii 
 Robert Peel, Earl Grey, Mr. Stanley, Mr. O'Connell ? If I 
 were you, I would not be too anxious to spend my time in 
 reading whilst in town. Make use of your own eyes for the 
 purposes of observation now, and, for a time at least, lay 
 aside the spectacles with which authors would furnish us." 
 
 In a postgeript she adds :■ — 
 
A FIRST VISIT rO LONDON. 113 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to inform mc of the numbei 
 of performers in the King's military band ? " 
 
 And in something of the same strain she writes on 
 
 ^'tTune 19th. 
 " My own dear E., 
 
 I may rightfully and truly call you so now. You 
 have returned or are returnicg from London- — from the 
 great city which is to mo as apocryphal as Babylon, or 
 Nineveh, or ancient Rome. You are withdrawing from the 
 world (as it is called), and bringing with you — if your let- 
 ters enable me to form a correct judgment — a heart as un- 
 sophisticated, as natural, as true, as that you carried there. 
 I am slow, very slow, to believe the protestations of another ; 
 I know my own sentiments, I can read my own mind, but 
 the minds of the rest of man and woman kind are to me sealed 
 volumes, hieroglyphical scrolls, which I cannot easily either 
 unseal or decipher. Yet time, careful study, long acquaint- 
 ance, overcome most difficulties ; and, in your case, I think 
 they have succeeded well in bringing to light and construing 
 that hidden language, whose turnings, windings, inconsisten- 
 cies, and obscurities, so frequently baffle the researches of 
 the honest observer of human nature. ... I am truly 
 grateful for your mindfulness of so obscure a person as my- 
 self, and I hope the pleasure is not altogether selfish; I 
 trust it is partly derived from the consciousness that my 
 friend's character is of a higher, a more steadfast order than 
 I was once perfectly aware of. Few girls would have don 
 as you have done- — would have beheld the glare, and glitter, 
 and dazzling display of London with dispositions so unchan- 
 ged, heart so uncontaminated. I see no affectation in your 
 letters, no trifling, no frivolous contempt of plain, and weak 
 admiration of showy persons and things." 
 
114 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 In these days of cheap railway trips, we may smile at 
 the idea of a short visit to London having any great effect 
 upon the character, whatever it may have upon the intellect. 
 But her London — her great apocryphal city — was the '' town " 
 of a century before, to which giddy daughters dragged un- 
 willing papas, or went with injudicious friends, to the 
 detriment of all their better qualities, and sometimes to the 
 ruin of their fortunes ; it was the Vanity Fair of the " Pil- 
 grim's Progress " to her. 
 
 But see the just and admirable sense with which she 
 can treat a subject of which she is able to overlook all the 
 bearings. 
 
 '' Haworth, July 4th, 1834. 
 " In your last, you requested me to tell you of your 
 faults. Now, really, how can you be so foolish ! I ivonH 
 tell you of your faults, because I don't know them. What 
 a creature would that be, who, after receiving an affectionate 
 and kind letter from a beloved friend, should sit down and 
 write a catalogue of defects by way of answer ! Imagine 
 me doing so, and then consider what epithets you would be- 
 stow on me. Conceited, dogmatical, hypocritical, little hum- 
 Dug, I should think, would be the mildest. Why, child ! 
 I've neither time nor inclination to reflect on your faults 
 when you are so far from me, and when, besides, kind letter* 
 and presents, and so forth, are continually bringing forth 
 your goodness in the most prominent light. Then, too, there 
 are judicious relations always round you, who can much 
 better discharge that unpleasant office. I have no doubt 
 their advice is completely at your service ; why then should I 
 intrude mine ? If you will not hear thenij it will be vaiti 
 though one should rise from the dead to instruct you. Let 
 ug have no more nonsense^ if you love me. Mr. is go- 
 ing to be married, is he ? Well, his wife elect appeared to 
 
LETTER ON CHOICE OF BOOKS. 115 
 
 me to be a clever and amiable lady, as far as I could judgQ 
 from the little I saw of her, and from your account. Now to 
 that flattering sentence must I tack on a list of her faults ? 
 
 You say it is in contemplation for you to leave . I am 
 
 sorry for it. is a pleasant spot, one of the old family 
 
 halls of England, surrounded by lawn and woodland, speak- 
 ing of past times, and suggesting (to me at least) happy feel- 
 ings. M. thought you grown less, did she ? I am not 
 grown a bit, but as short and dumpy as ever. You ask me 
 to recommend you some books for your perusal. I will do 
 so in as few words as I can. If you like poetry, let it be 
 first-rate ; Milton, Shakspeare, Thomson, Goldsmith, Pope 
 (if you will, though I don't admire him), Scott, Byron, 
 Campbell, Wordsworth, and Southey. Now don't be startled 
 at the names of Shakspeare and Byron. Both these were 
 great men, and their works are like themselves. You will 
 know how to choose the good, and to avoid the evil ; the 
 finest passages are always the purest, the bad are invariably 
 revolting ; you will never wish to read them over twice. 
 Omit the comedies of Shakspeare and the Don Juan^ per- 
 haps the Cain, of Byron, though the latter is a magnificent 
 poem, and read the rest fearlessly ; that must indeed be a 
 depraved mind which can gather evil from Henry VIII., 
 from Richard III., from Macbeth, and Hamlet, and Julius 
 Caesar. Scott's sweet, wild, romantic poetry can do you no 
 harm. Nor can Wordsworth's, nor Campbell's, nor Southey's 
 — the greatest part at least of his ; some is certainly objec- 
 tionable. For history, read Hume, RoUin, and the Uni- 
 versal History, if you can ; I never did. For fiction, read 
 Scott alone ; all novels after his are worthless For biog- 
 raphy, read Johnson's Lives of the Poets, Boswell's Life of 
 Johnson, Southey's Life of Nelson, Lockhart's Life of Burns, 
 Moore's Life of Sheridan, Moore's Life of Byron, Wolf's 
 Remains. For natural history, read Bewick and Audubon, 
 
lie LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 and Goldsmith^ and White's History of Selborne. Foi 
 divinity, your brother will advise you there. I can only 
 say, adhere to standard authors, and avoid novelty." 
 
 From this list, we see that she must have had a good 
 range of books from which to choose her own reading. 
 It is evident, that the womanly consciences of these two cor- 
 respondents were anxiously alive to many questions discussed 
 among the stricter religionists. The morality of Shakspeare 
 needed the confirmation of Charlotte's opinion to the sensi- 
 tive E. ; and a little later, she inquired whether dancing 
 was objectionable, when indulged in for an hour or two in 
 parties of boys and girls. Charlotte replies, " I should 
 
 hesitate to express a difference of opinion from Mr. , 
 
 or from your excellent sister, but really the matter seems to 
 me to stand thus. It is allowed on all hands, that the sin 
 of dancing consists not in the mere action of " shaking the 
 shanks " (as the Scotch say), but in the consequences that 
 usually attend it ; namely, frivolity and waste of time ; when 
 it is used only, as in the case you state, for the exercise and 
 amusement of an hour among young people (who surely may 
 without any breach of Grod's commandments be allowed a 
 little light-heartedness), these consequences cannot follow. 
 Ergo (according to my manner of arguing), the amusement 
 is at such times perfectly innocent." 
 
 Although the distance between Haworth and B 
 
 was but seventeen miles, it was difficult to go straight from 
 the one to the other without hiring a gig or vehicle of some 
 kind for the journey. Hence a visit from Charlotte required 
 a good deal of pre-arrangement. The Haworth gig was not 
 always to be had ; and Mr. Bronte was often unwilling to 
 fall into any arrangement for meeting at Bradford or other 
 places, which would occasion trouble to others. They had 
 &11 an ample share of that sensitive pride which led them to 
 dread incurring obligations, and to fear *^ outstayinp^ their 
 
CHARACTEE OF BKANWELL BEONTE. 117 
 
 welcome " when on any visit. I am not sure whether Mr. 
 Bronto did not consider distrust of others as a part of that 
 knowledge pf human nature on which he piqued himself. 
 His precepts to this effect, combined with Charlotte's lack 
 of hope, made her always fearful of loving too much*; of 
 wearying the objects of her affection; and thus she was often 
 trying to restrain her warm feelings, and was ever chary of 
 that presence so invariably welcome to her true friends. 
 According to this mode of acting, when she was invited 
 for a month, she stayed but a fortnight amidst E.'s family, 
 to whom every visit only endeared her the more, and by 
 whom she was received with that kind of quiet gladness 
 with which they would have greeted a sister. 
 
 She still kept up her childish interest in politics. In 
 March, 1835, she writes : " What do you think of the course 
 politics are taking? I make this inquiry, because I now 
 think you take a wholesome interest in the matter; for- 
 merly you did not care greatly about it. B., you see, is 
 triumphant. Wretch ! I am a hearty hater, and if there is 
 any one I thoroughly abhor, it is that man. But the Op- 
 position is divided, Red-hots, and Luke-warms; and the 
 Duke (par-excellence the Duke,) and Sir Robert Peel show 
 no signs of insecurity, though they have been twice beat ; 
 so * Courage, mon amie,' as the old chevaliers used to say, 
 before they joined battle." 
 
 In the middlf of the summer of 1835, a great family 
 plan was mooted at the parsonage. The question was, to 
 what trade or profession should Branwell be brought up ? 
 He was now nearly eighteen ; it was time to decide. He 
 was very clever, no doubt; perhaps, to begin with, the 
 greatest genius in this rare family. The sisters hardly re- 
 cognised their own, or each other's powers, but they knew 
 his. The father, ignorant of many failings in moral con- 
 duct, did proud homage to the great gifts of his son ; for 
 
118 LIFE OF CIIxVRLOTTE BKONT35. 
 
 Branwell's talents were readily and willingly brouglit out 
 for the entertainment of others. Popular admiration was 
 sweet to him. And this led to his presence being sought at 
 " arvills" and all the great village gather ings^ for the York- 
 shire men have a keen relish for intellect ; and it likewise 
 procured him the undesirable distinction of having his com- 
 pany recommended by the landlord of the Black Bull to 
 any chance traveller who might happen to feel solitary or 
 dull over his liquor. " Do you want some one to help you 
 with your bottle, sir ? If you do, I'll send up for Patrick " 
 (so the villagers called him till the day of his death). And 
 while the messenger went, the landlord entertained his guests 
 with accounts of the wonderful talents of the boy, whose 
 precocious clererness, and great conversational powers, were 
 the pride of the village. The attacks of ill health to which 
 Mr. Bronte had been subject of late years, rendered it not 
 only necessary that he should take his dinner alone (for the 
 sake of avoiding temptations to unwholesome diet), but 
 made it also desirable that he should pass the time directly 
 succeeding his meals in perfect quiet. And this necessity, 
 combined with due attention to his parochial duties, made 
 him partially ignorant how his son employed himself out of 
 lesson-time. His own youth had been spent among people 
 of the same conventional rank as those into whose companion- 
 ship Branwell was now thrown ; but he had had a strong 
 will, and an earnest and persevering ambition, and a reso- 
 luteness of purpose which his weaker son wanted. 
 
 It is singular how strong a yearning the whole family 
 had towards the art of drawing. Mr. Bronte had been very 
 solicitous to get them good instruction; the girls themselves 
 loved every thing connected with it — all descriptions or 
 engravings of great pictures ; and, in default of good ones, 
 they would take and analyse any print or drawing which 
 €ame in their way, and find out how much thought had gone 
 
11& 
 
 t6 its composition, what ideas it was intended to suggest, 
 and what it did suggest. In the same spirit, they laboured 
 to design imaginations of their own ; they lacked the power 
 of execution, not of conception. At one time, Charlotte had 
 the notion of making her living as an artist, and wearied her 
 eyes in drawing with pre-Raphaelite minuteness, but no 
 with pre-Eaphaelite accuracy, for she drew from fancy rathe 
 than from nature. 
 
 But they all thought there could be no doubt about 
 Branwell's talent for drawing. I have seen an oil painting 
 of his, done I know not when, but probably about this time. 
 It was a group of his sisters, life size, three-quarters' length ; 
 not much better than sign-painting, as to manipulation ; but 
 the likenesses were, I should think, admirable. I could only 
 judge of the fidelity with which the other two were depicted, 
 from the striking resemblance which Charlotte, upholding 
 the great frame of canvas, and consequently standing right 
 behind it, bore to her own representation, though it must 
 have been ten years and more since the portraits were taken. 
 The picture was divided, almost in the middle, by a great 
 pillar. On the side of the column which was lighted by the 
 sun, stood Charlotte, in the womanly dress of that day of 
 jigot sleeves and large collars. On the deeply shadowed 
 side, was Emily, with Anne's gentle face resting on her 
 shoulder. Emily's countenance struck me as full of power; 
 Charlotte's of solicitude ; Anne's of tenderness. The two 
 younger seemed hardly to have £.ttained their full growth, 
 though Emily was taller than Charlotte ; they had cropped 
 hair, and a more girlish dress. I remember looking on 
 those two sad, earnest, shadowed faces, and wondering whether 
 I could trace the mysterious expression which is said to fore- 
 tell an early death. I had some fond superstitious hope that 
 the column divided their fates from hers, who stood apart in 
 the canvas, as in life she survived I liked to see that tho 
 
120 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 bright side of the pillar was towards her — that the light in 
 the picture fell on her : I might more truly have sought in 
 her presentment — ^nay, in her living face — for the sign of 
 death in her prime. They were good likenesses, however 
 badly executed. From thence I should guess his family au- 
 gured truly that, if Branwell had but the opportunity, and, 
 alas ! had but the moral qualities, he might turn out a great 
 painter. 
 
 The best way of preparing him to become so appeared 
 to be to send him as a pupil to the E-oyal Academy. I dare 
 say, he longed and yearned to follow this path, principally 
 because it would lead him to that mysterious London — that 
 Babylon the great — which seems to have filled the imagina- 
 tions and haunted the minds of all the younger members of 
 this recluse family. To Branwell it was more than a vivid 
 imagination, it was an impressed reality. By dint of study- 
 ing maps, he was as well acquainted with it, even down to 
 its by-ways, as if he had lived there. Poor misguided fel- 
 low ! this craving to see and know London, and that strong- 
 er craving after fame, were never to be satisfied. He was 
 to die at the end of a short and blighted life. But in this 
 year of 1835, all his home kindred were thinking how they 
 could best forward his views, and how help him up to the 
 pinnacle where he desired to be. What their plans were, 
 let Charlotte explain. These are not the first sisters who 
 have laid their lives as a sacrifice before their brother's idol- 
 ized wish. Would to God they might be the last who met 
 with such a miserable return ! 
 
 " Haworih, July 6th, 1835. 
 " I had hoped to have had the extreme pleasure of see- 
 ing you at Haworth this summer, but human afi*airs are mu- 
 table, and human resolutions must bend to the course of 
 events. We are all about to divide, break up, separate 
 
PROSPECT OF SEPAEATION. 121 
 
 Emily is going to school, Branwell is going to London, and 
 I am going to be a governess. This last determination I 
 formed myself, knowing that I should have to take the step 
 sometime, ^ and better sune as syne,' to use the Scotch prov- 
 erb ; and knowing well that papa would have enough to do 
 with his limited income, should Branwell be placed at the 
 lloyal Academy, and Emily at E-oe Head. Where am I 
 going to reside ? you will ask. Within four miles of you, at 
 a place neither of us are unacquainted with, being no other 
 than the identical Roe Head mentioned above. Yes ! I am 
 going to teach in the very school where I was myself taught. 
 Miss Wooler made me the offer, and I preferred it to one or 
 two proposals of private governess-ship, which I had before 
 received. I am sad — ^very sad — at the thoughts of leaving 
 home ; but duty — necessity — these are stern mistresses, who 
 will not be disobeyed. Did I not once say you ought to be 
 thankful for your independence ? I felt what I said at the 
 lime, and I repeat it now with double earnestness ; if any- 
 thing would cheer me, it is the idea of being so near you. 
 Surely, you and Polly will come and see me ; it would be 
 wrong in me to doubt it ; you were never unkind yet. Em- 
 ily and I leave home on the 27th of this month ; the idea of 
 being together consoles us both somewhat, and, truth, since 
 I must enter a situation, ^ My lines have fallen in pleasant 
 places.' I both love and respect Miss Wooler." 
 
 VOL. I. — G 
 
122 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 On tlie 29 th of July, 1835, Charlotte, now little more than 
 nineteen years old, went as teacher to Miss Wooler's. Em» 
 ily accompanied her, as a pupil ; but she became literally ill 
 from home-sickness, and could not settle to anything, and 
 after passing only three months at Roe Head, returned to 
 the parsonage and the beloved moors. 
 
 Miss Bronte gives the following reasons as those which 
 prevented Emily's remaining at school, and caused the sub- 
 stitution of her younger sister in her place at Miss Wool- 
 er's : — 
 
 " My sister Emily loved the moors. Flowers brighter 
 than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her; 
 — out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-side, her mind could 
 make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many and 
 dear delights ; and not the least and best-loved was — ^liberty. 
 Liberty was the breath of Emily's nostrils ; without it she 
 perished. The change from her own home to a school, and 
 from her own very noiseless, very secluded, but unrestricted 
 and unartificial mode of life, to one of disciplined routine 
 though under the kindest auspices), was what she failed in 
 enduring. Her nature proved here too strong for her forti- 
 tude. Every morning, when she woke, the vision of home 
 and the moors rushed on her, and darkened and saddened 
 the day that lay before her. Nobody knew what ailed her 
 but me. I knew only too well. In this struggle her health 
 
HER LIFE AT MISS WOOLER'S. 123 
 
 was quickly broken : her white face, attenuated form, and 
 failing strength, threatened rapid decline, I felt in my 
 heart she would die, if she did not go home, and with this 
 conviction obtained her recall. She had only been three 
 months at school ; and it was some years before the experi- 
 ment of sending her from home was again ventured on." 
 
 This physical suffering on Emily's part when absent from 
 llaworth, after recurring several times under similar circum^ 
 stances, became at length so much an acknowledged fact, 
 that whichever was obliged to leave home, the sisters deci- 
 ded that Emily must remain there, where alone she could 
 enjoy anything like good health. She left it twice again in 
 her life ; once going as teacher to a school in Halifax for six 
 months, and afterwards accompanying Charlotte to Brussels 
 for ten. When at home, she took the principal part of the 
 cooking upon herself, and did all the household ironing ; and 
 after Tabby grew old and infirm, it was Emily who made all 
 the bread for the family ; and any one passing by the kitch- 
 en-door, might have seen her studying German out of an 
 open book, propped up before her, as she kneaded the dough ; 
 but no study, however interesting, interfered with the good- 
 ness of the bread, which was always light and excellent. 
 Books were, indeed, a very common sight in that kitchen ; 
 the girls were taught by their father theoretically, and by 
 their aunt practically, that to take an active part in all house- 
 hold work was, in their position, woman's simple duty ; but, 
 in their careful employment of time, they found many an 
 odd five minutes for reading while watching the cakes, and 
 managed the union of two kinds of employment better than 
 King Alfred. 
 
 Charlotte's life at Miss Wooler's was a very happy one, 
 until her health failed. She sincerely loved and respected 
 the former schoolmistress, to whom she was now become both 
 companion and friend. The girls were hardly strangers to 
 
124 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 her, some of them being younger sisters of those who had 
 been her own playmates. Though the duties of the day might 
 be tedious and monotonous, there were always two or three 
 happy hours to look forward to in the evening, when she and 
 Miss Wooler sat together — sometimes late into the night — 
 and had quiet pleasant conversations, or pauses of silence as 
 agreeable, because each felt that as soon as a thought or re- 
 mark occurred which they wished to express, there was an 
 intelligent companion ready to sympathise, and yet they were 
 not compelled to " make talk." 
 
 It was about this time that an event happened in the 
 neighbourhood of Leeds, which excited a good deal of interest. 
 A young lady, who held the situation of governess in a very 
 respectable family, had been wooed and married by a gentle- 
 man, holding some subordinate position in the commercial 
 firm to which the young lady's employer belonged. A year 
 after her marriage, during which time she had given birth 
 to a child, it was discovered that he whom she called husband 
 had another wife. Keport now says, that this first wife was 
 deranged, and that he had made this an excuse to himself for 
 his subsequent marriage. But, at any rate, the condition of 
 the wife who was no wife — of the innocent mother of the 
 illegitimate child — excited the deepest commiseration ; and 
 the case was spoken of far and wide, and at Roe Head among 
 other places > 
 
 Miss Wooler was always anxious to afford Miss Bronte 
 every opportunity of recreation in her power ; but the diffi- 
 culty often was to persuade her to avail herself of the invita- 
 tions which came, urging her to spend Saturday and Sunday 
 with E. and Mary, in their respective homes, that lay within 
 the distance of a walk. But Miss Bronte was too apt to con- 
 sider that allowing herself a holiday was a dereliction of 
 duty, and to refuse herself the necessary change from some- 
 thing <)f :^n over-ascetic spirit, betokening a loss of healthy 
 
NERVOUS TEEEORS. jl25 
 
 balance in either body or mind. Indeed, it is clear tliat such 
 was the case, from an extract referring to this time, taken 
 out of the letter I have before referred to, from " Mary." 
 
 " Three years after" — (the period when they were at school 
 together) — '* I heard that she had gone as teacher to Miss 
 Wooler's. I went to see her, and asked how she could give 
 so much for so little money, when she could live without it. 
 She owned that, after clothing herself and Anne, there was 
 nothing left, though she had hoped to be able to save some- 
 thing. She confessed it was not brilliant, but what could 
 she do ? I had nothing to answer. She seemed to have no 
 interest or pleasure beyond the feeling of duty, and, when 
 she could get, used to sit alone, and ' make out.' She told 
 me afterwards, that one evening she had sat in the dressing- 
 room until it was quite dark, and then observing it all at 
 once, had taken sudden fright." No doubt she remembered 
 this well when she described a similar terror getting hold 
 upon Jane Eyre. She says in the story, " I sat looking at 
 the white bed and overshadowed walls — occasionally turning 
 a fascinated eye towards the gleaming mirror — I began to 
 recall what I had heard of dead men troubled in their graves. 
 
 I endeavored to be firm ; shaking my hair from 
 
 my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly through 
 the dark room ; at this moment, a ray from the moon pene- 
 trated some aperture in the blind. No ! moonlight was still, 
 
 and this stirred prepared as my mind was for 
 
 horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the 
 
 swift-darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from 
 
 nother world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot ; a 
 
 ound filled my ears which I deemed the rustling of wings ; 
 
 something seemed near me." * 
 
 ** From that time," Mary adds, " her imaginations be- 
 came gloomy or frightful ; she could not help it, nor help 
 
 * '* Jane Eji-e," Vol I., page 20." 
 
126 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 thinking. She could not forget the gloom, could not sleep 
 at night, nor attend in the day." 
 
 Of course the state of health thus described came on gra- 
 dually, and is not to be taken as a picture of her condition in 
 1836. Yet even then there is a despondency in some of her 
 expressions, that too sadly reminds one of some of Cowper's 
 letters. And it is remarkable how deeply his poems im- 
 pressed her. His words, his verses, came nrore frequently to 
 her memory, I imagine, than those of any ether poet. 
 
 " May 10th, 1836. 
 
 " I was struck with the note you sent me with the um- 
 brella ; it showed a degree of interest in my concerns which 
 I have no right to expect from any earthly creature. I 
 won't play the hypocrite ; I won't answer your kind, gentle, 
 friendly questions in the way you wish me to. Don't deceive 
 yourself by imagining I have a bit of real goodness about me. 
 My darling, if I were like you, I should have my face Z ion- 
 ward, though prejudice and error might occasionally fling a 
 mist over the glorious vision before me — but I am not like 
 you. If you knew my thoughts, the dreams that absorb me, 
 and the fiery imagination that at times eats me up, and makes 
 me feel society, as it is, wretchedly insipid, you would pity 
 and I dare say despise me. But I know the treasures of th^ 
 Bible ; I love and adore them. I can see the Well of Life 
 in all its clearness and brightness ;, but when I stoop down 
 to drink of the puro waters they fly from my lips as if I were 
 Tantalus. 
 
 " You are far too kind and frequent in your invitations. 
 You puzzle me. I hardly know how to refuse, and it is still 
 more embarrassing to accept. At any rate, I cannot come 
 this week, for we are in the very thickest melee of the Repe- 
 titions. I was hearing the terrible fifth section when your 
 note arrived. But Miss Wooler says I must go to IMary 
 
TKACES OF DESPONDENCY. 127 
 
 next Friday, as she promised for me on Whit-Sunday ; and 
 on Sunday morning I will join you at church, if it be conve- 
 nient, and stay till Monday. There's a free and easy pro- 
 posal ! Miss Wooler has driven me to it. She says her 
 character is implicated." 
 
 Good, kind Miss Wooler ! however monotonous and trr 
 ing were the duties Charlotte had to perform under her roof, 
 there was always a genial and thoughtful friend watching 
 over her, and urging her to partake of any little piece of 
 innocent recreation that might come in her way. And in 
 those Midsummer holidays of 1836, her friend E. came 
 to stay with her at Haworth, so there was one happy time 
 secured. 
 
 Here follows a series of letters, not dated, but belonging 
 to the latter portion of this year ; and again we think of the 
 gentle and melancholy Cowper. 
 
 " My dear dear E., 
 
 I am at this moment trembling all over with ex- 
 citement, aftejr reading your note ; it is what I never received 
 before — it is the unrestrained pouring out of a warm, gentle, 
 
 generous heart I thank you with energy for this 
 
 kindness. I will no longer shrink from answering your 
 questions.' I do wish to be better than I am. I pray 
 fervently sometimes to be made so. I have stings of con- 
 science, visitings of remorse, glimpses of holy, of inexpressible 
 things, which formerly I used to be a stranger to ; it may all 
 die away, and I may be in utter midnight, but I implora 
 a merciful Redeemer, that, if this be the dawn of the gospel 
 it may still brighten to perfect day. Do not mistake me — ■ 
 do not think I am good ; I only wish to be so. I only hate 
 my former flippancy and forwardness. Oh ! I am no better 
 than ever I was. I am in that state of horrid, 2;loomy un- 
 
128 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 certainty that, at this moment, I would submit to be old 
 grey-haired, to have passed all my youthful days of enjoy- 
 ment, and to be settling on the verge of the grave, if I could 
 only thereby ensure the prospect of reconciliation to God, 
 and redemption through his Son's merits. I never was 
 exactly careless of these matters, but I have always taken a 
 clouded and repulsive view of them ; and now, if possible^ 
 the clouds are gathering darker, and a more oppressive de- 
 spondency weighs on my spirits. You have cheered me, my 
 darling ; for one moment, for an atom of time, I thought I 
 might call you my own sister in the spirit ; but the excite- 
 ment is past, and I am now as wretched and hopeless as 
 ever. This very night I will pray as you wish me. May 
 the Almighty hear me compassionately ! and I humbly hope 
 he will, for you will strengthen my polluted petitions with 
 your own pure requests. All is bustle and confusion round 
 me, the ladies pressing with their sums and their lessons. 
 .... If you love me, do^ do, do come on Friday : I shall 
 watch and wait for you, and if you disappoint me I shall 
 weep. I wish you could know the thrill of delight which I 
 experienced, when, as I stood at the dining-room window, 
 
 I saw , as he whirled past, toss your little packet over 
 
 the wall." 
 
 Huddersfield market-day was still the great period for 
 events at Eoe Head. Then girls, running round the corner 
 of the house and peeping between tree-stems, and up a 
 shadowy lane, could catch a glimpse of a father or brother 
 driving to market in his gig ; might, perhaps, exchange a 
 wave of the hand ; or see, as Charlotte Bronte did from the 
 window forbidden to pupils, a white packet tossed over the 
 wall, by some swift strong motion of an arm, the rest of the 
 traveller's body unseen. 
 
 ^* Weary with a day's hard work I am sitting 
 
 down to write a few lines to my dear E. Excuse me if T 
 
MELAKCHOLr MOODS. 12G 
 
 say nothing Ibut nonsense, for my mind is exhausted and 
 dispirited. It is a stormy evening, and the wind is uttering 
 a continual moaning sound, that makes me feel very melan- 
 choly. At such times — in such moods as these — it is my 
 nature to seek repose in some calm tranquil idea, and I have 
 now summoned up your image to give me rest. There you 
 sit, upright and still, in your black dress, and white scarf, 
 and pale marble-like face — just like reality. I wish you 
 would speak to me. If we should be separated — if it should 
 be our lot to live at a great distance, and never to see each 
 other again — in old age, iow I should conjure up the memory 
 of my youthful days, and what a melancholy pleasure I 
 should feel in dwelling on the recollection of my early friend ! 
 .... I have some qualities that make me very miserable, 
 some feelings that you can have no participation in — that 
 few, very few, people in the world can at all understand. I 
 don't pride myself on these peculiarities. I strive to conceal 
 and suppress them as much as I can ; but they burst out 
 sometimes, and then those who see the explosion despise me, 
 and I hate myself for days afterwards. ... I have just re- 
 ceived your epistle and what accompanied it. I can't tell 
 what should induce you and your sisters to waste your kind- 
 ness on such a onf as me. I'm obliged to them, and I hope 
 you'll tell them so. I'm obliged to you also, more for your 
 note than for your present. The first gave me pleasure, the 
 last something like pain." 
 
 The nervous disturbance, which is stated to nave troubled 
 her while she was at Miss Wooler's, seems to have begun to 
 distress her about this time ; at least, she herself speaks of 
 her irritable condition, which was certainly only a temporary 
 ailment. 
 
 " You have been very kind to me of late, and have 
 spared me all those little sallies of ridicule, which, owing to 
 VOL. I. — 6* 
 
130 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 my miserable and wretched touchiness of character, used 
 formerly to make me wince, as if I had been touched with 
 a hot iron ; things that nobody else cares for, enter into my 
 mind and rankle there like venom. I know these feelings 
 are absurd, and therefore I try to hide them, but they only 
 sting the deeper for concealment." 
 
 Compare this state of mind with the gentle resignation 
 with which she submitted to be put aside as useless, or told 
 of her ugliness by her schoolfellows, only three years before. 
 
 *' My life since I saw you has passed as monotonously 
 and unbroken as ever; nothing but teach, teach, teach, 
 from morning till night. The greatest variety I ever have 
 is afforded by a letter from you, or by meeting with a pleas- 
 ant new book. The * Life of Oberlin,' and * Legh Richmond's 
 Domestic Portraiture,' are the last of this description. The 
 latter work strongly attracted and strangely fascinated my 
 attention. Beg, borrow, or steal it without delay ; and read 
 the ' Memoir of Wilberforce,' — that short record of a brief 
 uneventful life ; I shall never forget it ; it is beautiful, not on 
 account of the language in which it is written, not on account 
 of the incidents which it details, but because of the simple 
 narrative it gives of a young talented, sincere Christian." 
 
 About this time Miss Wooler removed her school from 
 the fine, open, breozy situation of Roe Head, to Dewsbury 
 Moor, only two or three miles distant. Her new residence 
 was a much lower site, and the air much less pure and exhil- 
 arating to one bred at the wild hill -village of Haworth. 
 Charlotte felt the cliange extremely, and regretted it not 
 merely on her own account, but for the sake of her sister 
 Anne. Moreover, Emily had gone as teacher to a school 
 at Halifax, where there were nearly forty pupils. 
 
 *' I have had one letter from her since her departure," 
 writes Charlotte, on October 2nd, 1836 : *' It gives an ap- 
 oalling account of her duties ; hard labour from six in the 
 
THE SISTEES AT HOME. 131 
 
 morning to eleven at night, witli only one half-hour of exercise 
 between. This is slavery. I fear she can never stand it." 
 When the sisters met at home in the Christmas holidays, 
 they talked over their lives, and the prospect which they af- 
 forded of occupation and remuneration. They felt that it 
 was a duty to relieve their father of the burden of their sup- 
 port, if not entirely, or that of all three, at least that of one 
 or two ; and, naturally, the lot devolved upon the elder ones 
 to find some remunerative occupation. They knew that they 
 were never likely to inherit much money. Mr. Bronte had 
 but a small stipend, and was both charitable and liberal. 
 Their aunt had an annuity of 50Z., but it reverted to others 
 at her death, and her nieces had no right, and were the last 
 persons in the world, to reckon upon her savings. What 
 could they do ? Charlotte and Emily were trying teaching, 
 and as it seemed -without much success. The former, it is 
 true, had the happiness of having a friend for her employer, 
 and being surrounded by those who knew her and loved her ; 
 but her salary was too small for her to save out of it ; and 
 her education did not entitle her to a larger. The se^den- 
 tary and monotonous nature of her life, too, was preying up- 
 on her health rjid spirits, although, with necessity " as her 
 mistress," she might hardly like to acknowledge this eveii 
 to herself. But Emily — that free, wild untameable spirit, 
 never happy nor well but on the sweeping moors that gather- 
 ed round her homi? — that hater of strangers, doomed to live 
 amongst them, and not merely to live but to slave in their 
 service — ^what Charlotte could have borne patiently for her- 
 self, she could not bear for her sister. And yet what to do? 
 She had once hoped that she herself might become an artist, 
 and so earn her livelihood ; but her eyes had failed her in 
 the minute and useless labour which she had imposed upon 
 herself with a view to this end. 
 . It was the household custom among these girls to sew till 
 
132 LIFE OF CITAELOTTE BEONTfi. 
 
 nine o'clock at night. At that hour, Miss Branwell general 
 Ij went to bed, and her nieces' duties for the day were ac- 
 counted done. They put away their work, and began to 
 pace the room backwards and forwards, up and down, — as 
 often with the candles extinguished, for economy's sake, as 
 not, — their figures glancing into the fire-light, and out into 
 the shadow, perpetually. At this time, they talked over past 
 cares, and troubles; they planned for the future, and con- 
 sulted each other as to their plans. Tn after years, this was 
 the time for discussing together the plots of their novels. 
 And again still later this was the time for the last surviving 
 sister to walk alone, from old accustomed habit, round and 
 round the desolate room, thinking sadly upon fche ^^ days that 
 were no more." But this Christmas of 1836 was not without its 
 hopes, and daring aspirations. They had tried their hands 
 at story- writing, in their miniature magazine, long ago ; they 
 all of them ^^ made out " perpetually. They had likewise at- 
 tempted to write poetry ; and had a modest confidence that 
 they had achieved a tolerable success. But they knew that 
 they might deceive themselves, and that sisters' judgments of 
 each other's productions were likely to be too partial to be 
 depended upon. So Charlotte as the eldest resolved to write 
 to Southey. I believe (from an expression in a letter to be 
 noticed hereafter), that she also consulted Coleridge ; but I 
 have nob met with any part of that correspondence. 
 
 On December 29th, her letter to Southey was despatch- 
 ed; and from an excitement not unnatural in a girl who has 
 worked herself up to the pitch of writing to a Poet Laureate 
 and asking his opinion of her poems, she used some high- 
 flown expressions, which, probably, gave him the idea that 
 she was a romantic young lady, unacquainted with the reali- 
 ties of life. 
 
 This most likely was the first of those adventurous let- 
 ters that passed through the little post-office of Hawortb 
 
BRANWELL'S LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 132 
 
 Morning after morning of the holidays slipped aifri^y, and 
 there was no answer ; the sisters had to leave home, and Emily 
 to return to her distasteful duties, without knowing even 
 whether Charlotte's letter had ever reached its destination. 
 Not dispirited, however, by the delay, Branwell deter- 
 mined to try a similar venture, and addressed the following 
 emarkable letter to Wordsworth. It was given by the poet 
 •o Mr. Quillinan in 1850, after the name of Bronte had be- 
 come known and famous. I have no means of ascertaining 
 what answer was returned by Mr. Wordsworth ; but that he 
 considered the letter remarkable may, I think, be inferred 
 both from its preservation, and its recurrence to his memory 
 when the real name of Currer Bell was made known to the 
 public. 
 
 Haworthj near Bradford^ 
 YorTcshire, January 19, 1837. 
 
 *' SiE, — I most earnestly entreat you to read and pass 
 your judgment upon what I have sent you, because from the 
 day of my birth to this the nineteenth year of my lilV, I have 
 lived among secluded hills, where I could neither know what 
 I was, or what I could do. I read for the same reason that 
 I ate or draiik ; because it was a real craving of nature. I 
 wrote on the same principle as I spoke — out of the impulse 
 and feelings of the mind ; nor could I help it, for what came, 
 came out, and thers was the end of it. For as to self-conceit, 
 that could not receive food from flattery, since to thiaf hour, 
 not half a dozen people in the world know that I havf> ever 
 penned a line. 
 
 '* But a change has taken place now, sir : and I am ar 
 rived at an age wherein I must do something for myself : 
 the powers I possess must be exercised to a definite end, and 
 as I don't know them myself I must ask of others what they 
 are worth. Yet there is not one here to tell me ; anc^ ^till 
 
134 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 if tliey are worthless, time will henceforth be too precious tc 
 be wasted on them. 
 
 " Do pardon me, sir, that I have ventured to come before 
 one whose works I have most loved in our literature, and 
 who most has been with me a divinity of the mind, — ^laying 
 before him one of my writings, and asking of him a judgment 
 of its contents. I must come before some one from whose 
 sentence there is no appeal ; and such a one is he who has 
 developed the theory of poetry as well as its practice, and 
 both in such a way as to claim a place in the memory of a 
 thousand years to come. 
 
 " My aim, sir, is to push out into the open world, and for 
 this I trust not poetry alone — that might launch the vessel, 
 but could not bear her on ; sensible and scientific prose, bold 
 and vigorous efforts in my walk in life, would give a farther 
 title to the notice of the world ; and then again poetry ought 
 to brighten and crown that name with glory ; but nothing of 
 all this can be ever begun without means, and as I don't possess 
 these, I must in every shape strive to gain them. Surely, 
 in this day when there is not a writing poet worth a sixpence, 
 the field must be open, if a better man can step forward. 
 
 " What I send you is the Prefatory Scene of a much 
 longer subject, in which I have striven to develope strong 
 passions and weak principles struggling with a high imagina- 
 tion and acute feelings, till as youth hardens towards age, 
 evil deeds and short enjoyments end in mental misery and 
 bodily ruin. Now, to send you the whole of this would be a 
 mock upon your patience ; what you see, does not even pre- 
 tend to be more than the description of an imaginative child. 
 But read it, sir ; and as you would hold a light to one in 
 utter darkness — as you value your own kind-heartedness — 
 return me an answer^ if but one word, telling me whether I 
 should write on, or write no more. Forgive undue warmth, 
 
FRAGMENT BY BKANWELL BRONTE. 135 
 
 becalise my feelings in this matter cannot be cool , and be- 
 lieve me, sir, with deep respect, 
 
 " Your really humble servant, 
 
 P. B. Bronte." 
 
 The poetry enclosed seems to me by no means equal to 
 parts of the letter * but, as every one likes to judge for him- 
 self, I copy the six opening stanzas — about a third of the 
 whole, and certainly not the worst. 
 
 So where he reigns in glory bright, 
 Above those staiTy skies of night. 
 Amid his paradise of light 
 Oh, why may I not be ? 
 
 Oft when awake on Christmas mom. 
 In sleepless twilight laid forlorn. 
 Strange thoughts have o'er my mind been home, 
 How He has died for me. 
 
 And oft within my chamber lying, 
 Have I awaked myself with crying 
 From dreams, where I beheld Him dying 
 Upon the accursed Tree. 
 
 And often has my mother said. 
 While on her lap I laid my head, 
 She feared for time I was not made, 
 But for Eternity. 
 
 So " I can re*^d my title clear. 
 
 To mansions in the skies, 
 And let me bid farewell to fear. 
 
 And wipe my weeping eyes. 
 
 I'll lay me down on this marble stone, 
 
 And set the world aside, 
 To see upon her ebon throne 
 
 The Moon in glory ride. 
 
136 LITE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 Soon after Charlotte returned to Dewsburj Moor, slie 
 was distressed by hearing that her friend E. was likely tc 
 leave the neighbourhood for a considerable length of time. 
 
 " Feh. 20th. 
 " What shall I do without you ? How long are we likelj^ 
 o be separated ? Why are we to be denied each other's so- 
 ciety ? It is an inscrutable fatality. I long to be with you, 
 because it seems as if two or three days, or weeks, spent in 
 your company would beyond measure strengthen me in the 
 enjoyment of those feelings which I have so lately begun to 
 cherish. You first pointed out to me that way in which I 
 am so feebly endeavouring to travel, and now I cannot keep 
 you by my side, I must proceed sorrowfully alone. Why 
 are we to be divided ? Surely, it must be because we are in 
 danger of loving each other too well — of losing sight of the 
 Creator in idolatry of the creature. At first, I could not say 
 * Thy will be done ! ' I felt rebellious, but I knew it was 
 wrong to feel so. Being left a moment alone this morning, 
 I prayed fervently to be enabled to resign myself to everf/ 
 decree of God's will, though it should be dealt forth by a far 
 severer hand than the present disappointment ; since then I 
 have felt calmer and humbler, and consequently happier. 
 Last Sunday I took up my Bible in a gloomy state of mind : 
 I began to read — a feeling stole over me such as I have not 
 known for many long years — a sweet, placid sensation, like 
 those, I remember, which used to visit me when I was a little 
 child, and, on Sunday evenings in summer, stood by the open 
 window reading the life of a certain French nobleman, who 
 attained a purer and a higher degree of sanctity than has 
 been known since the days of the early martyrs." 
 
 E.'s residence was equally within a walk from Dewsbury 
 Moor as it had been from Eoe Head; and on Saturday 
 
DISPUTES ABOUT POLITICS AKD RELIGIOlSr. 137 
 
 afternoons both Mary and she used to call upon Charlotte, 
 and often endeavoured to persuade her to return with them, 
 and be the guest of one of them till Monday morning ; but 
 this was comparatively seldom. Mary says : — " She visited 
 us twice or thrice when she was at Miss Wooler's. We used 
 to dispute about politics and religion. She, a Tory and cler- 
 gyman's daughter, was always in a minority of one in our 
 house of violent Dissent and Kadicalism. She used to 
 hear over again, delivered with authority^ all the lectures I 
 had been used to give her at school on despotic aristocracy, 
 mercenary priesthood, &c. She had not energy to defend 
 herself; sometimes she owned to a little truth in it, but gen- 
 erally said nothing. Her feeble health gave her her yield- 
 ing manner, for she could never oppose any one without 
 gathering up all her strength for the struggle. Thus she 
 would let me advise and patronize most imperiously, some- 
 times picking out any grain of sense there might be in what 
 I said, but never allowing any one materially to interfere 
 with her independence of thought and action. Though her 
 silence sometimes left one under the impression that she 
 agreed when she did not, she never gave a flattering opinion, 
 and thus her words were golden, whether for praise or 
 blame." 
 
 Mary's father was a man of remarkable intelligence, but 
 of strong, not to say violent prejudices, all running in favour 
 of Republicanism and Dissent. No other county but York- 
 shire could have produced such a man. His brother had 
 been a detenu in France, and had afterwards voluntarily 
 taken up his residence there. Mr. T. himself had been 
 much abroad, both on business and to see the great continen- 
 tal galleries of paintings. He spoke French perfectly, I 
 have been told, when need was ; but delighted usually in 
 talking the broadest Yorkshire. He bought splendid en- 
 gravings of the pictures which he particularly admired, and 
 
138 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTS. 
 
 his house was full of works of art and of books ; but h« 
 rather liked to present his rough side to any stranger or 
 new-comer ; he would speak his broadest, bring out his 
 opinions on Church and State in their most startling forms, 
 and, by and by, if he found his hearer could stand the 
 shock, he would involuntarily show his warm kind heart, 
 and his true taste, and real refinement. His family of 
 four sons and two daughters were brought up on Kepublican 
 principles ; independence of thought and action was en- 
 couraged ; no " shams " tolerated. They are scattered far 
 and wide ; Martha, the younger daughter, sleeps in the 
 Protestant cemetery at Brussels ; Mary is in New Zealand ; 
 Mr. T. is dead. And so life and death have dispersed the 
 circle of " violent Radicals and Dissenters " into which, 
 twenty years ago, the little, quiet, resolute clergyman's 
 daughter was received, and by whom she was truly loved 
 and honoured. 
 
 January and February of 1837 had passed away, and 
 still there was no reply from Southey. Probably she had 
 lost expectation and almost hope when at length, in the 
 beginning of March, she received the letter inserted in Mr. 
 C. C. Southey's life of his Father, Vol. VI., p. 327. 
 
 After accounting for his delay in replying to hers by 
 the fact of a long absence from home, during which his 
 letters had accumulated, whence " it has lain unanswered 
 till the last of a numerous file, not from disrespect or indifi"er- 
 ence to its contents, but because in truth it is not an easy 
 task to answer it, nor a pleasant one to cast a damp over tho 
 high spirits and the generous desires of youth," he goes on 
 to say : " What you are I can only infer from your letter, 
 which appears to be written in sincerity, though, I may 
 suspect that you have used a fictitious signature. Be that 
 as it may, the letter and the verses bear the same stamp 
 apd I can well understand the state of mind they indicate.' 
 
LETTER lEOK SOUTHEY. 139 
 
 *• It is not my advice tliat you have asked as to the iirec- 
 cion of your talents, but my opinion of them, and yet the 
 opinion may be worth little, and the advice much. You 
 evidently possess, and in no inconsiderable degree, what 
 Wordsworth calls the * faculty of verse.' I am not depre- 
 ciating it when I say that in these times it is not rare. 
 Many volumes of poems are now published every year with- 
 out attracting public attention, any one of which, if it had 
 appeared half a century ago, would have obtained a high 
 reputation for its author. Whoever, therefore, is ambitious 
 of distinction in this way ought to be prepared for disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 " But it is not with a view to distinction that you should 
 cultivate this talent, if you consult your own happiness. I, 
 who have made literature my profession, and devoted my 
 life to it, and have never for a moment repented of the 
 deliberate choice, think myself, nevertheless, bound in 
 duty to caution every young man who applies as an aspirant 
 to me for encouragement and advice, against taking so peril- 
 ous a course. You will say that a woman has no need of 
 such a caution ; there can be no peril in it for her. In a 
 certain sense this is true ; but there is a danger of which I 
 would, with all kindness and in all earnestness, warn you. 
 The day dreams in which you habitually indulge are likely 
 to induce a distempered state of mind ; and in proportion as 
 all the ordinary uses of the world seem to you flat and un- 
 profitable, you will be unfitted for them without becoming 
 fitted for anything else. Literature cannot be the business 
 of a woman's life, and it ought not to be. The more sh 
 is engaged in her proper duties, the less leisure will she have 
 for it, even as an accomplishment and a recreation- To 
 those duties you have not yet been called, and when you 
 are you will be less eager for celebrity. You will not seek 
 >^ imagination for excitement, of which the vicissitudes of 
 
140 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 this life, and the anxieties from which jou ''jiust not hope to 
 be exempted, be your state what it may, will bring with 
 them but too much. 
 
 " Eut do not suppose that I disparage the gift which you 
 possess ; nor that I would discourage you from exercising it. 
 I only exhort you so to think of it, and so to use it, as to 
 ender it conducive to your own permanent good. Write 
 poetry for its own sake ; not in a spirit of emulation, and 
 not with a view to celebrity ; the less you aim at that, the 
 more likely you will be to deserve and finally to obtain it. 
 So written, it is wholesome both for the heart and eoul ; it 
 may be made the surest means, next to religion, of soothing 
 the mind and elevating it. You may embody in it your 
 best thoughts and your wisest feelings, and in so doing dis- 
 cipline and strengthen them. 
 
 " Farewell, madam. It is not because I have forgotten 
 that I was once young myself, that I write to you in this 
 strain ; but because I remember it. You will neither doubt 
 my sincerity nor my good will ; and however ill what has 
 here been said may accord with your present views and tem- 
 per, the longer you live the more reasonable it will appear to 
 you. Though I may be but an ungracious adviser, you will 
 allow me therefore, to subscribe myself, with the best wishes 
 for your happ'ness here and hereafter, your true friend, 
 
 " Robert Southey.' 
 
 I was with Miss Bronte when she received Mr. Cutli- 
 bert Southey's note, requesting her permission to insert the 
 foregoing letter in his father's life. She said to me, " Mr, 
 Southey's letter was kind and admirable ; a little stringent, 
 but it dia me good." 
 
 It is partly because I think it so admirable, and partly 
 because it tends to bring out her character, as shown in the 
 following reply, that I have taken the liberty of inserting 
 the above extracts from it. 
 
HER REPLY TO SOUTHEY. 14^ 
 
 '' March 16th, 
 
 " Sir, 
 
 " I cannot rest till I have answered your letter, 
 even though by addressing you a second time I should appear 
 a little intrusive ; but I must thank you for the kind and 
 wise advice you have condescended to give me. I had not 
 ventured to hope for such a reply ; so considerate in its tone, 
 eo noble in its spirit. I must suppress what I feel, or you 
 will think me foolishly enthusiastic. 
 
 " At the first perusal of your letter, I felt only shame 
 and regret that I had ever ventured to trouble you with my 
 crude rhapsody; I felt a painful heat rise to my face when 
 I thought of the quires of paper I had covered with what 
 once gave me so much delight, but which now was only a 
 source of confusion ; but, after I had thought a little and 
 read it again and again, the prospect seemed to clear. You 
 do not forbid me to write ; you do not say that what I write 
 is utterly destitute of merit. You only warn me against the 
 folly of neglecting real duties, for the sake of imaginative 
 pleasures ; of writing for the love of fame ; for the selfish 
 excitement of emulation. You kindly allow me to write 
 poetry for its own sake, provided I leave undone nothing 
 which I ought to do, in order to pursue that single, absorb- 
 ing, exquisite gratification. I am afraid, sir, you think me 
 very foolish. I know the first letter I wrote to you was all 
 senseless trash from beginning to end ; but I am not alto- 
 gether the idle dreaming being it would seem to denote. 
 My father is a clergyman of limited, though competent, in- 
 come, and I am the eldest of his children. He expended 
 quite as much in my education as he could afford in justice 
 to the rest. I thought it therefore my duty, when I left 
 school, to become a governess. In that capacity I find 
 enough to occupy my thoughts all day long, and my head 
 and hands too, without having a moment's time for one 
 
142 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 dream of the imagination. In the evenings, I confess, I d(S 
 think, but I never trouble any one else with my thoughts 
 I carefully avoid any appearance of pre-occupation and 
 eccentricity, which might lead those I live amongst to sus- 
 pect the nature of my pursuits. Following my father's 
 advice — who from my childhood has counselled me just in 
 the wise and friendly tone of your letter — I have endeavoured 
 not only attentively to observe all the duties a woman ought 
 to fulfil, but to feel deeply interested in them. I don't 
 always succeed, for sometimes when I'm teaching or sewing 
 I would rather be reading or writing ; but I try to deny 
 myself; and my father's approbation amply rewarded me 
 for the privation. Once more allow me to thank you with 
 sincere gratitude. I trust I shall never more feel ambitious 
 to see my name in print ; if the wish should rise I'll look at 
 Southey's letter, and suppress it. It is honour enough for 
 me that I have written to him, and received an answer. 
 That letter is consecrated ; no one shall ever see it, but papa 
 and my brother and sisters. Again I thank you. This 
 incident, I suppose, will be renewed no more ; if I live to be 
 an old woman, I shall remember it thirty years hence as a 
 bright dream. The signature which you suspected of being 
 fictitious is my real name. Again, therefore, I must sign 
 
 myself, 
 
 ^'C Beonte." 
 
 a p. g. — Pray, sir, excuse me for writing to you a second 
 time ; I could not help writing, partly to tell you how thank- 
 ful I am for your kindness, and partly to let you know that 
 your advice shall not be wasted ; however sorrowfully and 
 reluctantly it may be at first followed. " C B." 
 
 I cannot deny myself the gratification of inserting 
 Southey's reply : — 
 
southey's akswee. 143 
 
 ''Keswick, March 22, 1837. 
 
 "Dear Madam, 
 
 " Your letter has given me great pleasure, and I 
 should not forgive myself if I did not tell you so. You 
 have received admonition as considerately and as kindly as 
 it was given. Let me now request that, if you ever should 
 come to these lakes while I am living here, you will let me 
 see you. You would then think of me afterwards with the 
 more goodwill, because you would perceive that there is 
 neither severity nor moroseness in the state of mind to which 
 years and observation have brought me. 
 
 " It is, by God's mercy, in our power to attain a degree 
 of self-government, which is essential to our own happiness, 
 and contributes greatly to that of those around us. Take 
 care of over-excitement, and endeavour to keep a quiet mind 
 (even for your health it is the best advice that can be given 
 you) : your moral and spiritual improvement will then keep 
 pace with the culture of your intellectual powers. 
 
 " And now. Madam, God bless you ! 
 
 " Farewell, and believe me to be your sincere friend, 
 
 "KOBERT SOUTHEY." 
 
 Of this second letter also she spoke, and told me t?hat it 
 contained an invitation for her to go and see the poet if ever 
 she visited the Lakes. '' But there was no money to spare,' ^ 
 said she, "nor any prospect of my ever earning money 
 enough to have the chance of so great a pleasure, so I gave 
 up thinking of it." At the time we conversed together on 
 the subject we were at the Lakes. But Southey was dead. 
 
 This " stringent " letter made her put aside, for a time, 
 all idea of literary enterprise. She bent her whole energy 
 towards the fulfilment of the duties in hand ; but her occu- 
 pation was not sufficient food for her great forces of intellect, 
 and they cried out perpetually, " Give, give " while the flat 
 
144 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 and comparatively stagnant air of Dewsbury Moor told 
 upon her health and spirits more and more. On Augiist 27, 
 1837, she writes : — 
 
 ^' I am again at Dewsbury, engaged in the old business, — 
 teach, teach, teach. . . . When will you come horned 
 Make haste ! You have been at Bath long enough for all 
 purposes ; by this time you have acquired polish enough, I 
 \m sure ; if the varnish is laid on much thicker, I am afraid 
 the good wood underneath will be quite concealed, and your 
 Yorkshire friends won't stand that. Come, come. I am 
 getting really tired of your absence. Saturday after Satur- 
 day comes round, and I can have no hope of hearing your 
 knock at the door, and then being told that ^ Miss E. is 
 come.' Oh dear ! in this monotonous life of mine, that was 
 a pleasant event. I wish it would recur again ; but it will 
 take two or three interviews before the stiffness — the estrange- 
 ment of this long separation — will wear away." 
 
 About this time she forgot to return a work-bag she had 
 borrowed, by a messenger, and in repairing her error she 
 says : — " These aberrations of memory warn me pretty in- 
 telligibly that I am getting past my prime." -ffitat. 21 ! 
 And the same tone of despondency runs through the follow- 
 ing letter : — 
 
 *' I wish exceedingly that I could come to you before 
 Christmas, but it is impossible ; another three weeks must 
 elapse before I shall again have my comforter beside me^ 
 under the roof of my own dear quiet home. If I could 
 always live with you, and daily read the Bible with you — if 
 your lips and mine could at the same time drink the same 
 draught, from the same pure fountain of mercy — I hope, I 
 trust. I might one day become better, far better than my 
 
DESPONDENCY. 1 45 
 
 evil, wandering thoughts, my corrupt heart, cold to the spirit 
 and warm to the flesh, will now permit me to be. I often 
 plan the pleasant life which we might lead together, strength- 
 ening each other in that power of self-denial, that hallowed 
 and glowing devotion, which the first saints of God often at- 
 tained to. My eyes fill with tears when I contrast the bliss 
 of such a state, brightened by hopes of the future, with the 
 melancholy state I now live in, uncertain that I ever felt true 
 contrition, wandering in thought and deed, longing for holi- 
 ness, which I shall never^ never obtain, smitten at times to 
 the heart with the conviction that ghastly Calvinistic doc- 
 trines are true — darkened, in short, by the very shadows of 
 spiritual death. If Christian perfection be necessary to sal- 
 vation, I shall never be saved ; my heart is a very hot-bed 
 for sinful thoughts, and when I decide on an action I scarce- 
 ly remember to look to my Redeemer for direction. I know 
 not how to pray ; I cannot bend my life to the grand end of 
 doing good ; I go on constantly seeking my own pleasure, 
 pursuing the gratification of my own desires. I forget God, 
 and will not God forget me ? And, meantime, I know the 
 greatness of Jehovah ; I acknowledge the perfection of His 
 word ; I adore the purity of the Christian faith ; my theory 
 is right, my practice horribly wrong.'' 
 
 The Christmas holidays came, and she and Anne return 
 ed to the parsonage, and to that happy home circle in which 
 alone their natures expanded ; amongst all other people they 
 shrivelled up more or less. Indeed, there were only one or 
 two strangers who could be admitted among the sisters with- 
 out producing the same result. Emily and Anne were bound 
 up in their lives and interests like twins. The former from 
 reserve, the latter from timidity, avoided all friendships and 
 intimacies beyond their sisters. Emily was impervious to 
 influence ; she never came in contact with public opiniouj 
 VOL. I — 7 
 
146 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BROl^TE. 
 
 and her own decision of what was right and fitting was a 
 law for her conduct and appearance, with which she allowed 
 no one to interfere. Her love was poured out on Anne, as 
 Charlotte's was on her. But the affection among all the 
 three was stronger than either death or life. 
 
 E. was eagerly welcomed by Charlotte, freely admitted 
 by Emily, and kindly received by Anne, whenever she could 
 come amongst them ; and this Christmas she had promised 
 to visit Haworth, but her coming had to be delayed on ac- 
 count of a little domestic accident detailed in the following 
 letter : — 
 
 " Dec, 29, 1837. 
 *' 1 am sure you will have thought me very remiss, in not 
 sending my promised letter long before now ; but I have a 
 sufficient and very melancholy excuse in an accident that 
 befell our old faithful Tabby, a few days after my return 
 home. She was gone out into the village on some errand, 
 when, as she w^as descending the steep street, her foot slipped 
 on the ice, and she fell ; it was dark, and no one saw her 
 mischance, till after a time her groans attracted the attention 
 of a passer-by. She was lifted up and carried into the drug- 
 gist's near ; and, after the examination, it was discovered 
 that she had completely shattered and dislocated one leg. 
 Unfortunately, the fracture could not be set till six o'clock 
 the next morning, as no surgeon was to be had before that 
 time, and she now lies at our house in a very doubtful and 
 dangerous state. Of course we are all exceedingly distressed 
 at the circumstance, for she was like one of our own family. 
 Since the event we have been almost without assistance — a 
 person has dropped in now and then to do the drudgery, but 
 we have as yet been able to procure no regular servant; and, 
 consequently, the whole work of the house, as well as the 
 ftdditional duty of nursing Tabby, falls on ourselves. Undor 
 
AN ACCIDENT. 147 
 
 these circumstances I dare not press your visit here, at least 
 until she is pronounced out of danger ; it would be too selfish 
 of me. Aunt wished me to give you this information before, 
 but papa and all the rest were anxious I should delay until 
 we saw whether matters took a more settled aspect, and I 
 myself kept putting it off from day to day, most bitterly 
 reluctant to give up all the pleasure I had anticipated so 
 Jong. However, remembering what you told me, namely, 
 that you had commended the matter to a higher decision 
 than ours, and that you were resolved to submit with resig- 
 nation to that decision, whatever it might be, I hold it my 
 duty to yield also, and to be silent ; it may be all for the 
 best. I fear, if you had been here during this severe weather, 
 your visit would have been of no advantage to you, for the 
 moors are blockaded with snow, and you would never have 
 been able to get out. After this disappointment, I never 
 dare reckon with certainty on the enjoyment of a pleasure 
 again ; it seems as if some fatality stood between you and 
 me. I am not good enough for you, and you must be kept 
 from the contamination of too intimate society. I would 
 urge your visit yet — I would entreat and press it — but the 
 thought comes across me, should Tabby die while you are in 
 the house, I should never forgive myself. No ! it must not 
 be, and in a thousand ways the consciousness of that morti- 
 fies and disappoints me most keenly. And I am not the 
 only one who is disappointed. All in the house were look- 
 ing to your visit with eagerness. Papa says he highly ap- 
 proves of my friendship with you, and he wishes me to con- 
 tinue it through life." 
 
 A good neighbour of the Brontes — a clever, intelligent 
 Yorkshire woman, who keeps a druggist's shop in Haworth, 
 and from her occupation, her experience, and excellent sense^ 
 holds the position of village doctress and nurse, and, as such, 
 
l-ivS LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 has been a friend, in many a time of trial^ and sickness, and 
 death, in the households round — told me a characteristic 
 little incident connected with Tabby's fractured leg. Mr. 
 Bronte is truly generous and regardful of all deserving 
 claims. Tabby had lived with them for ten or twelve years, 
 and was, as Charlotte expressed it, " one of the family." 
 But, on the other hand, she was past the age for any very 
 active service, being nearer seventy than sixty at the time 
 of the accident ; she had a sister living in Haworth ; and 
 the savings she had accumulated, during many years' service, 
 formed a competency for one in her rank of life. Or if, in 
 this time of sickness, she fell short of any comforts which 
 her state rendered necessary, the parsonage could supply 
 them. So reasoned Miss Branwell, the prudent, not to say 
 anxious aunt ; looking to the limited contents of Mr. Bronte's 
 purse, and the unprovided-for future of her nieces; who 
 were, moreover, losing the relaxation of the holidays, in close 
 attendance upon Tabby. 
 
 Miss Branwell urged her views upon Mr. Bronte as soon 
 as the immediate danger to the old servant's life was over. 
 He refused at first to listen to the careful advice ; it was re- 
 pugnant to his liberal nature. But Miss Branwell perse- 
 vered ; urged economical motives ; pressed on his love for 
 his daughters. He gave way. Tabby was to be removed to 
 her sister'^ and there nursed and cared for, Mr. Bronte com- 
 ing in with his aid when her own resources fell short. This? 
 decision was communicated to the girls. There were symp- 
 toms of a quiet, but sturdy rebellion, that winter afternoon, 
 in the small precincts of Haworth Parsonage. They made 
 one unanimous and stiff remonstrance. Tabby had tended 
 them in their childhood ; they, and none other, should tend 
 her in her infirmity and age. At tea-time, they were sad 
 nd silent, and the meal went away untouched by any of the 
 three. So it was at bi'eakfast ; they did not waste many 
 
THE SISTEKS KETUEN HOME. liO 
 
 words on the subject, but each word they did utter was 
 weighty. They " struck " eating till the resolution was re- 
 scinded, and Tabby was allowed to remain a helpless invalid 
 entirely dependent upon them. Herein was the strong feel- 
 ing of Duty being paramount to Pleasure, which lay at the 
 foundation of Charlotte's character, made most apparent; 
 for we have seen how she yearned for her friend's company ; 
 but it was to be obtained only by shrinking from what she 
 esteemed right, and that she never did, whatever might be 
 the sacrifice. 
 
 She had another weight on her mind this Christmas. I 
 have said that Dewsbury Moor was low and damp, and that 
 the air did not agree with her, though she herself was hardly 
 aware how much her life there was affecting her health. 
 But Anne had begun to suffer just before the holidays, and 
 Charlotte watched over her younger sisters with the jealous 
 vigilance of some wild creature, that changes her very nature 
 if danger threatens her young. Anne had a slight cough, a 
 pain at her side, a difficulty of breathing. Miss Wooler con- 
 sidered it as little more than a common cold ; but Charlotte 
 felt every indication of incipient consumption as a stab at 
 her heart, remembering Maria and Elizabeth/ whose places 
 once knew them, and should know them no more. 
 
 Stung by anxiety for this little sister, she upbraided 
 Miss Wooler for her fancied indifference to Anne's state of 
 health. Miss Wooler felt these reproaches keenly, and 
 wrote to Mr. Bronte about them. He immediately sent for 
 his children, who left Dewsbury Moor the next day. Mean- 
 while Charlotte had resolved that Anne should never return 
 as a pupil, nor she herself as a governess. But, just before 
 she left, Miss Wooler sought for the opportunity of an ex- 
 planation of each other's words, and the issue proved that 
 " the falling out of faithful friends, renewing is of love.' 
 
150 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 And s) ended the first, last, and only difierence Charlotte 
 ever had with good and kind Miss Wooler. 
 
 Still her heart had received a shock in the perception 
 of Anne's delicacy ; and all this winter she watched over her 
 with the longing, fond anxiety, which is so full of sudden 
 pangs of fear 
 
 Miss Wooler had entreated her to return after the holi- 
 days, and she had consented. But, independently of this, 
 Emily had given up her situation in the Halifax jchool, at 
 the expiration of six months of arduous trial, on account of 
 her health, which could only be re-established by the bracing 
 moorland air and free life of home. Tabby's illness had 
 preyed on the family resources. I doubt whether Branwell 
 was maintaining himself at this time. For some unexplained 
 reason, he had given up the idea of becoming a student of 
 painting at the Koyal Academy, and his prospects in life 
 were uncertain, and had yet to be settled. So Charlotte had 
 quietly to take up her burden of teaching again, and return 
 to her previous monotonous life. 
 
 Brave heart, ready to die in harness! She went back 
 to her work, and made no complaint, hoping to subdue the 
 weakness that was gaining ground upon her. About this 
 time, she would turn sick and trembling at any sudden noise, 
 and could hardly repress her screams when startled. This 
 showed a fearful degree of physical weakness in one who was 
 generally so self-controlled ; and the medical man, whom at 
 length, through Miss Wooler's entreaty, she was led to con- 
 sult, insisted on her return home. She had led too seden- 
 tary a life, he said ; and the soft summer air, blowing round 
 her home, the sweet company of those she loved, the release, 
 the freedom of life in her own family, were needed, to save 
 either reason or life. So, as One higher than she had over- 
 ruled that for a time she might relax her strain, she returned 
 to Haworth ; and after a season of utter quiet, her father 
 
LIVELY 8CENE AT IIAWORTII. 151 
 
 *oagIit for lier the enlivening society of her two friends, Mary 
 and Martha T. At the conclusion of the following letter, 
 there is, I think, as pretty a glimpse of a merry group of 
 young people as need be ; and like all descriptions of doing, 
 as distinct from thinking or feeling, in letters, it saddens one 
 in proportion to the vivacity of the picture of what was once 
 and is now utterly swept away. 
 
 ''Haworth, June 9, 1838. 
 
 " I received your packet of despatches on Wednesday ; 
 it was brought me by Mary and Martha, who have been 
 staying at Ha worth for a few days ; they leave us to-day. 
 You will be surprised at the date of this letter. I ought to 
 be at Dewsbury Moor, you know; but I stayed as long as 1 
 was able, and at length I neither could nor dared stay any 
 longer. My health and spirits had utterly failed me, and 
 the medical man whom I consulted enjoined me, as I valued 
 my life, to go home. So home I went, and the change has 
 at once roused and soothed me ; and I am now, I trust, fairly 
 in the way to be myself again. 
 
 " A calm and even mind like yours cannot conceive the 
 feelings of the shattered wretch who is now writing to you, 
 when, after weeks of mental and bodily anguish not to be 
 described, something like peace began to dawn again. Mary 
 is far from well. She breathes short, has a pain in her chest, 
 and frequent flushings of fever. I cannot tell you what agony 
 these symptoms give me ; they remind me too strongly of 
 my two sisters, whom no power of medicine could save 
 Martha is now very well ; she has kept in a continual flow 
 of good humour during her stay here, and has consequently 
 been very fascinating 
 
 " They are making such a noise about me I cannot write 
 any more. Mary is playing on the piano ; Martha is chat- 
 tering as fast as her little tongue can run ; and Branwell is 
 standing before her, laughing at her vivacity." 
 
153 LIFE OE ClIAELOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 Charlotte grew mucli stronger in this quiet, happy period 
 at home. She paid occasional visits to her two great friends, 
 and they in turn came to Haworth. At one of their houses. 
 I suspect, she met with the person to whom the following 
 letter refers ; some one having a slight resemblance to the 
 character of " St. John," in the last volume of '^ Jane Eyre," 
 and, like him, in holy orders. 
 
 ^' 3Iarch 12, 1839. 
 ..." I had a kindly leaning towards him, because he is 
 an amiable and well-disposed man. Yet I had not, and 
 could not have, that intense attachment which would make 
 me willing to die for him ; and if ever I marry, it must be 
 in that light of adoration that I will regard my husband. 
 Ten to one I shall never have the chance again ; but nHm- 
 porte. Moreover, I was aware that he knew so little of me 
 he could hardly be conscious to whom he was writing. Why ! 
 it would startle him to see me in my natural home charac- 
 ter ; he would think I was a wild, romantic, enthusiast indeed. 
 I could not sit all day long making a grave face before my hus- 
 band. I would laugh, and satirize, and say whatever came 
 into my head first. And if he were a clever man, and 
 loved me, the whole world, weighed in the balance against 
 his smallest wish, should be light as air." 
 
 So that — her first proposal of marriage — was quietly de- 
 clined and put on one side. Matrimony did not enter into 
 the scheme of her life, but good, sound, earnest labour did ; 
 the question, however, was as yet undecided in what direction 
 she should employ her forces. She had been discouraged in 
 literature ; her eyes failed her in the minute kind of drawing 
 which she practised when she wanted to express an idea , 
 teaching seemed to her at this time, as it does to most women 
 at all times, the only way of earning an independent liveli 
 
ANKE LEAVES HOME. 153 
 
 hood. But neither she nor her sisters were naturally fond 
 of children. The hieroglyphics of childhood were an un- 
 known language to them, for they had never been much with 
 those younger than themselves. I am inclined to think, too, 
 that they had not the happy knack of imparting information, 
 which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of acquir- 
 ing it ; a kind of sympathetic tact, which instinctively per- 
 ceives the difficulties that impede comprehension in a child's 
 mind, and that yet are too vague and unformed for it, with 
 its half-developed powers of expression, to explain by words. 
 Consequently, teaching very young children was anything but 
 a ^^ delightful task" to the three Bronte sisters. With older 
 girls, verging on womanhood, they might have done better, 
 especially if these had any desire for improvement. But the 
 education which the village clergyman's daughters had re- 
 ceived, did not as yet qualify them to undertake the charge 
 of advanced pupils. They knew but little French, and were 
 not proficients in music ; I doubt whether Charlotte could 
 play at all. But they were all strong again, and, at any 
 rate, Charlotte and Anne must put their shoulders to the 
 wheel. One daughter was needed at home, to stay with Mr. 
 Bronte and Miss Branwell; to be the youDg and active 
 member in a household of four, whereof three — the father, 
 the aunt, and faithful Tabby — were past middle age. And 
 Emily, who suffered and drooped more than her sisters when 
 away from Haworth, was the one appointed to remain. Anne 
 was the first to meet with a situation. 
 
 ''April IMh, 1839 
 ** I could not write to you in tne week you requested, as 
 about that time we were very busy in preparing for Anne's 
 departure. Poor child ! she left us last Monday ; no one 
 went with her ; it was her own wish that she might be allowed 
 to go alone, as she thought she could manage better, and 
 
15-4 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 summon more courage, if thrown entirely upon her own ro 
 sources. We have had one letter from her since she went 
 She expresses herself very well satisfied, and says that Mr& 
 
 is extremely kind ; the two eldest children alone ara 
 
 under her care, the rest are confined to the nursery, with 
 which and its occupants she has nothing to do. . . . I 
 hope she'll do. You would be astonished what a sensible, 
 clever letter she writes ; it is only the talking part that I 
 
 fear. But I do seriously apprehend that Mrs. will 
 
 sometimes conclude that she has a natural impediment in her 
 speech. For my own part, I am as yet * wanting a situation' 
 like a housemaid out of place. By the way, I have lately 
 discovered I have quite a talent for cleaning, sweeping up 
 hearths, dusting rooms, making beds, &c. ; so, if everything 
 else fails, I can turn my hand to that, if anybody will give 
 me good wages for little labor. I won't be a cook ; I hate 
 cooking. I won't be a nurserymaid, nor a lady's maid, far 
 less a lady's companion, or a mantua-maker, or a straw- 
 bonnet maker, or a taker-in of plain work, I won't be any- 
 thing but a housemaid. . . . . With regard to my visit 
 to G., I have as yet received no invitation ; but if I should 
 be asked, though I should feel it a great act of self-denial to 
 refuse, yet I have almost made up my mind to do so, though 
 the society of the Ts is one of the most rousing pleasures I 
 have ever known. Good-bye, my darling E., &c. 
 
 " P. S. — Strike out that word ^ darling ; ' it is humbug. 
 AYhere's the use of protestations ? We've known each other, 
 and liked each other, a good while ; that's enough." 
 
 Not many weeks after this was written, Charlotte also 
 became engaged as a governess. I intend carefully to abstain 
 from introducing the names of any living people, respecting 
 whom I may have to tell unpleasant truths, or to quote severe 
 
AN ACCIDENT. 155 
 
 remarks from Miss Bronte's letters ; but it is necessary that 
 the difficulties she had to encounter in her various phases of 
 life, should be fairly and frankly made known, before the 
 force " of what was resisted " can be at all understood. I 
 was once speaking to her about " Agnes Grey" — the novel 
 in which her sister Anne pretty literally describes her own 
 experience as a governess — and alluding more particularly 
 to the account of the stoning of the little nestlings in the 
 presence of the parent birds. She said that none but those 
 who had been in the position of a governess could ever rea- 
 lize the dark side of " respectable" human nature ; under no 
 great temptation to crime, but daily giving way to selfish- 
 ness and ill-temper, till its conduct towards those dependent 
 on it sometimes amounts to a tyranny of which one would 
 rather be the victim than the inflicter. We can only trust 
 in such cases that the employers err rather from a density 
 of perception and an absence of sympathy, than from any 
 natural cruelty of disposition. Among several things of the 
 same kind, which I well remember, she told me what had 
 once occurred to herself. She had been entrusted with the 
 care of a little boy, three or four years old, during the ab- 
 sence of his parents on a day's excursion, and particularly 
 enjomed to keep him out of the stable-yard. His elder 
 brother, a lad of eight or nine, and not a pupil of Miss 
 Bronte's, tempted the little fellow into the forbidden place. 
 She followed, and tried to induce him to come away ; but, 
 instigated by his brother, he began throwing stones at her, 
 and one of them hit her so severe a blow on the temple that 
 the lads were alarmed into obedience. The next day, in full 
 family conclave, the mother asked Miss Bronte what occa^ 
 sioned the mark on her forehead. She simply replied, " An 
 accident, ma'am," and no further inquiry was made ; but the 
 children (both brothers and sisters) had been present, and 
 honoured her for not ^^ telling tales." From that time, she 
 
156 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 began to gain influence over all, more or less, according to 
 their different characters ; and as she insensibly gained theii 
 affection, her own interest in them was increasing. But one 
 day, at the children's dinner, the small truant of the stable 
 yard, in a little demonstrative gush, said, putting his hand in 
 hers, " I love 'ou. Miss Bronte." Whereupon, the mother 
 exclaimed, before all the children, ^' Love the governess^ my 
 dear!" 
 
 The family into which she first entered was, I believe, 
 that of a wealthy Yorkshire manufacturer. The following 
 extracts from her correspondence at this time will show how 
 painfully the restraint of her new mode of life pressed upon 
 her. The first is from a letter to Emily, beginning with one 
 of the tender expressions in which, in spite of " humbug," 
 she indulged herself. " Mine dear love," " Mine bonnie 
 love," are her terms of address to this beloved sister. 
 
 '' June Sth, 1S39. 
 *' I have striven hard to be pleased with my new situation. 
 The country, the house and the grounds are, as I have said, 
 divine ; but, alack-a-day, there is such a thing as seeing all 
 beautiful around you — pleasant woods, white paths, green 
 lawns, and blue sunshiny sky — and not having a free moment 
 or a free thought left to enjoy them. The children are con- 
 stantly with me. As for correcting them, I quickly found 
 that was out of the question ; they are to do as they like. 
 A complaint to the mother only brings black looks on my- 
 self, and unjust, partial excuses to screen the children. I 
 have tried that plan once, and succeeded so notably, I shall 
 
 try no more. I said in my last letter that Mrs. did not 
 
 know me. I now begin to find she does not intend to know 
 mc ; and she cares nothing about me, except to contrive how 
 the greatest possible quantity of labour may be got out of 
 me , and to that end she overwhelms me with oceans of 
 
IIER EXPERIENCES AS A GOVERNESS. 15'i 
 
 needlework ; yards of cambric to hem, muslin nightcaps tc 
 make, and, above all things, dolls to dress. I do not think 
 she likes me at all, because I can't help being shy in such 
 an entirely novel scene, surrounded as I have hitherto been 
 
 by strange and constantly changing faces I used to 
 
 think I should like to be in the stir of grand folks' society; 
 but I have had enough of it — it is dreary work to look on 
 and listen. I see more clearly than I have ever done before, 
 that a private governess has no existence, is not considered 
 as a living rational being, except as connected with the 
 
 wearisome duties she has to fulfil One of the 
 
 pleasantest afternoons I have spent here — indeed, the only 
 
 one at all pleasant — was when Mr. walked out with his 
 
 children, and I had orders to follow a little behind. As he 
 strolled on through his fields, with his magnificent Newfound- 
 land dog at his side, he looked very like what a frank, weal- 
 thy. Conservative gentleman ought to be. He spoke freely 
 and unaff'ectedly to the people he met, and, though he in- 
 dulged his children and allowed them to tease himself far 
 too much, he would not sufi'er them grossly to insult 
 others." 
 
 (written in pencil to a FllIEND.) 
 
 'July, 1839. 
 " I cannot procure ink, without going into the drawing* 
 
 room, where I do not wish to go I should have 
 
 written to you long since, and told you every detail of the 
 utterly new scene into which I have lately been cast, had 1 
 not been daily expecting a letter from yourself, and wonder- 
 ing and lamenting that you did not write ; for you will re- 
 member it was your turn. I must not bother you too much 
 with my sorrows, of which, I fear, you have heard an exag- 
 gerated account. If you were near me, perhaps E might bo 
 
158 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 tempted to tell you all, to grow egotistical, and pour out the 
 long history of a private governess's trials and crosses in her 
 first situation. As it is, I will only ask you to imagine the 
 miseries of a reserved wretch like me, thrown at once into 
 the midst of a large family — ^proud as peacocks and wealthy 
 as Jews — at a time when they were particularly gay — when 
 the house was filled with company — all strangers — ^people 
 whose faces I had never seen before. In this state I had 
 charge given me of a set of pampered, spoilt, turbulent 
 children, whom I was expected constantly to amuse, as well 
 as to instruct. I soon found that the constant demand on 
 my stock of animal spirits reduced them to the lowest state 
 of exhaustion ; at times I felt — and, I suppose, seemed — 
 depressed. To my astonishment, I was taken to task on the 
 
 subject by Mrs. , with a sternness of manner and a 
 
 harshness of language scarcely credible; like a fool, I cried 
 most bitterly. I could not help it ; my spirits quite failed 
 me at first. I thought I had done my best — strained every 
 nerve to please her ; and to be treated in that way, merely 
 because I was shy and sometimes melancholy, was too bad. 
 At first I was for giving all up and going home. But, after 
 a little reflection, I determined to summon what energy I 
 had, and to weather the storm. I said to myself, * I have 
 never yet quitted a place without gaining a friend ; adversity 
 is a good school ; the poor are born to labour, and the de- 
 pendent to endure. ' I resolved to be patient, to command 
 my feelings, and to take what came ; the ordeal, I reflected, 
 would not last many weeks, and I trusted it would do me good, 
 I recollected the fable of the willow and the oak ; I bent 
 quietly, and now, I trust, the storm is blowing over me. 
 
 Mrs. is generally considered an agreeable woman ; so 
 
 she is, I doubt not, in general society. Her health is sound, 
 her animal spirits good, consequently she is cheerful in com- 
 pany ; but, oh ! does this compensate for the absence of every 
 
A LEITER FROM HOME. 155 
 
 fine feeling — of every gentle and delicate sentiment ? She 
 behaves somewhat more civilly to me now than she did at 
 first, and the children are a little more manageable ; but she 
 does not know my character, and she does not wish to know 
 it. I have never had five minutes' conversation with her 
 since I came, except while she was scolding me. I have no 
 wish to be pitied, except by yourself; if I were talking to 
 you I could tell you much more." 
 
 (to EMILY, ABOUT THIS TIME.) 
 
 '^ Mine bonnie love, I was as glad of your letter as tongue 
 can express : it is a real, genuine pleasure to hear from home ; 
 a thing to be saved till bed-time, when one has a moment's 
 quiet and rest to enjoy it thoroughly. Write whenever you 
 can. I could like to be at home. I could like to work in 
 a mill. I could like to feel some mental liberty. I could 
 like this weight of restraint to be taken ofi*. But the holi- 
 days will come. Coraggio." 
 
 Her temporary engagement in this uncongenial family 
 ended in the July of this year ; not before the constant strain 
 upon her spirits and strength had again affected her health : 
 but when this delicacy became apparent in palpitations and 
 shortness of breathing, it was treated as affectation — as a 
 phase of imaginary indisposition, which could be dissipated 
 by a good scolding. She had been brought up rather in a 
 school of Spartan endurance than in one of maudlin self-in- 
 dulgence, and could bear many a pain and relinquish many a 
 hope in silence. 
 
 After she had been at home about a week, a proposal was 
 made to her to accompany her friend in some little excursion, 
 having pleasure alone for its object. She caught at the idea 
 most eagerly at first ; but her hope stood still, waned, and 
 had almost disappeared before, after many delays, it was 
 
160 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 realized. In its fulfilment at last, it was a favourable spcci 
 men of many a similar air-bubble dancing before her eyes ic 
 her brief career, in which stern realities, rather than plea- 
 Rures, formed the leading incidents. 
 
 " Jidy 2Qth, 1839. 
 
 " Your proposal has almost driven me ^ clean daft ' — if 
 you don't understand that ladylike expression, you must ask 
 me what it means when I see you. The fact is, an excursion 
 with you anywhere, — whether to Cleathorpe or Canada,—- ^ 
 just by ourselves, would be to me most delightful. I should 
 indeed, like to go ; but I can't get leave of absence for longer 
 than a week, and I'm afraid that would not suit you — must I 
 then give it up entirely ? I feel as if I could not ; I never 
 had such a chance of enjoyment before; I do want to see 
 you and talk to you, and be with you. When do you wish 
 to go ? Could I meet you at Leeds ? To take a gig from 
 Haworth to B., would be to me a very serious increase of 
 expense, and I happen to be very low in cash. Oh ! rich 
 people seem to have many pleasures at their command which 
 we are debarred from ! However, no repining. 
 
 " Say when you go, and I shall be able in my answer to 
 say decidedly whether I can accompany you or not. I must 
 — I will — I'm set upon it — I'll be obstinate and bear down 
 all opposition." 
 
 " P. S.— Since writing the above, I find that aunt and 
 papa have determined to go to Liverpool for a fortnight, 
 and take us all with them. It is stipulated, however, that I 
 should give up the Cleathorpe scheme. I yield reluctantly." 
 
 I fancy that, about this time, Mr. Bronte found it necessary, 
 either from his failing health or the increased populousnesa 
 of the parish, to engage the assistance of a curate. At least, 
 it is in a letter written this summer that I find mention of 
 
ADVENT OF THE FIRST CURATE. 161 
 
 tlie first of a succession of curates, who henceforward re- 
 volved around Haworth Parsonage, and made an impression on 
 the mind of one of its inmates which she has conveyed pretty 
 distinctly to the world. The Haworth curate brought hia 
 clerical friends and neighbours about the place, and for a 
 time the incursions of these, near the parsonage tea time, 
 formed occurrences by which the quietness of the life there 
 was varied, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes disagreeably. 
 The little adventure recorded at the end of the following 
 letter is unusual in the lot of most women, and is a testi- 
 mony in this case to the unusual power of attraction — 
 though so plain in feature — which Charlotte possessed, when 
 she let herself go in the happiness and freedom of home. 
 
 " August Uh, 1839. 
 " The Liverpool journey is yet a matter of talk, a sort 
 of castle in the air ; but, between you and me, I fancy it 
 is very doubtful whether it will ever assume a more solid 
 shape. Aunt — like many other elderly people — likes to talk 
 of such things ; but when it comes to putting them into 
 actual execution, she rather falls off. Such being the case 
 I think you and I had better adhere to our first plan of going 
 somewhere together, independently of other people. I have 
 got leave to accompany you for a week — at the utmost a 
 fortnight — but no more. Where do you wish to go ? Bur- 
 lington, I should think, from what M. says, would be as 
 eligible a place as any. When do you set off ?^ Arrange all 
 these things according to your convenience ; I shall start no 
 objections. The idea of seeing the sea — of being near it-^ 
 watching its changes by sunrise, sunset, moonlight, and 
 noon-day — in calm, perhaps in storm — fills and satisfies my 
 mind. I shall be discontented at nothing. And then I am 
 not to be with a set of people with whom I have nothing in 
 common — who would be nuisances and bores ; but with you, 
 
162 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 whom I like and know, and who know me. I have an odd 
 circumstance to relate to you : prepare for a hearty laugh I 
 
 The other day, Mr. , a vicar, came to spend the day 
 
 with us, bringing with him his own curate. The latter gen- 
 tleman, by name Mr. B., is a young Irish clergyman, fresh 
 from Dublin University. It was the first time we had any 
 of us seen him, but, however, after the manner of his coun- 
 trymen, he soon made himself at home. His character 
 quickly appeared in his conversation ; witty, lively, ardent, 
 clever too ; but deficient in the dignity and discretion of an 
 Englishman. At home, you know, I talk with ease, and am 
 never shy — ^never weighed down and oppressed by that miser- 
 able mauvaise honte which torments and constrains me 
 elsewhere. So I conversed with this Irishman, and laughed 
 at his jests ; and, though I saw faults in his character, ex- 
 cused them because of the amusement his originality afforded. 
 I cooled a little, indeed, and drew in towards the latter part 
 of the evening, because he began to season his conversation 
 with something of Hibernian flattery, which I did not quite 
 relish. However, they went away, and no more was thought 
 about them. A few days after I got a letter, the direction of 
 which puzzled me, it being in a hand I was not accustomed to 
 see. Evidently, it was neither from you nor Mary, my only 
 correspondents. Having opened and read it, it proved to be 
 a declaration of attachment and proposal of matrimony, ex- 
 pressed in the ardent language of the sapient young Irishman ! 
 I hope you are laughing heartily. This is not like one of 
 my adventures, is it ? It more nearly resembles Martha's. 
 I am certainly doomed to be an old maid. Never mind, 
 made up my mind to that fate ever since I was twelve 
 years old. 
 
 " Well ! thought I, I have heard of love at first sight, 
 but this beats all ! I leave you to guess what my answer 
 would be, convinced that you will not do me the injustice of 
 guessing wrong." 
 
PKEPARING FOR A JOURNEY. 163 
 
 On the 14tli of August, she still writes from Haworth : — 
 
 " I have in vain packed my box, and prepared everything 
 for our anticipated journey. It so happens that I can get 
 no conveyance this week or the next. The only gig let out 
 to hire in Haworth, is at Harrogate, and likely to remain 
 there, for aught I can hear. Papa decidedly objects to my 
 going by the coach, and walking to B., though I am sure I 
 could manage it. Aunt exclaims against the weather, and 
 the roads, and the four winds of heaven, so I am in a fix, 
 and, what is worse, so are you. On reading over, for the 
 second or third time, your last letter (which, by the by, was 
 written in such hieroglyphics that, at the first hasty perusal, 
 I could hardly make out two consecutive words), I find you 
 intimate that if I leave this journey till Thursday I shall be 
 too late. I grieve that I should have so inconvenienced 
 you ; but I need not talk of either Friday or Saturday now, 
 for I rather imagine there is small chance of my ever going 
 at all. The elders of the house have never cordially acqui- 
 esced in the measure ; and now that impediments seem to 
 start up at every step, opposition grows more open. Papa, 
 indeed, would willingly indulge me, but this very kindness 
 of his makes me doubt whether I ought to draw upon it ; so, 
 though I could battle out aunt's discontent, I yield to papa's 
 indulgence. He does not say so, but I know he would rather 
 I stayed at home ; and aunt meant well too, I dare say, but 
 I am provoked that she reserved the expression of her de- 
 cided disapproval till all was settled between you and myself 
 Reckon on me no more ; leave me out in your calculations ; 
 perhaps I ought, in the beginning, to have had prudence suf- 
 ficient to shut my eyes against such a prospect of pleasure, so 
 as to deny myself the hope of it. Be as angry as you please 
 with me for disappointing you. I did not intend it, and 
 have only one thing more to say — if you do not go imme- 
 
164 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BROKTE. 
 
 d lately to tlie sea, will you come to see us at Haworth ? 
 This invitation is not mine only, but papa's and aunt's." 
 
 However, a little more patience, a little more delay, and 
 she enjoyed the pleasure she had wished for so much. She 
 and her friend went to Easton for a fortnight in the latter 
 part of September. It was here she received her first im 
 pressions of the sea. 
 
 " Oct 2ith. 
 *^ Have you forgotten the sea by this time, E. ? Is it 
 grown dim in your mind ? Or you can still see it, dark, blue, 
 and green, and foam-white, and hear it roaring roughly when 
 the wind is high, or rushing softly when it is calm. ... I 
 am as well as need be, and very fat. I think of Easton very 
 often, and of worthy Mr. H., and his kind-hearted help-mate, 
 
 and of our pleasant walks to H Wood, and to Boynton, 
 
 our merry evenings, our romps with little Hancheon, &c., 
 &c. If we both live, this period of our lives will long be a 
 theme for pleasant recollection. Did you chance, in your 
 letter to Mr. H., to mention my spectacles ? I am sadly 
 inconvenienced by the want of them. I can neither read, 
 write, nor draw with comfort in their absence. I hope 
 
 Madame won't refuse to give them up Excuse the 
 
 brevity of this letter, for I have been drawing all day, and 
 my eyes are so tired it is quite a labour to write." 
 
 But, as the vivid remembrance of this pleasure died away, 
 an accident occurred to make the actual duties of life press 
 somewhat heavily for a time. 
 
 '' December 21st, 1S'60. 
 ^'We are at present, and have been during the last 
 month, rather busy, as, for that space of time, we have been 
 
HER AVERSION FOR A GOVERNESS LIFE. 165 
 
 without a servant, except a little girl to run errands. Poor 
 Tabby became so lame that she was at length obliged to 
 leave us. She is residing with her sister, in a little house 
 of her own, which she bought with her savings a year or two 
 since. She is very comfortable, and wants nothing ; as she 
 is near, we see her very often. In the mean time, Emily 
 and I are sufficiently busy, as you may suppose I manage 
 the ironing, and keep the rooms clean; Emily does the 
 baking, and attends to the kitchen. We are such odd ani- 
 mals, that we prefer this mode of contrivance to having a 
 new face amongst us. Besides, we do not despair of Tabby's 
 return, and she shall not be supplanted by a stranger in her 
 absence. I excited aunt's wrath very much by burning the 
 clothes, the first time I attempted to iron ; but I do better 
 now. Human feelings are queer things ; I am much happier 
 black-leading the stoves, making the beds, and sweeping the 
 floors at home, than I should be living like a fine lady any- 
 where else. I must indeed drop my subscription to the 
 Jews, because I have no money to keep it up. I ought to 
 have announced this intention to you before, but I quite for- 
 got I was a subscriber. I intend to force myself to take an- 
 other situation when I can get one, though I hate and ahhor 
 the very thoughts of governess-ship. But I must do it; 
 and, therefore, I heartily wish I could hear of a family whero 
 they need such a commodity as a governess" 
 
166 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONXfi. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The year 1840 found all the Brontes living at Lome, except 
 Anne. I am not aware for what reason the plan of sending 
 Branwell to study at the Royal Academy was relinquished ; 
 probably, it was found, on inquiry, that the expenses of such 
 a life were greater than his father's slender finances could 
 afford, even with the help which Charlotte's labours at Misa 
 Wooler's gave, by providing for Anne's board and education. 
 I gather from what I have heard, that Branwell must have 
 been severely disappointed when the plan fell through. His 
 talents were certainly very brilliant, and of this he was fully 
 conscious, and fervently desired, by their use, either in writing 
 or drawing, to make himself a name. At the same time, he 
 would probably have found his strong love of pleasure and 
 irregular habits a great impediment in his path to fame ; but 
 these blemishes in his character were only additional reasons 
 why he yearned after a London life, in which he imagined 
 he could obtain every stimulant to his already vigorous intel- 
 lect, while at the same time he would have a license of action 
 to be found only in crowded cities. Thus his whole nature 
 was attracted towards the metropolis; and many an hour 
 must he have spent poring over the map of London, to judge 
 from an anecdote which has been told me. Some traveller 
 for a London house of business came to Haworth for a night ; 
 and, according to the unfortunate habit of the place, the bril- 
 liant " Patrick " (so the villagers always called him, while in 
 
BKAJSWELL BRONTE STILL AT HOME. 167 
 
 his own family he was Branwell), was sent for to the inn, to 
 beguile the evening by his intellectual conversation and his 
 flashes of wit. They began to talk of London ; of the habits 
 and ways of life there ; of the places of amusement ; and 
 Branwell informed the Londoner of one or two short cuts 
 from point to point, up narrow lanes, or back streets ; and 
 it was only towards the end of the evening that the traveller 
 discovered, from Branwell's voluntary confession, that his 
 companion had never set foot in London at all. 
 
 At this time, the young man seemed to have his fate in 
 his own hands. He was full of noble impulses, as well as of 
 extraordinary gifts; not accustomed to resist temptation, it 
 is true, from any higher motive than strong family affection, 
 but showing so much power of attachment to all about him 
 that they took pleasure in believing that, after a time, he 
 would " right himself," and that they should have pride and 
 delight in the use he would then make of his splendid talents. 
 His aunt especially made him her great favourite. There 
 are always peculiar trials in the life of an only boy in a family 
 of girls. He is expected to act a part in life ; to c?o, while 
 they are only to he; and the necessity of their giving way to 
 him in some things, is too often exaggerated into their giving 
 way to him in all, and thus rendering him utterly selfish. 
 In the family about whom I am writing, while the rest were 
 almost ascetic in their habits, Branwell was allowed to grow 
 up self-indulgent ; but, in early youth, his power of attract- 
 ing and attaching people was so great, that few came in con- 
 tact with him who were not so much dazzled by him as to 
 be desirous of gratifying whatever wishes he expressed. Of 
 course, he was careful enough not to reveal anything before 
 his father and sisters of the pleasures he indulged in ; but 
 his tone of thought and conversation became gradually 
 coarser, and, for a time, his sisters tried to persuade them- 
 Beives that such coarseness was a part of manliness, and to 
 
163 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 blind themselves by love to the fact that Branwell was worse 
 than other young men. At present, though he had, they 
 were aware, fallen into some errors, the exact nature of which 
 they avoided knowing, still he was their hope and their dar- 
 ling ; their pride, who should some time bring great glory to 
 the name of Bronte. 
 
 He and his sister Charlotte were both slight and small 
 of stature, while the other two were of taller and larger 
 make. I have seen BranwelPs profile; it is what would be 
 generally esteemed very handsome ; the forehead is massive, 
 the eye well set, and the expression of it fine and intellectual ; 
 the nose too is good ; but there are coarse lines about the 
 mouth, and the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and 
 thick, indicating self-indulgence, while the slightly retreating 
 chin conveys an idea of weakness of will. His hair and com- 
 plexion were sandy. He had enough of Irish blood in him 
 to make his manners frank and genial, with a kind of natural 
 gallantry about them. In a fragment of one of his manu- 
 scripts which I have read, there is a justness and felicity of 
 expression which is very striking. It is the beginning of a 
 tale, and the actors in it are drawn with much of the grace 
 of characteristic portrait-painting, in perfectly pure and 
 simple language, which distinguishes so many of Addison's 
 papers in the " Spectator." The fragment is too short to 
 afibrd the means of judging whether he had much dramatic 
 talent, as the persons of the story are not thrown into con- 
 versation. But altogether the elegance and composure of 
 style are such as one would not have expected from this ve- 
 hement and ill-fated young man. He had a stronger desire 
 for literary fame burning in his heart, than even that which 
 occasionally flashed up in his sisters'. He tried various out- 
 lets for his talents. He wrote and sent poems to Wordsworth 
 and Coleridge, who both expressed kind and laudatory opin- 
 ions, and he frec[uently contributed verses to the Leeds 
 
CHAEACTERISTICS OF THE SISTERS BRONIE. 169 
 
 Mercury, In 1840, he was living at home, employing him- 
 self in occasional composition of various kinds, and waiting 
 till some employment, for which he might be fitted without 
 any expensive course of preliminary education, should turn 
 up ; waiting, not impatiently ; for he saw society of one kind 
 (probably what he called " life ") at the Black Bull; and at 
 Lome he was as yet the cherished favourite. 
 
 Miss Branwell was unaware of the fermentation of unoc- 
 cupied talent going on around her. She was not her nieces' 
 confidante — ^perhaps no one so much older could have been ; 
 but their father, from whom they derived not a little of their 
 adventurous spirit, was silently cognisant of much of which. 
 Miss Branwell took no note. Next to her nephew, the decile, 
 pensive Anne was her favourite. Miss Branwell had taken 
 charge of her from her infancy ; she was always patient and 
 tractable, and would submit quietly to occasional oppression, 
 even when she felt it keenly. Not so her two elder sisters ; 
 they made their opinions known when roused by any injustice. 
 At such times, Emily would express herself as strongly as 
 Charlotte, although perhaps less frequently. But, in gener- 
 al, notwithstanding that Miss Branwell might be occasionally 
 unreasonable, she and her nieces went on smoothly enough ; 
 and though they migh^. now and then be annoyed by petty 
 tyranny, still she inspired them with sincere respect, and not 
 a little afl'ection. They were, moreover, grateful to her for 
 many habits she had enforced upon them, and which in time 
 had become second nature : order, method, neatness in every- 
 thing ; a perfect knowledge of all kinds of household work ; 
 an exact punctuality, and obedience t© the laws of time and 
 place, of which no one but themselves I have heard Char- 
 lotte say, could tell the value in after-life , with their impul- 
 give natures, it was positive repose to have learnt implicit 
 obedience to external laws. People in Haworth have assured 
 me that, according to the hour of day — nay, the very 
 VOL. I. — 8 
 
170 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 minute — could they have told what the inhabitants of 
 the parsonage were about. At certain times the girls would 
 be sewing in their aunt's bedroom— the chamber which, in 
 former days, before they had outstripped her in their learn- 
 ing, had served them as a school-room ; at certain (early) hours 
 they had their meals; from six to eight, Miss Branwell read 
 aloud to Mr. Bronte ; at punctual eight, the household as- 
 sembled to evening prayers in his study ; and by nine he, 
 Miss Branwell, and Tabby, were all in bed, — the girls free 
 to pace up and down (like restless wild animals) in the par- 
 lour, talking over plans and projects, and thoughts of what 
 was to be their future life. 
 
 At the time of which I write, the favourite idea was that 
 of keeping a school. They thought that, by a little 
 contrivance, and a very little additional building, a small 
 number of pupils, four or six, might be accommodated in the 
 parsonage. As teaching seemed the only profession open to 
 them, and as it appeared that Emily at least could not live 
 away from home, while the others also suffered much from 
 the same cause, this plan of school-keeping presented itself 
 as most desirable. But it involved some outlay ; and to this 
 their aunt was averse. Yet there was no one to whom they 
 could apply for a loan of the requisite means, except Miss 
 Branwell, who had made a small store out of her savings, 
 which she intended for her nephew and nieces eventually, 
 but which she did not like to risk. Still, this plan of school- 
 keeping remained uppermost ; and in the evenings of this 
 winter of 1839-40, the alterations that would be necessary 
 in the house, and the best way of convincing their aunt of 
 the wisdom of their project, formed the principal subject of 
 their conversation. 
 
 This anxiety weighed upon their minds rather heavily, 
 during the months of dark and dreary weather. Nor were 
 external events, among the circle of t}ieir friends, of a cheer- 
 
DEATH OF A PUPIL. ITl 
 
 ful character In January 1840, Charlotte heard of tho 
 death of a young girl who had been a pupil of hers, and a 
 school-fellow of Anne's, at the time when the sisters were 
 together at Eoe Head ; and had attached herself very strong- 
 ly to the latter, who, in return, bestowed upon her much 
 quiet affection. It was a sad day when the intelligence of 
 this young creature's death arrived. Charlotte wrote thuci 
 on January 12th, 1840 : — 
 
 " Your letter which I received this morning, was one of 
 painful interest. Anne C, it seems, is dead; when I saw 
 her last, she was a young, beautiful, and happy girl ; and 
 now ' life's fitful fever ' is over with her, and she ^ sleeps well.' 
 I shall never see her again. It is a sorrowful thought ; for 
 she was a warm-hearted affectionate b&ing, and I cared for 
 her. 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 them, friend after friend, and are left to end their 
 pilgrimage alone. But tears are fruitless, and I try not to 
 repine." 
 
 During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours 
 m writing a story. Some fragments of the manuscript yet 
 remain, but it is in too small a hand to be read without 
 great fatigue to the eyes ; and one cares the less to read it, 
 as she herself condemned it, in the preface to the " Pro- 
 fessor," by saying that in this story she had got over such 
 taste as she might once have had for the ^* ornamental and 
 redundant in composition." The beginning, too, as she her- 
 self acknowledges, was on a scale commensurate with one 
 of Richardson's novels, of seven or eight volumes. I gather 
 gome of these particulars from a copy of a letter, apparently 
 
172 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 in reply to one from "Wordsworth, to whom she had sent the 
 commencement of the story, sometime in the summer of 1840. 
 
 " Authors are generally very tenacious of their produc- 
 tions, but I am not so much attached to this but that I can 
 give it up without much distress. No doubt, if I had gone 
 on, I should have made quite a Richardsonian concern of 
 it. ... I had materials in my head for half-a-dozen 
 volumes Of course, it is with considerable re- 
 gret I relinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have 
 sketched. It is very edifying and profitable to create a 
 world out of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants, 
 who are so many Melchisedecs, and have no father nor 
 mother but your own imagination. ... I am sorry I 
 did not exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the ^ Ladies' 
 Magazine ' was flourishing like a green bay tree. In that 
 case, I make no doubt, my aspirations after literary fame 
 would have met with due encouragement, and I should have 
 had the pleasure of introducing Messrs. Percy and West into 
 the very best society, and recording all their sayings and 
 
 doings in double-columned close-printed pages 
 
 I recollect, when I was a child, getting hold of some anti- 
 quated volumes, ani reading them by stealth with the most 
 exquisite pleasure, You give a correct description of the 
 patient Grisels of those days. My aunt was one of them ; 
 and to this day she thinks the tales of the ^ Ladies' Magazine ' 
 infinitely superior to any trash of modern literature. So do 
 I ; for I read them in childhood, and childhood has a very 
 strong faculty of admiration, but a very weak one of criti- 
 cism .... I am pleased that you cannot quite de- 
 cide whether I am an attorney's clerk or a novel-reading 
 dressmaker. I will not help you at all in the discover}^ ; 
 and as to my handwriting, or the lady-like touches in my 
 btyle and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion from 
 
HER REI'LY TO WORDSWORTH. 173 
 
 t)iat — I may employ an amanuensis. Seriously, sir, I am 
 very much obliged to you for your kind and candid letter. 
 I almost wonder you took the trouble to read and notice the 
 novelette of an anonymous scribe, who had not even the 
 manners to tell you whether he was a man or a woman, or 
 whether his ^ C. T.' meant Charles Timms or Charlotte 
 Tomkins." 
 
 There are two or three things noticeable in the letter 
 from which these extracts are taken. The first is the initials 
 with which she had evidently signed the former one to which 
 she alludes. About this time, to her more familiar corre- 
 spondents, she occasionally calls herself " Charles Thunder," 
 making a kind of pseudonym for herself out of her Christian 
 name, and the meaning of her Greek surname. In the next 
 place, there is a touch of assumed smartness, very difierent 
 from the simple, womanly, dignified letter which she had 
 written to Southey, under nearly similar circumstances, three 
 years before. I imagine the cause of this difference to be 
 twofold. Southey, in his reply to her first letter, had ap- 
 pealed to the higher parts of her nature, in calling her to 
 consider whether literature was, or was not, the best course 
 for a woman to pursue. But the person to whom she ad- 
 dressed this one had evidently confined himself to purely 
 literary criticisms • besides which, her sense of humour was 
 tickled by the perplexity which her correspondent felt as to 
 whether he was addressing a man or a woman. She rather 
 wished to encourage the former idea ; and, in consequence, 
 possibly, assumed something of the flippancy which was 
 likely to exist in her brother's style of conversation, from 
 whom she would derive her notions of young manhood, not 
 likely, as far as refinement was concerned, to be improved by 
 the other specimens she had seen, such as the curates whoi*) 
 she afterwards represented in " Shirley." 
 
174 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 TLese curates were full of strong, Higli- Church feeliug. 
 Belligerent bj nature, it was well for their professional 
 character that they had, as clergymen, sufficient cause for 
 the exercise of their warlike propensities. Mr. Bronte, with 
 all his warm regard for Church and State, had a great 
 respect for mental freedom ; and, though he was the last 
 man in the world to conceal his opinions, he lived in perfect 
 amity with all the respectable part of those who differed from 
 him. Not so the curates. Dissent was schism, and schism 
 was condemned in the Bible. In default of turbaned Sara- 
 cens, they entered on a crusade against Methodists in broad- 
 cloth ; and the consequence was that the Methodists and 
 Baptists refused to pay the church-rates. Miss Bronte thus 
 describes the state of things at this time : — 
 
 " Little Haworth has been all in a bustle about church- 
 rates, since you were here. We had a stirring meeting in 
 the schoolroom. Papa took the chair, and Mr. C. and Mr. 
 W. acted as his supporters, one on each side. There was 
 violent opposition, which set Mr. C.'s Irish blood in a fer- 
 ment, and if papa had not kept him quiet, partly by persua- 
 sion and partly by compulsion, he would have given the 
 Dissenters their kale through the reek — a Scotch proverb, 
 which I will explain to you another time. He and Mr. W. 
 both bottled up their wrath for that time, but it was only to 
 explode with redoubled force at a future period. We had 
 two sermons on dissent, and its consequences, preached last 
 Sunday — one in the afternoon by Mr. W., and one in the 
 evening by Mr. C. All the Dissenters were invited to como 
 and hear, and they actually shut up their chapels, and came 
 in a body; of course the church was crowded. Mr. W. 
 delivered a noble, eloquent, High-Church, Apostolical-Suc- 
 cession discourse, in which he banged the Dissenters most 
 fearlessly and unflinchingly. I thought they had got enough 
 for one while, but it was nothing to the dose that was thrust 
 
THE CURATES AT IIAWORTII. 175 
 
 down their throats in the evening. A keener, cleverer, 
 bolder, and more heart-stirring harangue than that which 
 Mr. C. delivered from Haworth pulpit, last Sunday evening, 
 I never heard. He did not rant ; he did not cant ; he did 
 not whine ; he did not sniggle ; he just got up and spoke 
 with the boldness of a man who was impressed with the truth 
 of what he was saying, w^ho has no fear of his enemies, and 
 no dread of consequences. His sermon lasted an hour, yet I 
 was sorry when it was done. I do not say that I agree either 
 w4th him, or with Mr. W., either in all or in half their 
 opinions. I consider them bigoted, intolerant, and wholly 
 unjustifiable on the ground of common sense. My conscience 
 will not let me be either a Puseyite or a Hookist ; mats, if 
 I were a Dissenter, I would have taken the first opportunity 
 of kicking, or of horsewhipping both the gentlemen for their 
 stern, bitter attack on my religion and its teachers. But in 
 spite of all this, I admired the noble integrity which could 
 dictate so fearless an opposition against so strong an an- 
 tagonist. 
 
 " P.S. — Mr. W. has given another lecture at the Keighley 
 Mechanics' Institution, and papa has also given a lecture; 
 both are spoken of very highly in the newspapers, and it is 
 mentioned as a matter of wonder that such displays of intel- 
 lect should emanate from the village of Haworth, ^ situated 
 among the bogs" and mountains, and, until very lately, sup- 
 posed to be in a state of semi-barbarism.' Such are the 
 words of the newspaper." 
 
 To fill up the account of this outwardly eventless year, I 
 may add a few more extracts from the letters entrusted to me. 
 
 " 3fa^ Ibth, 1840. 
 " Do not be over-persuaded to marry a man you can never 
 respect — I do not say love ; because, I think, if you can respect 
 a person before marriage, moderate love at least will come 
 
176 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 after ; and as to intense passion^ I am convinced that that 
 is no desirable feeling. In the first place, it seldom or never 
 meets with a requital; and, in the second place, if it did, the 
 feeling would be only temporary ; it would last the honey- 
 moon, and then, perhaps, give place to disgust, or indiflference 
 worse, perhaps, than disgust. Certainly this would be the 
 case on the man's part ; and on the woman's — God help her, 
 if she is left to love passionately and alone. 
 
 " I am tolerably well convinced that I shall never marry 
 at all. Keason tells me so, and I am not so utterly the slave 
 of feeling but that I can occasionally hear her voice." 
 
 ''June 2nd, 1840. 
 " M. is not yet come to Haworth ; but she is to come, on 
 the condition that I first go and stay a few days there. If 
 all be well, I shall go next Wednesday. I may stay at 
 
 G until Friday or Saturday, and the early part of the 
 
 following week I shall pass with you, if you will have me — • 
 which last sentence indeed is nonsense, for as I shall be glad 
 to see you, so I know you will be glad to see me. This ar- 
 rangement will not allow much time, but it is the only prac- 
 ticable one which, considering all the circumstances, I can 
 effect. Do not urge me to stay more than two or three days, 
 because I shall be obliged to refuse you. I intend to walk 
 
 to Keighley, there to take the coach as far as B , then to 
 
 get some one to carry my box, and to walk the rest of the 
 
 way to G . If I manage this, I think I shall contrive 
 
 very well. I shall reach B. by about five o'clock, and then 
 I shall have the cool of the evening for the walk. 1 have, 
 communicated the whole arrangement to M. I desire ex- 
 ceedingly to see both her and you. Good-bye. 
 
 0. B 
 
OPINION OP FRENCH LITERATURE. 177 
 
 " If you Lave any better plan to suggest I am open to 
 conviction, provided your plan is practicable." 
 
 " August 20th, 1840. 
 
 *^ Have you seen anything of Miss H. lately ? I wisb 
 they, or somebody else, would get me a situation. I have 
 answered advertisements without number, but my applica- 
 tions have met with no success. 
 
 " I have got another bale of French books from G. con- 
 taining upwards of forty volumes. I have read about half. 
 They are like the rest, clever, wicked, sophistical, and im- 
 moral. The best of it is, they give one a thorough idea of 
 France and Paris, and are the best substitute for French con- 
 versation that I have met with. 
 
 " I positively have nothing more to say to you, for I am 
 in a stupid humour. You must excuse this letter not being 
 quite as long as your own. I have written to you soon that 
 you might not look after the postman in vain. Preserve this 
 writing as a curiosity in caligraphy — I think it is exquisite — 
 all brilliant black blots, and utterly illegible letters. 
 
 " Caliban." 
 
 " ' The wind bloweth where it listeth. Thou hearest the 
 sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, nor 
 whither it goeth.' That, I believe, is Scripture, though in 
 what chapter or book, or whether it bo correcUy quoted, I 
 can't possibly say. However^ it behoves me to write a letter 
 to a young woman of the name of E., with whom I was once 
 acquainted, *in life's morning march, when my spirit was 
 young.' This young woman wished me to write to her some 
 time since, though I have nothing to say — I e'en put it oil, 
 day by day, till at last, fearing that she will * curse me by her 
 gods,' I feel constrained to sit down and tack a few lines to- 
 gether, which she may call a letter or not as she pleases, 
 
 VOL. L — 8* 
 
178 LIFE OF CnAELOTTE LHONTE. 
 
 Now if the young woman expects sense in this production^ she 
 will find herself miserably disappointed. I shall dress her a 
 dish of salmagundi — I shall cook a hash — compound a stew- 
 toss up an omelette soufflee a la Franqaise^ and send it her 
 with my respects. The wind, which is very high up in our 
 hills of Judea, though, I suppose, down in the Philistine flats 
 of B. parish it is nothing to speak of, has produced the same 
 effects on the contents of my knowledge-box that a quaigh of 
 usquebaugh does upon those of most other bipeds. I see 
 everything couleur de rose^ and am strongly inclined to 
 dance a jig, if I knew how. I think I must partake of the 
 nature of a pig or an ass — both which animals are strongly 
 affected by a high wind. From what quarter the wind blows 
 I cannot tell, for I never could in my life ; but I should very 
 much like to know how the great brewing-tub of Bridlington 
 Bay works, and what sort of yeasty froth rises just now on 
 the waves. 
 
 " A woman of the name of Mrs. B., it seems, wants a 
 teacher. I wish she would have me ; and I have written to 
 Miss W. to tell her so. Verily, it is a delightful thing to 
 live here at home, at full liberty to do just what one pleases. 
 But I recollect some scrubby old fable about grasshoppers 
 and ants, by a scrubby old knave yclept j^sop ; the grass- 
 hoppers sang all the summer, and starved all the winter. 
 
 " A distant relation of mine, one Patrick Branwell, has 
 set off to seek his fortune in the wild, wandering, adven- 
 turous, romantic, knight-errant-like capacity of clerk on the 
 Leeds and Manchester Railroad. Leeds and Manchester — 
 where are they ? Cities in the wilderness — like Tadmor, 
 alias Palmyra — are they not ? 
 
 " There is one little trait respecting Mr. "W. which lately 
 came to my knowledge, which gives a glimpse of the bettei 
 Bide of his character. Last Saturday night he had been 
 pitting an hour in the parlour with papa ; and, as he weni 
 
SUSAN BLAND. 179 
 
 away, I heard papa say to him * What is the matter with 
 you ? You seem in very low spirits to-night.' ^ Oh, I don't 
 know. I've been to see a poor young girl, who, I'm afraid, 
 is dying.' 'Indeed, what is her name?' 'Susan Bland, 
 the daughter of John Bland, the superintendent.' Now 
 Susan Bland is my oldest and best scholar in the Sunday- 
 school ; and, when I heard that, I thought I would go as 
 soon as I could to see her. I did go on Monday afternoon, 
 and found her on her way to that ' bourn whence no traveller 
 returns.' After sitting with her some time, I happened to 
 ask her mother, if she thought a little port- wine would do 
 her good. She replied that the doctor had recommended it, 
 and that when Mr. W. was last there, he had brought them a 
 bottle of wine and jar of preserves. She added, that 
 he was always good-natured to poor folks, and seemed 
 to have a deal of feeling and kindTheartedness about him. 
 No doubt, there are defects in his character, but there are 
 also good qualities. . . . . God bless him! I wonder who, 
 with his advantages, would be without his faults. I know 
 many of his faulty actions, many of his weak points ; yet, 
 where I am, he shall always find rather a defender than an 
 accuser. To be sure, my opinion will go but a very little 
 way to decide his character ; what of that ? People should 
 do right as far as their ability extends. You are not to 
 suppose from all this^ that Mr. W. and I are on very amiable 
 terms ; we are not at all. We are distant, cold, and re- 
 served. We seldom speak ; and when we do, it is only tc 
 exchange the most trivial and common-place remarks." 
 
 The Mrs. B. alluded to in this letter, as in want of a 
 governess, entered into a correspondence with Miss Bronte, 
 and expressed herself much pleased with the letters she re- 
 ceived from her ; with the " style and candour of the appli- 
 cation," in which Charlotte had taken care to tell her, that 
 
180 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 if she wanted a showy, elegant, or fashionable person, hei 
 correspondent was not fitted for such a situation. But Mrs 
 B. required her governess to give instructions in music and 
 singing, for which Charlotte was not qualified ; and, accord- 
 ingly, the negotiation fell through. But Miss Bronte was 
 not one to sit down in despair after disappointment. Much 
 as she disliked the life of a private governess, it was her 
 duty to relieve her father of the burden of her support, and 
 this was the only way open to her. So she set to advertising 
 and inquiring with fresh vigour. 
 
 In the mean time, a little occurrence took place, de- 
 scribed in one of her letters, which I shall give, as it shows 
 her instinctive aversion to a particular class of men, whose 
 vices some have supposed she looked upon with indulgence. 
 The extract tells all that need be known, for the purpose I 
 have in view, of the miserable pair to whom it relates. 
 
 " You remember Mr. and Mrs. ? Mrs. came 
 
 here the other day, with a most melancholy tale of her 
 wretched husband's drunken, extravagant, profligate habits. 
 She asked papa's advice ; there was nothing, she said, but 
 ruin before them. They owed debts which they could never 
 
 pay, She expected Mr. 's instant dismissal from his 
 
 curacy ; she knew, from bitter experience, that his vices 
 were utterly hopeless. He treated her and her child savage- 
 ly ; with much more to the same efi'ect. Papa advised her 
 to leave him for ever, and go home, if she had a home to go 
 to. She said, this was what she had long resolved to do , 
 and she would leave him directly, as soon as Mr. B. dis- 
 missed him. She expressed great disgust and contempt 
 towards him, and did not affect to have the shadow of re- 
 gard in any way. I do not wonder at this, but I do wonder 
 she should ever marry a man towards whom her feelings 
 must always have been pretty much the same as they are 
 
rNSlGHT INTO CHARACTER. ISl 
 
 now. I am morally certain no decent woman could ex- 
 perience any thing but aversion towards such a man as Mr 
 
 . Before I knew, or suspected his character, and when 
 
 I rather wondered at his versatile talents, I felt it in an un- 
 controllable degree. I hated to talk with him — ^hated to 
 look at him ; though as I was not certain that there was 
 substantial reason for such a dislike, and thought it absurd 
 to trust to mere instinct, I both concealed and repressed the 
 feeling as much as I could ; and, on all occasions, treated 
 him with as much civility as I was mistress of. I was struck 
 with Mary's expression of a similar feeling at first sight ; 
 she said, when we left him, * That is a hideous man, Char- 
 lotte !' I thought ^ he is indeed.' " 
 
182 LIFE OF ClUKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Early in March, 1841, Miss Bronte obtained her eecond and 
 last situation as a governess. This time she esteemed herself 
 fortunate in becoming a member of a kind-hearted and friendly 
 household. The master of it, she especially regarded as a 
 valuable friend, whose advice helped to guide her in one 
 very important step of her life. But as her definite acquire- 
 ments were few, she had to eke them out by employing her 
 leisure time in needle-work ; and altogether her position was 
 that of *' bonne" or nursery governess, liable to repeated and 
 never-ending calls upon her time. This description of un- 
 certain, yet perpetual employment, subject to the exercise of 
 another person's will at all hours of the day, was peculiarly 
 trying to one whose life at home had been full of abundant 
 leisure. Idle she never was in any place, but of the mul- 
 titude of small talks, plans, duties, pleasures, &c., that 
 make up most people's days, her home life was nearly des- 
 titute This made it possible for her to go through long and 
 deep histories of feeling and imagination, for which others, 
 odd as it sounds, have rarely time. This made it inevitable 
 that — ^I ite on, in her too short career — the intensity of her 
 feelings should wear out her physical health. The habit of 
 " making out," which had grown with her growth, and 
 strengthened with her strength, had become a part of her 
 feature. Yet all exercise of her strongest and most charac- 
 teristic faculties was now out of the question. She could 
 
IDEAS OF CHILDKEN. 183 
 
 not (as while slie was at Miss Wooler's) feel amidst tlie oc- 
 cupations of the day, that when evening came, she might 
 employ herself in more congenial ways. No doubt, all who 
 enter upon the career of a governess have to relinquish 
 much ; no doubt, it must ever be a life of sacrifice ; but to 
 Charlotte Bronte it was a perpetual attempt to force all her 
 faculties into a direction for which the whole of her previous 
 life had unfitted them. Moreover the little Brontes had 
 been brought up motherless ; and from knowing nothing of 
 the gaiety and the sportiveness of childhood — from never 
 having experienced caresses or fond attentions themselves— 
 they were ignorant of the very nature of infancy, or how to 
 call out its engaging qualities. Children were to them the 
 troublesome necessities of humanity ; they had never been 
 drawn into contact with them in any other way. Years 
 afterwards, when Miss Bronte came to stay with us, she 
 watched our little girls perpetually ; and I could not per- 
 suade her that they were only average specimens of w^ell 
 brought up children. She was surprised and touched by 
 any sign of thoughtfalness for others, of kindness to animals, 
 or of unselfishness on their part; and constantly maintained 
 that she was in the right, and I in the wrong, when we differ- 
 ed on the point of their unusual excellence. All this must 
 be borne in mind while readinsj the foUowino* letters. And 
 it must likewise be borne in mind — by those who, surviving 
 her, look back upoiL her life from their mount of observation, 
 — ^liow no distaste, no suffering ever made her shrink from 
 any course which she believed it to be her duty to engage in, 
 
 '' March S, 184:1, 
 ^' I told you some time since, that I meant to get a 
 itaavion, and when I said so my resolution was quite fixed. 
 r felt thai however often I was disappointed, I had no inten- 
 
181 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 tion of relinquisliing my efforts. After loemg severely baffled 
 two or three times, — after a world of trouble in the way of 
 correspondence and interviews, — I have at length succeeded, 
 and am fairly established in my new place. 
 
 # H» TNT # ^ !§• 
 
 " The house is not very large, but exceedingly comfort- 
 able and well regulated ; the grounds are fine and extensive, 
 In taking the place, I have made a large sacrifice in the way 
 of salary, in the hope of securing comfort, — ^by which word 
 [ do not mean to express good eating and drinking, or warm 
 fire, or a soft bed, but the society of cheerful faces, and minds 
 and hearts not dug out of a lead-mine, or cut from a marble 
 quarry. My salary is not really more than 16Z. per annum, 
 though it is nominally 20?., but the expense of washing will 
 be deducted therefrom. My pupils are two in number, a 
 girl of eight, and a boy of six. As to my employers, you 
 will not expect me to say much about their characters when 
 I tell you that I only arrived here yesterday. I have not 
 the faculty of telling an individual's disposition at first sight. 
 Before I can venture to pronounce on a character, I must 
 see it first under various lights and from various points of 
 
 view. All I can say therefore is, both Mr. and Mrs. 
 
 seem to me good sort of people. I have as yet had no cause 
 to complain of want of considerateness or civility. My pupils 
 are wild and unbroken, but apparently well-disposed. I 
 wish I may be able to say as much next time I write to you. 
 My earnest wish and endeavour will be to please them. If I 
 can but feel that I am giving satisfaction, and if at the same 
 time I can keep my health, I shall, I hope, be moderately 
 happy. But no one but myself can tell how hard a governess's 
 work is to me — ^for no one but myself is aware how utterly 
 averse my whole mind and nature are for the employment. 
 Do not think that I fail to blame myself for this, or that I 
 leave any means unemployed to conquer this feeling. Some 
 
HOME-SICK IN SPITE OF KINDNESS. 185 
 
 of my greatest difficulties lie in things that would appear to 
 jou comparatively trivial. I find it so hard to repel the 
 rude familiarity of children. I find it so difficult to ask 
 either servants or mistress for anything I want, however 
 much I want it. It is less pain for me to endure the greatest 
 inconvenience than to go into the kitchen to request its re- 
 moval. I am a fool. Heaven knows I cannot help it ! 
 
 " Now can you tell me whether it is considered improper 
 for governesses to ask their friends to come and see them, 
 I do not mean, of course, to stay, but just for a call of an 
 hour or two ? If it is not absolute treason, I do fervently 
 request that you will contrive, in some way or other, to let 
 me have a sight of your face. Yet I feel, at the same time, 
 that I am making a very foolish and almost impracticable 
 demand ; yet this is only four miles from B ! " 
 
 ''March 21. 
 " You must excuse a very short answer to your most 
 welcome letter; for my time is entirely occupied. Mrs. 
 
 expected a good deal of sewing from me. I cannot 
 
 sew much during the day, on account of the children, who 
 require the utmost attention. I am obliged, therefore, to 
 devote the evenings to this business. Write to me often ; 
 very long letters. It will do both of us good. This place 
 
 is far better than , but, God knows, I have enough to 
 
 do to keep a good heart in the matter. What you said has 
 cheered me a little. I wish I could always act according to 
 your advice. Home-sickness affects me sorely. I like Mr. 
 extremely. The children are over-indulged, and con- 
 sequently hard at times to manage. Do, do, do come and 
 see me ; if it be a breach of etiquette, never mind. If you 
 can only stop an hour, come. Talk no more about my for- 
 saking you ; my darling, I could not afford to do it. I find 
 it is not in my nature to get on in this weary world without 
 
186 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 sympathy and attachment in some quarter ; and seldom in- 
 deed do we find it. It is too great a treasure to be ever wan- 
 tonly thrown away when once secured." 
 
 Miss Bronte had not been many weeks in her new situa- 
 tion before she had a proof of the kind-hearted hospitality 
 of her employers. Mr. wrote to her father and ur- 
 gently invited him to come and make acquaintance with his 
 daughter's new home, by spending a week with her in it ; 
 
 and Mrs. expressed great regret when one of Miss 
 
 Bronte's friends drove up to the house to leave a letter or 
 parcel, without entering. So she found that all her friends 
 might freely visit her, and that her father would be received 
 with especial gladness. She thankfully acknowledged this 
 kindness in writing to urge her friend afresh to come and 
 see her ; which she accordingly did. 
 
 " June, 1841. 
 
 '^ You can hardly fancy it possible, I dare say, that 1 
 
 cannot find a quarter of an hour to scribble a note in ; but 
 
 so it is ; and when a note is written, it has to be carried a 
 
 mile to the post, and that consumes nearly an hour, which is 
 
 a large portion of the day. Mr. and Mrs. have been 
 
 gone a week. I heard from them this morning. No time is 
 fixed for their return, but I hope it will not be delayed long, 
 or I shall miss the chance of seeing Anne this vacation 
 She came home, I understand, last Wednesday, and is only 
 to be allowed three weeks' vacation, because the family she 
 is with are going to Scarborough. / should like to see her 
 to judge for myself of the state of her health. I dare not 
 trust any other person's report, no one seems minute enough 
 in their observations. I should very much have liked you 
 to have seen her. I have got on very well with the servants 
 and children so far ; yet it is dreary, solitary work. You 
 
APPEEHENSION FOR ANNe's HEALTH. 187 
 
 can tell as well as me the lonely feeling of being without a 
 companion.'' 
 
 Soon after this was written, Mr. and Mrs. return- 
 ed, in time to allow Charlotte to go and look after Anne's 
 health, which, as she found to her intense anxiety, was far 
 from strong. What could she do, to nurse and cherish up 
 this little sister, the youngest of them all ? Apprehension 
 about her brought up once more the idea of keeping a school. 
 If, by this means, they three could live together, and main- 
 tain themselves, all might go well. They would have some 
 time of their own, in which to try again and yet again at 
 that literary career, which, in spite of all baffling difficulties, 
 was never quite set aside as an ultimate object ; but far the 
 strongest motive with Charlotte was the conviction that 
 Anne's health was so delicate that it required a degree of 
 tending which none but her sister could give. Thus she 
 wrote during those midsummer holidays. 
 
 " Haworth, July 19th, 1841. 
 " We waited long and anxiously for you, on the Thursday 
 that you promised to come. I quite wearied my eyes with 
 watching from the window, eye-glass in hand, and sometimes 
 spectacles on nose. However, you are not to blame ; . . . 
 and as to disappointment, why, all must suffer disappoint- 
 ment at some period or other of their lives. But a hundred 
 things I had to say to you will now be forgotten, and never 
 said. There is a project hatching in this house, which both 
 Emily and I anxiously wished to discuss with you. The 
 project is yet in its infancy, hardly peeping from its shell; 
 and whether it will ever come out a fine full-fledged chicken, 
 or will turn addle, and die before it cheeps, is one of those 
 considerations that are but dimly revealed by the oracles of 
 futurity. Now, don't be nonplussed by all this metaphorical 
 
188 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 mj^stery. I talk of a plain and everj-day occurrence, tlionglr 
 in Delphic style, I wrap up the information in figures of 
 speech concerning eggs, chickens, etcsetera, etcaeterorum. 
 To come to the point : papa and aunt talk, by fits and starts, 
 of our — id est, Emily, Anne, and myself — commencing a 
 school ! I have often, you know, said how much I wished 
 such a thing; but I never could conceive where the capital 
 was to come from for making such a speculation. I was well 
 aware, indeed, that aunt had money, but I always considered 
 that she was the last person who would ofi'er a loan for the 
 purpose in question. A loan, however, she lias offered, or 
 rather intimates that she perhaps rvill ofi'er, in case pupils 
 can be secured, an eligible situation obtained, &c. This 
 sounds very fair, but still there are matters to be considered 
 which throw something of a damp upon the scheme. I do not 
 expect that aunt will sink more than 150Z. in such a venture ; 
 and would it be possible to establish a respectable (not by any 
 means a showy) school, and to commence housekeeping, with 
 a capital of only that amount ? Propound the question to 
 your sister, if you think she can answer it ; if not, don't say 
 a word on the subject. As to getting into debt, that is a thing 
 we could none of us reconcile our minds to for a moment. 
 We do not care how modest, how humble our commencement 
 be, so it be made on sure grounds, and have a safe founda- 
 tion. In thinking of all possible and impossible places where 
 we could establish a school, I have thought of Burlington, or 
 rather of the neighbourhood of Burlington. Do you remem- 
 ber whether tnere was any other school there besides that of 
 Miss ? This is, of course, a perfectly crude and ran- 
 dom idea. There are a hundred reasons why it should be 
 an impracticable one. We have no connections, no acquaint- 
 ances there; it is far from home, &c. Still, I fancy the 
 ground in the East Biding is less fully occupied than in the 
 West. Much inquiry and consideration will be necessary 
 
WISHES AND ASPIEATIONS. ISli 
 
 of course, before any place is decided on ; and I fear much 
 time will elapse before any plan is executed. . . . . . 
 
 Write as soon as you can. I shall not leave my present 
 situation till my future prospects assume a more fixed and 
 definite aspect." 
 
 A fortnight afterwards, we see that the seed has been 
 gown which was to grow up into a plan materially influencing 
 her future life. 
 
 ''August 1th, 1841. 
 " This is Saturday evening ; I have put the children to 
 bed ; now I am going to sit down and answer your letter. 
 I am again by myself — housekeeper and governess — for Mr. 
 
 and Mrs. ' are staying at . To speak truth, though 
 
 I am solitary while they are away, it is still by far the hap- 
 piest part of my time. The children are under decent con- 
 trol, the servants are very observant and attentive to me, 
 and the occasional absence of the master and mistress relieves 
 me from the duty of always endeavouring to seem cheerful 
 
 and conversable. Martha , it appears, is in the way of 
 
 enjoying great advantages ; so is Mary, for you will be sur- 
 prised to hear that she is returning immediately to the Con- 
 tinent with her brother ; not, however, to stay there, but to 
 take a month's tour and recreation. I have had a long letter 
 from Mary, and a packet containing a present of a very hand- 
 some black silk scarf, and a pair of beautiful kid gloves, 
 bought at Brussels. Of course, I was in one sense pleased 
 with tha gift — pleased that they should think of me so far 
 off, amidst the excitements of one of the most splendid capi- 
 tals of Europe ; and yet it felt irksome to accept it. I should 
 think Mary and Martha have not more than sufficient pocket- 
 money to supply themselves. I wish they had testified their 
 regard by a less expensive token. Mary's letters spoke of 
 some of the pictures and cathedrals she had seen — ^pictures 
 
190 LIFE OF CllAllLOTTE EKONTE. 
 
 the most exquisite, cathedrals the most venerable. I hardly 
 know what swelled to my throat as I read her letter: such a 
 vehement impatience of restraint and steady work ; such a 
 strong wish for wings — wings such as wealth can furnish ; 
 such an urgent thirst to see, to know, to learn; something 
 internal seemed to expand bodily for a minute. I was tan- 
 talised by the consciousness of faculties unexercised, — then 
 all collapsed, and I despaired. My dear, I would hardly 
 make that confession to any one but yourself; and to you, 
 rather in a letter than viva voce. These rebellious and ab- 
 surd emotions were only momentary ; I quelled them in five 
 minutes. I hope they will not revive, for they were acutely 
 painful. No further steps have been taken about the project 
 I mentioned to you, nor probably will be for the present ; 
 but Emily, and Anne, and I, keep it in view. It is our polar 
 star, and we look to it in all circumstances of despondency. 
 I begin to suspect I am writing in a strain which will make 
 you think I am unhappy. This is far from being the case ; 
 on the contrary, I know my place is a favourable one, for a 
 governess. What dismays and haunts me sometimes, is a 
 conviction that I have no natural knack for my vocation. If 
 teaching only were requisite, it would be smooth and easy ; 
 but it is the living in other people's houses— the estrange- 
 ment from one's real character — the adoption of a cold, rigid, 
 apath'etic exterior, that is painful. . . . You will not 
 mention our school project at present. A project not actu- 
 ally commenced is al\i'ays uncertain. Write to me often, my 
 dear Nell ; you knoiu your letters are valued. Your ^ loving 
 child ' (as you choose to call me so). 
 
 " P. S. I am well in health; don't fancy I am not ; but 
 I have one aching feeling at my heart (I must allude to it, 
 though I had resolved not to). It is about Anne; she has 
 
SISTEELY ANXIETIES. 191 
 
 SO much to endure : far, far more tlian I ever had. "WheD 
 my thoughts turn to her, they always see her as a patient 
 persecuted stranger. I know what concealed susceptibility 
 is in her nature, when her feelings are wounded. I wish I 
 could be with her, to administer a little balm. She is more 
 lonely — less gifted with the power of making friends, even 
 than I am. * Drop the subject.' " 
 
 She could bear much for herself; but she could not pa- 
 tiently bear the sorrows of others, especially of her sisters ; 
 and again, of the two sisters, the idea of the little, gentle 
 youngest suffering in' lonely patience, was insupportable to 
 her. Something must be done. No matter if the desired 
 end were far away ; all time was lost in which she was not 
 making progress, however slow, towards it. To have a school, 
 was to have some portion of daily leisure, uncontrolled but 
 by her own sense of duty ; it was for the three sisters, loving 
 each other with so passionate an affection, to be together under 
 one roof, and yet earning their own subsistence; above all, it 
 was to have the power of watching over those two whose life 
 and happiness were ever to Charlotte far more than her own. 
 But no trembling impatience should lead her to take an un- 
 wise step in haste. She inquired in every direction she could, 
 as to the chances which a new school might have of success. 
 But in all there seemed more establishments like the one 
 which the sisters wished to set up than could be supported. 
 What was to be done ? Superior advantages must be offered. 
 But how ? They themselves abounded in thought, power, and 
 information ; but these are qualifications scarcely fit to be in* 
 Bcrted in a prospectus. Of French they knew something ; 
 enough to read it fluently, but hardly enough to teach it in 
 competition with natives, or professional masters. Emily and 
 Anne had some knowledge of music ; but here again it was 
 doubtful whether, without more instruction, they could en- 
 gage to give lessons in it. 
 
192 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Just about tliis time, Miss Wooler was thinking of relin- 
 qu ishing her school at Dewsbury Moor ; and offered to give 
 it up in favour of her old pupils, the Brontes. A sister of 
 hers had taken the active management since the time when 
 Charlotte was a teacher ; but the number of pupils had di- 
 minished ; and, if the Brontes undertook it, they would have 
 to try and work it up to its former state of prosperity. This, 
 again, would require advantages on their part which they did 
 not at present possess, but which Charlotte caught a glimpse 
 of. She resolved to follow the clue, and never to rest till 
 she had reached a successful issue. With the forced calm 
 of a suppressed eagerness, that sends a glow of desire through 
 every word of the following letter, she wrote to her aunt thus. 
 
 "/SV- 29/^, 1841. 
 *' Dear Aunt, 
 
 " I have heard nothing of Miss Wooler yet since I 
 wrote to her, intimating that I would accept her offer. I can- 
 not conjecture the reason of this long silence, unless some un- 
 foreseen impediment has occurred in concluding the bargain. 
 Meantime, a plan has been suggested and approved by Mr. 
 
 and Mrs. " (the father and mother of her pupils, 
 
 " and others, which I wish now to impart to you. My friends 
 recommend me, if I desire to secure permanent success, to 
 delay commencing the school for six months longer, and by 
 all means to contrive, by hook or by crook, to spend the in- 
 tervening time in some school on the continent. They say 
 schools in England are so numerous, competition so great, 
 that without some such step towards attaining superiority, 
 we shall probably have a very hard struggle, and may fail in 
 the end. They say, moreover, that the loan of lOOZ., which 
 you have been so kind as to offer us, will, perhaps, not be all 
 required now, as Miss Wooler will lend us the furniture ; 
 and that, if the speculation is intended to be a good and sue- 
 
PLANS FOK THE FUTUEE. . 193 
 
 .cssful one, half the sum, at least, ought to be laid out in the 
 manner I have mentioned, thereby insuring a more speedy 
 repayment both of interest and principal. 
 
 " I would not go to France or to Paris. I would go to 
 Brussels, in Belgium. The cost of the journey there, at the 
 dearest rate of travellings would be 51. ; living is there little 
 more than half as dear as it is in England, and the facilities 
 for education are equal or superior to any other place in Eu 
 rope. In half a year, I could acquire a thorough familiarity 
 with French. I could improve greatly in Italian, and even 
 get a dash of German,- i. e., providing my health continued 
 as good as it is now. Mary is now staying at Brussels, at a 
 first rate establishment there. I should not think of going to 
 the Chateau de Kokleberg, where she is resident, as the terms 
 are much too high ; but if I wrote to her, she, with the as- 
 sistance of Mrs. Jenkins, the wife of the British Chaplain, 
 would be able to secure me a cheap decent residence and re- 
 spectable protection. I should have the opportunity of seeing 
 ner frequently ; she would make me acquainted with the city ; 
 and, with the assistance of her cousins, I should probably be 
 introduced to connections far more improving, polished, and 
 cultivated, than I have yet known. 
 
 " These are advantages which would turn to real account, 
 when we actually commenced a school ; and, if Emily could 
 share them with me, we could take a footing in the world 
 afterwards which we can never do now. I say Emily instead 
 of Anne ; for Anne might take her turn at some future period, 
 if our school answered. - 1 feel certain, while I am writing, 
 that you will see the propriety of what I say. You always 
 like to use your money to the best advantage. You are not 
 fond of making shabby purchases ; when you do confer a fa- 
 vour, it is often done in style; and, depend upon it, 50Z., or 
 lOOZ., thus laid out, would be well employed. Of course, I 
 know no other freind in the world to whom I could apply, on 
 VOL. I. — 9 
 
194 IJFE OF CHARLOTTE BPwONTE. 
 
 this subject, except yourself. I feel an absolute conviction 
 that, if this advantage were allowed us, it would be the 
 making of us for life. Papa will, perhaps, think it a wild 
 and ambitious scheme ; but who ever rose in the world with- 
 out ambition ? When he left Ireland to go to Cambridge 
 University, he was as ambitious as I am now. I want us ail 
 to get on. I know we have talents, and I want them to be 
 turned to account. I look to you, aunt, to help us. I think 
 you will not refuse. I know, if you consent, it shall not be 
 my fault if you ever repent your kindness." 
 
 This letter was written from the house in which she was 
 residing as governess. It was some little time before an 
 answer came. Much had to be talked over between the 
 father and aunt in Haworth Parsonage. At last consent was 
 given. Then, and not till then, she confided her plan to an 
 intimate friend. She was not one to talk over-much about 
 any project, while it remained uncertain — to speak about her 
 labour, in any direction, while its result was doubtful. 
 
 "A^ov. 2, 1841. 
 " Now let us begin to quarrel. In the first place I must 
 consider whether I will commence operations on the defen- 
 sive, or the ofiensive. The defensive, I think. You say, 
 and I see plainly, that your feelings have been hurt by ac. 
 apparent want of confidence on my part. You heard from 
 others of Miss Wooler's overtures before I communicated 
 them to you myself. This is true. I was deliberating on 
 plans important to my future prospects. I never exchanged 
 a letter with you on the subject. True again. This appears 
 strange conduct to a friend, near and dear, long known, and 
 never found wanting. Most true. I cannot give you my 
 excuses for this behaviour ; this word excuse implies confes* 
 ^ion of a fault, and I do not feel that I have been in fault. 
 
PLANS FOK THE FUTURE. 195 
 
 TL'G plain fact is, I was not, I am not now, certain of my 
 destiny. On tlie contrary, I have been most uncertain, per- 
 plexed with contradictory schemes and proposals. My time, 
 as I have often told you, is fully occupied ; yet I had many 
 letters to write, which it was absolutely necessary should be 
 written. I knew it would avail nothing to write to you then 
 to say I was in doubt and uncertainty— hoping this, fearing 
 that, anxious, eagerly desirous to do what seemed impossible 
 to be done. When I thought of you in that busy interval, 
 it was to resolve, that you should know all when my way was 
 clear, and my grand end attained. If I could, I would al- 
 ways work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be 
 known by their results. Miss W. did most kindly propose 
 that I should come to Dewsbury Moor, and attempt to revive 
 the school her sister had relinquished. She offered me the 
 use of her furniture, for the consideration of her board. 
 At first, I received the proposal cordially, and prepared to do 
 my utmost to bring about success ; but a fire was kindled in 
 my very heart, which I could not quench. I so longed to in- 
 crease my attainments — to become something better than I am ; 
 a glimpse of what I felt, I showed to you in one of my former 
 letters — only a glimpse ; Mary cast oil upon the flames — en- 
 couraged me, and in her own strong, energetic language, heart- 
 ened me on. I longed to go to Brussels ; but how could I get ? 
 I wished for one, at least, of my sisters to share the advan- 
 tage with me. I fixed on Emily. She deserved the reward, 
 I knew. How could the point be managed ? In extreme 
 excitement, I wrote a letter home, which carried the day. 
 I made an appeal to aunt for assistance, which was answer- 
 ed by consent. Things are not settled ; yet it is sufficient to 
 say we have a chance of going for half a year. Dewsbury Moor 
 is relinquished. Perhaps, fortunately so, for it is an obscure, 
 dreary place, not adapted for a school. In my secret soul, I 
 believe there is no cause to regret it. My plans for the fu- 
 
19G LIFE OF CIIAIiLOTTE EEONTE. 
 
 ture are bounded to this intention : if I once get to Brussels, 
 
 and if mj health is spared, I will do my best to make the 
 
 utmost of every advantage that shall come within my reach. 
 
 When the half-year is expired, I will do what I can. 
 # Jk * * ^!t 
 
 " Believe me, though I was born in April, the month of 
 cloud and sunshine, I am not changeful. My spirits are un- 
 equal, and sometimes I speak vehemently, and sometimes I 
 say nothing at all; but I have a steady regard for you, and 
 if you will let the cloud and shower pass by, be sure the sun 
 is always behind, obscured, but still existing." 
 
 At Christmas she left her situation, after a parting with 
 her employers, which seems to have affected and touched her 
 greatly. " They only made too much of me," was her remark, 
 after leaving this family; " I did not deserve it." 
 
 All four children hoped to meet together at their father's 
 house this December. Branwell expected to have a short 
 leave of absence from his employment as a clerk on the Leeds 
 and Manchester Bailway, in which he had been engaged for 
 five months. Anne arrived before Christmas-day, She had 
 rendered herself so valuable in her difficult situation, that 
 her employers vehemently urged her return, although she 
 had announced her resolution to leave them ; partly on ac- 
 count of the harsh treatment she had received, and partly 
 because her stay at home, during her sisters' absence in Bel 
 gium, seemed desirable, when the age of the three remaining 
 inhabitants of the parsonage was taken into consideration. 
 
 After some correspondence and much talking over plan^i 
 at home, it seemed better, in consequence of letters which 
 they received from Brussels giving a discouraging account of 
 the schools there, that Charlotte and Emily should go to an 
 institution at Lille, in the north of France, which was highly 
 
PKErARATIONS FOK TKAVEL. 197 
 
 recommended by Baptist Noel, and other clergymen. In- 
 deed, at the end of January, it was arranged that they were 
 to set off for this place in three weeks, under the escort of a 
 French lady, then visiting in London. The terms were £50 
 each pupil, for board and French alone, but a separate room 
 was to be allowed for this sum ; without this indulgence, it 
 was lower. Charlotte writes : — 
 
 " January 2{)th, 1842. 
 ^' I considered it kind in aunt to consent to an extra sum 
 for a separate room. We shall find it a great privilege in 
 many ways. I regret the change from Brussels to Lille on 
 many accounts, chiefly that I shall not see Martha. Mary 
 has been indefatigably kind in providing me with information. 
 She has grudged no labour, and scarcely any expense to that 
 end. Mary's price is above rubies. I have, in fact, two 
 friends — ^you and her — staunch and true, in whose faith and 
 sincerity I have as strong a belief as I have in the Bible. I 
 have bothered you both — ^you especially ; but you always get 
 the tongs and heap coals of fire upon my head. I have had 
 letters to write lately to Brussels, to Lille, and to London. 
 I have lots of chemises, night-gowns, pocket-handkerchiefs, 
 and pockets to make ; besides clothes to repair. I have been, 
 every week since I came home, expecting to see Branwell, 
 and he has never been able to get over yet. We fully ex- 
 pect him, however, next Saturday. Under these circum- 
 stances how can I go visiting ? You tantalize me to death 
 with talking of conversations by the fireside. Depend upon 
 it, we are not to have any such for many a long month to com€ 
 I get an interesting impression of old age upon my face ; and 
 when you see me next I shall certainly wear caps and spec* 
 tacles." 
 
198 TTFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 CIIAPTEE XI. 
 
 I AM not aware of all the circumstances whicli lei to the re- 
 linquishment of the Lille plan. Brussels had had from the 
 first a strong attraction for Charlotte ; and the idea of going 
 there, in preference to any other place, had only been given 
 up in consequence of the information received of the second- 
 rate character of its schools. Keference has been made in 
 her letters to Mrs. Jenkins, the wife of the chaplain of the 
 British Embassy. At the request of his brother — a clergy- 
 man, living not many miles from Haworth, and an acquaint- 
 ance of Mr. Bronte's — she made much inquiry, and at length, 
 after some discouragement in her search, heard of a school 
 which seemed in every respect desirable. There was an 
 English lady, who had long lived in the Orleans family, 
 amidst the various fluctuations of their fortunes, and who, 
 when the Princess Louise was married to King Leopold, ac- 
 companied her to Brussels, in the capacity of reader. This 
 lady's granddaughter was receiving her education at the pen- 
 sionnat of Madame Heger ; and so satisfied was the grand- 
 mother with the kind of instruction given, that she named 
 the establishment, with high encomiums, to Mrs. Jenkins ; 
 and, in consequence, it was decided that, if the terms suited, 
 Miss Bronte and Emily should proceed thither. M. Heger 
 nforms me that, on receipt of a letter from Charlotte, mak- 
 ng very particular inquiries as to the possible amount of 
 
DEPAKTJEE FOR BRUSSELS. 199 
 
 wnat are usually termed " extras," he and Lis wife were so 
 much struck by the simple earnest tone of the letter, that 
 they said to each other : — " These are the daughters of an 
 English pastor, of moderate means, anxious to learn with 
 an ulterior view of instructing others, and to whom the risk 
 of additional expense is of great consequence. Let us name a 
 specific sum, within which all expenses shall be included." 
 
 This was accordingly done ; the agreement was concluded, 
 and the Brontes prepared to leave their native country for 
 the first time, if we except the melancholy and memorable 
 residence at Cowan's Bridge. Mr. Bronte determined to ac- 
 company his daughters. Mary and her brother, who were 
 experienced in foreign travelling, were also of the party. 
 Charlotte first saw London in the day or two they now 
 stopped there ,* and, from an expression in one of her subse- 
 quent letters, they all, I believe, stayed at the Chapter 
 Coffee House, Paternoster Row — a strange, old-fashioned 
 tavern, of which I shall have more to say hereafter. 
 
 Mr. Bronte took his daughters to the Rue d'Isabelle, 
 Brussels ; remained one night at Mr. Jenkins' ; and straight 
 returned to his wild Yorkshire village. 
 
 What a contrast to that must the Belgian capital have 
 presented to those two young women thus left behind ! 
 Suffering acutely from every strange and unaccustomed con- 
 tact — far away from their beloved home, and the dear moors 
 beyond— their indomitable will was their great support. 
 Charlotte's own words, with regard to Emily, are : — 
 
 " After the age of twenty, having meantime studied alone 
 with diligence and perseverance, she went with me to an es- 
 tablishment on the continent. The same suffering and con- 
 flict ensued, heightened by the strong recoil of her upright 
 heretic and English spirit from the gentle Jesuitry of the 
 foreign and Romish system. Once more she seemed sinking, 
 but this time she rallied through the mere force of resolu« 
 
200 TJFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tion : with inward remorse and shame she looked back on 
 her former failure, and resolved to conquer, but the victory 
 cost her dear. She was never happy till she carried her hard- 
 woh knowledge hack to the remote English village, the old 
 parsonage-house, and desolate Yorkshire hills." 
 
 They wanted learning. They came for learning. They 
 would learn. Where they had a distinct purpose to be 
 achieved in intercourse with their fellows, thoy forgot 
 themselves; at all other times they were miserably shy. 
 Mrs. Jenkins told me that she used to ask them to spend 
 Sundays and holidays with her, until she found that they felt 
 more pain than pleasure from such visits. Emily hardly 
 ever uttered more than a monosyllable. Charlotte was some- 
 times excited sufficiently to speak eloquently and well — on 
 certain subjects ; but before her tongue was thus loosened, 
 she had a habit of gradually wheeling round on her chair, so 
 as almost to conceal her face from the person to whom she 
 was speaking. 
 
 And yet there was much in Brussels to strike a responsive 
 chord in her powerful imagination. At length she was see- 
 ing somewhat of .that grand old world of which she had 
 dreamed. As the gay crowds passed by her, so had gay 
 crowds paced those streets for centuries, in all their varying 
 costumes. Every spot told an historic tale, extending back 
 into the fabulous ages when San and Jannika, the aboriginal 
 giant and giantess, looked over the wall, forty feet high, of 
 what is now the Rue Villa Hermosa, and peered down upon 
 the new settlers who were to turn them out of the country in 
 which they had lived since the deluge. The great solemn 
 Cathedral of St. Gudule, the religious paintings, the striking 
 forms and ceremonies of the Romish Church — all made a 
 deep impression on the girls, fresh from the bare walls and 
 simple worship of Haworth Church. And then they were 
 
THE KUE d'iSABELLE. 201 
 
 indignant with themselves for having been susceptible of thia 
 impression, and their stout Protestant hearts arrayed them- 
 selves against the false Duessa that had thus imposed upon 
 them. 
 
 The very building they occupied as pupils, in Madame 
 Heger's pensionnat, had its own ghostly train of splendid as- 
 sociations, marching for ever, in shadowy procession, through 
 and through the ancient rooms, and shaded alleys of the 
 gardens. From the splendour of to-day in the Rue Royale, 
 if you turn aside, near the statue of the General Beliard, 
 you look down four flights of broad stone steps upon the Kue 
 d'Isabelle. The chimneys of the houses in it are below your 
 feet. Opposite to the lowest flight of steps, there is a largo 
 old mansion facing you, with a spacious walled garden behind 
 — and to the right of it. In front of this garden, on the 
 same side as the mansion, and with great boughs of trees 
 sweeping over their lowly roofs, is a row of small, picturesque, 
 old-fashioned cottages, not unlike, in degree and uniformity, 
 to the almshouses so often seen in an English country town. 
 The Kue d'Isabelle looks as though it had been untouched 
 by the innovations of the builder for the last three centu 
 ries ; and yet any one might drop a stone into it from the 
 back windows of the grand modern hotels in the Rue Royale, 
 built and furnished in the newest Parisian fashion. 
 
 In the thirteenth century, the Rue d'Isabelle was called 
 the Fosse-aux-Chions ; and the kennels for the ducal hounds 
 occupied the place where Madame Heger's pensionnat now 
 stands. A hospital (in the ancient large meaning of the 
 word) succeeded to the kennel. The houseless and the poor, 
 perhaps the leprous, were received by the brethren of a reli- 
 gious order, in a building on this sheltered site ; and what 
 had been a fosse for defence, was filled up with herb-gardens 
 and orchards for upwards of a hundred years. Then came 
 the aristocratic guild of the cross-bow men — that company 
 TOL. I — 9^ 
 
202 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTS. 
 
 the members whereof were required to prove their noble do 
 scent untainted for so many generations, before they could 
 be admitted into the guild ; and, being admitted, were re- 
 quired to swear a solemn oath, that no other pastime or ex- 
 ercise should take up any part of their leisure, the whole of 
 which was to be devoted to the practice of the noble art of 
 shooting with the cross-bow. Once a year a grand match 
 was held, under the patronage of some saint, to whose church- 
 steeple was affixed the bird, or semblance of a bird, to be hit 
 by the victor.'^ The conqueror in the game was Koi des 
 Arbaletriers for the coming year, and received a jewelled 
 decoration accordingly, which he was entitled to wear for 
 twelve months ; after which he restored it to the guild, to be 
 again striven for. The family of him who died during the 
 year that he was king, were bound to present the decoration 
 to the church of the patron saint of the guild, and to furnish 
 a similar prize to be contended for afresh. These noble 
 cross-bow men of the middle ages formed a sort of armed 
 guard to the powers in existence, and almost invariably took 
 the aristocratic, in preference to the democratic side, in the 
 numerous civil dissensions in the Flemish towns. Hence 
 they were protected by the authorities, and easily obtained 
 favorable and sheltered sites for their exercise ground. And 
 thus they came to occupy the old fosse, and took possession 
 
 * Scott describes tlie sport, " Sliooting at the Popinjay," " as an an- 
 cient game formerly practised with archery, hut at this period (1679) 
 with fire arms. This was the figure of a bird decked with parti-coloured 
 feathers, so as to resemble a popinjay or parrot. It was suspended to a 
 pole, and served for a mark at which the competitors discharged their 
 fusees and carbines in rotation, at the distance of seventy paces. He 
 whose ball brought down the mark held the proud title of Captain of 
 the Popinjay for the remainder of the day, and was tist»ally escorted in 
 triumph to the most respectable change-house in the neighbourhood, 
 where the evening was closed with conviviality, conducted under his 
 auspices, and, if he was able to maintain it, at his expense." — Old Mortality 
 
THE PENSIONNAT OF M.U)AME IIEGER. 203 
 
 of tlie great orchard of the hospital, lying tranquil and sunnj 
 in the hollow below the rampart. 
 
 But, in the sixteenth century, it became necessary to con- 
 struct a street through the exercise-ground of the " Arbale- 
 triers du Grand Scrment," and, after much delay, the com- 
 pany were induced by the beloved Infanta Isabella to givo 
 up the requisite plot of ground. In recompense for this, 
 Isabella — who herself was a member of the guild, and had 
 even shot down the bird, and been Queen in 1615 — made 
 many presents to the arbaletriers ; and, in return, the grate- 
 ful city, which had long wanted a nearer road to St. Grudule, 
 but been baffled by the noble archers, called the street after 
 her name. She, as a sort of indemnification to the arbale- 
 triers, caused a " great mansion" to be built for their accom- 
 modation in the new Rue d'Isabelle. This mansion was 
 placed in front of their exercise-ground, and was of a square 
 shape. Chi a remote part of the walls, may still be read — 
 
 PIIILLIPPO Till. HISPAN. REGE. ISABELLA-CLARA-EUGENIA HIS- 
 PAN. INFANS. MAGN.E GULDiE REGINA GULDiE ERATRIBUS POSUIT. 
 
 In that mansion was held all the splendid feasts of the 
 Grand Serment des Arbaletriers. The master-archer lived 
 there constantly, in order to be ever at hand to render his 
 services to the guild. The great saloon was also used for the 
 court balls and festivals, when the archers were not admitted. 
 The Infanta caused other and smaller houses to be built ir 
 her new street, to serve as residences for her " garde noble ; " 
 and for her " garde bourgeoise," a small habitation each, 
 Some of which still remain, to remind us of English alms- 
 houses. The " great mansion," with its quadrangular form; 
 the spacious saloon — once used for the archducal balls, where 
 the dark grave Spaniards mixed with the blond nobility of 
 Brabant and Flanders — now a school-room for Belgian girls ; 
 the cross-bow men's archery-ground — all are there — the pen- 
 si onn at of Madame Heger. 
 
204 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE P>RONTE. 
 
 This lady was assisted in the work of instruction bj het 
 husband — a kindly, wise, good, and religious man — whose 
 acquaintance I am glad to have made, and who has furnished 
 me with some interesting details, from his wife's recollections 
 and his own, of the two Miss Brontes during their residence 
 in Brussels. He had the better opportunities of watching 
 them, from his giving lessons in the French language and 
 literature in the schooL A short extract from a letter, 
 written to me by a French lady resident in Brussels, and 
 well qualified to judge, will help to show the estimation in 
 which he is held. 
 
 ^' Je ne connais pas personellement M. Heger, mais je sals 
 qu'il est pen de caracteres aussi nobles, aussi admirables que 
 le sien. II est un des membres les plus zeles de cette So- 
 ciete de S. Vincent de Paul dont je t'ai deja parle, et ne se 
 contente pas de servir les pauvres et les malades, mais leur 
 consacre encore les soirees. Apres des journees absorbees 
 tout entieres par les devoirs que sa place lui impose, il reunit 
 les pauvres, les ouvriers, leur donne des cours gratuits, et 
 trouve encore le moyen de les amuser en les instruisant. Ce 
 devouement te dira assez que M. Heger est profondement et 
 ouvertement religieux. II a des manieres franches et ave- 
 nantes ; il se fait aimer de tons ceux qui I'approchent, et sur- 
 tout des enfants. II a le parole facile, et possede a un haut 
 degre Teloquence d^i bon sens et du coeur. II n'est point; 
 auteur. Homme de zele et de conscience, il vient de se 
 demettre des fonctions elevees et lucratives qu'il exercait a* 
 I'Athenee, celles de Prefet des Etudes, parcoqu'il ne pent y 
 realiser le bien qui'l avait espere, introduire Tenseignement 
 religieux dans le programme des etudes. J'ai vu une fois 
 Madame Heger, qui a quelque chose de froid et de compasse 
 dans son maintien, et qui pr^vient peu en sa faveur. Je la 
 erois pourtant aimee et appreciee par ses cleves.'' 
 
THE EKONTE SISTERS AT BKUSSELS. 205 
 
 There were from eighty to a hundred pupils in the pen- 
 Bionnat, when Charlotte and Emily Bronte entered in Febru- 
 ary 1842. 
 
 M. Heger's account is that they knew nothing of French. 
 I suspect they knew as much (or as little) for all conversa- 
 tional purposes, as any English girls do, who have never been 
 abroad, and have only learnt the idioms and pronunciation 
 from an Englishwoman. The two sisters clung together, 
 and kept apart from the herd of happy, boisterous, well- 
 befriended Belgian girls, who, in their turn, thought the new 
 English pupils wild and scared-looking, with strange, odd, 
 insular ideas about dress ; for Emily had taken a fancy to 
 the fashion, ugly and preposterous even during its reign, of 
 gigot sleeves, and persisted in wearing them long after they 
 were '^ gone out." Her petticoats, too, had not a curve or a 
 wave in them, but hung down straight and long, clinging to 
 her lank figure. The sisters spoke to no one but from ne- 
 cessity. They were too full of earnest thought, and of the 
 exile's sick yearning, to be ready for careless conversation, or 
 merry game. M. Heger, who had done little but observe, 
 during the few first weeks of their residence in the Eue d'lsa- 
 belle, perceived that with their unusual characters, and ex- 
 traordinary talents, a different mode must be adopted from 
 that in which he generally taught French to English girls. 
 He seems to have rated Emily's genius as something even 
 higher than Charlotte's ; and her estimation of their relative 
 powers was the same. Emily had a head for logic, and a 
 capability of argument, unusual in a man, and rare indeed in 
 a woman, according to M. Heger. Impairing the force of 
 this gift, was her stubborn tenacity of will, which rendered 
 her obtuse to all reasoning where her own wishes, or her own 
 sense of right, was concerned. '^ She should have been a 
 man — a great navigator," said M. Heger in speaking of her. 
 " Her powerful reason would have deduced new spheres of 
 
206 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 discovery from the knowledge of the old ; and her strong, 
 imperious will would never have been daunted by opposition 
 or difficulty; never have given way but with life." And 
 yet, moreover, her faculty of imagination was such that, if 
 she had written a history, her view of scenes and characters 
 would have been so vivid, and so powerf^xlly expressed, and 
 supported by such a show of argument, that it would have 
 dominated over the reader, whatever might have been his 
 previous opinions, or his cooler perceptions of its truth. But 
 she appeared egotistical and exacting compared to Charlotte, 
 w^ho was always unselfish (this is M. Heger's testimony) ; 
 and in the anxiety of the elder to make her younger sister 
 contented, she allowed her to exercise a kind of unconscious 
 tyranny over her. 
 
 After consulting with his wife, M. Heger told them that 
 he meant to dispense with the old method of grounding in 
 grammar, vocabulary, &c., and to proceed on a new plan — - 
 something similar to what he had occasionally adopted with 
 the elder among his French and Belgian pupils. He pro- 
 posed to read to them some of the master-pieces of the most 
 celebrated French authors (such as Casimir de la Vigne's 
 poem on the " Death of Joan of Arc," parts of Bossuet, the 
 admirable translation of the noble letter of St. Ignatius to 
 the Boman Christians in the '^ Bibliotheque Choisie dcs 
 Peres de V Eglise, &c.), and after having thus impressed the 
 complete effect of the whole, to analyze the parts with them, 
 pointing out in what such or such an author excelled, and 
 where were the blemishes. He believed that he had to do 
 srith pupils capable, from their ready sympathy with the in- 
 tellectual, the refined, the polished, or the noble, of catching 
 the echo of a style, and so reproducing their own thoughts in 
 ft somewhat similar manner. 
 
 After explaining his plan to them, he awaited their reply. 
 Emily spoke first ; and said that she saw no good to be do- 
 
IIER IMPKESSIONS OF THE BRUSSELS SCilOOL. 207 
 
 rived from it ; and that, by adopting it, they should lose all 
 originality of thought and expression. She would have en- 
 tered into an argument on the subject, but for this, M. Heger 
 had no time. Charlotte then spoke ; she also doubted the 
 success of the plan ; but she would follow out M. Heger 's 
 advice, because she was bound to obey him while she was his 
 pupil. Before speaking of the results, it may be desirable to 
 give an extract from one of her letters, which shows some of 
 her first impressions of her new life 
 
 '' Brussels, 1842 {Maij .?) 
 *^ I was twenty-six years old a week or two since ; and at 
 this ripe time of life I am a school-girl, and, on the whole, 
 very happy in that capacity. It felt very strange at first to 
 submit to authority instead of exercising it — to obey orders 
 instead of giving them ; but I like that state of things, I 
 returned to it with the same avidity that a cow, that has long 
 been kept on dry hay, returns to fresh grass. Don't laugh at 
 my simile. It is natural to me to submit, and very unnatu- 
 ral to command. 
 
 '' This is a large school, in which there are about forty ex- 
 ternes, or day-pupils, and twelve pensionnaires, or boarders. 
 Madame Heger, the head, is a lady of precisely the same cast 
 of mind^ degree of cultivation, and quality of intellect as 
 
 Miss . I think the severe points are a little softened, 
 
 because she has not been disappointed, and consequently 
 soured. In a word, she is a married instead of a maiden 
 lady. There are three teachers in the school — Mademoiselle 
 Blanche, Mademoiselle Sophie, and Mademoiselle Marie. 
 The two first have no particular character. One is an old 
 maid, and the other will be one. Mademoiselle Marie is 
 talented and original, but of repulsive and arbitrary manners, 
 which have made the whole school, except myself and Emily, 
 er bitter enemies. No less than seven masters attend, to 
 
20S LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 teach the different branches of education — French, Drawing, 
 Music, Singing, Writing, Arithmetic, and German. All in 
 the house are Catholics except ourselves, one other girl, and 
 the gouvernante of Madame's children, an Englishwoman, in 
 rank something between a lady's-maid and a nursery govern- 
 ess. The difference in country and religion makes a broad 
 line of demarcation between us and all the rest. We are 
 completely isolated in the midst of numbers. Yet I think I 
 am never unhappy ; my present life is so delightful, so con- 
 genial to my own nature, compared to that of a governess. 
 My time, constantly occupied, passes too rapidly. Hitherto 
 both Emily and I have had good health, and therefore we 
 have been able to work well. There is one individual of 
 whom I have not yet spoken — M. Heger, the husband of 
 Madame. He is professor of rhetoric, a man of power as to 
 mind, but very choleric and irritable in temperament. He 
 is very angry with me just at present, because I have written 
 a. translation which he chose to stigmatize as ^ jpeu correct,^ 
 He did not tell me so, but wrote the word on the margin of 
 my book, and asked, in brief stern phrase, how it happened 
 that my compositions were always better than my transla- 
 tions ? adding that the thing seemed to him inexplicable. 
 The fact is, some weeks ago, in a high-flown humour, he for- 
 bade me to use either dictionary or grammar in translating 
 the most difficult English compositions into French. This 
 makes the task rather arduous, and compels me every now 
 and then to introduce an English-word, which nearly plucks 
 the eyes out of his head when he sees it. Emily and he 
 don't draw well together at all. Emily works like a horse, 
 and she has had great difficulties to contend with — far greater 
 than I have had. Indeed, those who come to a French 
 school for instruction ought previously to have aci^uired a 
 considerable knowledge of the French language, otherwise 
 they will lose a great deal of time, for the course of instruc 
 
M. h^ger's method of teaching. 209 
 
 fcion is adapted to natives and not to foreigners ; and in these 
 large establishments thej will not change their ordinary 
 course for one or two strangers. The few private lessons 
 tliat M. Heger has vouchsafed to give us, are, I suppose, to 
 be considered a great favour ; and I can perceive they have 
 already excited much spite and jealousy in the school. 
 
 " You will abuse this letter for being short and dreary, 
 and there are a hundred things which I want to tell you, but 
 I have not time. Brussels is a beautiful city. The Belgians 
 hate the English. Their external morality is more rigid 
 than ours. To lace the stays without a handkerchief on the 
 neck is considered a disgusting piece of indelicacy." 
 
 The passage in this letter where M. Heger is represented 
 as prohibiting the use of dictionary or grammar, refers, T 
 imagine, to the time I have mentioned, when he determined 
 to adopt a new method of instruction in the French language, 
 of which they were to catch the spirit and rhythm rather from 
 the ear and the heart, as its noblest accents fell upon them, 
 than by over-careful and anxious study of its grammatical 
 rules. It seems to me a daring experiment on the part of 
 their teacher ; but, doubtless, he knew his ground ; and that 
 it answered is evident in the composition of some of Char- 
 lotte's ^' devoirs," written about this time. I am tempted, 
 in illustration of this season of mental culture, to recur to a 
 conversation which I had with M. Heger on the manner in 
 which he formed his pupils' style, and to give a proof of his 
 success, by copying a '' devoir " of Charlotte's, with his re- 
 marks upon it. 
 
 He told me that one day this summer (when the Brontes 
 had been for about four months receiving instruction from 
 him) he read to them Victor Hugo's celebrated portrait of 
 Mirabcau, " mais, dans ma legon je me bornais a ce qui con- 
 cernc Mirabeau Oroieur. C'est apres I'analyse de ce mor- 
 
210 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ^eau, considero surtout du point de vue du fond, de la dis 
 position, de ce qu'on pourrait appeler la charjpente qu'onfc 
 Gte faits les deux portraits que je vous donne." He went on 
 to say that he had pointed out to them the fault in Victor 
 Hugo's style as being exaggeration in conception, and, at the 
 same time, he had made them notice the extreme beauty of 
 his " nuances " of expression. They were then dismissed to 
 choose the subject of a similar kind of portrait. This selec- 
 tion M. Heger always left to them ; for ^' it is necessary," 
 he observed, '^ before sitting down to write on a subject, to 
 have thoughts and feelings about it. I cannot tell on what 
 subject your heart and mind have been excited. I must 
 leave that to you." The marginal comments, I need hardly 
 say, are M. Heger's ; the words in italics are Charlotte's, for 
 which he substitutes a better form of expression, which is 
 placed between brackets. 
 
 Imitation. 
 
 '' Lg ^IJuillet, 1842. 
 Portrait de Pieriie l'Hermite. Charlotte 
 Bronte. 
 
 ^' De temps en temps, il parait sur la terre des 
 pourquoi cette hommes destines a etre les instruments [predes- 
 suppressiori . ^j^^^g j ^q grands changements, moreaux ou poli- 
 tiques. Quelquefois c'est un conquerant, un Al- 
 exandre ou un Attila, qui passe comme un oura- 
 gan, et purifie I'atmosphere moral, comme Forage 
 purifie I'atmosphere physique ; quelquefois, c'est 
 un revolutionnaire, un Cromwell, ou un Robes- 
 €B fautea et pierre, qui fait expier par un roi^ les vices de 
 toute une dynastic ; quelquefois c'est un enthou- 
 siaste religieux comme Mahomete, ou Pierre 
 I'Ermite, qui, avec le seul levier de la penseo 
 
AN EXERCISE m FRENCH COMPOSITION 211 
 
 jsouleve des nations entieres, les deracine et les 
 
 transplante dans des climats nouveaux, ^euplant Ce detail ne 
 
 rAsie avec les habitants de V Europe, Pierre ""^^"^^^ '^''''^ 
 
 I'Ermite etait gentilhomme de Picardie, en inutile ouand 
 
 Prance, pourquoi done n a-t-il passe sa vie comme vous ccrivez 
 
 les autres gentilhommes ses contemporains ont 
 
 passe la leur, a table, a la cliasse, dans son lit, 
 
 sans s'inquieter de Saladin, ou de ses Sarrasins ? * 
 
 N'est-ce pas, parcequ'il y a dans certaines natures, 
 
 une ardeur [un foyer d'activite] indomptable 
 
 qui ne leur permet pas de rester inactives, qui Vons avcz 
 
 les force a se remuer afin d''exercer les facultes^^^^^^^?^ 
 
 puissantesj qui msme en dormant so7it pretesFierre : vous 
 
 comme Sampson a briser les nceuds qui les re- ^^^^ , ^^}^f^ 
 ■^ -^ dans le sujet : 
 
 tiennent ? marchez au 
 
 " Pierre prit la profession des amies ; si son ^^*' 
 
 ardeur avait He de cette espece [si il n'avait eu 
 
 que cette ardeur vulgaire] qui provient d'une 
 
 robuste sante il aurait [c'eut] etc un brave mili- 
 
 taire, et rien de plus ; mais son ardeur etait celle 
 
 de I'ame, sa flamme etait pure et elle s'elevait 
 
 vers le ciel. 
 
 '^ Sans doute [II est vrai que] la jeunesse 
 
 de Pierre, etait [fut] troublee par passions 
 
 orageuses ; les natures puissantes sont extremes 
 
 en tout, elles ne eonnaissent la tiedeur ni dans 
 
 le bien, ni dans le mal ; Pierre done cherclia 
 
 d'abord avidement la gloire qu^ se fletrit, et les 
 
 plaisirs qui trompent, mais il Jit bientot la de- 
 
 couverte [bient6t il s'aper^ut] que ce qu'il pour- 
 
 suivait n'etait qu' une illusion a laquelle il ne inutile 
 
 pourrait jamais atteindre ; il retourna done sur quand yous 
 
 Tj ^ T 1 • • avez dit illu- 
 
 ses pas, il recommenca le voyage de la vie, mais gj^n 
 
 *"itte fois il evita le chemin spacieux qui mcne a 
 
212 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 la perdition et il prit le cliemin etroit qui nieiie 
 a la vie; jpuisque [comme] le trajet etait long 
 et difficile il jeta la casque et les armes du soldat, 
 et se vetit de I'habit simple du moine. A la vie 
 militaire succeda la vie monastique, car, les ex- 
 tremes se touclient et cTiez Vhomme sincere la 
 sincerite du repentir amene [necessairement a la 
 suite] avec lui la rigueur de la penitence. [ Voila 
 done Pierre devena moine !] 
 
 " Mais Pierre [il] avait en lui un principe 
 qui Fempechait de rester long-temps inactif, ses 
 idees, sur quel sujet quHl soit [que ce fut] ne 
 pouvaient pas etre bornees ; il ne lui suffisait pas 
 que lui-meme fut religieux, que lui-meme fut eon- 
 vaincee de la realite de Christianisme (sic) il 
 fallait que toute I'Europe que toute I'Asie par- 
 tagea sa conviction et professat la croyance de la 
 Croix. La Piete [fervente] elevee par le Genie, 
 nourrie par la Solitude fit naitre une es;pece 
 cf inspiration [exalta son ame jusqu'a I'inspira- 
 tion] dans son ame^ et lorsqu'il quitta sa cellule 
 et reparut dans le monde, il portait comme Moise 
 I'empreinte de la Divinite sur son front, et tout 
 [tons] reconnurent en lui la veritable apotre de 
 la Croix. 
 
 " Mahomet n'avait jamais remue les molles 
 nations de T Orient comme alors Pierre remua 
 les peuples austeres de I'Occident ; il fallait que 
 cette eloquence fut d'une force presque miracu- 
 leuse qui pouvait [presqu'elle] persuad(?r [aitj 
 aux rois de vendre leurs royaumes afin de pro- 
 curer [pour avoir] des armes et des soldats pour 
 aider [a offrir] a Pierre dans la guerre sainte 
 qu'il voulait livrer aux iufideles. La puissanc 
 
AN EXERCSE IN FEENCII OOMrOSITION. 213 
 
 (le Pierre [TErmite] n'etait nullement une puis- 
 sance physique, car la nature, ou pour mieux 
 dire, Dieu est impartial dans la distribution de 
 ses dons; il accorde a I'un de ses enfants la 
 grace, la beaute, les perfections corporelles, a 
 Fautre I'esprit.^ la grandeur morale. Pierre done 
 etait un bomme, petit d'une pbysionomie peu 
 agr cable ; mais il avait ce courage, cette con- 
 stance, cet enthousiasme, cette energie de senti- 
 ment qui ecrase toute opposition, et qui fait que 
 la volonte d'un, seul homme devient la loi de 
 toute une nation. Pour se former une juste 
 idee de I'influence qu'exer^a cet bomme sur les 
 caracteres [cboses] et les idees de son temps il 
 faut se le representor au milieu de Tarmee des 
 croisees, dans son double role de propbete et de 
 guerrier ; le pauvre bermite vetu du ^auvre [de 
 rbumble] babit gris est la plus puissant qu'un 
 roi ; il est entoure d'une [de la] multitude 
 [abide] une multitude qui ne voit que lui, tandis 
 que lui, il ne voit que le ciel ; ses yeux leves sem- 
 blent dire, ' Je vois Dieu et les anges, et j'ai 
 perdu de vue la terre ! ' 
 
 " Dans ce moment le [mais ce] pauvre Jiahit 
 [froc] gris est pour lui comme le manteau d'Eli- 
 jab ; il Penveloppe d'inspiration ; il [Pierre] lit 
 dans Pavenir; il voit Jerusalem delivree; [il 
 voit] le saint sepulcbre libre ; il voit le crois- 
 sant argent est arracbe du Temple, et I'Ori- 
 flamme et la Croix rouge sont etabli d sa place ; 
 non seulement Pierre voit ces merveilles, mais 
 il les fait voir a tous ceux qui I'entourent, il 
 ravive I'esperance, et le courage dans [tous ces 
 corps epuises de fatigues et de privations] La 
 
314 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTJ^. 
 
 bataille ne sera livree que demain, mais la vie 
 toire est decidee ce soir. Pierre a promis ; et 
 les Croisees se fient a sa parole, comme les 
 Israelites se fiaient a celle de Moise et d€ 
 Josue.'' 
 
 As a companion portrait to this, Emily chose to depict 
 Harold on the eve of the battle of Hastings. It appears to 
 me, that her devoir is superior to Charlotte's in power and 
 in imagination, and fully equal to it in language ; and that 
 this, in both cases, considering how little practical know- 
 ledge of French they had when they arrived at Brussels in 
 February, and that they wrote without the aid of dictionary 
 or grammar, is unusual and remarkable. We shall see the 
 progress Charlotte had made, in ease and grace of style, a 
 year later. 
 
 In the choice of subjects left to her selection, she fre- 
 quently took characters and scenes from the Old Testament, 
 with which all her writings show that she was especially 
 familiar. The picturesqueness and colour (if I may so ex- 
 press it), the grandeur and breadth of its narrations, im- 
 pressed her deeply. To use M. Heger's expression, " Elle 
 etait nourrie de la Bible." After he had read De la Vigne's 
 poem on Joan of Arc, she chose the " Vision and Death of 
 Moses on Mount Nebo " to write about ; and, in looking over 
 this devoir, I was much struck with one or two of M. Heger's 
 remarks. After describing, in a quiet and simple manner, 
 the circumstances under which Moses took leave of the 
 Israelites, her imagination becomes warmed, and she launches 
 out into a noble strain, depicting the glorious futurity of 
 the Chosen People, as looking down upon the Promised 
 Land, he sees their prosperity in prophetic vision. But, 
 before reaching the middle of this glowing description, she 
 interrupts herself to discuss for a moment the doubts that 
 
M. IlEaEn's PLAN OF INSTRUCTION. 215 
 
 have been thrown on tlie miraculous relations of tlie Old 
 Testament. M. Heger remarks, " When you are writing, 
 place your argument first in cool, prosaic language; but 
 when you have thrown the reins on the neck of your imagina- 
 tion, do not pull her up to reason." Again in the vision of 
 Moses, he sees the maidens leading forth their flocks to the 
 wells at eventide, and they are described as wearing flowery 
 garlands. Here the writer is reminded of the necessity of 
 preserving a certain verisimilitude : Moses might from his 
 elevation see mountains and plains, groups of maidens and 
 herds of cattle, but could hardly perceive the details of 
 dress, or the ornaments of the head. 
 
 When they had made further progress, M. Heger took 
 up a more advanced plan, that of synthetical teaching. He 
 would read to them various accounts of the same person or 
 event, and make them notice the points of agreement and 
 disagreement. Where they were different, he would make 
 them seek the origin of that difierence by causing them to 
 examine well into the character and position of each separate 
 writer, and how they would be likely to afiect his conception 
 of truth. For instance, take Cromwell. He would read 
 Bossuet's description of him in the " Oraison Funebre de la 
 Eeine d' Angle terre," and show how in this he was considered 
 entirely from the religious point of view, as an instrument 
 in the hands of God, pre-ordained to His work. Then he 
 would make them read Guizot, and see how, in his view, 
 Cromwell was endowed with the utmost power of free will, 
 but governed by no higher motive than that of expediency; 
 while Carlyle regarded him as a character regulated by a 
 strong and conscientious desire to do the will of the Lord. 
 Then he would desire them to remember that the Eoyalist 
 and Commonwealth man had each their different opinions of 
 the great Protector. And from these conflicting characters 
 
216 . LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 he would require them to sift and collect the elements of 
 truth, and try to unite them into a perfect whole. 
 
 This kind of exercise delighted Charlotte. It called 
 into play her powers of analysis, which were extraordinary, 
 and she very soon excelled in it. 
 
 Wherever the Brontes could be national they were so, 
 with the same tenacity of attachment which made them 
 Buffer as they did whenever they left Haworth. They were 
 Protestant to the backbone in other things besides their 
 religion, but pre-eminently so in that. Touched as Char- 
 lotte was by the letter of St. Ignatius before alluded to, she 
 claimed equal self-devotion, and from as high a motive, for 
 some of the missionaries of the English Church sent out to 
 toil and to perish on the poisonous African coast, and wrote 
 as an " imitation," " Lettre d'un Missionaire, Sierra Leone, 
 Afrique." 
 
 Something of her feeling, too. appears in the following 
 letter : — 
 
 " Brussels, 1842. 
 " I consider it doubtful whether I shall come home in 
 September or not. Madame Heger has made a proposal for 
 both me and Emily to stay another half year, offering to dis- 
 miss her English master, and take me as English teacher ; also 
 to employ Emily some part of each day in teaching music to 
 a certain number of the pupils. For these services we arc 
 to be allowed to continue our studies in French and German, 
 and to have board, &c., without paying for it ; no salaries, 
 however, are offered. The proposal is kind, and in a great 
 selfish city like Brussels, and a great selfish school, contain- 
 ing nearly ninety pupils (boarders and day-pupils included), 
 mplies a degree of interest which demands gratitude in re- 
 urn. I am inclined to accept it. What think you ? I 
 donH deny I sometimes wish to be in England, or that I 
 
HER IMPKESSIONS OF THE BELGIANS. 217 
 
 have brief attacks of home sickness ; but on the whole, 1 
 have borne a very valiant heart so far ; and I have been 
 happy in Brussels, because I have always been fully occupied * 
 with the employments that I like. Emily is making rapid 
 progress in French, German, music, and drawing. Monsieur 
 and Madame Heger begin to recognise the valuable parts of 
 her character, under her singularities. If the national char- 
 acter of the Belgians is to be measured by the character of 
 most of the girls in this school, it is a character singularly 
 cold, selfish, animal, and inferior. They are very mutinous 
 and difficult for the teachers to manage ; and their princi- 
 ples are rotten to the core. We avoid them, which it is 
 not difficult to do, as we have the brand of Protestantism 
 and Anglicism upon us. People talk of the danger which 
 Protestants expose themselves to, in going to reside in 
 Catholic countries, and thereby running the chance of chang- 
 ing their faith. My advice to all Protestants who are tempt- 
 ed to do anything so besotted as turn Catholics is, to walk 
 over the sea on to the Continent ; to attend mass sedulously 
 for a time ; to note well the mummeries thereof; also the 
 idiotic, mercenary aspect of all the priests; and tJien^ if 
 they are still disposed to consider Papistry in any other light 
 than a most feeble, childish piece of humbug, let them turn 
 Papists at once — that's all. I eonsider Methodism, Quaker- 
 ism, and the extremes of High and Low Churchism foolish, 
 but Roman Catholicism beats them all. At the same time, 
 allow me to tell you, that there are some Catholics who are 
 as good as any Christians can be to whom the Bible is a 
 sealed book, and much better than many Protestants." 
 
 "When the Brontes first went to Brussels, it was with the 
 
 intention of remaiDing there for six months, or until the 
 
 grandes vaca '/ices hegan in September. The duties of the 
 
 fichool were then suspended for six weeks or two months, and 
 
 VOL. I. — 10 
 
218 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 it seemed a desirable period for tlieir return. But the prO" 
 posal mentioned in the foregoing letter altered their plans. 
 Besides, they were happy in the feeling that they were making 
 progress in all the knowledge they had so long been yearning 
 to acquire. They were happy, too, in possessing friends 
 whose society had been for years congenial to them ; and in 
 occasional meetings with these, they could have the inex- 
 pressible solace to residents in a foreign country — and pecu- 
 liarly such to the Brontes — of talking over the intelligence 
 received from their respective homes — referring to past, or 
 planning for future days. Mary and her sister, the bright, 
 dancing, laughing Martha, were parlour-boarders in an es- 
 tablishment just beyond the barriers of Brussels. Again, 
 the cousins of these friends were resident in the town ; and 
 at their house Charlotte and Emily were always welcome, 
 though their overpowering shyness prevented their more 
 valuable qualities from being known, and generally kept 
 them silent. They spent their weekly holiday with this fami- 
 ly, for many months ; but at the end of the time, Emily was 
 as impenetrable to friendly advances as at the beginning ; 
 while Charlotte was too physically weak (as Mary has ex- 
 pressed it) to " gather up her forces " sufficiently to express 
 any difference or opposition of opinion, and had consequently 
 an assenting and deferential manner, strangely at variance 
 with what they knew of her remarkable talents and decided 
 character. At this house, the T.'s and the Brontes could 
 look forward to meeting each other pretty frequently. There 
 was another English family where Charlotte soon became a 
 welcome guest, and where, I suspect, she felt herself more at 
 her ease than either at Mrs. Jenkins', or the friends whom I 
 have first mentioned. 
 
 An English physician, with a large family of daughters 
 went to reside at Brussels, for the sake of their education 
 Tic pk^ed them j^t Madame Heger's school in July, 18-1:2 
 
AKEANGEMENTS OF THE PENSIOxXNAT. 219 
 
 not a month before the beginning of the grandes vacance^ 
 on August 15th. In order to make the most of their time, 
 and become accustomed to the language, these English 
 sisters went daily, through the holidays, to the pensionnat 
 in the Eue d'Isabelle. Six or eight boarders remained, 
 besides the Miss Brontes. They were there during the whole 
 time, never even having the break to their monotonous life, 
 which passing an occasional day with a friend would have 
 afforded them ; but devoting themselves with indefatigable 
 diligence to the different studies in which they were engaged. 
 Their position in the school appeared, to these new comers, 
 analogous to what is often called a parlour-boarder. They 
 prepared their French, drawing, German, and literature for 
 their various masters ; and to these occupations Emily added 
 that of music, in which she was somewhat of a proficient ; so 
 much so as to be qualified to give instruction in it to the 
 three younger sisters of my informant. 
 
 The school was divided into three classes. In the first, 
 were from fifteen to twenty pupils ; in the second, sixty was 
 about the average number — all foreigners, excepting the two 
 Brontes and one other ; in the third, there were from twenty 
 to thirty pupils. The first and second classes occupied a 
 long room, divided by a wooden partition ; in each division 
 were four long ranges of desks ; and at the end was the 
 estradCj or platform for the presiding instructor. On the 
 last row, in the quietest corner, sat Charlotte and Emily, 
 side by side, so deeply absorbed in their studies as to be in- 
 sensible to any noise or movement around them. The school- 
 hours were from nine to twelve (the luncheon hour), when 
 the boarders and half-boarders — perhaps two-and-thirty girls 
 ■ — went to the refectoire (a room with two long tables, having 
 an oil-lamp suspended over each), to partake of bread and 
 fruit; the externeSj or morning pupils, who had brought 
 (heir own refreshment with them, adjourning to cat it in tho 
 
220 LITE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 garden. From one to two, there was fancy-work — a pupil 
 reading aloud some light literature in each room ; from two 
 to four, lessons again. At four, the ext ernes left ; and the 
 remaining girls dined in the refectoire, M. and Madame 
 Ileger presiding. From five to six there was recreation ; 
 from six to seven preparation for lessons ; and, after that, 
 succeeded the lecture pieuse — Charlotte's night-mare. On 
 rare occasions, M. Heger himself would come in, and sub- 
 stitute a book of a different and more interesting kind. At 
 eight, there was a slight meal of water and pistolcts (the 
 delicious little Brussels rolls), which was immediately fol- 
 lowed by prayers, and then to bed. 
 
 The principal bed-room was over the long classe, or 
 echool-room. There were six or eight narrow beds on each 
 side of the apartment, every one enveloped in its white 
 draping curtain ; a long drawer, beneath each, served for a 
 wardrobe, and between each was a stand for ewer, basin, and 
 looking-glass. The beds of the two Miss Brontes were at 
 the extreme end of the room, almost as private and retired 
 as if th^y had been in a separate apartment. 
 
 During the hours of recreation, which were always spent 
 m the garden, they invariably walked together, and generally 
 kept a profound silence ; Emily, though so much the taller, 
 leaning on her sister. Charlotte would always answer when 
 spoken to, taking the lead in replying to any remark addressed 
 to both; Emily rarely spoke to any one. Charlotte's quiet, 
 gentle manner never changed. She was never seen out of 
 temper for a moment; and, occasionally, when she herself 
 had assumed the post of English teacher, and the imperti- 
 nence or inattention of her pupils was most irritating, a slight 
 increase of colour, a momentary sparkling of the eye, and 
 more decided energy of manner, were the only outward tokens 
 she gave of being conscious of the annoyance to which she 
 was subjected. But this dignified endurance of hers subdued 
 
HER CONDUCT AS A TEACHER. 221 
 
 her pupils, in the long run, far more than the voluble tiradea 
 of the other mistresses. My informant adds : — " The effect 
 of this manner was singular. I can speak from personal ex- 
 perience. I was at that time high-spirited and impetuous, 
 not respecting the French mistresses ; yet, to my own aston- 
 ishment, at one word from her, I was perfectly tractable ; so 
 much so, that at length M. and Madame Heger invariably 
 preferred all their wishes to me through her ; the other pupils 
 did not, perhaps, love her as I did, she was so quiet and 
 silent, but all respected her." 
 
 With the exception of that part which describes her man- 
 ner as English teacher — an office which she did not assume 
 for some months later — all this description of the school life 
 of the two Brontes refers to the commencement of the new 
 scholastic year in October, 1842; and the extracts I have 
 given convey the first impression which the life at a foreign 
 school, and the position of the two Miss Brontes ' therein, 
 made upon an intelligent English girl of sixteen. 
 
 The first break in this life of regular duties and employ- 
 ments came heavily and sadly. Martha— -pretty, winning, 
 mischievous, tricksome Martha — was taken ill suddenly at 
 the Chateau de Kokleberg. Her sister tended her with de- 
 voted love ; but it was all in vain ; in a few days she died. 
 Charlotte's own short account of this event is as follows : — 
 
 " Martha T.'s illness was unknown to me till the day 
 before she died. I hastened to Kokleberg the next morning 
 — unconscious that she was in great danger — and was told 
 that it was finished. She had died in the night. Mary was 
 taken away to Bruxelles. I have seen Mary frequently since. 
 She is in no ways crushed by the event ; but while Martha 
 was ill, she was to her more than a mother— more than a sis- 
 ter: watching, nursing, cherishing her so tenderly, so un- 
 weariedly. She appears calm and serious now; no bursts 
 
222 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 of violent emotion; no exaggeration of distress. I have seec 
 Martha's grave — the place where her ashes lie in a foreign 
 country." 
 
 Who that has read ^' Shirley '' does not remember tho 
 few lines — perhaps half a page — of sad recollection ? 
 
 '' He has no idea that little Jessy wiil die joung, she ia 
 so gay, and chattering, and arch — original even now; pa&* 
 sionate when provoked, but most affectionate if caressed ; by 
 turns gentle and rattling ; exacting yet generous ; fearless 
 . . . . yet reliant on any one who will help her. Jessy, 
 with her little piquant face, engaging prattle, and winning 
 ways, is made to be a pet. # # * * 
 
 " Do you know this place ? No, you never saw it ; but 
 you recognise the nature of these trees, this foliage — the 
 cypress, the willow, the yew. Stone crosses like these are 
 not unfamiliar to you, nor are these dim garlands of ever- 
 lasting flowers. Here is the place ; green sod and a gray 
 marble head-stone — Jessy sleeps below. She lived througli 
 an April day; much loved was she, much loving. She often, 
 in her brief life, shed tears — she had frequent sorrows ; she 
 smiled between,, gladdening whatever saw her. Her death 
 was tranquil and happy in Rose's guardian arms, for Hose 
 had been her stay and defence through many trials ; the dying 
 and the watching English girls were at that hour alone in a 
 foreign country, and the soil of that country gave Jessy a 
 grave. * * * ^ ^a- 
 
 " But, Jessy, I will write about you no more. This is 
 an autumn evening, wet and wild. There is only one cloud 
 in the sky ; but it curtains it from pole to pole. The wind 
 cannot rest ; it hurries sobbing over hills of sullen outline, 
 colourless with twilight and mist. Rain has beat all day on 
 that church tower*' (Haworth) : ''it rises dark from the 
 
ON THE DEATH OF A YOL'NO FRIEND. 223 
 
 btony enclosure of its graveyard : the nettles, the long grass, 
 and the tombs all drip with wet. This evening reminds me 
 too forcibly of another evening some years ago : a howling, 
 rainy autumn evening too — when certain who had that day 
 performed a pilgrimage to a grave new made in a heretic 
 cemetery, sat near a wood fire on the hearth of a foreigE 
 dwelling. They were merry and social but they each knew 
 that a gap, never to be filled, had been made in that circle. 
 They knew they had lost something whose absence could 
 never be quite atoned for, so long as they lived ; and they 
 knew that heavy falling rain was soaking into the wet earth 
 which covered their lost darling; and that the sad, sighing 
 gale was mourning above her buried head. The fire warmed 
 them ; Life and Friendship yet blessed them : but Jessy lay 
 cold, cojfined, solitary — only the sod screening her from the 
 storm." 
 
 This was the first death that had occurred in the small 
 circle of Charlotte's immediate and intimate friends since the 
 loss of her two sisters long ago. She was still in the midst 
 of her deep sympathy with Mary, when word came from home 
 ■ihat her aunt. Miss Bran well, was ailing — was very ill. 
 Bniily and Charlotte immediately resolved to go home 
 straight, and hastily packed up for England, doubtful whether 
 they should ever return to Brussels or not, leaving all their 
 relations with M. and Madame Heger, and the pensionnat, 
 uprooted, and uncertain of any future existence. Even before 
 their departure, on the morning after they received the first 
 intelligence of illness — when they were on the very point of 
 starting — came a second letter telling them of their aunt's 
 death. It could not hasten their movements, for every ar- 
 rangement had been made for speed. They sailed from Ant- 
 werp ; they travelled night and day, and got home on a Tues- 
 day morning. The funeral and all was over, and Mr. Bronte 
 
224 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BliONTE. 
 
 and Anne were sitting together, in quiet grief for tlie loss of 
 one who had done her part well in their household for nearly 
 twenty years, and earned the regard and respect of many who 
 never knew how much they should miss her till she was 
 gone. The small property which she had accumulated, by 
 dint of personal frugality and self-denial, was bequeathed to 
 her nieces. Branwell, her darling, was to have had his share ; 
 but his reckless expenditure had distressed the good old lady, 
 and his name was omitted in her will. 
 
 When the first shock was over, the three sisters began to 
 enjoy the full relish of meeting again, after the longest separa- 
 tion they had had in their lives. They had much to tell of the 
 past, and much to settle for the future. Anne had been for 
 some little time in a situation, to which she was to return at 
 the end of the Christmas holidays. For another year or so 
 they were again to be all three apart ; and, after that, the 
 happy vision of being together and opening a school was to 
 be realized. Of course they did not now look forward to set- 
 tling at Burlington, or any other place which would take 
 them away from their father ; but the small sum which they 
 each independently possessed would enable them to effect 
 such alterations in the parsonage-house at Haworth as would 
 adapt it to the reception of pupils. Anne's pla,ns for the in- 
 terval were fixed. Emily quickly decided to be the daughter 
 to remain at home. About Charlotte there was much delib- 
 eration and some discussion. 
 
 Even in all the haste of their sudden departure from 
 Brussels, M. Hegcr had found time to write a letter of sym- 
 pathy to Mr. Bronte on the loss which he had just sustained; 
 a letter containing such a graceful appreciation of the daugh- 
 ters' characters, under the form of a tribute of respect to 
 iheir father, that I should have been tempted to copy it, even 
 had there not also been a proposal made in it respecting Char- 
 I jtte, which deserves a place in the record of her life. 
 
LETTER OF M. DEGEK TO IVIR. J5R0NTE. 225 
 
 " Jw Beverend Monsieur Bronie^ Pasteur Evangelique, 
 &c, dbc, 
 
 " Samedi, 5 9^'"- 
 " Monsieur, 
 
 " Un evenement bien t'riste decide mesdemoiselles 
 vos fiUes a retourner brusquement en Angleterre, ce depart qui 
 nous afflige beaucoup a cependant ma complete approbation ; 
 il est bien natural qu'elles chercbent a vous consoler de ce 
 que le ciel vient de yous oter, en se serrant autour de vous, 
 pour mieux vous faire apprecier ce que le ciel vous a donne 
 et ce qu'il vous laisse encore. J^espt^re que vous me pardon- 
 nerez, Monsieur, de profiter de cette circonstance pour vous 
 faire prevenir Fexpression de mon respect; je n'ai pas I'hon- 
 neur de vous connaitre personellement, et cependant j'eprouve 
 pour votre personne un sentiment de sincere veneration, car 
 en jugeant un pere de famille par ses enfants on ne risque pas 
 de se tromper, et sous ce rapport Teducation et les sentiments 
 que nous avons trouves dans mesdemoiselles vos filles, n'ont 
 pu que nous donner une tres haute idee de votre merite et de 
 votre caractere. Yous apprendrez sans doute avec plaisir que 
 vos enfants ont fait du progres tres remarquable dans toutes les 
 branches de Tenseignement, et que ces progres sont entierement 
 du a leur amour pour le travail et a leur perseverance ; nous 
 n'avons eu que bien peu a faire avec de pareilles eleves ; 
 leur avancement est votre oeuvre bien plus que la notre ; nous 
 n 'avons pas eu a leur apprendre le prix du temps et de Pin- 
 struction, elles avaient appris tout cela dans la maison pater- 
 nolle, et nous n'avons eu, pour notre part, que le faible meri- ^-^ 
 ^de diriger leurs efforts et de fournir un aliment convenable a 
 la louable activite que vos filles ont puisee dans votre exemplo 
 et dans vos lecons. Puissent les eloges meritees que nous 
 donnons a vos enfants vous etre de quelque consolation dan^ 
 le malheur qui vous afflige ; c'est la notre espoir en vous 
 
 VOL. I.— 10^^ 
 
226 LIFE OF CHxiKLOTTE BKONTE 
 
 ecrivant, et ce gera, pour Mesdemoiselles Charlotte tt Emily 
 une douce et belle recompense de leurs travaux. 
 
 " En perdant nos deux clieres (Aleves nous ne devons pas 
 vous cacher que nous eprouvons a la fois et du chagrin et de 
 rinquietude ; nous sommes aliiiges parceque cette brusque 
 separation vient briser I'affection presque paternelle que nous 
 leur avons vouee, et notre peine s'augmente a la vue de tant 
 de travaux interrompees, de tant des choses bien commencees, 
 et qui ne demandent que quelque temps encore pour etre me- 
 nees a bonne fin. Dans un an, chacune de vos demoiselles 
 eut ete entierement premunie centre les eventualites de I'ave- 
 nir ; chacune d'elles acquerrait a la fois et I'instruction et la 
 science d'enseignement ; Mile. Emily allait apprendre le piano ; 
 recevoir les legons du meilleur professeur que nous ayons en 
 Belgique, et deja clle avait elle-meme de petites eleves ; elle 
 perdait done a la fois un reste d'ignorance, et un reste plus 
 genant encore de timidite ; Mile. Charlotte commengait a 
 donner des lecons en francais, et d'acquerir cette assurance, 
 cet aplomb si necessaire dans Tenseignement ; encore un a^tv*/ 
 tout au plus, et Foeuvre etait achevee et bien achevee. Alors 
 nous aurions pu, si cela vous eut convenu, offrir a mesdemoi- 
 selles vos filles ou du moins a I'une de deux une position qui 
 cut etc dans ses gouts, et qui lui eut donne cette douce inde- 
 pendance si difficile a trouver pour une jeune personne. Ce 
 n'est pas, croyez le bien monsieur, ce n'est pas ici pour nous 
 une question d'interet personnel, c'est une question d'affec- 
 tion ; vous me pardonnerez si nous vous parlons de vos en- 
 fants, si nous nous occupons de leur avenir, comme si elles 
 faisaient partie de notre famille ; leurs qualites personnelles, 
 leur bon vouloir, leur zele extreme sent les seules causes qui 
 nous poussent a nous hasarder de la sorte. Nous savons, 
 Monsieur, que vous peserez plus murement et plus sagement 
 que nous la consequence qu'aurait pour I'avenir une interrup- 
 tion complete dans les Etudes de vos deux filles ; vous deci- 
 
A JIAPPY CHRISTMAS AT IIAWOKTir. 227 
 
 derez ce qu'il faut faire, et vous nous pardonnerez notre fran- 
 chise, si vous daignez considerer que le motif qui nous fait 
 agir est une affection bien desinterressee et qui s'affligerait 
 beaucoup de devoir deja se resigner a n'etre plus utile a vos 
 cliers enfants. 
 
 " Agreez, je vous prie, Monsieur, d'expression respectueusG 
 de mes sentiments de liaute consideration. 
 
 '' C. HegerJ' 
 
 There was so much truth, as well as so much kindness, in 
 this letter — it was so obvious that a second year of instruc- 
 tion would be so far more valuable than the first, that there 
 was no long hesitation before it was decided that Charlotte 
 should return to Brussels. 
 
 Meanwhile, they enjoyed their Christmas all together in- 
 expressibly. Branwell was with them ; that was always a 
 pleasure at this time ; whatever might be his faults, or even 
 his vices, his sisters yet held him up as their family hope, as 
 they trusted that he would some day be their family pride. 
 They blinded themselv-es to the magnitude of the failings of 
 which they were now and then told, by persuading themselves 
 that such failings were common to all men of any strength of 
 character ; for, till sad experience taught them better, they 
 fell into the usual error of confounding strong passions with 
 strong character. 
 
 Charlotte's friend came over to see her, and she returned 
 the visit. Her Brussels life must have seemed like a dream, 
 80 completely, in this short space of time, did she fall back 
 into the old household ways : with more of household inde- 
 pendence than she could ever have had during her aunt's 
 life- time. Winter though it was, the sisters took their accus- 
 tomed walks on the snow-covered moors ; or went often down 
 the long road to Keighley, for such books as had been added 
 to the library there during their absence from England. 
 
22S TJFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Towards the end of January, the time came for Cliariotte to 
 return to Brussels. Her journey thither was rather disas- 
 trous. She had to make her way alone ; and the train from 
 Leeds to London, which should have reached Euston-square 
 early in the afternoon, was so much delayed that it did not 
 get in till ten at night. She had intended to seek out the 
 Chapter Coffee-house, where she had stayed before, and which 
 would haye been near the place where the steam-boats lay ; 
 but she seems to have been frightened by the idea of arriving 
 at an hour which, to Yorkshire notions, was so late and un- 
 seemly ; and taking a cab, therefore, at the station, she drove 
 straight to the London Bridge Wharf; and desired a water- 
 man to row her to the Ostend packet, which was to sail the 
 next morning. She described to me, pretty much as she has 
 since described it in " Villette," her sense of loneliness, and 
 yet her strange pleasure in the excitement of the situation, as 
 in the .dead of that winter's night she went swiftly over the 
 dark river to the black hull's side, and was at first refused 
 leave to ascend to the deck. " No passengers might sleep on 
 board," they said, with some appearance of disrespect. She 
 looked back to the lights and subdued noises of London — 
 that " Mighty Heart " in which she had no place — and, stand- 
 ing up in the rocking boat, she asked to speak to some one in 
 authority on board the packet. He came, and her quiet 
 
HER EETUEK TO BRUSSELS ALONE. 229 
 
 simple statement of her wish, and her reason for it, quelled 
 the feeling of sneering distrust in those who had first heard 
 her request ; and impressed the authority so favorably that 
 he allowed her to come on board, and take possession of a 
 berth. The next morning she sailed; and at seven oc 
 Sunday evening she reached the Rue d'Isabelle once more ; 
 having only left Haworth on Friday morning at an earljp 
 hour. 
 
 Her salary was 16Z. a year , out of which she had to pay 
 for her German lessons, for which she was charged as much 
 (the lessons being probably rated by time) as when Emily 
 learnt with her and divided the expense ; viz., ten francs a 
 month. By Miss Bronte's own desire, she gave her Englisi 
 lessons in the classe, or school-room, without the supervision 
 of Madame or M. Heger. They offered to be present, with 
 a view to maintain order among the unruly Belgian girls 
 but she declined this, saying that she would rather enforce 
 discipline by her own manner and character than be indebted 
 for obedience to the presence of a gendarme. She ruled 
 over a new school-room, which had been built on the space 
 in the play-ground adjoining the house. Over that First 
 Class she was surveillante at all hours ; and henceforward 
 she was called Mademoiselle Charlotte, by M. Heger's orders. 
 She continued her own studies, principally attending to Ger- 
 man, and to Literature ; and every Sunday she went alone 
 to the German and English chapels. Her walks too were 
 solitary, and principally taken in the allee defendue, where 
 she was secure from intrusion. This solitude was a perilous 
 luxury to one of her temperament ; so liable as she was to 
 morbid and acute mental suffering. 
 
 On March 6th, 1843, she writes thus : — 
 
 " I am settled by this time, of course. I am not too 
 much overloaded with occupation; and besides teaching 
 
230 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 English, I Lave time to improve myself in German. 1 
 ought to consider myself well off, and to he thankful for my 
 good fortunes. I hope I am thankful ; and if I could always 
 keep up my spirits, and never feel lonely, or long for com- 
 panionship, or friendship, or whatever they call it, I should 
 do very well. As I told you before, M. and Madame 
 Heger are the only two persons in the house for whom I 
 really experience regard and esteem, and, of course, I cannot 
 be always with them, nor even very often. They told me, 
 when I first returned, that I was to consider their sitting- 
 room my sitting-room also, and to go there whenever I was 
 not engaged in the school- room. This, however, I cannot 
 do. In the day-time it is a public room, where music- 
 masters and mistresses are constantly passing in and out ; 
 and in the evening, I will not, and ought not to intrude on 
 M. and Madame Heger and their children. Thus I am a 
 good deal by myself, out of school-hours ; but that does not 
 signify. I now regularly give English lessons to M. Heger 
 and his brother-in-law. They get on with wonderful rapid- 
 ity ; especially the first. He already begins to speak Eng- 
 lish very decently. If you could see and hear the efforla 
 I make to teach them to pronounce like Englishmen, and 
 their unavailing attempts to imitate, you would laugh to all 
 eternity. 
 
 '^ The Carnival is just over, and we have entered upon . 
 the gloom and abstinence of Lent. The first day of Lent we 
 had coffee without milk for breakfast; vinegar and vege- 
 tables, with a very little salt fish, for dinner ; and bread for 
 supper. The Crjnival was nothing but masking and mum- 
 mery. M. Heger took me and one of the pupils into the 
 town to see the masks. It was animating to see the im- 
 mense crowds, and the general gaiety, but the masks were 
 nothing. I have been twice to the D.'s '' (those cousins 
 of Mary's of whom I have before made mention), '' When 
 
HER DESPONDENCY. 231 
 
 bIic leaves Eruxelles, I shall have nowhere to go to. I havo 
 had two letters from Mary. She does not tell me she has 
 been ill, and she does not complain ; but her letters are not 
 the letters of a person in the enjoyment of great happiness. 
 She has nobody to be as good to her as M. Heger is to me ; 
 to lend her books ; to converse with her sometimes, &c. 
 
 " Good-bye. When I say so, it seems to me that you 
 will hardly hear me ; all the waves of the Channel heaving 
 and roaring between, must deaden the sound." 
 
 From the tone of this letter it may easily be perceived 
 that the Brussels of 1843 was a different place from that of 
 1842. Then she had Emily for a daily and nightly solace 
 and companion. She had the weekly variety of a visit to 
 the family of the D.'s; and she had the frequent happiness 
 of seeing Mary and Martha. Now Emily was far away in 
 Haworth — where she, or any other loved one, might die, be- 
 fore Charlotte, with her utmost speed, could reach them, as 
 experience, in her aunt's case, had taught her. The D.'s 
 were leaving Brussels; so, henceforth, her weekly holiday 
 would have to be passed in the Bue d'Isabelle, or so she 
 thought. Mary was gone off on her own independent course ; 
 Martha alone remained — still and quiet for ever, in the cem- 
 etery beyond the Porte de Louvain. The weather, too, for 
 the first few weeks after Charlotte's return, had been pierc- 
 ingly cold and her feeble constitution was always painfully 
 sensitive to an inclement season. Mere bodily pain, however 
 acute, she could always put aside ; but too often ill-health 
 assailed her in a part far more to be dreaded. Her depres- 
 sion of spirits, when she was not well, was pitiful in its ex- 
 tremity. She was aware that it was constitutional, and could 
 reason about it ; but no reason prevented her suffering men- 
 tal agony, while the bodily cause remained in force. 
 
 The Hegers have discovered, since the j.ublication of 
 
232 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 " Villette," that, at this beginning of her career as English 
 teacher in their school, the conduct of her pupils was often 
 impertinent and mutinous in the highest degree. But of 
 this they were unaware at the time, as she had declined their 
 presence, and never made any complaint. Still, it must 
 have heen a depressing thought to her at this period, that 
 her joyous, healthy, obtuse pupils, were so little answerable 
 to the powers she could bring to bear upon them; and 
 though, from their own testimony, her patience, firmness, and 
 resolution, at length obtained their just reward, yet, with 
 one so weak in health and spirits as she was, the reaction 
 after such struggles as she frequently had with her pupils, 
 must have been very sad and painful. 
 She thus writes to her friend E. : — 
 
 "^i^HZ, 1843. 
 '' Is there any talk of your coming to Brussels ? During 
 the bitter cold weather we had through February, and the 
 principal part of March, I did not regret that you had not 
 accompanied me. If I had seen you shivering as I shivered 
 myself, if I had seen your hands and feet as red and swelled 
 as mine were, my discomfort would just have been doubled. 
 I can do very well under this sort of thing ; it does not fret 
 me ; it only makes me numb and silent ; but if you were to 
 pass a winter in Belgium, you would be ill. However, more 
 genial weather is coming now, and I wish you were here. 
 Yet I never have pressed you, and never would press you 
 too warmly to come. There are privations and humiliations 
 to submit to ; there is monotony and uniformity of life ; and, 
 above all, there is a constant sense of solitude in the midst 
 of numbers. The Protestant, the foreigner, is a solitary be- 
 ing, whether as teacher or pupil. I do not say this by way 
 of complaining of my own lot ; for though I acknowledge 
 that there are certain disadvantages in my present position, 
 
HEK SOLITUDE IN THE PENSIONNAT. IJdJ 
 
 what position on earth is without them ? And, whenever I 
 turn back to compare what I am with what I was — my place 
 
 here with my place at Mrs. 's for instance — I am thank- 
 
 fuL There was an observation in your last letter which ex- 
 cited, for a moment, my wrath/ At first, I thought it would 
 be folly to reply to it, and I would let it die. Afterwards, 
 I determined to give one answer, once for all. * Three or 
 four people,* it seems, ^ have the idea that the future Spouse 
 of Mademoiselle Bronte is on the Continent.' These people 
 are wiser than I am. They could not believe that I crossed 
 the sea merely to return as teacher to Madame Heger's. I 
 must have some more powerful motive than respect for my 
 master and mistress, gratitude for their kindness, &c., to in- 
 duce me to refuse a salary of 501. in England, and accept 
 one of 16Z. in Belgium. I must, forsooth, have some remote 
 hope of entrapping a husband somehow, or somewhere. If 
 these charitable people knew the total seclusion of the life I 
 lead, that I never exchange a word with any other man than 
 Monsieur Heger, and seldom indeed with him, they would, 
 perhaps, cease to e^uppose that any such chimerical and 
 groundless notion had influenced my proceedings. Have I 
 said enough to clear myself of so silly an imputation ? Not 
 that it is a crime to marry, or a crime to wish to be married ; 
 but it is an imbecility, which I reject with contempt, for 
 women, who have neither fortune nor beauty, to make mar- 
 riage the principal object of their wishes and hopes, and the 
 aim of all their actions ; not to be able to convince them- 
 selves that they are unattractive, and that they had bettei 
 be quiet, and think of other things than wedlock." 
 
 The following is an extract from one of the few letters 
 which have been preserved, of her correspondence with her 
 sister Emily. 
 
 " I get on here from day to day in a liobinson- Crusoe- 
 
234 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 like sort of way, very lonely, but that does not signify. lu 
 other respects, I have nothing substantial to complain of, nor 
 is this a cause for complaint. I hope you are well. Walk 
 out often on the moors. My love to Tabby. I hope she 
 keeps well.*" 
 
 And about this time she wrote to her father. 
 
 " June 2nd^ 1843. 
 ^^ I was very glad to hear from home. I had begun to 
 get low-spirited at not receiving any news, and to entertain 
 indefinite fears that something was wrong. You do not say 
 anything about your own health, but I hope you are well, 
 and Emily also. I am afraid she will have a good deal 
 of hard work to do now that Hannah " (a servant-girl who 
 had been assisting Tabby) " is gone. I am exceedingly glad 
 to hear that you still keep Tabby " (considerably upwards of 
 seventy). " It is an act of great charity to her, and I do not 
 think it will be unrewarded, for she is very faithful, and will 
 always serve you, when she has occasion, to the best of her 
 abilities ; besides, she will be company for Emily, who, with- 
 out her, would be very lonely." 
 
 I gave a devoir^ written after she had been four months 
 under M. Heger's tuition. I will now copy out another, 
 written nearly a year later, during which the progress made 
 appears to me very great. 
 
 " 31 Mai, 1813. 
 
 " SUR LA NOM DE NaPOLEON. 
 
 " Napoleon naquit en Corse et mourut a St. Helene. 
 Entre ces deux ilcs rien qu'un vaste et brulant desert et 
 Vocean immense. II naquit fils d'un simple gentilhomme, et 
 mourut empereur, mais sans couronne et dans les fers. 
 Eutre son ber^eau et sa tombe qu' y a-t-il ? la carriere d'un 
 Boldat parvenu^ des champs de bataille, une mer de sang, un 
 
HER DEVOIR '^ SUR LA ^^0M DE NAPOLEON." 235 
 
 trone, puis du sang encore, et des fers. Sa vie, c'est Tare en 
 ciel ; les deux points extremes touchent la terre ; la comble 
 iumineuse mesure les cieux. Sur Napoleon au berceau une 
 mere brillait ; dans la maison paternelle il avait des freres ct 
 des soeurs ; plus tard dans son ' palais il eut une femme qui 
 I'aimait. Mais sur son lit de mort Napoleon est seul •, plu3 
 de mere, ni de frere, ni de soeur, ni de femme, ni d'enfant ! ! 
 D'autres ont dit et rediront ses exploits, moi, je m'arrete a 
 contempler I'abandonnement de sa dernicre lieure I 
 
 " II est la, exile et captif, encha^ne sur un ecueil. Nou- 
 veau Prometliee il subit le chatiment de son orgueil ! Pro- 
 methee avait voulu etre Dieu et Createur ; il deroba le feu du 
 Ciel pour animer le corps qu'il avait forme. Et lui, Buona- 
 parte, il a voulu creer, non pas un homme, mais un empire, 
 et pour donner une existence, une ame, a son oeuvre gigan- 
 tesque, il n'a pas hesite a arracher la vie a des nations en- 
 tieres. Jupiter indigne de Timpiete de Promethee le riva 
 vivant a la cime du Caucase. Ainsi, pour punir Tambition 
 rapace de Buonaparte, la Providence Fa enchaine jusqu'a ce 
 que mort s'en suivit, sur un roc isole de I'Atlantique. Peut- 
 etre la aussi a-t-il senti lui fouillant le flanc cet insatiable 
 vautours dont parle la fable, peutetre a-t-il gouffert aussi 
 cette soif du coeur, cette faim de I'ame, qui torturent Fexile, 
 loin de sa famille, et de sa patrie. Mais parler ainsi n'est-ce 
 pas attribuer gratuitement a Napoleon une humaine faiblesse 
 qu'il n'eprouva jamais ? Quand done s'est-il laisse enchain- 
 er par un lien d'aflfection ? Sans doute d'autres conquerants 
 ont hesite dans leur carriere de gloire, arretes par un obsta- 
 cle d'amour ou d'amitie, retenus par la main d'une femme, 
 rappeles par la voix d'unami — lui, jamais ! II n'eut pas be- 
 soin comme Ulysse, de se lier au mat du navire, ni de so 
 boucher les oreilles avec de la cire; il ne redoutaitpas lo 
 chant des Sirenes — il le dedaignait ; il se fit marbre et fer 
 p"Ur executer ses grands projets. Napoleon ne se regardait 
 
236 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 pas comme un homme, mais comme I'mcarnation d'un peuple, 
 II n'aimait pas; il ne considerait ses amis et ses procbes 
 que comme des instruments auxquels il tint, tant qu'ils 
 furent utiles, et qu'il jeta de cote quand ils cesserent de I'etre. 
 Qu'on ne se permette done pas d'approcher du Sepulchre du 
 Corse, avec sentiments de pitie, ou de souiller de larmes la 
 pierre que couvre ses restes, son ame repudierait tout cela. 
 On a dit, je le sais, qu'elle fut cruelle la main qui le separa 
 de sa femme, et de son enfant. Non, c'etait une main qui, 
 comme la sienne, ne tremblait ni de passion ni de crainte, 
 c'etait la main d'un homme froid, convaincu, qui avait su 
 deviner Buonaparte ; et voici ce que disait cet homme que la 
 defaite n'a pu humilier, ni la victoire enorgueillir. * Marie- 
 Louise n'est pas la femme de Napoleon ; c'est la France que 
 Napoleon a epousee ; c'est la France qu'il aime, leur union 
 enfante la perte de 1' Europe ; voila la divorce que je veux; 
 voila I'union qu'il faut briser.' 
 
 " La voix des timides et des traitres protesta centre cette 
 sentence. * C'est abuser du droits de la victoire ! C'est 
 fouler aux pieds le vaincu ! Que I'Angleterre se montre cle- 
 mente, qu'elle ouvre ses bras pour recevoir comme hote son 
 ennemi desarme.' L'Angleterre aurait peutetre ecoute ce 
 conseil, car partout et toujours il y a des ames faibles et tim- 
 orees bientot seduites par la flatterie ou effrayees par le re- 
 proche. Mais la Providence permit qu'un homme se trouvat 
 qui n'a jamais su ce que c'est que la crainte ; qui aima sa 
 patrie mieux que sa renommee ; impenetrable devant Ics 
 menaces, inaccessible aux louanges, il se presenta devant Ic 
 conseil de la nation, et levant son front tranquille et haut, il 
 osa dire : " Que la trahison se taise ! car c'est trahir que de 
 conseiller de temporiser avec Buonaparte. Moi je sais ce 
 que sont ces guerres dont I'Europe saigne encore, comme une 
 victimo sous le couteau du boucher. II faut en finir avec 
 Napoleon Buonaparte. Vous vous cffrayez de tort dun 
 
HER DEVOIR ''SUR LA NOM DE NAPOLEON." 237 
 
 mofc si dur ! Je n'ai pas de magnanimite, dit-on ? Soit ! 
 oue m'importe ce qu'on dit de moi. Je n'ai pas ici a me 
 faire une reputation de heros magnanime, mais a guerir si la 
 cure est possible, I'Europe qui se meurt, epuisee de ressources 
 et de sang, FEurope dont vou-s negligez les vrais interets, 
 preoccupes que vous etes d'une vaine renommee de clemence. 
 Vous etes faibles. Eh bien ! je viens vous aider. Envoy ez 
 Buonaparte a Ste. Helene ! n'hesitez pas, ne cherchez pas un 
 autre endroit ; c'est le seul convenable. Je vous le dis, j'ai 
 reflechi pour vous ; c'est la qu'il doit etre et non pas ailleurs. 
 Quant a Napoleon, homme, soldat, je n'ai rien centre lui ; 
 c'est un Lion Eoyal, aupres de qui vous n'etes que des Cha- 
 cals. Mais Napoleon Empereur, c'est autre chose, je I'extir- 
 perai du sol de I'Europe.' Et celui qui parla ainsi toujours 
 su garder sa promesse, celle-la, comme toutes les autres. Je 
 I'ai dit, et je le repete, cet homme est I'egal de Napoleon 
 par la genie ; comme trempe de caractere, comme droiture, 
 comme elevation de pensee et de but, il est d'une tout autre 
 espece. Napoleon Buonaparte etait avide de renommee et 
 de gloire ; Arthur Wellesley ne se soucie ni de I'une, ni de 
 Pautre ; I'opinion publique, la popularite, etaient choses de 
 grand valeur aux yeux de Napoleon ; pour Wellington I'opinion 
 publique est une rumeur, un rien que le souffle de son inflexible 
 volonte fait disparaitre comme une bulle de Savoy. Napo- 
 leon flattait le peuple ; Wellington le brusque ; I'un cherchait 
 les applaudissements, I'autre ne se soucie que du temoignage 
 de sa conscience ; quand elle approuve, c'est assez ; toute autre 
 louange I'obsede. Aussi ce peuple, qui adorait Buonaparte, 
 s'irritait, s'insurgeait centre la morgue de Wellington ; parfois 
 il lui temoigna sa colore et sa haine par des grognements, par 
 des hurlements de betes fauves ; et alors avec une impassi- 
 bilite de senateur Romaine, le moderne Coriolan, torsait du 
 regard I'emeute furieuse ; il croisait ses bras nerveux sur sa 
 large poitrine, et seul, debout sur son senil, il attendait, il 
 
238 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 bravait cette tempete populaire dont les flots venaient mourlr 
 a quelques pas de lui : et quand la foule honteuse de sa re- 
 bellion, venait lecher les pieds du maitre, le hautain patricien 
 meprisait I'hommage d'aiijourd'hui comme la haine d'hier, et 
 dans les rues do Londres, et devant son palais ducal d'Apsley, 
 il repoussait d'un genre plein de froid dedain rincommode 
 empressement du peuple enthousiaste. Cette fierte neanmoins 
 s'excluait pas en lui une rare modestie ; partout il se sous- 
 trait a I'eloge ; se derobe au panegyrique ; jamais il ne 
 parle de ses exploits, et jamais il ne souffre qu'un autre que 
 lui en parle en sa presence. Son caractere egale en gran- 
 deur et sarpasse en verite celui de tout autre heros ancien ou 
 nioderne. La gloire de Napoleon crut en une nuit, comme la 
 vigne de Jonah, et il suffit d'un jour pour la fletrir; la gloire 
 de Wellington est comme les vieux chenes qui ombragent le 
 chateau de ses peres sur les rives du Shannon ; le chene croit 
 lentement ; il lui faut du temps pour pousser vers le ciel 
 ses branches noueusses, et pour enfoncer dans le sol, ces ra- 
 cines profondes qui s'enchevetrent dans les fondements 
 solides de la terre ; mais alors, I'arbre seculaire, inebranla- 
 ble comme le roc ou il a sa base, brave et la faux du temps 
 et Tefforte des ventes et des tempetes. II faudra peutetre 
 un siscle a I'Angleterre pour qu'elle connaisse la valeur de 
 son heros. Dans un siecle, TEurope entiere saura combien 
 Wellington a de droit a sa reoonnoissance." 
 
 How often in writing this paper " in a strange land," 
 must Miss Bronte have thought of the old childish disputes 
 in the kitchen of Haworth parsonage, touching the respec- 
 tive merits of Wellington and Buonaparte ! Although the 
 title given to her devoir is, '^ On the Name of Napoleon," 
 she seems yet to have considered it a point of honour rather 
 to sing praises to an English hero than to dwell on the 
 character of a foreigner^ placed as she was among those who 
 
DEPKESSION AND HOME-SICKNESS. 239 
 
 cared little •either for England or for Wellington. She now 
 felt that she had made great progress towards obtaining 
 proficiency in the French language, which had been her main 
 object in coming to Brussels. But to the zealous learner 
 " Alps on Alps arise." No sooner is one difficulty surmount- 
 ed than some other desirable attainment appears, and must 
 be laboured after. A knowledge of German now became her 
 object ; and she resolved to compel herself to remain in 
 Brussels till that was gained. The strong yearning to go 
 home came upon her ; the stronger self-denying will forbade. 
 There was a great internal struggle ; every fibre of her heart 
 quivered in the strain to master her will ; and, when she 
 conquered herself, she remained, not like a victor calm and 
 supreme on the throne, but like a panting, torn, and suifer- 
 ing victim. Her nerves and her spirits gave way. Her 
 health became much shaken. 
 
 ^'' Brusselsj August Istj 1843. 
 " If I complain in this letter, have mercy and don't blame 
 me, for, I forewarn you, I am in low spirits, and that earth 
 and heaven are dreary and empty to me at this moment. In 
 a few days our vacation will begin ; everybody is joyous 
 and animated at the prospect, because everybody is to go 
 home. I know that I am to stay here during the five weeks 
 that the holidays last, and that I shall be much alone during 
 that time, and consequently get downcast, and find both days 
 and nights of a weary length. It is the first time in my 
 life that I have really dreaded the vacation. Alas ! I can 
 hardly write, I have such a dreary weight at my heart ; and 
 I do so wish to go home. Is not this childish ? Pardon 
 me, for I cannot help it. However, though I am not strong 
 enough to bear up cheerfully, I can still bear up ; and I will 
 continue to stay (D. V.) some months longer, till I have 
 acquired German; and then I hope to see all your faces 
 
240 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 again. Would that tlie vacation were well over !*it will pass 
 so slowly. Do have the Christian charity to write me a long, 
 long letter ; fill it with the minutest details ; nothing will be 
 uninteresting. Do not think it is because people are unkind 
 to me that I wish to leave Belgium ; nothing of the sort. 
 Everybody is abundantly civil, but home-sickness keeps creep- 
 ing over me. I cannot shake it off. Believe me very mer- 
 rily, vivaciously, gaily yours. 
 
 " C. B." 
 
 The gra7ides vacances began soon after the date of this 
 letter, when she was left in the great deserted pensionnat, 
 with only one teacher for a companion. This teacher, a 
 Frenchwoman, had always been uncongenial to her ; but, 
 left to each other's sole companionship, Charlotte soon dis- 
 covered that her associate was more profligate, more steeped 
 in a kind of cold, systematic sensuality, than she had before 
 imagined it possible for a human being to be ; and her whole 
 nature revolted from this woman's society. A low nervous 
 fever was gaining upon Miss Bronte. She had never been 
 a good sleeper, but now she could not sleep at all. What- 
 ever had been disagreeable, or obnoxious, to her during the 
 day, was presented when it was over with exaggerated 
 vividness to her disordered fancy. There were causes for 
 distress and anxiety in the news from home, particularly as 
 regarded Branwell. In the dead of the night, lying awake 
 at the end of the long deserted dormitory, in the vast and 
 silent house, every fear respecting those whom she loved, and 
 who were so far off in another country, became a terrible 
 reality, oppressing her and choking up the very life-blood in 
 her heart. Those nights were times of sick, dreary, wake- 
 ful misery ; precursors of many such in after years. 
 
 In the day-time, driven abroad by loathing of her com- 
 panion and by the weak restlessness of fever, she tried to 
 walk herself into such a state of bodily fatigue as would in- 
 
ALONE AT BRUSSELS. 241 
 
 duce sleep. So she went out, and with weary steps would 
 traverse the Boulevards and the streets, sometimes for hours 
 together , faltering and resting occasionally on some of the 
 many benches placed for the repose of happy groups, or for 
 solitary wanderers like herself. Then up again — anywhere 
 but to the pensionnat — out to the cemetery where Martha 
 lay — out beyond it, to the hills whence there is nothing to 
 be seen but fields as far as the horizon. The shades of even- 
 ing made her retrace her footsteps — sick for want of food, 
 but not hungry ; fatigued with long continued exercise — ^yet 
 restless still, and doomed to another weary, haunted night 
 of sleeplessness. She would thread the streets in the 
 neighbourhood of the Rue d'Isabelle, and yet avoid it and its 
 occupant, till as late an hour as she dare be out. At last, 
 she was compelled to keep her bed for some days, and 
 this compulsory rest did her good. She was weak, but 
 less depressed in spirits than she had been, when the 
 school re-opened, and her positive practical duties recom- 
 menced. 
 
 She writes thus — 
 
 '' October 13, 1843. 
 " Mary is getting on well, as she deserves to do. I often 
 hear from her. Her letters and yours are one of my few 
 pleasures. She urges me very much to leave Brussels and 
 go to her; but, at present, however tempted to take such a 
 step, I should not feel justified in doing so. To leave a 
 certainty for a complete uncertainty, would be to the last 
 degree imprudent. Notwithstanding that, Brussels is indeed 
 desolate to me now. Since the D.'s left, I have had no 
 friend. I had, indeed, some very kind acquaintances in the 
 
 family of a Dr. , but they too are gone now. They left 
 
 in the latter part of August, and I am completely alone. I 
 cannot count the Belgians anything. It is a curious position 
 VOL. T. — 11 
 
242 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 to be SO utterly solitary in the midst of numbers, Sometioies 
 the solitude oppresses me to an excess. One day, lately, I 
 felt as if I could bear it no longer, and I went to Madame 
 Ileger, and gave her notice. If it had depended on her, I 
 should certainly have soon been at liberty ; but M. Heger 
 having heard of what was in agitation, sent for me the day 
 after, and pronounced with vehemence his decision, that I 
 ehould not leave. I could not, at that time, have persevered 
 in my intention without exciting him to anger ; so I prom- 
 ised to stay a little while longer. How long that will be, 
 I do not know. I should not like to return to England to 
 do nothing. I am too old for that now ; but if I could hear 
 of a favourable opportunity for commencing a school, I think 
 I should embrace it. We have as yet no fires here, and I 
 suffer much from cold ; otherwise, I am well in health. Mr. 
 will take this letter to England. He is a pretty-look- 
 ing and pretty behaved young man, apparently constructed 
 without a backbone ; by which I don't allude to his cor- 
 poral spine, which is all right enough, but to his character. 
 " I get on here after a fashion ; but now that Mary D. 
 has left Brussels, I have nobody to speak to, for I count the 
 Belgians as nothing. Sometimes I ask myself how long shall 
 I stay here ; but as yet I have only asked the question ; I 
 have not answered it. However, when I have acquired as 
 much German as I think fit, I think I shall pack up bag and 
 baggage, and depart. Twinges of home-sickness cut me to 
 the heart, every now and then. To-day the weather is glar- 
 ing, and I am stupefied with a bad cold and headache. I 
 have nothing to fell you. One day is like another in this 
 place. I know you, living in the country, can hardly believe 
 it is possible life can be monotonous in the centre of a bril- 
 liant capital like Brussels ; but so it is. I feel it most od 
 holidays, wl^en all the girls and teachers go out to visit, and 
 \i sometimes happens that I am left^ during several hours 
 
HER ESTKAXGEMENT FROM MAllAME n:E!GER. 243 
 
 quite alone, with four great desolate scliool-rooms at my dis- 
 position. I try to read, I try to write ; but in vain. I then 
 wander about from room to room, but the silence and loneli- 
 ness of all the house weighs dawn one's spirits like lead. You 
 will hardly believe that Madame Heger (good and kind as I 
 have described her) never comes near me on these occasions. 
 I owD, I was astonished the first time I was left alone thus ; 
 when everybody else was enjoying the pleasures of a fete day 
 with their friends, and she knew I was quite by myself, and 
 never took the least notice of me. Yet, I understand, she 
 praises me very much to everybody, and says what excellent 
 lessons I give. She is not colder to me than she is to the 
 other teachers ; but they are less dependent on her than I 
 am. They have relations and acquaintances in Bruxelles. 
 You remember the letter she wrote me, when I was in Eng- 
 land ? How kind and affectionate that was ! is it not odd ? 
 In the mean time, the complaints I make at present are a 
 sort of relief which I permit myself. In all other respects 
 I am well satisfied with my position, and you may say so to 
 people who enquire after me (if any one does). Write 
 to me, dear, whenever you can. You do a good deal whea 
 you send me a letter, for you comfort a very desolate heart.' 
 
 One of the reasons for the silent estrangement between 
 Madame Heger and Miss Bronte, in the second year of her 
 residence at Brussels, is to be found in the fact, that the 
 English Protestant's dislike of Romanism increased with her 
 knowledge of it, and its effects upon those who professed it ; 
 and when occasion called for an expression of opinion from 
 Charlotte Bronte, she was uncompromising truth. Madame 
 Heger, on the opposite side, was not merely a Eoman Cath- 
 olic, she was devote. Not of a warm or impulsive tempera- 
 ment, she was naturally governed by her conscience, rather 
 than by her affections ; and her conscience was in the handaf 
 
214 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 of her religious guides. She considered any slight thrown 
 upon her Church as blasphemy against the Holy Truth ; and, 
 though she was not given to open expression of her thoughts 
 and feelings, yet her increasing coolness of behaviour showed 
 how much her most cherished opinions had been wounded. 
 Thus, although there was never any explanation of Madame 
 Heger's change of manner, this may be given as one great 
 reason why, about this time, Charlotte was made painfully 
 conscious of a silent estrangement between them; an es- 
 trangement of which, perhaps, the former was hardly aware. 
 I have before alluded to intelligence from home, calculated 
 to distress Charlotte exceedingly with fears respecting Bran- 
 well, which I shall speak of more at large when the realiza- 
 tion of her worst apprehensions came to affect the daily life 
 of herself and her sisters. I allude to the subject again here, 
 in order that the reader may remember the gnawing, private 
 cares, which she had to bury in her own heart ; and the pain 
 of which could only be smothered for a time under the dili- 
 gent fulfilment of present duty. Another dim sorrow was 
 faintly perceived at this time. Her father's eyesight began 
 to fail ; it was not unlikely that he might shortly become 
 blind ; more of his duty must devolve on a curate, and Mr. 
 Bronte, always liberal, would have to pay at a higher rate 
 than he had heretofore done for his assistance. 
 She wrote thus to Emily : — 
 
 ''Dec. \si, 1843. 
 " This is Sunday morning. They are at their idolatrous 
 * messe,' and I am here, that is in the Eefectoire. I should 
 like uncommonly to be in the dining-room at home, or in the 
 kitchen, or in the back kitchen. I should like even to be 
 cutting up the hash, with the clerk and some register people 
 at the other table, and you standing by, watching that I put 
 enough flour, not too much pepper, and, above all, that T 
 
A VISION OF iio:mt:. 245 
 
 save the best pieces of the leg of mutton for Tiger and 
 Keeper, the first of which personages would be jumping 
 about the dish and carving-knife, and the latter standing like 
 a devouring flame on the kitchen-floor. To complete the 
 picture, Tabby blowing the fire, in order to boil the potatoes 
 to a sort of vegetable glue ! How divine are these recollec- 
 tions to me at this moment ! Yet I have no thought of 
 coming home just now. I lack a real pretext for doing so ; 
 it is true this place is dismal to me, but I cannot go home 
 without a fixed prospect when I get there ; and this prospect 
 must not be a situation ; that would be jumping out of the 
 frying-pan into the fire. You call yourself idle ! absurd, 
 
 absurd ! Is papa well ? Are you well ? and 
 
 Tabby ? You ask about Queen Victoria's visit to Brussels. 
 I saw her for an instant flashing through the Kue Koyale in 
 a carriage and six, surrounded by soldiers. She was laugh- 
 ing and talking very gaily. She looked a little stout, viva- 
 cious lady, very plainly dressed, not much dignity or preteti- 
 sion about her. The Belgians liked her very well on the 
 whole. They said she enlivened the sombre court of King 
 Leopold, which is usually as gloomy as a conventicle. Write 
 to me again soon. Tell me whether papa really wants me 
 very much to come home, and whether you do likewise. I 
 have an idea that I sliould be of no use there — a sort of aged 
 person upon the parish. I pray, with heart and soul, that 
 all may continue well at Haworth ; above all in our grey 
 half-inhabited house. G-od bless the walls thereof ! Safety, 
 health, happiness, and prosperity to you, papa, and Tabby. 
 Amen. 
 
 " C. B." 
 
 Towar is the end of this year (1843) various reasons con 
 spired with the causes of anxiety which have been mentioned 
 to make her feel that her presence was absolutely and impiera 
 
24G LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tively required at home, while she had acquired all that she 
 proposed to herself in coming to Brussels the second time ; 
 and waSj moreover, no longer regarded with the former kind- 
 liness of feeling by Madame Heger. In consequence of this 
 state of things, working down with sharp edge into a sen- 
 sitive mind, she suddenly announced to that lady her imme- 
 diate intention of returning to England. Both M. and 
 Madame Heger agreed that it would be for the best, when 
 they learnt only that part of the case which ^he could reveal 
 to them — namely, Mr. Bronte's increasing blindness. But 
 as the inevitable moment of separation from people and 
 places, among which she had spent so many happy hours, 
 drew near, her spirits gave way ; she had the natural pre- 
 sentiment that she saw them all for the last time, and she 
 received but a dead kind of comfort from being reminded 
 by her friends that Brussels and Haworth were not so very 
 far apart ; that access from one place to the other was not so 
 difficult or impracticable as her tears would seem to predi- 
 cate ; nay, there was some talk of one of Madame Heger's 
 daughters being sent to her as a pupil if she fulfilled her in- 
 tention of trying to begin a school. To facilitate her success 
 in this plan, should she ever engage in it, M. Heger gave 
 her a kind of diploma, dated from, and sealed with the seal 
 of the Athenee Boyale de Bruxelles, certifying that she was 
 perfectly capable of teaching the French language, having 
 well studied the grammar and composition thereof, and, 
 moreover, having prepared herself for teaching by studying 
 and practising the best methods of instruction. This certi- 
 ficate is dated December 29th, 1843, and on the 2nd of Jan- 
 uary, 1844, she arrived at Haworth. 
 
 On the 23rd of the month she writes as follows : — 
 
 " Every one asks me what I am going to do, now that I 
 am returned home ; and every one seems to expect that I 
 
UER EETURN* FEOM BRUSSELS. 247 
 
 should immediately commence a school. In truth it is what 
 I should wish to do. I desire it above all things. I havo 
 sufficient money for the undertaking, and I hope now suffi- 
 cient qualifications to give me a fair chance of success ; yet T 
 cannot yet permit myself to enter upon life — to touch the 
 object which seems now within my reach, and which I have 
 been so long straining to attain. You will ask me why? 
 It is on papa's account ; he is now, as you know, getting old, 
 and it grieves me to tell you that he is losing his sight. I 
 have felt for some months that I ought not to be away from 
 him ; and I feel now that it would be too selfish to leave him 
 (at least as long as Branwell and Anne are absent), in order 
 to pursue selfish interests of my own. With the help of God 
 r will try to deny myself in this matter and to wait. 
 
 " I suffered much before I left Brussels. I think, how- 
 ever long I live, I shall not forget what the parting with M. 
 Heger cost me. It grieved me so much to grieve him 
 who has been so true, kind, and disinterested a friend. At 
 parting he gave me a kind of diploma certifying my abilities 
 as a teacher, sealed with the seal of the Athenee lioyal, of 
 which he is professor. I was surprised also at the degree 
 of regret expressed by my Belgian pupils, when they knew 
 I was going to leave. I did not think it had been in their 
 phlegmatic nature. ...... I do not know whether you 
 
 feel as I do, but there are times now when it appears to me 
 as if all my ideas and feelings, except a few friendships and 
 affections, are changed from what they used to be ; some- 
 thing in me, which used to be enthusiasm, is tamed down 
 and broken. I have fewer illusions ; what I wish for 
 now is active exertion — a stake in life. Haworth seems 
 such a lonely, quiet spot, buried away from the world. I no 
 longer regard myself as young — indeed, I shall soon be 
 twenty-eight ; and it seems as if I ought to be working and 
 braving the rough realities of the world, as other people do. 
 
248 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 It is, however, my duty to restrain this feeliiig at present 
 and I will endeavour to do so." 
 
 Of course her absent sister and brother obtained a holiday 
 to welcome her return home, and in a few weeks she was 
 spared to pay a visit to her friend at B. But she was far 
 from well and strong, and the short journey of fourteen miles 
 geems to have fatigued her greatly. 
 
 Soon after she came back to Haworth, in a letter to one 
 of the household in which she had been staying, there occurs 
 this passage : — *^ Our poor little cat has been ill two days, 
 and is just dead. It is piteous to see even an animal lying 
 lifeless. Enily is sorry." These few words relate to points 
 in the characters of the two sisters, which I must dwell 
 upon a little. Charlotte was more than commonly tender 
 in her treatment of all dumb creatures, and they, with that 
 fine instinct so often noticed, were invariably attracted to- 
 wards her. The deep and exaggerated consciousness of her 
 personal defects — the constitutional absence of hope, which 
 made her slow to trust human affection, and consequently 
 slow to respond to any manifestation of it — made her manner 
 shy and constrained to men and women, and even to children. 
 We have seen something of this trembling distrust of her 
 own capability of inspiring affection, in the grateful surprise 
 she expresses at the regret felt by her Belgian pupils at her 
 departure. But not merely were her actions kind, her words 
 and tones were ever gentle and caressing, towards animals ; 
 and she quickly noticed the least want of care or tenderness 
 on the part of others towards any poor brute creature. The 
 readers of " Shirley " may remember that it is one of the 
 tests which the heroine applies to her lover. 
 
 " Do you know what soothsayers I would consult ? " 
 " The little Irish beggar that comes 
 
Eivnir Bronte's affection fok animals. 249 
 
 barefoot to my door ; the mouse that steals out of the cranny 
 in my wainscot ; the bird in frost and snow that pecks at my 
 window for a crumb ; the dog that licks my hand and sits 
 
 beside my knee I know somebody to whose knee the 
 
 black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder and cheek 
 it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his ken- 
 nel and wags his tail, and whines affectionately when some- 
 body passes." [For " somebody " and " he," read " Charlotte 
 Bronte " and " she."] " He quietly strokes the cat, and lets 
 her sit while he conveniently can ; and when he must dis- 
 turb her by rising, he puts her softly down, and never flings 
 her from him roughly : he always whistles to the dog, and 
 gives him a caress." 
 
 The feeling, which in Charlotte partook of something of 
 the n.ature of an affection, was, with Emily, more of a passion. 
 Some one speaking of her to me, in a careless kind of strength 
 of expression, said, ^^ she never showed regard to any human 
 creature ; all her love was reserved for animals." The help- 
 lessness of an animal was its passport to Charlotte's heart ; 
 the fierce, wild, intractability of its nature was what often 
 recommended it to Emily. Speaking of her dead sister, the 
 former told me that from ner many traits in Shirley's char- 
 acter were taken ; her way of sitting on the rug reading, 
 with her arm round her rough bull-dog's neck ; her calling 
 to a strange dog, running past, with hanging head and lolling 
 tongue, to give it a merciful draught of water, its maddened 
 snap at her, her nobly stern presence of mind, going right 
 into the kitchen, and taking up one of Tabby's red-hot 
 Italian irons to sear the bitten place, and telling no one, till 
 the danger was well-nigh over, for fear of the terrors that 
 might beset their weaker minds. All this, looked upon as a 
 well-invented fiction in "Shirley," was written down by 
 Charlotte with streaming eyes ; it was the literal true ao- 
 VOL. I — 11* 
 
250 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 count of what Emily had done. The same tawny bull-dog 
 (with his ^'strangled whistle"), called '^ Tartar" in " Shir- 
 ley," was ^' Keeper " in Haworth parsonage ; a gift to Emily 
 With the gift came a warning. Keeper was faithful to the 
 depths of his nature as long as he was with friends ; but he 
 who struck him with a stick or whip, roused the relentless 
 nature of the brute, who flew at his throat forthwith, and 
 Held him there till one or the other was at the point of death. 
 Now Keeper's household fault was this. He loved to steal 
 up-stairs, and stretch his square, tawny limbs, on the com- 
 fortable beds, covered over with delicate white counterpanes. 
 But the cleanliness of the parsonage arrangements was per- 
 fect ; and this habit of Keeper's was so objectionable, that 
 Emily, in reply to Tabby's remonstrances, declared that, if 
 he was found again transgressing, she herself, in defiance of 
 warning and his well-known ferocity of nature, would beat 
 him so severely that he would never offend again. In the 
 gathering dusk of an autumn evening. Tabby came, half 
 triumphantly, half tremblingly, but in great wrath, to tell 
 Emily that Keeper was lying on the best bed, in drowsy 
 voluptuousness. Charlotte saw Emily's whitening face, and 
 get mouth, but dared not speak to interfere ; no one dared 
 when Emily's eyes glowed in that manner out of the pale- 
 ness of her face, and when her lips were so compressed into 
 stone. She went up-stairs, and Tabby and Charlotte stood 
 in the gloomy passage below, full of the dark shadows of 
 coming night. Down-stairs came Emily, dragging after her 
 the unwilling Keeper, his hind legs set in a heavy attitude 
 of resistance, held by the " scuft of his neck," but growling 
 low and savagely all the time. The watchers would fain 
 have spoken, but durst not, for fear of taking off Emily's at- 
 tention, and causing her to avert her head for a moment 
 from the enraged brute. She let him go, planted in a dark 
 corner at the bottom of the stairs ; no time was there to 
 
EMILY AND HEB DOG ^^ KEEPEK." 251 
 
 fetch stick or rod, for fear of the strangling clutch at her 
 throat — her hare clenched fist struck against his red fierce 
 ejes, before he had time to make his spring, and in the 
 language of the turf, she " punished him " till his eyes were 
 swelled up, and the half -blind, stupefied beast was led to his 
 accustomed lair, to have his swelled head fomented and 
 cared for by the very Emily herself. The generous dog 
 owed her no grudge ; he loved her dearly ever after ; he 
 walked first among the mourners to her funeral ; he slept 
 moaning for nights at the door of her empty room, and never, 
 so to speak, rejoiced, dog fashion, after her death. He, in 
 his turn, was mourned over by the surviving sister. Let 
 us somehow hope, in half Red Indian creed, that he follows 
 Emily now ; and, when he rests, sleeps on some soft white 
 bed of dreams, unpunished when he awakens to the life of 
 the land of shadows. 
 
 Now we can understand the force of the words, ' ' Our 
 poor little cat is dead. Emily is sorry." 
 
252 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BROJSTTE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIIL 
 
 The moors were a great resource this spring; Emily and 
 Charlotte walked out on them perpetually, " to the great 
 damage of our shoes, but, I hope, to the benefit of our 
 health." The old plan of school-keeping was often discussed 
 in these rambles ; but in-doors they set with vigour to shirt- 
 making for the absent Branwell, and pondered in silence 
 over their past and future life. At last they came to a de- 
 termination. 
 
 *^ I have seriously entered into the enterprise of keeping 
 a school — or rather, taking a limited number of pupils at 
 home. That is, I have begun in good earnest to seek for 
 
 pupils. I wrote to Mrs. " (the lady with whom she had 
 
 lived as governess, just before going to Brussels), " not ask 
 ing her for her daughter — I cannot do that — ^but informing 
 
 her of my intention. I received an answer from Mr. 
 
 expressive of, I believe, sincere regret that I had not inform- 
 ed them a month sooner, in which case, he said, they would 
 gladly have sent me their own daughter, and also Colonel 
 S.'s, but that now both were promised to Miss C. I was 
 partly disappointed by this answer, and partly gratified ; in- 
 deed, I derived quite an impulse of encouragement from tho 
 warm assurance that if T had but applied a little sooner they 
 would certainly have sent me their daughter. I own, I liad 
 
PLANS FOR COMMENCINa A SCHOOL. 25S 
 
 misgivings that nobody would be willing to send a child for 
 education to Haworth. These misgivings are partly done 
 away with. I have written also to Mrs. B. and have en- 
 . closed the diploma which M. H6ger gave me before I left 
 Brussels. I have not yet received her answer, but I wait for 
 it with some anxiety. I do not expect that she will send me 
 any of her children, but if she would, I dare say she could 
 recommend me other pupils. Unfortunately, she knows 
 us only very slightly. As soon as I can get an assurance of 
 only one pupil, I will have cards of terms printed, and will 
 commence , the repairs necessary in the house. I wish all 
 that to be done before winter. I think of fixing the board 
 and English education at 25Z. per annum." 
 
 Again, at a later date, July 24th, in the same year, she 
 writes : — 
 
 "I am driving on with my small matter as well as 1 
 can. I have written to all the friends on whom I have the 
 slightest claim, and to some on whom I have no claim ; Mrs. 
 B. for example. On her, also, I have actually made bold 
 to call. She was exceedingly polite ; regretted that hei 
 children were already at school at Liverpool ; thought the 
 undertaking a most praiseworthy one, but feared I should 
 have some difficulty in making it succeed, on account of the 
 situation. Such is the answer I receive from almost every 
 Dne. I tell them the retired situation is, in some points of 
 view, an advantage; that were it in the midst of a large 
 town I could not pretend to take pupils on terms so mode- 
 rate (Mrs. B. remarked that she thought the terms very 
 moderate), but that, as it is, not having house-rent to pay, 
 we can offer the same privileges of education that are to be 
 had in expensive seminaries, at little more than half their 
 price ; and as our number must be limited, we can devote a 
 
251 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 large share of time and pains to eacli pupil. Thank you for 
 the very pretty little purse you have sent me. I make to 
 you a curious return in the shape of half a dozen cards of 
 terms. Make such use of them as your judgment shall dic- 
 tate. You will see that I have fixed the sum at 35^., which 
 I think is the just medium, considering advantages and dis- 
 advantages." 
 
 This was written in July , August, September, and Oc- 
 tober passed away, and no pupils were to be heard cf. Day 
 after day, there was a little hope felt by the sisters until the 
 post came in. But Haworth village was wild and lonely, 
 and the Brontes but little known, owing to their want of 
 connections. Charlotte writes on the subject, in the early 
 winter months, to this effect : — 
 
 " I, Emily, and Anne, are truly obliged to you for the 
 efforts you have made in our behalf; and if you have not 
 been successful, you are only like ourselves. Every one 
 wishes us well ; but there are no pupils to be had. We have 
 no present intention, however, of breaking our hearts on the 
 subject, still less of feeling mortified at defeat. The effort 
 must be beneficial, whatever the result may be, because it 
 teaches us experience, and an additional knowledge of this 
 world. I send you two more circulars." 
 
 A mo ath later, she says : — 
 
 " We have made no alterations yet in our house. It 
 would be folly to do so, while there is so little likelihood of 
 Gur ever getting pupils. I fear you are giving yourself too 
 much trouble on our account. Depend upon it, if you were 
 to persuade a mamma to bring her child to Haworth, the as- 
 pect of the place would frighten her, and she would proba* 
 
GLOOMY DAYS. 255 
 
 bly take the dear girl back with her, instautcr. We are 
 glad that we have made the attempt, and we will not be cast 
 down because it has not succeeded." 
 
 There were, probably, growing up in each sister's hearty 
 secret unacknowledged feelings of relief, that their plan had 
 not succeeded. Yes ! a dull sense of relief that their cher- 
 ished project had been tried and had failed. For that 
 house, which was to be regarded as an occasional home for 
 their brother, could hardly be a fitting residence for the 
 children of strangers. They had, in all likelihood, become 
 silently aware that his habits were such as to render his soci- 
 ety at times most undesirable. Possibly, too, they had, by 
 this time, heard distressing rumours concerning the cause of 
 that remorse and agony of mind, which at times made him 
 restless and unnaturally merry, at times rendered him moody 
 and irritable. 
 
 In January, 1845, Charlotte says :— " Branwell has been 
 
 quieter and less irritable, on the whole, this time than he 
 
 was in summer. Anne is, as usual, always good, mild, and 
 
 patient.'' The deep-sented pain which he was to occasion to 
 
 his relations had now taken a decided form, and pressed 
 
 heavily on Charlotte's health and spirits. Early in this year, 
 
 she went to H. to bid good-by to her dear friend Mary, who 
 
 was leaving England for Australia. But a weight hung 
 
 over her — the gloom preceding the full knowledge of sin in 
 
 which her brother was an accomplice ; which was dragging 
 
 him down to confirmed habits of intemperance ; yet by which 
 
 he was so bewitched, that no remonstrance, however stern, 
 
 on the part of others — ^no temporary remorse, however keen 
 
 —could make him shake off the infatuation that bound him. 
 
 The story must be told. If I could, I would have 
 
 voided it ; but not merely is it so well known to many liv- 
 
 ng as to be, in a manner, public property, but it is possible 
 
256 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 that, by revealing the misery, the gnawing, life-long misery 
 the degrading habits, the early death of her partner in guilt 
 — the acute and long-enduring agony of his family — to the 
 wretched woman, who not only survives, but passes about in 
 the gay circles of London society, as a vivacious, well-dress- 
 ed, flourishing widow, there may be awakened in her some 
 feelings of repentance. 
 
 Br an well, I have mentioned, had obtained a situation as. 
 a private tutor. Full of available talent, a brilliant talker, 
 a good writer, apt at drawing, ready of appreciation, and . 
 with a not unhandsome person, he took the fancy of a mar- 
 ried woman, nearly twenty years older than himself. It is 
 no excuse for him to say that she began the first advances, 
 and " made love " to him. She was so bold and hardened, 
 that she did it in the very presence of her children, fast ap- 
 proaching to maturity ; and they would threaten her that, 
 if she did not grant them such and such indulgences, they 
 would tell their bed -ridden father " how she went on with 
 Mr. Bronte." He was so beguiled by this mature and 
 wicked woman, that he went home for his holidays reluc- 
 tantly, stayed there as short a time as possible, perplexing 
 and distressing them all by his extraordinary conduct — at 
 one time in the highest spirits, at another, in the deepest 
 depression — accusing himself of blackest guilt and treachery 
 without specifying what they were ; and altogether evincino 
 an irritability of disposition bordering on insanity. 
 
 Charlotte and her sister suffered acutely from his mys- 
 terious behaviour. He expressed himself more than satisfied 
 with his situation ; he was remaining in it for a longer time 
 than he had ever done in any kind of employment before ; 
 so they could not coajecture that anything there made him 
 BO wilful and restless, and full of both levity and misery. 
 But a sense of something wrong connected with him, sickened 
 and oppressed them. They began to lose all hope in his 
 
SAD FOEEBODl^aS. 257 
 
 future career. He was no longer the family pride ; an indis- 
 tinct dread was creeping over their minds that he might turn 
 out their deep disgrace. But, I believe, they shrank from 
 any attempt to define their fears, and spoke of him to each 
 other as little as possible. They could not help but think, 
 and mourn, and wonder. 
 
 ''Feh. 20, 1845. 
 " I spent a week at H., not very pleasantly ; headache, 
 sickliness, and flatness of spirits, made me a poor companion, 
 a sad drag on the vivacious and loquacious gaiety of all the 
 other inmates of the house. I never was fortunate enough 
 to be able to rally, for as much as a single hour, while I was 
 there. I am sure all, with the exception perhaps of Mary, 
 were very glad when I took my departure. I begin to per- 
 ceive that I have too little life in me, now-a-days, to be fit 
 company for any except very quiet people. Is it age, or 
 what else, that changes me so ? " 
 
 Alas ! she hardly needed to have asked this question. 
 How could she be otherwise than ^' flat-spirited," " a poor 
 companion," and a " sad drag " on the gaiety of those who 
 were light-hearted and happy ! Her honest plan for earning 
 her own livelihood had fallen away, crumbled to ashes, 
 after all her preparations, not a pupil had ofiered herself; 
 and, instead of being sorry that this wish of many years 
 could not be realized, she had reason to be glad. Her poor 
 father, nearly sightless, depended upon her cares in his blind 
 helplessness ; but this was a sacred pious charge, the duties 
 of which she was blessed in fulfilling. The black gloom 
 hung over what had once been the brightest hope of the 
 family — over Branwell, and the mystery in which his way- 
 ward conduct was enveloped. Somehow and sometime, he 
 would have to turn to his home as a hiding place for shame 
 
258 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 sucli was the sad foreboding of his sisters. Then how could 
 she be cheerful, when she was losing her dear and noblo 
 Mary, for such a length of time and distance of space that 
 her heart might well prophesy that it was " for ever " ? 
 Long before, she had written of Mary T., that she * was full 
 of feelings noble, warm, generous, devoted, and profound- 
 God bless her ! I never hope to see in this world a charac- 
 ter more truly noble. She would die willingly for one she 
 loved. Her intellect and attainments are of the very highest 
 standard." And this was the friend whom she was to lose ! 
 Hear that friend's account of their final interview :^ 
 
 "When I last saw Charlotte (Jan. 1845), she told me 
 she had quite decided to stay at home. She owned she did 
 not like it. Her health was weak. She said she should like 
 any change at first, as she had liked Brussels at first, and 
 she thought that there must be some possibility for some 
 people of having a life of more variety and more communion 
 with human kind, but she saw none for her. I told her very 
 warmly, that she ought not to stay at home ; that to spend 
 the next five years at home, in solitude and weak health, 
 would ruin her ; that she would never recover it. Such a 
 dark shadow came over her face when I said, * Think of what 
 you '11 be five years hence ! ' that I stopped, and said, ^ Don't 
 cry, Charlotte ! ' She did not cry, but went on walking up 
 and down the room, and said in a little while, ^ But I intend 
 to stay, Polly.' " 
 
 A few weeks after she parted from Mary, she gives thi 
 account of her days at Haworth. 
 
 " March 24, 1845. 
 " I can hardly tell you how time gets on at Haworth 
 There is no event whatever to mark its progress. One day 
 
HER APPEEIIENSION OF BLINDNESS. 259 
 
 resembles another; and all have heavy, lifeless physiogno- 
 mies. Sunday, baking-day, and Saturday, are the only ones 
 that have any distinctive mark. Meantime, life wears away. 
 I shall soon be thirty ; and I have done nothing yet. Some- 
 times I get melancholy at the prospect before and behind 
 me. Yet it is wrong and foolish to repine. Undoubtedly, 
 my duty directs me to stay at home for the present. There 
 was a time when Haworth was a very pleasant place to me ; 
 it is not so now. I feel as if we were all buried here. I 
 long to travel ; to work ; to live a life of action. Excuse 
 me, dear, for troubling you with my fruitless wishes. I will 
 put by the rest, and not trouble you with them. You must 
 write to me. If you knew how welcome your letters are, 
 you would write very often. Your letters, and the French 
 newspapers, are the only messengers that come to me from 
 the outer world beyond our moors ; and very welcome mes- 
 sengers they are." 
 
 One of her daily employments was to read to her father, 
 and it required a little gentle diplomacy on her part to effect 
 this duty; for there were times when the offer of another to 
 do what he had been so long accustomed to do for himself, 
 reminded him only too painfully of the deprivation under 
 which he was suffering. And, in secret, she, too, dreaded a 
 similar loss for herself. Long-continued ill health, a deranged 
 condition of the liver, her close application to minute draw- 
 ing and writing in her younger days, her now habitual sleep- 
 lessness at nights, the many bitter noiseless tears she had shed 
 over Branwell's mysterious and distressing conduct — all these 
 causes were telling on her poor eyes ; and about this time 
 she thus writes to M. Heger : — 
 
 " II n'y a rien que je craigns comme le d6soeuvrement, 
 J'inertie la lethargic des facultes. Quand le corps est pares 
 
260 IJFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 fseux Fesprit souffre cruellement ; je ne connaitrals pas cotta 
 lethargie, si je pouvais ecrire. Autrefois je passais des jour- 
 nees des semaines, des mois entiers a ecrire, et pas tout a faiii 
 sans fruit, puisque Southey et Coleridge, deux de nos meil- 
 leurs auteurs a qui j'ai envoy e certain manuscrits, en ont 
 bien voulu temoigner leur approbation ; mais a present, j'ai la 
 vue trop faible ; si j'ecrivais beaucoup je deviendrai aveugle. 
 Cette faiblesse de vue est pour moi une terrible privation ; 
 sans cela, savez-vous ce que je ferais, Monsieur ? J'ecrirais 
 un livre et je le dediearais a mon maitre de litterature, au seul 
 maitre que j'aie jamais eu — a vous, Monsieur ! Je vous ai dit 
 souvent en frangais combien je vous respecte, combien je suis 
 redevable a votre bonte, a vos conseils. Je voudrai le dire 
 une fois en Anglais. Cela ne se pent pas ; il ne faut pas y 
 
 penser. La carriere des lettres m'est fermee 
 
 N'oubliez pas de me dire comment vous vous portez, comment 
 madame et les enfants se portent ? Je compte bientot avoir 
 de vos nouvelles ; cette idee me souris, car le souvenir de vos 
 bontes ne s'effacera jamais de ma memoire, et tant que ce 
 souvenir durera le respect que vous m'avez inspire durera 
 aussi. Agreez, Monsieur, &c." 
 
 It is probable, that even her sisters and most intmiate 
 friends did not know of this dread of ultimate blindness which 
 beset her at this period. What eyesight she had to spare she 
 reserved for the use of her father. She did but little plain- 
 sewing ; not more writing than could be avoided ; and em- 
 ployed herself principally in knitting. 
 
 ''April 2, 1845. 
 *^ T see plainly it is proved to us that there is scarcely a 
 draught of unmingled happiness to be had in this world. 
 
 's illness comes with 's marriage. Mary T. finds 
 
 herself free, and on that path to adventure and exertion tc 
 
women's conduct liable to misconstruction. 261 
 
 wliich slie has so long been seeking admission. Sickness, 
 hardship, danger, are her fellow travellers — ^lier inseparable 
 companions. She may have been out of the reach of these 
 S.W. N.W. gales, before they began to blow, or they may 
 have spent their fury on land, and not ruffled the sea much. 
 If it has been otherwise, she has been sorely tossed, while we 
 have been sleeping in our beds, or lying awake thinking about 
 her. Yet these real, material dangers, when once past, leave 
 in the mind the satisfaction of having struggled with difficulty, 
 and overcome it. Strength, courage, and experience are their 
 invariable results ; whereas, I doubt whether suffering purely 
 mental has any good result, unless it be to make us by com- 
 parison less sensitive to physical suffering Ten 
 
 years ago, I should have laughed at your account of the blun- 
 der you made in mistaking the bachelor doctor for a married 
 man. I should have certainly thought you scrupulous over- 
 much, and wondered how you could possibly regret being civil 
 to a decent individual, merely because he happened to be sin- 
 gle instead of double. Now, however, I can perceive that 
 your scruples are founded on common sense. I know that if 
 women wish to escape the stigma of husband-seeking, they 
 must act and look like marble or clay — cold, expressionless, 
 bloodless ; for every appearance of feeling, of joy, sorrow, 
 friendliness, antipathy, admiration, disgust, are alike con- 
 strued by the world into the attempt to hook a husband. 
 Never mind ! well-meaning women have their own consciences 
 to comfort them after all. Do not, therefore, be too much 
 afraid of showing yourself as you are, affectionate and good- 
 hearted ; do not too harshly repress sentiments and feelings 
 excellent in themselves, because you fear that some puppy 
 may fancy that you are letting them come out to fascinate 
 him ; do not condemn yourself to live only by halves, because 
 if you showed too much animation some pragmatical thing in 
 breeches might take it into his pate to imagine that you de- 
 
262 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 signed to dedicate your life to inanity. Still, a composed 
 decent, equable deportment is a capital treasure to a womaUj 
 and that you possess- Write again soon, for I feel rather 
 fierce, and want stroking down." 
 
 " Jum 13, 1845. 
 ** As to the Mrs. , whoj you say, is like me, I some- 
 how feel no leaning to her at all. I never do to people who 
 are said to be like me, because I have always a notion that 
 they are only like me in the disagreeable, outside, first-ac- 
 quaintance part of my character ; in those points which are 
 obvious to the ordinary run of people, and which I know are 
 not pleasing. You say she is ^ clever ' — ' a clever person.' 
 How I dislike the term ! It means rather a shrewd, very 
 
 ugly, meddling, talking woman I feel 
 
 reluctant to leave papa for a single day. His sight dimin- 
 ishes weekly ; and can it be wondered at that, as he sees the 
 most precious of his faculties leaving him, his spirits some- 
 times sink ? It is so hard to feel that his few and scanty 
 pleasures must all soon go. He has now the greatest diffi- 
 culty in either reading or writing ; and then he dreads the 
 state of dependence to which blindness will inevitably reduce 
 him. He fears that he will be nothing in his parish. I try 
 to cheer him sometimes I succeed temporarily, but no con- 
 solation can restore his sight, or atone for the want of it. 
 Still he is never peevish, never impatient ; only anxious and 
 dejected." 
 
 For the reason just given, Charlotte declined an invita- 
 tion to the only house to which she was now ever asked to 
 come. In answer to her correspondent's reply to this letter, 
 she says : — 
 
 " You thought 1 refused you coldly, did you ? It was a 
 queer sort of coldness, when I would have given my ears to 
 
HEK OPINION OF CUKATES. 263 
 
 say Yes, and was obliged to say No. Matters, however, are 
 now a little changed. Anne is come home, and her presence 
 certainly makes me feel more at liberty. Then, if all be well^ 
 I will come and see you. Tell me only when I must come. 
 Mention the week and the day. Have the kindness also to 
 answer the following queries, if you can. How far is it from 
 Leeds to Sheffield ? Can you give me a notion of the cost ? 
 Of course, when I come, you will let me enjoy your own com- 
 pany in peace, and not drag me out a-visiting. I have no 
 desire at all to see your curate. I think he must be like all 
 the other curates I have seen ; and they seem to be a self- 
 seeking, vain, empty race. At this blessed moment, we have 
 no less than three of them in Haworth parish — and there is 
 not one to mend another.- The other day, they all three, 
 accompanied by Mr. S., dropped, or rather rushed, in unex- 
 pectedly to tea. It was Monday (baking-day), and I was hot 
 and tired ; still, if they had behaved quietly and decently, I 
 would have served them out their tea in peace ; but they be- 
 gan glorifying themselves, and abusing Dissenters in such a 
 manner, that my temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a 
 few sentences sharply and rapidly, which struck them all 
 dumb. Papa was greatly horrified also, but I don't regret 
 it." 
 
 On her return from this short visit to her friend, she 
 travelled with a gentleman in the railway carriage, whose 
 features and bearing betrayed him, in a moment, to be a 
 Frenchman. She ventured to ask him if such was not the 
 case ; and, on his admitting it, she further inquired if he had 
 not passed a considerable time in Germany, and was answered 
 that he had ; her quick ear detected something of the thick 
 guttural pronunciation, which. Frenchmen say, they are able 
 to discover even in the grandchildren of their countrymen 
 who have lived any time beyond the Rhine. Charlotte had 
 
264 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 retained her skill in the language by the habit of which she 
 thus speaks to M. Heger : — 
 
 " Je crains beaucoup d'oublier le frangais — ^j' apprends 
 tons les jours une demi page de frangais par coeur, et j'ai 
 grand plaisir a apprendre cette lecon. Veuillez presenter a 
 Madame I'assurance de mon estime ; je crains que Marie 
 Louise et Claire ne m'aient doja oubliee ; mais je vous rever- 
 rai un jour ; aussitot que j'aurais gagne assez d'argent pour 
 aller a Bruxelles, j'y irai." 
 
 And so her journey back to Haworth, after the rare 
 pleasure of this visit to her friend, was pleasantly beguiled 
 by conversation with the French gentleman ; and she arrived 
 at home refreshed and happy. What to find there ? 
 
 It was ten o'clock when she reached the parsonage. 
 Branwell was there, unexpectedly, very ill. He had come 
 home a day or two before, apparently for a holiday ; in real- 
 ity, I imagine, because some discovery had been made which 
 rendered his absence imperatively desirable. The day of 
 
 Charlotte's return, he had received a letter from Mr. < , 
 
 sternly dismissing him, intimating that his proceedings were 
 discovered, characterizing them as bad beyond expression, 
 and charging him, on pain of exposure, to break off imme- 
 diately, and for ever, all communication with every member 
 of the family. 
 
 All the disgraceful details came out. Branwell was in 
 no state to conceal his agony of remorse, or, strange to say, 
 his agony of guilty love, from any dread of shame. He gave 
 passionate way to his feelings ; he shocked and distressed 
 those loving sisters inexpressibly; the blind father sat 
 stunned, sorely tempted to curse the profligate woman, w^ho 
 had tempted his boy — his only son — into the deep disgrace 
 of deadly crime. 
 
SISTEELY ANXIETIES. 265 
 
 All the variations of spirits and of temper — the reckless 
 gaiety, the moping gloom of many months, were now ex- 
 plained. There was a reason deeper than any mere indul- 
 gence of appetite, to account for his intemperance ; he began 
 his career as an habitual drunkard to drown remorse. 
 
 The pitiable part, as far as he was concerned, was the 
 yearning love he still bore to the woman who had got so 
 strong a hold upon him. It is true, that she professed equal 
 love ; we shall see how her professions held good. There 
 was a strange lingering of conscience, when meeting her clan- 
 destinely by appointment at Harrogate some months after, 
 he refused to consent to the elopement which she proposed ; 
 there was some good left in this corrupted, weak young man, 
 even to the very last of his miserable days. The case pre- 
 sents the reverse of the usual features ; the man became the 
 victim ; the man 5 life was blighted, and crushed out of him 
 by suffering, and guilt entailed by guilt ; the man's family 
 were stung by keenest shame. The woman — to think of 
 her father's pious name — the blood of honourable families 
 mixed in her veins — ^her early home, underneath whose roof- 
 tree sat those whose names are held saintlike for their good 
 deeds, — ^she goes flaunting about to this day in respectable 
 society ; a showy woman for her age ; kept afloat by her re- 
 puted wealth. I see her name in county papers, as one of 
 those who patronize the Christmas balls ; and I hear of her 
 in London drawing-rooms. Now let us read, not merely of 
 the suff'ering of her guilty accomplice, but of the misery she 
 caused to innocent victims, whose premature deaths may, in 
 part, be laid at her door. 
 
 ^' We have had sad work with Branwell. He thought of 
 nothing but stunning or drowning his agony of mind. No 
 one in this house could have rest ; and, at last, we have been 
 obliged to send him from home for a week, with some one to 
 
 VOL. I.— 12 
 
2G() LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 look after liim. He lias written to me this morning, ex» 
 pressing some sense of contrition • . . . but as long as lio 
 remains at home, I scarce dare hope for peace in the house. 
 We must all, I fear, prepare for a season of distress and dis- 
 quietude. When I left you, I was strongly impressed with 
 the feeling that I was going back to sorrow.'' 
 
 " August, 1 845. 
 " Things here at home are much as usual ; not very 
 bright, as it regards Branwell, though his health, and conse- 
 quently his temper, have been somewhat better this last day 
 or two, because he is now forced to abstain." 
 
 '' August ISth, 1845. 
 " I have delayed writing, because I have no good news to 
 communicate. My hopes ebb low indeed about Branwell. 
 I sometimes fear he will never be fit for much. The late 
 blow to his prospects and feelings has quite made Mm reck- 
 less. It is only absolute want of means that acts as any 
 check to him. One ought, indeed, to hope to the very last ; 
 and I try to do so, but occasionally hope in his case seems so 
 fallacious.' 
 
 " Nov, 4th, 1845. 
 ^' I hoped to be able to ask you to come to Haworth. It 
 almost seemed as if Branwell had a chance of getting em- 
 ployment, and I waited to know the result of his efforts in 
 
 order to say, dear , come and see us. But the place (a 
 
 secretaryship to a railway committee) is given to another 
 person. Branwell still remains at home ; and while he is 
 here, you shall not come. I am more confirmed in that reso- 
 lution the more I see of him. I wish I could say one word 
 to you in his favour, but I cannot. I will hold my tongue. 
 We are all obliged to you for your kind suggestion about 
 
CLOSE OF BRANWELL BEONTe's CAREER. 267 
 
 Leeds ; but I think our school schemes are for the present, 
 at rest. ' 
 
 "D^c. 31, 1845. 
 
 *^ You say well, in speaking of , that no sufferings 
 
 are so awful as those brought on by dissipation ; alas ! I see 
 
 the truth of this observation daily proved. and *• 
 
 must have as weary and burdensome a life of it in waiting 
 upon their unhappy brother. It seems grievous, indeed, that 
 those who have not sinned should suffer so largely." 
 
 Thus ended the year 1845. 
 
 I may as well complete here the narrative of the outward 
 events of Branwell Bronte's life. A few months later (I 
 have the exact date, but, for obvious reasons, withhold it) 
 the invalid husband of the woman with whom he had in- 
 trigued, died. Branwell had been looking forward to this 
 event with guilty hope. After her husband's death, his para- 
 mour would be free ; strange as it seems, the young man still 
 loved her passionately, and now he imagined the time was 
 come when they might look forward to being married, and 
 might live together without reproach or blame. She had 
 offered to elope with him ; she had written to him perpetu- 
 ally ; she had sent him money — twenty pounds at a time ; 
 he remembered the criminal advances she had made ; she 
 had braved shame, and her children's menaced disclosures, 
 for his sake ; he thought she must love him ; he little knew 
 how bad a depraved woman can be. Her husband had made 
 a will, in which what property he left to her was bequeathed 
 solely on the condition that she should never see Branwell 
 Bronte again. At the very time when the will was read, 
 she did not know but that he might be on his way to her, 
 having heard of her husband's death. She despatched a 
 servant in hot haste to Haworth. He stopped at the Black 
 
268 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Bull, and a messenger was sent up to the parsonage for Bran 
 well. He came down to the little inn, and was shut up with 
 the man for some time. Then the groom came out, paid hi? 
 bill, mounted his horse, and was off. Branwell remained in 
 the room alone. More than an hour elapsed before sign or 
 sound was heard ; then, those outside heard a noise like the 
 bleating of a calf, and, on opening the door, he was found in 
 a kind of fit, succeeding to the stupor of grief which he had 
 fallen into on hearing that he was forbidden by his paramour 
 ever to see her again, as, if he did, she would forfeit her for- 
 tune. Let her live and flourish ! He died, his pockets filled 
 with her letters, which he had carried perpetually about his 
 person, in order that he might read them as often as he 
 wished. He lies dead ; and his doom is only known to God's 
 mercy. When I think of him, I change my cry to heaven. 
 Let her live and repent ! That same mercy is infinite. 
 
 For the last three years of Branwell's life, he took opium 
 habitually, by way of stunning conscience : he drank, more- 
 over, whenever he could get the opportunity. The reader 
 may say that I have mentioned his tendency to intemperance 
 long before. It is true ; but it did not become habitual, as 
 far as I can learn, until after the commencement of his 
 guilty intimacy with the woman of whom I have been speak- 
 ing. If I am mistaken on this point, her taste must have 
 been as depraved as her principles. He took opium, because 
 ifc made him forget for a time more effectually than drink ; 
 and, besides, it was more portable. In procuring it he 
 showed all the cunning of the opium-eater. He would steal 
 out while the family were at church — to which he had pro- 
 fessed himself too ill to go — and manage to cajole the village 
 druggist out of a lump ; or, it might be, the carrier had un- 
 suspiciously brought him some in a packet from a distance. 
 For some time before his death he had attacks of delirium 
 tremens of the most frightful character ; he slept in his fa- 
 
CLOSE OF BRANWELL BRONTE's CAREER. 2()9 
 
 ther's room, and he would sometimes declare that either he 
 or his father should be dead before morning. The trembling 
 sisters, sick with fright, would implore their father not to 
 expose himself to this danger ; but Mr. Bronte is no timid 
 man, and perhaps he felt that he could possibly influence his 
 son to some self-restraint, more by showing trust in him than 
 by showing fear. The sisters often listened for the report 
 of a pistol in the dead of the night, till watchful eye and 
 hearkening ear grew heavy and dull with the perpetual strain 
 upon their nerves. In the mornings young Bronte would 
 saunter out, saying, with a drunkard's incontinence of speech, 
 " The poor old man and I have had a terrible night of it ; 
 he does his best — the poor old man ! but it's all over with 
 me ; " (whimpeo^ing) " it's her fault, her fault." All that is 
 to be said more about Branwell Bronte, shall be said by 
 Charlotte herself^ not by me. 
 
270 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTEPt XIV. 
 
 In tlie course of this sad autumn of 1S45, a new interest 
 came up ; faint, indeed, and often lost sight of in the vivid 
 pain and constant pressure of anxiety respecting their 
 brother. In the biographical notice of her sisters, which 
 Charlotte prefixed to the edition of " Wuthering Heights 
 and Agnes Grey," published in 1850 — a piece of writiug 
 unique, as far as I know, in its pathos and its power — she 
 Bays :— 
 
 " One day in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted 
 on a MS. volume of verse, in my sister Emily's hand-writing. 
 Of course, I was not surprised, knowing that she could and 
 did write verse : I looked it over, and something more than 
 surprise seized me — a deep conviction that these were not 
 common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally 
 write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and 
 genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild^ 
 melancholy, and elevating. My sister Emily was not a per- 
 son of demonstrative character, nor one, on the recesses of 
 whose mind and feelings, even those nearest and dearest to 
 her could, with impunity, intrude unlicensed : it took hours 
 to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to 
 
 persuade her that such poems merited publication 
 
 Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of her 
 nwn compositions, intimating that since Emily's had given 
 
TRINTINa THE POEMS. 271 
 
 me pleasure, I might like to look at hers. I could not but 
 be a partial judge, yet I thought that these verses too had a 
 sweet sincere pathos of their own. We had very early 
 
 cherished the dream of one day being authors Wo 
 
 agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems, and, if 
 possible, get them printed. Averse to personal publicityj 
 we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis, and 
 Acton Bell ; the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort 
 of conscientious scruple at assuming Christian names, posi- 
 tively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves 
 women, because — without at the time suspecting that our 
 mode of writing and thinking was not what is called ^ femi- 
 nine,' — we had a vague impression that authoresses are liable 
 to be looked on with prejudice ; we noticed how critics some- 
 times use for their chastisement the weapon of personality, 
 and for their reward, a flattery, which is not true praise. 
 The bringing out of our little book was hard work. As was 
 to be expected, neither we nor our poems were at all wanted ; 
 but for this we had been prepared at the outset ; though 
 inexperienced ourselves, we had read the experience of 
 others. The great puzzle lay in the difficulty of getting 
 answers of any kind from the publishers to whom we ap- 
 plied. Eeing greatly harassed by this obstacle, I ventured 
 to apply to the Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, for a word 
 of advice ; they may have forgotten the circumstance, but 1 
 have not, for from them I received a brief and business-like, 
 but civil and sensible reply, on which we acted, and at last 
 made way." 
 
 I inquired from Mr. Robert Chambers, and found, as 
 Miss Bronte conjectured, that he had entirely forgotten the 
 application which had been made to him and his brother for 
 advice; nor had they any copy or memorandum of tlie 
 correspondence. 
 
272 LIFE. OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 There is an intelligent man living in Hawortli, who has 
 given me some interesting particulars relating to the sisters 
 about this period. He says : — 
 
 *^ I have known Miss Eronto, as Miss Bronte, a long 
 time ; indeed, ever since they came to Haworth in 1819. But 
 I had not much acquaintance with the family till about 1843, 
 when I began to do a little in the stationery line. Nothing 
 of that kind could be had nearer than Keighley before I 
 began. They used to buy a great deal of writing paper, 
 and I used to wonder whatever they did with so much. I 
 sometimes thought they contributed to the Magazines. 
 When I was out of stock, I was always afraid of their 
 coming : they seemed so distressed about it, if I had none. 
 I have walked to Halifax (a distance of 10 miles) many a 
 time, for half a ream of paper, for fear of being without it 
 when they came. I could not buy more at a time for want of 
 capital. I was always short of that. I did so like them to 
 come when I had anything for them ; they were so much 
 diiferent to anybody else ; so gentle and kind, and so very 
 quiet. They never talked much. Charlotte sometimes would 
 sit and inquire about our circumstances so kindly and feel- 
 ingly ? . . . . Though I am a poor working man (which I 
 have never felt to be any degradation), I could talk with her 
 with the greatest freedom. I always felt quite at home with 
 her. Though I never had any school education, I never felt 
 the want of it in her company." 
 
 The publishers to whom she finally made a successful ap- 
 plication for the production of " Currer, Ellis, and Acton 
 BelPs poems," were Messrs. Aylott and Jones, Paternostor- 
 row. Mr. Aylott has kindly placed the letters which she 
 f^rote to him on the subject at my disposal. The first is 
 dated January 28th, 1846, and in it she inquires if they wiU 
 
INTENDED TUBLICATION OF THE POEMS. 273 
 
 publish one volume octavo of poems ; if not at their own 
 risk, on the author's account. It is signed " C. Bronte." 
 They must have replied pretty speedily, for on January 31s^ 
 she writes again : — 
 
 " GeNTLEMEIi, 
 
 " Since you agree to undertake the publication of 
 the work respecting which I applied to you, I should wish 
 now to know, as soon as possible, the cost of paper and print- 
 ing. I will then send the necessary remittance, together 
 with the manuscript. I should like it to be printed in one 
 octavo volume, of the same quality of paper and size of type 
 as Moxon's last edition of Wordsworth. The poems will 
 occupy, I should think, from 200 to 250 pages. They are 
 not the production of a clergyman, nor are they exclusively 
 of a religious character ; but I presume these circumstances 
 will be immaterial. It will, perhaps, be necessary that you 
 should see the manuscript, in order to calculate accurately 
 the expense of publication ; in that case I will send it im- 
 mediately. I should like, however, previously, to have some 
 idea of the probable cost ; and if, from what I have said, 
 you can make a rough calculation on the subject, I should be 
 greatly obliged to you." 
 
 In her next letter, February 6th, she says : — 
 
 " You will perceive that the poems are the work of three 
 persons, relatives — their separate pieces are distinguished by 
 their respective signatures." 
 
 She writes again on February 15th; and on the 16th. sho 
 says :— 
 
 " The MS. will certainly form a thinner volume than 1 
 
 VOL. 1—12* 
 
274 LIFE OF CHAELOTl^E BKONTE. 
 
 had anticipated. I cannot name another model which 1 
 should like it precisely to resemble, yet, I tliink, a duodecimo 
 form, and a somewhat reduced, though still clear type, would 
 be preferable. I only stipulate for clear type, not too small ; 
 and good paper." 
 
 On February 21st she selects the '' long primer type " 
 for the poems, and will remit 31Z. 10s. in a few days. 
 
 Minute as the details conveyed in these notes are, they 
 are not trivial, because they afford such strong indications of 
 character. If the volume was to be published at their own 
 risk, it was necessary that the sister conducting the negotia- 
 tion should make herself acquainted with the different kinds 
 of type, and the various sizes of books. Accordingly she 
 bought a small volume, from which to learn all she could on 
 the subject of preparation for the press. No half-knowl- 
 edge — no trusting to other people for decisions which she 
 could make for herself; and yet a generous and full confi- 
 dence, not misplaced, in the thorough probity of Messrs. 
 Aylott and Jones. The caution in ascertaining the risk be- 
 fore embarking in the enterprise, and the prompt payment of 
 the monsy required, even before it could be said to have 
 assumed the shape of a debt, were both parts of a self-reliant 
 and independent character. Self-contained also was she. 
 During the whole time that the volume of poems was in the 
 course of preparation and publication, no word was written 
 telling anyone, out of the household circle what was in 
 progress. 
 
 I have had some of the letters placed in my hands, which 
 she addressed to her old school-mistress. Miss Wooler. They 
 begin a little before this time. Acting on the conviction, 
 which I have all along entertained, that where Charlotte 
 Bronte's own words could be used, no others ought to take 
 their place, I shall make extracts from this series, according 
 to their dates. 
 
LETTER TO MISS WOOLER. 275 
 
 ''January mth, 1846. 
 
 " Mr DEAR Ml3S WOOLER, 
 
 " I have not yet paid my visit to ; it is, in- 
 deed, more than a year since I was there, but I frequently 
 aear from E., and she did not fail to tell me that you were 
 gone into Worcestershire ; she was unable, however, to give 
 me your exact address. Had I known it, I should have 
 written to you long since. I thought you would wonder how 
 we were getting on, when you heard of the railway panic, and 
 you may be sure that I am very glad to be able to answer 
 your kind inquiries by an assurance that our small capital is 
 as yet undiminished. The York and Midland is, as you say, 
 a very good line ; yet, I confess to you, I should wish, for 
 my own part, to be wise in time. I cannot think that even 
 the very best lines will continue for many years at their 
 present premiums ; and I have been most anxious for us to 
 sell our shares ere it be too late, and to secure the proceeds 
 in some safer, if, for the present, less profitable investment. 
 I cannot, however, persuade my sisters to regard the affair 
 precisely from my point of view ; and I feel as if I would 
 rather run the risk of loss than hurt Emily's feelings by act- 
 ing in direct opposition to her opinion. She managed in a 
 most handsome and able manner for me, when I was in 
 Brussels, and prevented by distance from looking after my 
 own interests ; therefore, I will let her manage sti-ll, and take 
 the consequences. Disinterested and energetic she certainly 
 is ; and if she be not quite so tractable or open to conviction 
 as I could wish, I must remember perfection is not the lot 
 of humanity ; and as long as we can regard those we love 
 and to whom we are closely allied, with profound and never- 
 shaken esteem, it is a small thing that they should vex ua 
 occasionally by what appear -to us unreasonable aii-d head- 
 strong notions. 
 
 ' You, my dear Miss- Woo] er, kno-w full as well as I do, 
 
276 LIFE OF CIIAHLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 the value of sisters' affection to eacli other ; there is nothing 
 like it in this world, I believe, when they are nearly equal 
 in age, and similar in education, tastes, and sentiments. You 
 ask about Jiranwell: he never thinks of seeking employ- 
 ment, and I begin to fear that he has rendered himself in- 
 capable of filling any respectable station in life ; besides, if 
 money were at his disposal, he would use it only to his own 
 injury ; the faculty of self-government is, I fear, almost de- 
 stroyed in him. You ask me if I do net think that men 
 are strange beings ? I do, indeed. I have often thought 
 ro, and I think, too, that the mode of bringing them up is 
 fslrange : they are not sufficiently guarded from temptation. 
 Girls are protected as if they were something very frail or 
 allly indeed, while boys are turned loose on the world, as if 
 they, of all beings in existence, were the wisest and least 
 liable to be led astray. I am glad you like Bromsgrove, 
 though, I dare say, there are few places you would not like, 
 with Mrs. M. for a companion. I always feel a peculiar 
 satisfaction when I hear of your enjoying yourself, because 
 it proves that there really is such a thing as retributive jus- 
 tice even in this world. You worked hard; you denied 
 yourself all pleasure, almost all relaxation, in your youth, 
 and in the prime of life ; now you are free, and that while 
 you have still, I hope, many years of vigour and health in 
 which you can enjoy freedom. Besides, I have another and 
 very egotistical motive for being pleased : it seems that even 
 ' a lone woman ' can be happy, as well as cherished wives 
 and proud mothers. I am glad of that. I speculate much 
 on the existence of unmarried and never-to-be-married v/o- 
 men now-a-days ; and I have already got to the point of 
 considering that there is no more respectable character on 
 this earth than an unmarried .woman, who makes her own 
 way through life quietly, perseveringly, without support of 
 husband or brother; and^ who, having attained the age of 
 
THE SECKET OF AUTHOIiSHIP DISCOVERED. 277 
 
 tbrtj-live or upwards, retains in lier possession a well-regu- 
 lated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, and for- 
 titude to support inevitable pains, sympathy with the suffer- 
 ings of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as hei 
 menus extend." 
 
 During the time that the negotiation with Messrs. Ay- 
 .ott and Co. was going on, Charlotte went ^^o visit her old 
 Bchool-friend, with whom she was in such habits of confiden- 
 tial intimacy ; but, neither then nor afterwards, did she ever 
 speak to her of the publication of the poems ; nevertheless, 
 this young lady suspected that the sisters wrote for maga- 
 zines ; and in this idea she was confirmed when, on one of 
 her visits to Haworth, she saw Anne with a number of 
 ^^ Chambers's Journal," and a gentle smile of pleasure steal- 
 ing over her placid face as she read. 
 
 " AVhat is the matter ? " asked the friend. " Why do 
 you smile ? " 
 
 " Only because I see they have inserted one of my 
 poems," was the quiet reply ; and not a word more was said 
 on the subject. 
 
 To this friend Charlotte addressed the following let* 
 ters : — 
 
 '' March S, 184G. 
 " I reached home a little after two o'clock, all safe and 
 right yesterday ; I found papa very well ; his sight much 
 the same. Emily and Anne were gone to Keighley to meet 
 me ; unfortunately, I had returned by the old road, while 
 they were gone by the new, and we missed each other. They 
 did not get home till half-past four, and were caught in the 
 heavy shower of rain which fell in the afternoon. I am 
 sorry to say Anne has taken a little cold in consequence, but 
 I hope she will soon be well. Papa was much cheered by 
 
278 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE EKONTE. 
 
 my report of Mr. C.'s opinion, and of old Mrs. E.'s expo 
 rience ; but I could perceive he caught gladly at the idea 
 of deferring the operation a few months longer. I went 
 into the room where Branwell was, to speak to him, about 
 an hour after I got home ; it was very forced work to address 
 him. I might have spared myself the trouble, as he took 
 no notice, and made no reply ; he was stupefied. My fears 
 were not vain. I hear that he got a sovereign while I have 
 been away, under pretence of paying a pressmg debt ; he 
 went immediately and changed it at a public-house, and has 
 employed it as was to be expected. concluded her ac- 
 count by saying he was a ' hopeless being ; ' it is too true. 
 In his present state it is scarcely possible to stay in the 
 room where he is. What the future has in store I do not 
 know." 
 
 ''March, 31, 184G. 
 "' Our poor old servant Tabby had a sort of fit, a fort- 
 night since, but is nearly recovered now. Martha " (the 
 girl they had to assist poor old Tabby, and who remains still 
 the faithful servant at the parsonage) ^' is ill with a swelling 
 in her knee^ and obliged to go home. I fear it will be long 
 before she is in working condition again. I received the 
 
 number of the Becord you sent I read D'Aubigne's 
 
 letter. It is clever, and in what he says about Catholicism 
 very good. The Evangelical Alliance part is not very prac- 
 ticable, yet certainly it is more in accordance with the spirit 
 of the Gospel to preach unity among Christians than to in- 
 culcate mutual intolerance and hatred. I am very glad I 
 went to when I did, for the changed weather has some- 
 what changed my health and strength since. How do you 
 get on ? I long for mild south and west winds. I am 
 thankful papa continues pretty well, though often made very 
 miserable by Branwell's wretched conduct. There — there ia 
 no chann-e but for the v,^orse." 
 
FIRST STEP TO PUBEISHING FICTIONS. 279 
 
 Meanwhile the printing of the volume of poems was quietly 
 proceediug. After some consultation and deliberation the 
 sisters had determined to correct the proofs themselves. Up 
 to March 28th the publishers had addressed their correspond- 
 ent as C. Bronte, Esq., but at this time some "little mistake 
 occurred," and she desired Messrs. Aylott and Co. in future 
 to direct to her real address, " Miss Bronte," &c. But she 
 had evidently left it to be implied that she was not acting on 
 her own behalf, but as agent for the real authors, as in a note, 
 dated April 6, she makes a proposal on behalf of '^ C. E. and 
 A. Bell," which is to the following effect, that they are pre- 
 pariDg for the press a work of fiction, consisting of three distinct 
 and unconnected tales, which may be published either together 
 as a work of three volumes, of the ordinary novel size, or sep- 
 arately, as single volumes, as may be deemed most advisable. 
 She states in addition, that it is not their intention to publish 
 these tales on their own account ; but that the authors direct 
 her to ask Messrs. Aylott and Co. whether they would bo 
 disposed to undertake the work, after having, of course, by due 
 inspection of the MS., ascertained that its contents are such 
 as to warrant an expectation of success. To this letter of in- 
 quiry the publishers replied speedily, and the tenor of their 
 answer may be gathered from Charlotte's, dated April 11th. 
 
 " I beg to thank you, in the name of C, E. and A. Bell 
 for your obliging offer of advice. I will avail myself of it, to 
 request information on two or three points. It is evident 
 that unknown authors have great difficulties to contend with, 
 before they can succeed in bringing their works before the 
 public. Can you give me any hint as to the way in which 
 these difficulties are best met ? For instance, in the present 
 case, where a work of fiction is in question, in what form 
 would a publisher be most likely to accept the MS.? 
 Whether offered as a work of three vols., or as tales which 
 
280 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE EFwONTE. 
 
 might be published in numbers, or as contributions to a pe- 
 riodical ? 
 
 " What publishers would be most likely to receive favour- 
 ably a proposal of this nature ? 
 
 ^^ Would it suffice to write to a publisher on the subject, 
 or would it be necessary to have recourse to a personal inter- 
 view ? 
 
 " Your opinion and advice on these three points, or on 
 any other which your experience may suggest as important, 
 would be esteemed by us as a favour." 
 
 It is evident from the whole tenor of this correspondence, 
 that the truthfulness and probity of the firm of publishers 
 with whom she had to deal in this her first literary venture, 
 was strongly impressed upon her mind, and was followed by 
 the inevitable consequence of reliance on their suggestions. 
 And the progress of the poems was not unreasonably lengthy 
 or long drawn out. On April 20th she writes to desire that 
 three copies may be sent to her, and that Messrs. Aylott will 
 advise her as to the reviewers to whom copies ought to bo 
 sent. 
 
 I give the next letter as illustrating the ideas of these 
 girls as to what periodical reviews or notices led public 
 opinion. 
 
 " The poems to be neatly done up m cloth. Have the 
 goodness to send copies and advertisements, as earl?/ as pos' 
 sible, to each of the undermentioned periodicals. 
 
 " ^ Colburn's New Monthly Magazine.' 
 
 " * Bentley's Magazine.' 
 
 " ^ Hood's Magazine.' 
 
 " * Jerrold's Shilling Magazine.' 
 
 *' ' Blackwood's Magazine.' 
 
 « ' The Edinburgh Heview.' 
 
PUBLICATION OF THE TOEMS. 281 
 
 " * Tail's Edinburgli Magazine.' 
 
 " * The Dublin University Magazine.' 
 
 " Also to the ^ Daily News ' and to the ' Britannia ' news- 
 papers. 
 
 " If there are any other periodicals to which you have 
 been in the habit of sending copies of works, '!et them be 
 supplied also with copies. I think those I have mentioned 
 will suffice for advertising." 
 
 In compliance with this latter request, Messrs. Aylotfc 
 suggest that copies and advertisements of the work should 
 be sent to the " Athenasum," ^^ Literary Gazette," " Critic," 
 and ^' Times; " but in her reply Miss Bronte says, that she 
 thinks the periodicals she first mentioned will be sufficient 
 for advertising in at present, as the authors do not wish to 
 lay out a larger sum than two pounds in advertising, esteem- 
 ing the success of a work dependent more on the notice it 
 receives from periodicals than on the quantity of advertise- 
 ments. In case of any notice of the poems appearing, 
 whether favourable or otherwise, Messrs. Aylott and Co. are 
 requested to send her the name and number of those period- 
 icals in which such notices appear, as otherwise, since she 
 has not the opportunity of seeing periodicals regularly, she 
 may miss reading the critique. " Should the poems be re- 
 marked upon favourably, it is my intention to appropriate a 
 further sum for advertisements. If, on the other hand, they 
 should pass unnoticed or be condemned, I consider it would 
 be quite useless to advertise, as there is nothing either in 
 the title of the work, or the names of the authors, to attract 
 attention from a single individual." 
 
 I suppose the little volume of poems was published some- 
 time about the end of May, 1846. It stole into life ; some 
 weeks passed over, without the mighty murmuring public 
 discovering that three more voices were uttering their speech 
 
282 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 And, meanwhile, the course of existence moved drearily 
 along from day to day with the anxious sisters, who must 
 have forgotten their sense of authorship in the vital care 
 gnawing at their hearts. On June 17, Charlotte writes :-— 
 
 " Branwell declares that he neither can nor will do any 
 thing for himself; good situations have been offered him, 
 for which, by a fortnight's work, he might have qualified 
 himself, but he will do nothing, except drink and make us 
 all wretched.'' 
 
 In the Athenceum of July 4th, under the head of poetry 
 for the million, came a short review of the poems of C, E. 
 and A. Bell. The reviewer assigns to Ellis the highest rank 
 of the three ^' brothers," as he supposes them to be ; he calls 
 Ellis " a fine, quaint spirit ; " and speaks of " an evident 
 power of wing that may reach heights not here attempted." 
 Again, with some degree of penetration, the reviewer says, 
 that the poems of Ellis " convey an impression of originality 
 beyond what his contributions to these volumes embody." 
 Currer Bell is placed midway between Ellis and Acton. 
 But there is little in the review to ctrain out, at this distance 
 of time, as worth preserving. Still, we can fancy with what 
 interest it was read at Haworth Parsonage, and how the 
 sisters would endeavour to find out reasons for opioions, or 
 hints for the future guidance of their talents. 
 
 I call particular attention to the following letter of Char* 
 lotto's, dated July 10th, 1846. To whom it was written, 
 matters not ; but the wholesome sense of duty in it — the 
 eense of the supremacy of that duty which God, in placing 
 us in families, has laid out for us, seems to deserve especial 
 fegard in these days. 
 
 ^^ I see you are in a dilemma, and one of a peculiar ^aJ 
 
ADYICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 283 
 
 difficult nature. Two paths lie before you ; you conscien- 
 tiously wish to choose the right one, even though it be the 
 most steep, straight, and rugged ; but you do not know 
 which is the right one ; you cannot decide whether duty and 
 religion command you to go out into the cold and friendless 
 world, and there to earn your living by governess drudgery, 
 or whether they enjoin your continued stay with your aged 
 mother, neglecting, for the presentj every prospect of inde- 
 pendency for yourself, and putting up with daily inconve- 
 nience, sometimes even with privations. I can well imagine, 
 that it is next to impossible for you to decide for yourself in 
 this matter, so I will decide it for you. At least, I will tell 
 you what is my earnest conviction on the subject ; I will 
 show you candidly how the question strikes me. The right 
 path is that which necessitates the greatest sacrifice of self- 
 interest — which implies the greatest good to others; and 
 this* path, steadily followed, will lead, I believe, in time, to 
 prosperity and to nappiness ; though it may seem, at the 
 outset, to tend quite in a contrary direction. Your mother 
 is both old and infirm ; old and infirm people have but few 
 sources of happiness — fewer almost than the comparatively 
 young and healthy can conceive ; to deprive them of one of 
 these is cruel. If your mother is more composed when you 
 are with her, stay with her. If she would be unhappy in 
 case you left her, stay with her. It will not apparently, as 
 far as short-sighted humanity can see, be for your advantage 
 
 to remain at , nor will you be praised and admired for 
 
 remaining at home to comfort your mother ; yet, probably, 
 your own conscience will approve, and if it does, stay with 
 her. I recommend you to do what I am trying to do my- 
 self" 
 
 The remainder of this letter is only interesting to the 
 reader as it conveys a peremptory disclaimer of the report 
 
284: LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 that the writer was engaged to be married to her father's 
 curate — the very same gentleman to whom, eight years after- 
 wards, she was united ; and who, probably, even now, al- 
 though she was unconscious of the fact, had begun his service 
 to her, in the same tender and faithful spirit as that in which 
 Jacob served for Rachel. Others may have noticed this, 
 though she did not. 
 
 A few more notes remain of her correspondence " on be- 
 half of the Messrs. Bell " with Mr. Aylott. On July 15tli 
 she says, " I suppose, as you have not written, no other 
 notices have yet appeared, nor has the demand for the work 
 increased. Will you favour me with a line stating whether 
 any J or how many copies have yet been sold ? " 
 
 But few, I fear ; for, three days later, she wrote the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 *^ The Messrs. Bell desire me to thank you for your sug- 
 gestion respecting the advertisements. They agree with 
 you that, since the season is unfavourable, advertising had 
 better be deferred. They are obliged to you for the infor- 
 mation respecting the number of copies sold." 
 
 On July 23rd she writes to the Messrs. Aylott : — • 
 
 " The Messrs. Bell would be obliged to you to post the 
 enclosed note in London. It is an answer to the letter you 
 forwarded, which contained an application for their auto- 
 graphs from a person who professed to have read and ad- 
 mired their poems. I think I before intimated, that the 
 Messrs. Bell are desirous for the present of remaining un- 
 known, for which reason they prefer having the note posted 
 in London to sending it direct, in order to avoid giving any 
 clue to residence or identity by post-mark, &c." 
 
 Once more, in September, she writes, " As the work has 
 
AN UNSWEKYIJSTG CONVICTION. 285 
 
 received no further notice from any periodical, I presume 
 the demand for it has not greatly increased." 
 
 In the biographical notice of her sisters, she thus speaks 
 of the failure of the modest hopes vested in this p\iblication. 
 " The book was printed ; it is scarcely known, and all of it 
 that merits to be known are the poems of Ellis Bell. The 
 fixed conviction I held, and hold, of the worth of these 
 poems, has not, indeed, received the confirmation of much fa- 
 vourable criticism ; but I must retain it notwithstanding.'* 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 O F 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ATTTIIOR OF 
 
 "JANE EYRE;» "SHIRLEY," "VILLETTE," &c. 
 
 BY 
 
 E. C. GASKELL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF **MARY B A TIT O N , " * ^ R U T II , ' * ETO. 
 
 ' Oh my God, 
 - Thou hast knowledge, only Theu, 
 
 How dreary 'tis for women to sit still 
 
 On winter nights by solitary fires 
 
 And hear the nations praising them far off." 
 
 AuEOEA Leiqu. 
 
 VOL. IT. 
 
 NEW YOEK: 
 D. APPLETON AXD COMPANY, 
 
 C49 & 551 BROADWAY. 
 
 1875. 
 
LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 During this summer of 1846, while her literary hopes were 
 tvaning, an anxiety of another kind was increasing. Ilei 
 father's eyesight had become seriously impaired by the pro- 
 gress of the cataract which was forming. He was nearly 
 blind. He could grope his way about, and recognise the 
 features 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 ser^ 
 mons 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 ; 
 
 VOL. II. — 1 
 
3 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 as til e ininute-liand came to the point, marking the expiration 
 of the thirty minutes, he concluded his sermon. 
 
 Under his great sorrow he was always patient. As iu 
 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 cata- 
 ract 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 monoto- 
 nous-looking houses, in a suburb of the town. From thence 
 the following letter is dated, on August 21st, 1846 : — 
 
 " I just scribble a line to you to let you know where I 
 am, in order that you may write to me here, for it seems to 
 me that a letter from you would relieve me from the feel- 
 ing 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 readj 
 for an operation, and has fixed next Monday for the perform- 
 ance of it. Think of us on that day ! We got into our 
 
MR. BKONTE S BLINDNESS. 3 
 
 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 T 
 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 fa- 
 vourably of the case." 
 
 "August 26th, 18-i6. 
 " 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 can- 
 not yet see anything. The afiair lasted precisely a quarter 
 of an hour ; it was not the simple operation of couching 
 Mr. C. described, but the more complicated one of ex- 
 tracting the cataract. Mr. Wilson entirely disapproves of 
 couching. Papa displayed extraordinary patience and firm- 
 ness ; 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 
 "burgeons, the better. Papa is now confined to his bed in ?i 
 
i LIFE OF CIIARLOITE BRONTE. 
 
 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, whicli 
 gave me extreme satisfaction, because I found I had ar- 
 ranged 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 obse- 
 quious ; and not, I should think, to be much trusted ; yet I 
 was obliged to tru^t her in some things 
 
 " Greatly was I amused by your account of 's flirta- 
 tions ; 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, unfortunatel}^, are forced to care for him, and 
 such as him, because, while their minds are mostly unem- 
 ployed, 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 in- 
 fuse into the souls of the persecuted a little of the quiet 
 strength of pride — of the supporting consciousness of supe- 
 riority (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 de 
 eire. 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 in- 
 flammation ensued, but still it appears the greatest care, per 
 
SUCCESSFUL OPERATTOK FOR CATARxiCT. 5 
 
 feet 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 hit? 
 sight for the first time yesterday. He could see dimly. Mr 
 Wilson seemed perfectly satisfied, and said all was right. I 
 have had bad nights from the toothache since I came to 
 Manchester.'' 
 
 All this time, notwithstanding the domestic anxieties 
 which were harassing them — notwithstanding the ill-success 
 of their poems— the three sisters were trying that other 
 literary venture, to which Charlotte made allusion in one of 
 her letters to the Messrs. Aylott. Each of them had written 
 a prose tale, hoping that the three might be published to- 
 gether. " Wuthering Heights " and " Agnes Grey " are be- 
 fore the world. The third — -Charlotte's contribution — is yet 
 in manuscript, but will be published shortly after the appear- 
 ance of this memoir. The plot in itself is of no great in- 
 terest ; 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 has given in " The Pro- 
 fessor," 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 
 hat 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 abso 
 
6 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 lute factj 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 pub- 
 lisher, 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, uni- 
 form 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 some- 
 thing like the chill of despair began to invade his heart." 
 And, remember, it was not the heart of a person who, disap- 
 pointed 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 sis- 
 ters' delicate health, and dependence on her care ; — and then 
 admire, as it deserves to be admired, the steady courage which 
 could work away at " Jane Eyre," all the time " that the 
 one-volume tale was plodding its weary round in London." 
 
 I believe I have already mentioned, that some of her 
 Burviving friends consider that an incident which she heard, 
 when at school at Miss Wooler's, was the germ of the story 
 
TIME AND MODE OF COMPOSITIOJ^. 7 
 
 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 composi- 
 tion, &c. 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, nev^r 
 was the call of another for help, neglected for an instant. 
 It had become necessary to give Tabby — now nearly eighty 
 years of age — the assistance of a girl. Tabby relinquished 
 any of her work with jealous reluctance, and could not bear 
 to be reminded, though ever so delicately, that the acuteness 
 of her senses was dulled by age. The other servant might 
 not interfere with what she chose to consider her exclusive 
 work. Among other things, she reserved to herself the right 
 of peeling the potatoes for dinner ; but as she was growing 
 blind, she often left in those black specks, which we in the 
 North call the " eyes " of the potato. Miss Bronte was too 
 dainty a housekeeper to put up with this ; yet she could not 
 
8 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 bear to hurt the faithful old servant, by bidding the youngei 
 maiden go over the potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby 
 that her work was less effectual than formerly. Accord- 
 ingly she would steal into the kitchen, and quietly carry off 
 tlie 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 pro- 
 ceeding 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 ap- 
 parently identical in meaning, would do. She had that 
 strong practical regard for the simple holy truth of expres- 
 sion, 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 sen- 
 tence 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, 
 
HER IDEAS OF A HEKOmE. ' 9 
 
 sucli as is used in binding books, for a desk This plan was 
 necessary for one so short-sighted as she was ; and, besides, 
 it enabled her to use pencil and paper, as she sat near the 
 fire in the twilight hours, or if (as was too often the case) 
 she was wakeful for hours in the night. Her finished manu- 
 Bcripts were copied from these pencil scraps, in clear, legible, 
 delicate traced writing, almost as easy to read as print. 
 
 The sisters retained the old habit, which was begun, in 
 their aunt's life-time, of putting away their work at nine 
 o'clock, and beginning their study, pacing up and down the 
 sitting room. At this time, they talked over the stories they 
 were engaged upon, and described their plots. Once or 
 twice a week, each read to the others what she had written, 
 and heard what they had to say about it. Charlotte told 
 nie, that the remarks made had seldom any effect in inducing 
 her to alter her work, so possessed was she with the feeling 
 that she had described reality ; but the readings were of 
 great and stirring interest to all, taking them out of the 
 gnawing pressure of daily-recurring cares, and setting them 
 in a free place. It was on one of these occasions, that 
 Charlotte determined to make her heroine plain, small, and 
 unattractive, in defiance of the accepted canon. 
 
 The writer of the beautiful obituary article on '' the 
 death of Currer Bell," most likely learnt from herself what 
 is there stated, and which I will take the liberty of quoting, 
 about Jane Eyre. 
 
 " She once told her sisters that they were wrong — even 
 morally wrong — in making their heroines beautiful as a 
 matter of course. They replied that it was impossible to 
 Hiake 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 fur- 
 
 VOL. IT.— 1* 
 
10 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 fcher tlian that.' As the work went on, the interest deepened 
 to the writer. When she came to * Thornfield' she could 
 not stop. Being short-sighted to excess, she wrote in little 
 square paper-books, held close to her eyes, and (the first 
 copy) in pencil. On she went, writing incessantly for three 
 weeks ; by which time she had carried her heroine away 
 from Thornfield, and was herself in a fever which compelled 
 her to pause." 
 
 This is all, I believe, which can now be told respecting 
 the conception and composition of this wonderful book, which 
 was, however, only at its commencement when Miss Bronte 
 returned with her father to Haworth, after their anxious ex- 
 pedition to Manchester. 
 
 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 com- 
 fortably while she was away than Charlotte had dared to 
 hope, and she expresses herself thankful for the good ensured 
 and the evil spared during her absence. 
 
 Soon after this some proposal, of v,rhich 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 charac- 
 teristic reply : — 
 
 ^^ Leave home ! — I shall neither be able to find place nor 
 employment, perhaps, too, I shall be quite past the prime of 
 life, my faculties will be rusted, and my few acquirements 
 in a great measure forgotten. These ideas sting me keenly 
 sometimes ; but, whenever I consult my conscience, it affirms 
 that I am doing right in staying at home, and bitter are its 
 upbraidings when I yield to an eager desire for release. I 
 could hardly expect success if I were to err against such 
 warniogs. I should like to hear from you again soon 
 
LETTERS FKOM HOME. 11 
 
 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 and 
 other sort of goods." 
 
 Whatever might be the nature and extent of this nego- 
 tiation, the end of it was that Charlotte adhered to the deci- 
 sion 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 Decern 
 ber 15th. 
 
 " I hope you are not frozen up ; the cold here is dread 
 ful. I do not remember such a series of North-Pole days. 
 England might really have taken a slide up into the Arctic 
 Zone ; the sky looks like ice ; the earth is frozen ; the wind 
 is as keen as a two-edged blade. We have all had severe 
 colds and coughs in consequence of the weather. Poor Anne 
 has suffered greatly from asthma, but is now, we are glad to 
 say, rather better. She had two nights last week when her 
 cough and difficulty of breathing were painful indeed to hear 
 and witness, and must have been most distressing to suffer ; 
 she bore it, as she bears all affliction, without one complaint, 
 only sighing now and then when nearly worn out. She has 
 an extraordinary heroism of endurance. I admire, but I 
 certainly could not imitate her." ..." You say I am 
 to * tell you plenty.' What would you have me say ? Noth- 
 ing 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 
 
12 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 me for adverting to it. It was merely the arrival of a 
 Sheriff's officer on a visit to B., inviting him either to pay 
 his debts or take a trip to York. Of course his debts had 
 to be paid. It is not agreeable to lose money, time after 
 time, in this way ; but where is the use of dwelling on such 
 subjects ? It will make him no better." 
 
 " December 28th. 
 " I feel as if it was almost a farce to sit down and write 
 to you now, with nothing to say worth listening to ; and, 
 indeed, if it were not for two reasons, I should put off the 
 business at least a fortnight hence. The first reason is, I 
 want another letter from you, for your letters are interesting, 
 they have something in them ; some results of experience and 
 observation ; one receives them with pleasure, and reads 
 them with relish ; and these letters I cannot expect to get, 
 unless I reply to them. I wish the correspondence could be 
 managed so as to be all on one side. The second reason is 
 derived from a remark in your last, that you felt lonely, 
 something as I was at Brussels, and that consequently you 
 had a peculiar desire to hear from old acquaintance. I can 
 understand and sympathize with this. I remember the 
 shortest note was a treat to me, when I was at the above- 
 named place ; therefore I write. I have also a third reason : 
 it is a haunting terror lest you should imagine I forget you — 
 that my regard cools with absence. It is not in my nature 
 to forget your nature ; though, I dare say, I should spit fir^ 
 and explode sometimes, if we lived together continually 
 and you, too, would get angry, and then we should get recon- 
 ciled 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 overthrown, too sore, too demon- 
 
CONFESSION AND COUNSEL. J 3 
 
 gtrative and vehement. I almost long for some of the uni- 
 form serenity you describe in Mrs. 's disposition ; or, at 
 
 least, I would fain have her power of self-control and con- 
 cealment ; 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 every thing we see in the world, 
 merely because it is not what we are accustomed to. I sus- 
 pect, on the contrary, that there are not unfrequently sub- 
 stantial 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 con- 
 demned. Indiscriminating irony and fault-finding are just 
 sumphisJmesSj and that is all. Anne is now much better, 
 but papa has been for near a fortnight far from well with the 
 influenza ; he has at times a most distressing cough, and his 
 spirits are much depressed." 
 
 So 3nded the year 184G. 
 
I* LIFE OF CHARLOTTE liEONTE. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 Tlik next year opened with a spell of cold dreary weather, 
 which told severely on a constitution already tried by anx- 
 iety and care. Miss Bronte describes herself as having ut- 
 terly 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 change 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 fol- 
 lowing extractsr from her lo'-.ters. 
 
 " March 1st, 
 " Even at the risk of appearing very exacting, I can't 
 help saying that I should like a letter as long as your last, 
 every time you write. Short notes give one the feeling of a 
 very small piece of a very good thing to eat, — they set the 
 appetite on edge, and don't satisfy it, — a letter leaves you 
 more contented ; and yet, after all, I am very glad to get 
 notes ] ?,o don't think, when you are pinchr;d for time and 
 
FAMILY TEIALS. 15 
 
 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 indepen- 
 dent of the house and of our room. Branwell has been con- 
 ducting himself very badly lately. I expect, from the ex- 
 travagance of his behaviour, and from mysterious hints he 
 drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we shall be 
 hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon. My 
 health is better ; I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold 
 weather, more than on an uneasy mind." 
 
 *' March 24th, 1847. 
 ''It is at Haworth, if all be well, that we must next see 
 each other again. I owe you a grudge for giving Miss 
 
 M some very exaggerated account about my not being 
 
 well, and setting her on to urge my leaving home as quite a 
 duty, I'll take care not to tell you next time, when I think 
 I am looking specially old and ugly ; as if people could not 
 have that privilege, without being supposed to be at the last 
 gasp ! I shall be thirty-one next birthday. My youth is 
 gone like a dream ; and very little use have I ever made of 
 it. What have I done these last thirty years ? Precious 
 little.'' 
 
 The quiet, sad year stole on. The sisters were contem- 
 plating near at hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects 
 
IG LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 of talents misused and faculties abused in the person of thai 
 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 endu- 
 rance. They had to watch over his health, of which, what- 
 eyer was its state, he seldom complained. They had to save, 
 as much as they could, the precious remnants of his sight. 
 They had to order the frugal household with increased care, 
 so as to supply wants and expenditure utterly foreign to their 
 self-denying natures. Though they shrank from overmuch 
 contact with their fellow-beings, for all whom they met they 
 had kind words, if few ; and when kind actions were needed, 
 they were not spared, if the sisters at the parsonage could 
 render them. They visited the parish schools duly; and 
 often were Charlotte's rare and brief holidays of a visit from 
 home shortened by her sense of the necessity of being in her 
 place at the Sunday-school. 
 
 In the intervals of such a life as this, " Jane Eyre " was 
 making progress. *' The Professor " was passing slowly and 
 heavily from publisher to publisher. " Wuthering Heights ' 
 and " Agnes Grey " had been accepted by another publisher, 
 " on terms somewhat impoverishing to the two authors ; " a 
 bargain to be alluded to more fully hereafter. It was lying 
 in his hands, awaiting his pleasure for its passage through the 
 press, during all the months of early summer. 
 
 The piece of external brightness to which the sisters 
 looked during these same summer months, was the hope that 
 the friend to whom so many of Charlotte's letters are ad- 
 dressed, and who was her chosen companion, whenever cir- 
 cumstances permitted them to be together, as well as a favour- 
 ite 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 com- 
 fortable. Their brother was tolerably well, Iiaving got to 
 
A DISAPPOINTMENT. i i 
 
 the end of a considerable sum of money which he became 
 possessed of in the spring, and therefore under the wholesome 
 restriction of poverty. Eut 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 invi* 
 tation by saying, " I pray for fine weather, that we may get 
 out while you stay." 
 
 At length the day was fixed. 
 
 " Friday will suit us very well. I do trust nothing will 
 now arise to prevent your coming. I shall be anxious about 
 the weather on that day ; if it rains, I shall cry. Don't ex- 
 pect 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 con- 
 dition signifies; provided only the dress contain E , 
 
 all will be right." 
 
 But there came the first of a series of disappointments to 
 be borne. One feels how sharp it must have been to have 
 wrung out the following words. 
 
 ** May 20th. 
 
 " Your letter of yesterday did indeed give me a cruel 
 chill of disappointment. I cannot blame you, for I know it 
 
 was not your fault. I do not altogether exempt from 
 
 reproach This is bitter, but I feel bitter. As to 
 
 going to B , I will not go near the place till you have 
 
 been to Haworth. My respects to all and sundry, accom- 
 panied with a large amount of wormwood and gall, from the 
 effusion of which you and your mother are alone excepted. 
 — G. B. 
 
 " You are quite at liberty to tell what I think, if you 
 judge proper. Though it is true I may be somewhat unjust^ 
 
18 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 for I am deeply annoyed. I thouglit I had arranged your 
 visit tolerably comfortable for you this time. I may find it 
 more difficult on another occasion." 
 
 I must give one sentence from a letter written about this 
 time, as it shows distinctly the clear strong sense of the 
 writer. 
 
 " I was amused by what she says respecting her wish 
 that, when she marries, her husband will, at least, have a 
 will of his own, even should he be a tyrant. Tell her, when 
 she forms that aspiration again, she must make it condition- 
 al : 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 J is merely an intractable brute ; you can have no hold 
 of him ; you can never lead him right. A tyrant under 
 any circumstances is a curse." 
 
 Meanwhile, " The Professor " had met with many refu- 
 sals from different publishers ; some, I have reason to believe, 
 not over-courteously worded in writing to an unknown au- 
 thor, and none alleging any distinct reasons for its rejection. 
 Courtesy is always due ; but it is, perhaps, hardly to be ex- 
 pected that, in the press of business in a great publishing 
 house, they should find time to explain why they decline par- 
 ticular 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 sympathize with the published account which 
 " Currer Bell " gives, of the feelings experienced on reading 
 Messrs. Smith and Elder's letter containing the rejection of 
 « The Professor." 
 
 " As a forlorn hope, we tried one publishing house mere. 
 Erelong, in a much .shorter space than that on which experience 
 
KEJECTION OF ^^ THE PK0FE8S0R." 19 
 
 liad taught him to calculate, there came a letter, which he 
 opened in the dreary anticipation of finding two hard hopelese 
 lines, intimating that * Messrs. Smith and Elder were not dis- 
 posed to publish the MS.,' and, instead, he took out of the en- 
 velope a letter of two pages. He read it trembling. It de- 
 clined, indeed, to publish that tale, for business reasons, but it 
 discussed its merits and demerits, so courteously, so consider- 
 ately, in a spirit so rational, with a discrimination so en- 
 lightened, that this very refusal cheered the author better 
 than a vulgarly-expressed acceptance would have done. It 
 was added, that a work in three volumes would meet with 
 careful attention." 
 
 Mr. Smith has told me a little circumstance connected 
 with the reception of this manuscript, which seems to me in- 
 dicative of no ordinary character. It came (accompanied by 
 the note given below) in a brown paper parcel, to 65 Corn- 
 hill. Besides the address to Messrs. Smith and Co., there 
 were on it those of other publishers to whom the tale had 
 been sent, not obliterated, but simply scored through, so that 
 Messrs. Smith at once perceived the names of some of the 
 houses in the trade to which the unlucky parcel had gone, 
 without success. 
 
 TO MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER. 
 
 "July 15th, 1847. 
 *' Gentlemen, — I beg to submit to your consideration tlie 
 accompanying manuscript. I should be glad to learn wheth- 
 er it be such as you approve, and would undertake to pub- 
 lish at as early a period as possible. Address, Mr. Currer 
 Bell, under cover to Miss Bronte, Haworth, Bradford, 
 Yorkshire." 
 
 Some time elapsed before an answer was returned. 
 
20 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 A little circumstance may he mentioned here, thougli 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 postage- 
 stamp in her letter. She accordingly wrote again, to repair 
 her former omission, and apologise for it. 
 
 TO MESSRS. SMITH AND ELDER. 
 
 "August 2nd, 18^7. 
 *' Gentlemen, — About three weeks since, I sent for youi 
 consideration a MS. entitled ' The Professor, a tale by Currei 
 Bell.' I should be glad to know whether it reached your 
 hands safely, and likewise to learn, at your earliest conven 
 ience, whether it be such as you can undertake to publish. — 
 I am, gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 ^' CcRRER Bell. 
 " I enclose a directed cover for your reply.' 
 
 This time her note met with a prompt answer ; for, four 
 days later, she writes (in reply to the letter which she after- 
 wards 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 wane 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 ap- 
 pearance were speedily followed up by another work from 
 the same pen, of a more striking and exciting character. 
 
CORKESrONDENCE ABOUT ^^ THE PROFESiiOR." 21 
 
 The first work miglit serve as an introduction, and accustom 
 the public to the author's name : the success of the second 
 might thereby be rendered more probable. I have a second 
 narrative in three volumes, now in progress, and nearly com- 
 pleted, to which I have endeavoured to impart a more vivid 
 interest than belongs to ' The Professor.' In about a month 
 I hope to finish it, so that if a publisher were found for 
 * The Professor,' the second narrative might follow as soon as 
 was deemed advisable ; and thus the interest of the public 
 (if any interest was aroused) might not be suffered to cool. 
 Will you be kind enough to favour me with your judgment 
 on this plan ?" 
 
 While the minds of the three sisters were in this state of 
 suspense, their long-expected friend came to pay her promised 
 visit. She was with them at the beginning of the glowing 
 August of that year. They were out on the moors for the 
 greater part of the day, basking in the golden sunshine, which 
 was bringing on an unusual plenteousness of harvest, for 
 which, somewhat later, Charlotte expressed her earnest desire 
 that there should be a thanksgiving service in all the 
 churches. August was the season of glory for the neighbour- 
 hood of Haworth. Even the smoke, lying in the valley be- 
 tween that village and Keighley, took beauty from the radi- 
 ant colours on the moors above, the rich purple of the 
 heather bloom calling out an harmonious contrast in the 
 tawny golden light that, in the full heat of summer evenings, 
 comes stealing everywhere through the dun atmosphere of the 
 hollows. And up, on the moors, turning away from all 
 habitations of men, the royal ground on which they stood 
 would expand into long swells of amethyst-tinted hills, melt- 
 ing 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 wel- 
 
22 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 corned tlieir friend to their own true home on the wild &nd 
 open hills. 
 
 There, too they could escape from the Shadow in the 
 house below. 
 
 Throughout this time — during all these confidences — not 
 a word was uttered to their friend of the three tales in Lon- 
 don ; two accepted and in the press — one trembling in the 
 balance of a publisher's judgment ; nor did she hear of that 
 other story ^^ nearly completed," lying in manuscript in the 
 grey old parsonage down below. She might have her sus- 
 picions that they all wrote with an intention of publication 
 some time ; but she knew the bounds which they set to 
 themselves in their communications ; nor could she, nor can 
 any one else, wonder at their reticence, when remembering 
 how scheme after scheme had failed, just as it seemed close 
 upon accomplishment. 
 
 Mr. Bronte, too, had his suspicions of something going 
 on ; but, never being spoken to, he did not speak on the sub- 
 ject, 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 ; " tc the progress of which we must now return. 
 
 TO MKSSHS. SMITH AND ELDEE. 
 
 ♦'August 2Un. 
 
 " I now send you per rail a MS. entitled * Jane Eyre,' a 
 novel in three volumes, by Currer Bell. I find I cannot pre- 
 pay the carriage of the parcel, as money for that purpose 
 is not received at the small station-house where it is left 
 If, when you acknowledge the receipt of the MS., you would 
 have the goodness to mention the amount charged on de- 
 livery, I will immediately transmit it in postage stamps. It 
 is better in future to address Mr. Currer Bell, under cover 
 
COMPLETION OF " JANE EYRE." 23 
 
 to Miss Bronte, Haworth, Bradford, YorksHre, as there is a 
 risk of letters otherwise directed not reaching me at present 
 To save trouble, I enclose an envelope." 
 
 " Jane Eyre " was accepted, and printed and published 
 by October 16th. 
 
 While it was in the press, Miss Bronte went to pay a 
 short visit to her friend at B . The proofs were for- 
 warded to her there, and she occasionally sat at the same 
 table with her friend, correcting them ; but they did not ex- 
 change a word on the subject. 
 
 Immediately on her return to the Parsonage, she 
 wrote : 
 
 " September. 
 
 '^ I had a very wet, windy walk home from Keighley ; 
 but my fatigue quite disappeared when I reached home, and 
 found all well. Thank God for it. 
 
 My boxes came safe this morning. I have distributed 
 the presents. Papa says I am to remember him most kindly 
 to you. The screen will be very useful, and he thanks you 
 for it. Tabby was charmed with her cap. She said, ' she 
 never thought o' naught o' t' sort as Miss sending her aught, 
 and, she is sure, she can never thank her enough for it.' I 
 was infuriated on finding a jar in my trunk. At first, I 
 hoped it was empty, but when I found it heavy and replete, 
 I could have hurled it all the way back to B . How- 
 ever, the inscription A. B. softened me much. It was at 
 once kind and villanous in you to send it. You ought first 
 to be tenderly kissed, and then afterwards as tenderly whip- 
 ped. 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 well-pleased and slightly surprised. All send their 
 love. — Yours, in a mixture of anger and love.'' 
 
24 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 When the manuscript of " Jane Eyre" had been received 
 by the future publishers of that remarkable novel, it fell to 
 the share of a gentleman connected with the firm to read it 
 first. He was so powerfully struck by the character of the 
 tale, that he reported his impression in very strong terms to 
 Mr. Smith, who appears to have been much amused by the 
 admiration excited. " You seem to have been so enchanted, 
 that I do not know how to believe you," he laughingly said. 
 But when a second reader, in the person of a clear-headed 
 Scotchman, not given to enthusiasm, had taken the MS. 
 home in the evening, and became so deeply interested in it^ 
 as to sit up half the night to finish it, Mr. Smith's curiosity 
 was sufficiently excited to prompt him to read it for himself ; 
 and great as were the praises which had been bestowed 
 upon it, he found that they had not exceeded the truth. 
 
 On its publication, copies were presented to a few private 
 literary friends. Their discernment had been rightly reck- 
 oned 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 to the publishers, acknowledged its extra- 
 ordinary merits. 
 
 The Keviev/s were more tardy, or more cautious. The 
 *' Athenasum" and the " Spectator" gave short notices, con- 
 taining qualified admissions of the power of the author. 
 The " Literary Gazette" was uncertain as to whether it was 
 Bafe 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 rer^uest for a 
 
SUCCESS OF JANE EYEE. 25 
 
 notice. This time the work was accepted , but I am not 
 aware what was the character of the article upon it. 
 
 The " Examiner'* came forward to the rescue, as far as 
 the opinions of professional critics were concerned. The 
 literary articles in that paper were always remarkable for 
 their genial and generous appreciation of merit ; nor was th 
 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 ap- 
 pearance of the review in the " Examiner ; " the power and 
 fascination of the tale itself made its merits known to the 
 public, without the kindly finger-posts of professional 
 criticism; and, early in December, the rush began for 
 copies. 
 
 I will insert two or three of Miss 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 ex- 
 plain themselves. 
 
 MESSPvS, SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 
 
 *'Oct. 19tli, 1847. 
 *^ Gentlemen, — The six copies of * Jane Eyre ' reached 
 me this morning. You have given the work every advan- 
 tage which good paper, clear type, and a seemly outside 
 can supply ; — if it fails, the fault will lie with the author, — - 
 you are exempt. 
 
 *^ I now await the judgment of the press and the public. 
 I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully. 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 VOL. IL — -2 
 
26 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 
 
 "Oct. 26th, 184Y. 
 
 ^' Gentlemen, — I have received the newspapers. Thej 
 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 
 ander the hauteur of lofty critics. I am, Gentlemen, yours 
 respectfully, " C. Bell." 
 
 MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 
 
 "Nov. 13th, 1847. 
 " Gentlemen, — I have to acknowledge the receipt of 
 yours of the 11th inst., and to thank you for the information 
 it communicates. The notice from the ' People's Journal ' 
 also duly reached me, and this morning I received the 
 * Spectator.' The critique in the * Spectator ' gives that view 
 of the book which will naturally be taken by a certain class 
 of minds ; I shall expect it to be followed by other notices 
 of a similar nature. The way to detraction has been pointed 
 out, and will probably be pursued. Most future notices will 
 in all likelihood have a reflection of the ^ Spectator ' in theni» 
 I fear this turn of opinion will not improve the demand for 
 the book — ^but time will show. If ' Jane Eyre ' has any 
 solid worth in it, it ought to weather a gust of unfavourable 
 wind. I am. Gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 " C. Bell.'- 
 
HER COMMENTS ON THE CRITIQUES. 27 
 
 MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 
 
 "Nov. SOth, 184Y. 
 
 ^' 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, how- 
 ever 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 ^^especting 
 ' Wuthering Heights.' I am. Gentlemen, yours respect- 
 fully, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 TO MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 
 
 "Dec. 1st, 1847. 
 " Gentlemen, — The ^ Examiner ' reached me to-day ; it 
 had been missent on account of the direction, which was to 
 Currer Bell, care of Miss 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 under- 
 stood 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 
 rsspectfuUy, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 " I received likewise seven other notices from provincial 
 
28 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 papers enclosed in an envelope. I tliank you very sincerely 
 for so punctually sending me all the various criticisms on 
 * Jane Eyre.' " 
 
 TO MESSRS. SMITH, ELDER, AND CO. 
 
 "Dec. 10th, 184'7. 
 
 " 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 up- 
 right conduct, I can now only say that I trust you will al- 
 w^ays 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 like- 
 wise; he was my first favourable critic; he first gave me 
 encouragement to persevere as an author, consequently I 
 naturally respect him and feel grateful to him. 
 
 " Excuse the informality of my letter, and believe me, 
 Gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 " CuRRER Bell." 
 
 There is little record remaining of the manner in which 
 the first news of its wonderful success reached and aJBfected 
 the one heart of the three sisters. I once asked Charlotte — 
 we were talking about the description of Lowood school, and 
 ehe was saying that she was not sure whether she should have 
 written it, if she had been aware how instantaneously it would 
 have been identified with Cowan Bridge — whether the popu- 
 larity to which the novel attained had taken her by surprise, 
 
THE SUCCESSFUL AUTIIOK AT HOME. 29 
 
 iSlie 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 sur- 
 prised at those who read * Jane Eyre ' being deeply interested 
 in it ; but I hardly expected that a book by an unknown au- 
 thor could find readers." 
 
 The sisters had kept the knowledge of their literary ven- 
 tures 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 feel- 
 ings 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 inter- 
 preters of feelings to those who love one another, and his 
 daughters knew how he would have borne ill-success worse for 
 them than for himself. So they did not tell him what they 
 were undertaking. He says now that he suspected it all 
 along, but his suspicions could take no exact form, as all he 
 was certain of was, that his children were perpetually writing 
 — and not writing letters. We have seen how the commu- 
 nications 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 
 
30 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 a copy of the book, and one or two reviews, taking caro to 
 include a notice adverse to it. 
 
 She informed me that something like the following con- 
 versation took place between her and him. (I wrote down 
 her words the day after I heard them ; and I am pretty sure 
 they are accurate.) 
 
 " Papa, IVe been writing a book '^ 
 
 " Have you, my dear ? " 
 
 *^ Yes, and I want you to read it." 
 
 " I am afraid it will try my eyes too much." 
 
 " But it is not in manuscript : it is printed." 
 
 " My dear ! youVe never thought of the expense it will 
 be ! It will be almost sure to be a loss, for how can you get 
 a book sold ? No one knows you or your name." 
 
 " But, papa, I don't think it will be a loss ; no more will 
 you, if you will let me read you a review or two, and tell you 
 more about it." 
 
 So she sate down and read some of the reviews to her 
 father ; and then, giving him the copy of " Jane Eyre " that 
 she intended for him, she left him to read it. When he came 
 in to tea, he said, "Girls, do you know Charlotte has been writ- 
 ing a book, and it is much better than likely ?" 
 
 But while the existence of Currer Bell, the author, was 
 like a piece of a dream to the quiet inhabitants of Haworth 
 Parsonage, who went on with their uniform household life, — 
 their cares for their brother being its only variety, — the whole 
 reading- world of England was in a ferment to discover the 
 unknown author. Even the publi.ohers 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 men- 
 tioned in the book was turned this way and that to answer, 
 
CUEEER BELL A MYSTERY. 31 
 
 if possible, the jnuch-vexed question of sex. All in vain. 
 People were content to relax their exertions to satisfy their 
 curiosity, and simply to sit down and greatly admire. 
 
 I am not going to write an analysis of a book with which 
 every one who reads this biography is sure to be acquainted ; 
 much less a criticism upon a work, which the great flood of 
 public opinion has lifted up from the obscurity in which it 
 first appeared, and laid high and safe on the everlasting hills 
 of fame. 
 
 Before me lies a packet of extracts from newspapers and 
 periodicals, which Mr. Bronte has sent me. It is touching 
 to look them over, and see how there is hardly any notice, 
 however short and clumsily- worded, in any obscure provincial 
 paper, but what has been cut out and carefully ticketed with 
 its date by the poor, bereaved father, — so proud when he first 
 read them — so desolate now. For one and all are full of 
 praise of this great, unknown genius, which suddenly ap- 
 peared amongst us. Conjecture as to the authorship ran 
 about like wild-fire. People in London, smooth and polished 
 as the Athenians of old, and like them " spending their time 
 in nothing else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing," 
 were astonished and delighted to find that, a fresh sensation, a 
 new pleasure, was in reserve for them in the uprising of an au- 
 thor capable of depicting with accurate and Titanic power the 
 strong, self-reliant, racy, and individual characters which were 
 not, after all, extinct species, but lingered still in existence in 
 the North. They thought that there was some exaggeration 
 mixed with the peculiar force of delineation. Those nearer to 
 the spot, where the scene of the story was apparently laid, were 
 sure from the very truth and accuracy of the writing, that the 
 writer was no Southeron ; for though " dark, and cold, and 
 rugged is the North," the old strength of the Scandinavian 
 races yet abides there, and glowed out in every character de* 
 
S2 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 picted iu " Jane Eyre." Fartlier than tlils, curiosity, both 
 honourable and dishonourable, was at fault. 
 
 When the second edition appeared, in the January of the 
 following year, with the dedication to Mr. Thackeray, people 
 looked at each other, and wondered afresh. But Currer Bell 
 knew no more of William Makepeace Thackeray, as an indi- 
 vidual man — of his life, age, fortunes or circumstances — than 
 she did of those of Mr. Michael Angelo Titmarsh. The one 
 had placed his name as author upon the title-page of " Vanity 
 Fair," the other had not. She was thankful for the opportu- 
 nity of expressing her high admiration of a writer, whom, as 
 she says, she regarded " as the social regenerator of his day — 
 as the very master of that working corps who would restore 
 
 to rectitude the warped state of things His wit 
 
 is bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same 
 relation to his serious genius, that the mere lambent sheet- 
 lightning, playing under the edge of the summer cloud, does 
 to the electric death-spark hid in its womb." 
 
 Anne 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, al- 
 though 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 
 isummer with the confident intention that she shall, if possible, 
 make at least a brief sojourn at the sea-side." In this same- 
 
HER COllRESPONDENCE WITH MR. LEWES. 33 
 
 letter, is a sentence, telling how dearly home, even with ka 
 present terrible drawback, lay at the roots of her heart , but 
 it is too much blended with reference to the affairs of others, 
 to bear quotation. 
 
 Any author of a successful novel is liable to an inroad of 
 letters from unknown readers, containing commendation — 
 sometimes of so fulsome and indiscriminating a character, as 
 to remind the recipient of Dr. Johnson's famous speech to 
 one who offered presumptuous and injudicious praise — some- 
 times 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. Gr. H. 
 Lewes have been kindly placed by him at my service ; and 
 as I know Miss Bronte highly prized his letters of encour- 
 agement 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, un- 
 blinded by any self-flattery, full of clear-sighted modesty as 
 to what she really did well, and what she failed in, grateful 
 for friendly interest, and only sore and irritable when the 
 question of sex in authorship was, as she thought, roughly or 
 unfairly treated. As to the rest, the letters speak for them« 
 selves, 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 
 VOL. II. — 2"^ 
 
34 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 that letter of his, to which the succeeding one of Miss BrontS 
 is a reply. 
 
 ^' When ^ Jane Eyre ' first appeared, the publishers cour- 
 teously sent me a copy. The enthusiasm with which I read 
 it, made me go down to Mr. Parker, and propose to write a 
 review of it for ^ Frazer's Magazine.' He would not consent 
 to an unknown novel — for the papers had not yet declared 
 themselves — receiving such importance, but thought it might 
 make one on Becent Novels : English and French — wliich 
 appeared in Frazer^ December^ 1847. Meanwhile I had 
 written to Miss Bronte to tell her the delight with which 
 her book filled me ; and seemed to have ^ sermonized ' her, 
 to judge from her reply. 
 
 TO G. II. LEWES, ESQ. 
 
 ^'Nov. 6th, 1847. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — Your letter reached me yesterday ; I beg 
 to assure you, that I appreciate fully the intention with 
 which it was written, and I thank you sincerely, both for its 
 cheering commendation and valuable advice. 
 
 " You warn me to beware of melodrama, and you exhort 
 me to adhere to the real. When I first began to write, so 
 impressed was 1 with the truth of the principles you advo- 
 cate, that I determined to take Nature and Truth as my 
 sole guides, and to follow in their very footprints ; I re- 
 strained imagination, eschewed romance, repressed excite- 
 ment; over-bright colouring, too, I avoided, and sought to 
 produce something which should be soft, grave, and true. 
 
 " My work (a tale in one volume) being completed, I of- 
 fered 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 ti:)ld me it was deficient in * startling incident ' and 
 
HER CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. LEWES. 35 
 
 thrilling excitement,' that it would never suit tlie circulat- 
 ing libraries, and, as it was on those libraries the success of 
 works of fiction mainly depended, they could not undertake 
 to publish what would be overlooked there. 
 
 " ^ Jane Eyre ' was rather objected to at first, on the same 
 grounds, but finally found acceptance. 
 
 " I mention this to you, not with a view of pleading ex 
 emption from censure, but in order to direct your attention 
 to the root of certain literary evils. If, in your forthcom- 
 ing article in * Frazer,' you would bestow a few words of en- 
 lightenment on the public who support the circulating libra- 
 ries, you might, with your powers, do some good. 
 
 " You advise me, too, not to stray far from the ground of 
 experience, as I become weak when I enter the region of fic- 
 tion ; and you say, * real experience is perennially interest- 
 ing, 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 ra- 
 pidly and urgently in our ear, are we not to write to her dic- 
 tation? 
 
 " I shall anxiously search the next number of ^ Frazer ' 
 for your opinions on these points. — Believe me, dear Sir, 
 yours gratefully, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 But while gratified by appreciation as an autli^r, she was 
 cautious as to the person from whom, she received it, for 
 
36 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 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 
 publisher's 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 character- 
 ising, because I understand that truth is considered a libel 
 in speaking of such people. 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 " Nov. 10th, 1817. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I have received the ^ Britannia ' and the 
 ^ Sun,' but not the ' Spectator,' which I rather regret, as cen- 
 sure, though not pleasant, is often wholesome. 
 
 " Thank you for your information regarding Mr. Lewes. 
 I am glad to hear that he is a clever and sincere man : such 
 being the case, I can await his critical sentence with forti- 
 tude ; even if it goes against me, I shall not murmur ; abili- 
 ty and honesty have a right to condemn, where they think 
 condemnation is deserved. Erom what you say, however, I 
 trust rather to obtain at least a modified approval. 
 
 " Your account of the various surmises respecting the 
 identity of the brothers Bell, amused me much : were th« 
 enigma solved, it would probably be found not worth the 
 trouble of solution ; but I will let it alone ; it suits our- 
 ►selves to remain quiet, and certainly injures no one else. 
 
 " The reviewer who noticed the little book of poems, in 
 the ^ Dublin Magazine,' conjectured that the soi-disani three* 
 
CURKER, ELLIS, AND A€TON BELL. 37 
 
 personages were in reality but one, wbo, endowed with an 
 unduly prominent organ of self-esteem, and consequently im- 
 pressed with a somewhat weighty notion of his own merits 
 thought them too vast to be concentrated in a single indivi- 
 dual, and accordingly divided himself into three, out of con 
 sideration, I suppose, for the nerves of the much-to-be-astound- 
 ed public ! This was an ingenious thought in the reviewer, — 
 very original and striking, but not accurate. We are three. 
 
 " A prose work, by Ellis and Acton, will soon appear: it 
 should have been out, indeed, long since; for the first proof- 
 sheets were already in the press at the commencement of 
 last August, before Currer Bell had placed the MS. of 
 
 ' Jane Eyre ' in your hands. Mr. , however, does not 
 
 do business like Messrs. Smith and Elder ; a difierent spirit 
 
 seems to preside at Street, to that which guides the 
 
 helm at 65, Cornhill My relations have suf- 
 fered from exhausting delay and procrastination, while I have 
 to acknowledge the benefits of a management at once busi- 
 ness-like and gentlemanlike, energetic and considerate. 
 
 " I should like to know if Mr. often acts as he hai 
 
 done to my relations, or whether this is an exceptional in- 
 stance of his method. Do you know, and can you tell mc 
 anything about him ? You must excuse me for going to 
 the point at once, when I want to learn anything : if ray 
 questions are importunate, you are, of course, at liberty tc 
 decline answering them. — I am, yours respectfully, 
 
 '' C. Bell." 
 
 TO G. II. LEWES, ESQ. 
 
 *' Nov. 22nd, 1847. 
 *' Dear Sir, — I have now read * Ranthorpe.' I could not 
 get it till a day or two ago ; but I have got it and read it ai 
 last; and in reading ' Eanthorpe,' I have read a new book, 
 
38 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONXi^. 
 
 — ^not a reprint — not a reflection of any other book, but a 
 new hook. 
 
 " I did not know such books were written now. It is 
 very different to any of the popular works of fiction ; it fills 
 the mind with fresh knowledge. Your experience and your 
 convictions are made the reader's and to an author, at least, 
 they have a value and an interest quite unusual. I await 
 your criticism on ' Jane Eyre ' now with other sentiments 
 than I entertained before the perusal of ^ Kanthorpe.' 
 
 " You were a stranger to me. I did not particularly re- 
 spect you. I did not feel that your praise or blame would 
 have any special weight. I knew little of your right to con- 
 demn or approve. Noiv I am informed on these points. 
 
 " You will be severe ; your last letter taught me as much. 
 Well ! I shall try to extract good out of your severity : and 
 besides, though I am now sure you are a just, discriminating 
 man, yet, being mortal, you must be fallible ; and if any part 
 of your censure galls me too keenly to the quick — ogives me 
 deadly pain — I shall for the present disbelieve it, and put it 
 quite aside, till such time as I feel able to receive it without 
 torture. — I am, dear Sir, yours very respectfully, 
 
 '' C. Bell." 
 
 In December, 1847, ^^ Wuthering Heights " and ^^ Agnes 
 Grey *' appeared. The first-named of these stories has re- 
 volted 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 country- 
 people that pass her convent gates. My sister's disposition 
 
" WUTIIERING heights" AND ITS AUTHOR. 39 
 
 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 vici- 
 nage, the memory is sometimes compelled to receive the im- 
 press. Her imagination, which was a spirit more sombre 
 than sunny — more powerful than sportive — ^found in such 
 .raits material whence it wrought creations like HeathclifFe, 
 like Earnshaw, like Catharine. 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 grind- 
 ing influence of natures so relentless and implacable — of 
 spirits so lost and fallen ; if it was complained that the mere 
 hearing of certain vivid and fearful scenes banished sleep by 
 night, and disturbed mental peace by day, Ellis Bell would 
 wonder what was meant, and suspect the complainant of af- 
 fectation. Had she but lived, her mind would of itself have 
 grown like a strong tree — loftier, straighter, wider-spreading 
 — and its matured fruits would have attained a mellower ripe- 
 ness and sunnier bloom ; but on that mind time and expe- 
 rience alone could work ; to the influence of other intellects 
 she was not amenable." 
 
 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 
 
iO LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 justice. The immature, but very real, powers revealed ii; 
 *Wuthering Heights,' were scarcely recognized ; its import 
 and nature were misunderstood ; the identity of its author 
 was misrepresented : it was said that this was an earlier and 
 ruder attempt of the same pen which had produced ' Jane 
 Eyre.' "...." Unjust and grievous error ! We laughed 
 at it at first, but I deeply lament it now." 
 
 Henceforward Charlotte Bronte's existence becomes di- 
 vided into two parallel currents — her life as Currer Bell, the 
 author ; her life as Charlotte Bronte, the woman. There 
 were separate duties belonging to each character — not op- 
 posing each other ; not impossible, but difl&cult to be recon- 
 ciled. 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 pro- 
 fession, 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. Btit 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 devolv- 
 ing 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 labor to 
 do what is not impossible, or God would not have set her to 
 do it. 
 
 I put into words what Charlotte Bronto put into actions 
 
DOMESTIC ANXIETIES. 41 
 
 The year 1848 opened with sad domestic distress. It ia 
 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 weJl 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 ob- 
 jected to the representation of coarseness and shrank from 
 it with repugnance, as if such conceptions arose out of the 
 writers, should learn, that, not from the imagination — ^not 
 from internal conception — but from the hard cruel facts, 
 pressed down, by external life, upon their very senses, for 
 long months and years together, did they write out what 
 they saw, obeying the stern dictates of their consciences. 
 They might be mistaken. They might err in writing at all, 
 when their afflictions 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 wonder- 
 ful gifts, exercise them with a fuller feeling of responsibility 
 for their use. As to mistakes, they stand now — as authors 
 as well as women — before the judgment-seat of God. 
 
 '* Jan. 11th, 1848. 
 ^^We have not been very comfortable here at home 
 lately. Branwell has, by some means, contrived to get 
 more money from the old quarter, and has led us a sad 
 life. . . . Papa is harassed day and night ; we have little 
 peace ; he is always sick ; has two or three times fallen 
 down in fits ; what will be the ultimate end, God knows. 
 But who is without their drawback, their scourge, their 
 
i2 LITE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 skeleton behind the curtain ? It remains only to do one's 
 best, and endure with patience what God sends. '^ 
 
 I suppose that she had read Mr. Lewes' review on " Re- 
 cent 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 gen- 
 erous 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 peihaps have passed them 
 over, thus indicated, with too little reflection. 
 
 " I mean to observe your warning about being careful 
 how I undertake new works; my stock of materials is not 
 abundant, but very slender ; and, besides, neither my expe- 
 rience, 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 un- 
 easy impression that you were disposed to think better of the 
 author of ^ Jane Eyre ' than that individual deserved ; and 
 I would rather you had a correct than a flattering opinion of 
 me, even though I should never see you. 
 
 " If I ever do write another book, I think I will have 
 nothing of what you call ^ melodrama ; ' I tJiink so, but I 
 am not sure. I think, too, I will endeavour to follow the 
 counsel which shines out of Miss Austen's ^ mild eyes,' ^ to 
 finish more and be more subdued ; ' but neither am I sure 
 of that. When authors write best, or, at least, when they 
 write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them^ 
 which becomes their master — which will have its own way — 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. LEWES. 43 
 
 putting out of view all behests but its own, dictating certain 
 words, and insisting on tlieir being used, whether vehement 
 or measured in their nature ; new-moulding characters, giv- 
 ing unthought of turns to incidents, rejecting carefully- 
 elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and adopting 
 new ones. 
 
 " Is it not so ? And should we try to counteract this 
 influence ? Can we indeed counteract it ? 
 
 ^' I am glad that another work of yours will soon ap- 
 pear ; most curious shall I be to see whether you will write 
 up to your own principles, and work out your own theories. 
 You did not do it altogether in ^ Ranthorpe ' — at least not 
 in the latter part ; but the first portion was, I think, nearly 
 without fault ; then it had a pith, truth, significance in it, 
 which gave the book sterling value ; but to write so, one 
 must have seen and known a great deal, and I have seen and 
 known very little. 
 
 "Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am 
 puzzled on that point. What induced you to say that you 
 would have rather written * Pride and Prejudice,' or ' Tom 
 Jones,' than any of the Waverley Novels ? 
 
 " I had not seen * Pride and Prejudice ' till I read that 
 sentence of yours, and then I got the book. And what did 
 I find ? An accurate, daguerreotyped portrait of a com- 
 monplace face; a carefully-fenced, high-cultivated garden, 
 with neat borders and delicate flowers ; but no glance of a 
 bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no 
 blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with 
 her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined 
 houses. These observations will probably irritate you, but I 
 shall run the risk. 
 
 " Now I can understand admiration of George Sand ; 
 for though I never saw any of her works which I admired 
 throughout (even * Consuelo,' which is the best, or the best 
 
44 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tbat I have read, appears to me to couple strange extrava 
 gance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp oi 
 mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very 
 deeply respect ; she is sagacious and profound ; — Miss Austen 
 is only shrewd and observant. 
 
 " Am I wrong — or, were you hasty in what you said ? 
 If you have time, I should be glad to hear further on this 
 subject ; if not, or if you think the questions frivolous, do 
 not trouble yourself to reply. 
 
 T am, yours respectfully, 
 
 '' C. Bell." 
 
 TO G. IL LEWES, ESQ. 
 
 ** Jan. 18ih, 1848. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I must write one more note, though I had 
 not intended to trouble you again so soon. I have to agree 
 with you, and to differ from you. 
 
 " You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the 
 ' influence ' ; well, I accept your definition of what the effects 
 of that influence should be ; I recognise the wisdom of your 
 
 rules for its regulation 
 
 ; " What a strange lecture comes next in your letter ! You 
 say I must familiarise my mind with the fact, that * Miss 
 Austen is not a poetess, has no " sentiment " (you scornfully 
 enclose the word in inverted commas), no eloquence, none of 
 the ravishing enthusiasm of poetry,' — and then you add, I 
 must * learn to acknowledge her as one of the greatest artists, 
 of the greatest painters of human character^ and one of the 
 writers with the nicest sense of means to an end that ever 
 lived.'' 
 
 *^ The last point only will I ever acknowledge. 
 
 " Can there be a great artist without poetry ? 
 
 " What I call — what I will bend to, as a great artist then 
 
COERESPONDENCE WITH MR. LEWES. 45 
 
 — cannot be destitute of the divine gift. But by poetry^ I 
 am sure, you understand something different to what I do, 
 as you do by ^ sentiment.' It is poetry^ as I comprehend 
 the word, which elevates that masculine George Sand, and 
 makes out of something coarse, something Godlike. It is 
 sentiment,' in my sense of the term — sentiment jealously 
 hidden, but genuine, which extracts the venom from that 
 formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive 
 poison into purifying elixir. 
 
 * * If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep 
 feeling for his kind, he would delight to exterminate ; as it 
 is, I believe, he wishes only to reform. Miss Austen being, 
 as you say, without * sentiment,' without jpoetry^ maybe is 
 sensible, real (more real than true)^ but she cannot be greai, 
 "I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for 
 have I not questioned the perfection of your darling ?) ; the 
 storm may pass over me. Nevertheless, I will when I can 
 (I do not know when that will be, as I have no access to a 
 circulating library), diligently peruse all Miss Austen's works, 
 
 as you recommend You must forgive me for 
 
 not always being able to think as you do, and still believe 
 me yours gratefully, 
 
 '' C. Bell." 
 
 I have hesitated a little, before inserting the following 
 extract from a letter to Mr. Williams, but it is strikingly 
 characteristic ; and the criticism contained in it is, from that 
 circumstance, so interesting (whether we agree with it or not), 
 that I have determined to do so, though I thereby displace 
 the chronological order of the letters, in order to complete 
 this portion of a correspondence which is very valuable, as 
 fihowing the purely intellectual side of her character. 
 
4:6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 *' AprU 26th, 1848. 
 
 <^ My dear Sir, — I have now read, ^ Eose, Blanche, and 
 Violet,' and I will tell you, as well as I can, what I think 
 of it. Vv'hether it is an improvement on * Eanthorpe ' I do 
 not know, for I liked * Ranthorpe' much ; but, at any rate, it 
 contains more of a good thing. I find in it the same power, 
 but more fully developed. 
 
 " The author's character is seen in every page, which 
 makes the book interesting — far more interesting than any 
 story could do ; but it is what the writer himself says that 
 attracts, far more than what he puts into the mouths of his 
 characters. G. H. Lewes is, to my perception, decidedly the 
 most original character in the book^ .... The didactic 
 passages seem to me the best — far the best — in the work ; 
 very acute, very profound, are some of the views there given, 
 and very clearly they are offered to the reader. " He is a just 
 thinker ; he is a sagacious observer ; there is wisdom in his 
 theory, and, I doubt not, energy in his practice. But why, 
 then, are you often provoked with him while you read ? 
 How does he manage, while teaching, to make his hearer feel 
 as if his business was, not quietly to receive the doctrines 
 propounded, but to combat them ? You acknowledge that 
 he offers you gems of pure truth ; why do you keep per- 
 petually 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, some- 
 times. This you think while you are reading the book ; but 
 when you have closed it and laid it down, and sat a few min- 
 utes collecting your thoughts, and settling your impressions, 
 you find the idea or feeling predomioant in your mind to be 
 pleasure at the fuller acquaintance you have made with a fine 
 
CURREE BELL ON G. H. LEWES. 4Y 
 
 mind and a true heart, with high abilities and manly prin- 
 ciples. I hope he will not be long ere he publishes another 
 book. His emotional scenes are somewhat too uniformly ve- 
 hement : would not a more subdued style of treatment often 
 have produced a more masterly effect ? Now and then Mr. 
 Lewes takes a French pen into his hand, wherein he differs 
 from Mr. Thackeray, who always uses an English quill. 
 However, the French pen does not far mislead Mr. Lewes ; 
 he wields it with British muscles. All honour to him foi 
 the excellent general tendency of his book ! 
 
 " He gives no charming picture of London literary so- 
 ciety, and especially the female part of it ; but all coteries, 
 whether they be literary, scientific, political, or religious, 
 must, it seems to me, have a tendency to change truth into 
 affectation. When people belong to a clique, they must, I 
 suppose, in some measure, write, talk, think, and live for that 
 clique ; a harassing and narrowing necessity. I trust, the 
 press and the public show themselves disposed to give the 
 book the reception it merits ; and that is a very cordial one, 
 far beyond anything due to a Bulwer or D'Israeli produc- 
 tion." 
 
 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 bestow- 
 ing mere social visits on the parishioners. They had them* 
 gelves 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 occa- 
 eioned much illness to its inmates. Mr. Bronte represented 
 
48 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tlie unsanitary state of Haworth pretty fcrcibly to the Board 
 of Health ; and, after the requisite visits from their officers, 
 obtained a recommendation that all future interments in the 
 churchyard should be forbidden, a new graveyard opened on 
 the hill-side, and means set on foot for obtaining a water- 
 supply to each house, instead of the weary, hard-worked 
 housewives hav^ing to carry every bucketful from a distance 
 of several hundred yards up a steep street. But he was 
 baffled by the rate-payers; as, in many a similar instance, 
 quantity carried it against quality, numbers against intelli- 
 gence. And thus we find that illness often assumed a low 
 typhoid form in Haworth, and fevers of various kinds visited 
 the place with sad frequency. 
 
 In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was dethroned. The 
 quick succession of events at that time called forth the fol- 
 lowing expression of Miss Bronte's thoughts on the subject, 
 in a letter addressed to Miss Wooler, and dated March 31st. 
 
 " I remember well wishing my lot had been cast in the 
 troubled times of the late war, and seeing in its exciting 
 incidents a kind of stimulating charm, which it made my 
 pulses beat fast to think of: I remember even, I think, being 
 a little impatient, that you would not fully sympathise with 
 my feelings on those subjects; that you heard my aspirations 
 and speculations very tranquilly, and by no means seemed to 
 think the flaming swords could be any pleasant addition to 
 Paradise. I have now outlived youth ; and, though I dare 
 not say that I have outlived all its illusions — that the ro- 
 mance is quite gone from life — the veil fallen from truth, and 
 that I see both in naked reality — yet, certainly, many things 
 are not what they were ten years ago ; and, amongst the rest, 
 * the pomp and circumstance of war ' have quite lost in my 
 eyes their fictitious glitter. I have still no doubt that the 
 ehock of moral earthquakes wakens a vivid sense of life, both 
 
HER THOUGHTS ON THE REVOLUTION OF 1848. 49 
 
 in nations and individuals ; that tlie 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 tend- 
 ency is to exhaust, by their violence, the vital energies of 
 the countries where they occur. That England may be 
 spared the spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the 
 Continent, and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray. With 
 the French and Irish I have no sympathy. With the Ger- 
 mans 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 perceived 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 conscious- 
 ness of having " done something " present in her mind, as 
 she wrote this year : — 
 
 " I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone — gone, — and will 
 never come back : can't help it .... It seems to me, that 
 sorrow must come some time to everybody, and those who 
 scarcely taste it in their youth, often have a more brimming 
 and bitter cup to drain in after life ; whereas, those who 
 exhaust the dregs early, who drink the lees before the 
 wine, may reasonably hope for more palatable draughts to 
 succeed." 
 
 The authorship of " Jane Eyre " was as yet a close 
 VOL. II — 3 
 
50 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 secret In tlie Bronte family ; not even this friend, wKo waa 
 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 author — had published a 
 novel ! Then she wrote to her ; and received the two fol- 
 lowing letters ; confirmatory enough, as it seems to me now, 
 in their very vehemence and agitation of intended denial, of 
 the truth of the report. 
 
 *'April 28th, 1848. 
 ^' Write another letter, and explain that last note of 
 yours distinctly. If your allusions are to myself, which I 
 suppose they are, understand this, — I have given no one a 
 right to gossip about me, and am not to be judged by frivo- 
 lous conjectures, emanating from any quarter whatever. 
 Let me know what you heard, and from whom you heard it.'^ 
 
 ''May 3rd, 1848. 
 " All I can say to you about a certain matter is this 
 the report- — if report there be — and if the lady, who seems 
 to have been rather mystified, had not dreamt what she 
 fancied had been told to her — must have had its origin in 
 some absurd misunderstanding. I have given no one a right 
 either to afiirm, or to hint, in the most distant manner, that 
 T was ' publishing' — (humbug !) Whoever has said it — if 
 any one has, which I doubt — is no friend of mine. Though 
 twenty books were ascribed to me, I should own none. I 
 gcout the idea utterly. Whoever, after I have distinctly re- 
 jected the charge, urges it upon me, will do an unkind and 
 an ill-bred thing. The most profound obscurity is infinitely 
 
HER EEPUDIATION OF AUTHOKSHIP. 51 
 
 preferable to vulgar notoriety ; and that notoriety I neither 
 seek nor will have. If then any B — an, or G — an, should 
 presume to bore you on the subject, — to ask you what 
 * novel' Miss Bronte has been 'publishing,' you can just 
 say, with the distinct firmness of which you are perfect 
 mistress, when you choose, that you are authorized by Misa 
 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 iias come ; and, 
 I fear, it has far from a friendly origin. I am not certain, 
 however, and I should be very glad if I could gain certainty. 
 Should you hear anything more, please let me know. Your 
 offer of ' Simeon's Life' is a very kind one, and I thank you 
 for it. I dare say Papa would like to see the work very 
 
 much, as he knew Mr. Simeon. Laugh or scold A 
 
 out of the publishing notion ; and believe me, through all 
 chances and changes, whether calumniated or let alone, — 
 Yours faithfully. 
 
 '^ C. Bronte." 
 
 The reasoxi why Miss Bronte was so anxious to preserve 
 her secret, was, I am told, that she had pledged her word to 
 her sisters that it should not be revealed through her. 
 
 The dilemmas attendant on the publication of the sisters' 
 novels, under assumed names, were increasing upon them. 
 Many critics insisted on believing, that all the fictions pub- 
 ished 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 subject —the 
 
52 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONtE. 
 
 deterioration of a character, wliose 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 peace- 
 ful 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 charac- 
 ters, incidents, and situations), as a warning to others. She 
 hated her work, but would pursue it. When reasoned with 
 on the subject, she regarded such reasonings as a temptation 
 to self-indulgence. She must be honest ; she must not var- 
 nish, soften, or conceal. This well-meant resolution brought 
 on her misconstruction, and some abuse, which she bore, as 
 it was her custom to bear whatever was unpleasant, with 
 mild steady patience. She was a very sincere and practical 
 Christian, but the tinge of religious melancholy communicated 
 a sad shade to her brief blameless life." 
 
 In the June of this year, " The Tenant of Wildfell Hall " 
 was sufficiently near its completion to be submitted to the 
 person who had previously published for Ellis and Acton 
 Bell. 
 
 In consequence of his mode of doing business, considera- 
 ble 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 Par- 
 Bonage from Messrs. Smith and Elder, which disturbed its 
 quiet inmates not a little ; as, though the matter brought un- 
 der their notice was merely referred to as one which affected 
 
CURKER AND ACTON BELL GO TO LONDON. 53 
 
 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 BelFs pub- 
 lisher 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 au- 
 thor. 
 
 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 Lon- 
 don 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 vari- 
 ance 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 
 ■'bange of dress in a small box, which they sent down to 
 Keighley by an opportune cart ; and after early tea, they 
 set off to walk thither — ^no doubt in some excitement ; for, 
 independently of their cause of 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 
 
54 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 they had no time to seek shelter. They only just caught tho 
 train at Keighley, arrived at Leeds, and were whirled up by 
 the night train to London. 
 
 About eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, they ar- 
 rived at the Chapter Coffee-house, Paternoster E,ow — a 
 strange place, but they did not well know where else to go. 
 They refreshed themselves by washing, and had some break- 
 fast. 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 
 oustle and " queer state of inward excitement " in which 
 they found themselves, as they sat and considered their posi- 
 tion on the Saturday morning, they quite forgot even tlie pos- 
 sibility of hiring a conveyance ; and when they set forth, 
 they became so dismayed by the crowded streets, and the im- 
 peded crossings, that they stood still repeatedly, in complete 
 despair of making progress, and were nearly an hour in walk- 
 ing the half-mile they had to go. Neither Mr. Smith nor 
 Mr. Williams knew that they were coming ; they were en- 
 tirely unknown to the publishers of " Jane Eyre," who were 
 not, in fact, aware whether the " Bells " were men or women, 
 but had always written to them as to men. 
 
 On reaching Mr. Smith's, Charlotte put his own letter 
 into his hands ; the same letter which had excited so much 
 disturbance at Haworth Parsonage only twenty-four hours 
 before. " Where did you get this ? " said he, — as if he could 
 not believe that the two young ladies dressed in black, of 
 Blight figures and diminutive stature, looking pleased yet agi- 
 tated, could be the embodied Currer and Acton Bell, for 
 whom curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain. An 
 
HER VISIT TO THE OrERA. 55 
 
 explanation ensued, and Mr. Smith at once began to form 
 plans for their amusement and pleasure during their stay in 
 London. He urged them to meet a few literary friends at 
 his house ; and this was a strong temptation to Charlotte, 
 as amongst them were one or two of the writers whom she 
 particularly wished to see ; but her resolution to remain 
 unknown induced her firmly to put it aside. 
 
 The sisters were equally persevering in declining Mr. 
 Smith's invitations to stay at his house. They refused to 
 leave their quarters, saying they were not prepared for a 
 long stay. 
 
 When they returned back to their inn, poor Charlotte 
 paid for the excitement of the interview, which had wound 
 up the agitation and hurry of the last twenty- four hours, by 
 a racking headache and harassing sickness. Towards even- 
 ing, as she rather expected some of the ladies of Mr. Smith's 
 family to call, she prepared herself for the chance, by taking 
 a strong dose of sal-volatile, which roused her a little, but 
 still, as she says, she was " in grievous bodily case," when 
 their visitors were announced, in full evening costume. The 
 sisters had not understood that it had been settled that they 
 were to go to the Opera, and therefore were not ready. 
 Moreover, they had no fine elegant dresses either with them, 
 or in the wor.d. But Miss Bronte resolved to raise no ob- 
 jections in the acceptance of kindness. So, in spite of head- 
 ache and weariness, they made haste to dress themselves in 
 their plain high-made country garments. 
 
 Charlotte says, in an account which she gives to her 
 friend of this visit to London, describing the entrance of her 
 party into the Opera-house : — 
 
 " Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us, as we stood 
 by the box-door, which was not yet opened, with a slight 
 graceful superciliousness, quite warranted by the circum- 
 stances. Still I felt pleasurably excited in spite of headache, 
 
56 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 sickness, and conscious clownishness ; and I saw Anne wan 
 calm and gentle, which she always is. The performance 
 was Eossini'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 be- 
 fore ; had been in constant excitement for twenty-four hours ; 
 you may imagine we were tired. The next day, Sunday, 
 Mr. Williams came early to take us to church ; and in the 
 afternoon Mr. Smith and his mother fetched us in a carriage, 
 and took us to his house to dine. 
 
 " On Monday we went to the Exhibition of the Royal 
 Academy, the National Gallery, dined again at Mr. Smith's, 
 and then went home to tea with Mr. Williams at his house. 
 
 " On Tuesday morning, we left London, laden with books 
 Mr. Smith had given us, and got safely home. A more 
 jaded wretch than I looked, it would be difficult to conceive. 
 I was thin when I went, but I was meagre indeed when I 
 returned, my face looking grey and very old, with strange 
 deep lines ploughed in it — my eyes stared unnaturally. I 
 was weak and yet restless. In a while, however, these bad 
 effects of excitement went off, and I regained my normal 
 condition." 
 
 The impression Miss 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 
 
PATERNOSTER KOW. - 57 
 
 or did ; yet so open and fair in dealing with a subject, or 
 contending with an opponent, that instead of rousing resent- 
 ment, 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 Eow was for many years sacred to publish- 
 ers. 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 Kow." 
 The dull warehouses on each side are mostly occupied at 
 present by wholesale stationers ; if they be publishers' shops, 
 they show no attractive front to the dark and narrow street. 
 Half-way up, on the left hand side, is the Chapter Coffee- 
 house. I visited it last June. It was then unoccupied. It 
 had the appearance of a dwelling-house two hundred years 
 old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient country 
 towns ; the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and had 
 heavy beams running across them; the walls were wain- 
 scotted breast high ; the staircase was shallow, broad, and 
 dark, taking up much space in the centre of the house. This 
 then was the Chapter Coffee-house, which, a century ago, 
 was the resort of all the booksellers and publishers ; and 
 where the literary hacks, the critics, and even the wits, used 
 to go in search of ideas or employment. This was the place 
 about which Chatterton wrote, in those delusive letters he 
 sent to his mother at Bristol, while he was starving in Lon- 
 don. " I am quite familiar at the Chapter Coffee-house, and 
 know all the geniuses there." Here he heard of chances of 
 employment ; here his letters were to be left. 
 
 Years later, it became the tavern frequented by univer- 
 sity men and country clergymen, who were up in London 
 for a few days, and, having no private friends or access intc 
 VOL. II — 3* 
 
58 LIFE OF CIIARLOITE BEONTE. 
 
 society, were glad to learn wliat was going on in the world 
 of letters, from the conversation which they were sure tc 
 hear in the coffee room. 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 staid at this house ; 
 hither he had brought his daughters, when he was convoying 
 them to Brussels ; and here they came now, from very igno- 
 rance where else to go. It was a place solely frequented by 
 men ; 1 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 " grey-haired 
 elderly man," who officiated as waiter, seems to have been 
 touched from the very first with the quiet simplicity of the 
 two ladies, and he tried to make them feel comfortable and at 
 home in the long, low, dingy room up stairs, where the meet- 
 ings of the Trade were held. The high narrow windows 
 looked into the gloomy Row ; the sisters, clinging together 
 on the most remote window-seat, (as Mr. Smith tells me he 
 found them, when he came, that Saturday evening, to take 
 them to the Opera,) could see nothing of motion, or of 
 change, in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and close, 
 although the whole breadth of the Row was between. The 
 mighty roar of London was round them, like the sound of an 
 unseen ocean, yet every footfall on the pavement below 
 might be heard distinctly, in that unfrequented street. Such 
 as it was, they preferred remaining at the Chapter Coffee- 
 house, to accepting the invitation which Mr. Smith and his 
 mother urged upon them; and, in after years, Charlotte 
 gays : — 
 
IMPRESSIONS OF CITY LIFE. 59 
 
 * Since those days I have seen the West End, the parks, 
 the line squares; but I love the City far better. The City 
 seems so much more in earnest ; its business, its rush, its 
 roar, are such serious things, sights, sounds. The City is 
 getting its living — the West End but enjoying its pleasure. 
 At the West End you may be amused ; but in the City you 
 are deeply excited." {VilleUe^ vol. i., p. 89.) 
 
 Their wish had been tc 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 Bronto 
 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 coun- 
 try-women, with not much to say. Mr. Williams tells mo 
 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 in- 
 voluntarily she slightly pressed his arm, and whispered, 
 " You know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing." In- 
 deed, it must have formed a vivid contrast to what they were 
 doing and seeing an hour or two earlier the night before, 
 
CO LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 wlien tliey were trudging along, witli beating hearts and 
 high-strung courage, on the road between Haworth and 
 Keighley, hardly thinking of the thnnder-storm that beat 
 about their heads, for the thoughts which filled them of how 
 they would go straight away to London, and prove that they 
 were really two people, and not one impostor. It was no 
 wonder that they returned to Haworth utterly fagged and 
 worn out, after the fatigue and excitement of this visit. 
 
 The next notice I find of Charlotte's life at thu time is 
 of a different character to any thing telling of enjovment. 
 
 "Jalj28th. 
 "Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. Kis consti- 
 tution seems much shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of 
 us, have sad nights with him. He sleeps most of the day, 
 and consequently will lie awake at night. But has not every 
 house its trial ? " 
 
 While her most intimate friends were yet in ignoranc j 
 of the fact of her authorship of " Jane Eyre," she received a 
 letter from one of them, making inquiries about Casterton 
 School. It i's but right to give her answer, written on Au 
 
 gust 28th, 1848. 
 
 ^^ Since you wish to hear from me while you are from 
 home, I will write without further delay. It often happem 
 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 
 
CASTEKTON SCHOOL. 61 
 
 fjligible place. My personal knowledge of that institution w 
 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 ricketty infancy it was. Typhus fever 
 decimated the school periodically; and consumption and 
 scrofula, in every variety of form bad air and water, bad and 
 nsufficient diet can generate, preyed on the ill-fated pupils. 
 It would not then have been a fit place for any of Mrs. 
 
 ■ 's children ; but I understand it is very much altered 
 
 for the better since those days. The school is removed from 
 Cowan Bridge (a situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque 
 — low, damp, beautiful with wood and water) to Casterton. 
 The accommodations, the diet, the discipline, the system of 
 tuition — all are, I believe, entirely altered and greatly im- 
 proved. 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 se- 
 lection ; 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 neigh- 
 bourhood where their fathers resided before them for, it is 
 said, thirteen generations. . . . Papa, I am most thankful to 
 say, continues in very good health, considering his age ; his 
 sight, too, rather, I think, improves than deteriorates. My 
 Bisters likewise are pretty well." 
 
 But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed house- 
 old, and gathering blackness every hour. 
 On October the 9th, she thus writes: — 
 
 " The past three weeks have been a dark interval m om 
 humble home. BranwelFs constitution had been failing fast 
 dl the summer : but still, neither the doctors nor /himself 
 
62 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 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 afi*ection marked his 
 last moments. He is in God's hands now ; and the AU- 
 Powerful is likewise the All-Mercifal. A deep cmviction 
 that he rests at last — rests well, after his brief, erring, suf- 
 . fering, feverish life — fills and quiets my mind now. The 
 final separation, the spectacle of his pale corpse, gave me 
 more acute bitter pain than I could have imagined. Till the 
 last hour comes, we never know how much we can forgive, 
 pity, regret a near relative. All his vices were and are no- 
 thing now. We remember only his woes. Papa was acute- 
 ly 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 in 
 ternal 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 noAV returning. I 
 can sit up all day, and take moderate nourishment. The 
 doctor said at first, I should be very slow in recovering, but 
 I seem to get on faster than he anticipated. I am truly 
 much better.'^'' 
 
 I have heard, from one who attended Branwell in his 
 last illness, that he resolved on standing up to die He had 
 
IMPENDING SORROWS. 63 
 
 repeatedly said, that as long as there was life there was 
 strength of will to do what it chose; and when the last 
 agony came on, he insisted on assuming the position just 
 mentioned. I have previously stated, that when his fatal 
 attack came on, his pockets were found filled with old letters 
 from the woman to whom he was attached. He died ! she 
 lives still, — in May Fair. The Eumenides, I suppose, went 
 out of existence at the time when the wail was heard, 
 " Great Pan is dead." I think we could better have spared 
 him than those awful Sisters who sting dead conscience into 
 life. 
 
 I turn from her for ever. Let us look once more into 
 the Parsonage at Haworth. 
 
 " Oct. 29tli, 1848. 
 " I think I have now nearly got over the efiects 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 breath- 
 ing, 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 nevet 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 re- 
 Bignation are difficult to practise under some circumstances. 
 The weather has been most unfavourable for invalids of 
 
G4 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BPwONTfi. 
 
 late ; sudden changes of temperature, and cold penetralirg 
 winds have been frequent here. Should the atmosphere bC' 
 come 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 hnow^ that this world is not our abiding- 
 place. We should not knit human ties too close, or olasp 
 human affections too fondly. They must leave us, or we 
 must leave them, one day. God restore health and strength 
 to all who need it ! " 
 
 I go on now with her own affecting words in the biogra- 
 phical notices 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 labour- 
 ers 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 da}-, 
 when I saw with what a front she met suffering, I looked on 
 her with an anguish of wonder and love. I have seen no- 
 thing 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 wa? 
 inexorable to the flesh; from the trembling hands, the un- 
 nerved limbs, the fading eyes, the same service was exacted 
 us they had rendered in health. To stand by and wHness 
 this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can 
 render." 
 
ill:n^ess of emily bkonte. 65 
 
 In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday 
 succeeding BranwelPs death. She made no complaint ; she 
 would not endure questioning : she rejected sympathy and 
 help. Many a time did Charlotte and Anne drop their sew- 
 ing, or cease from their writing, to listen with wrung hearts 
 to the failing step, the laboured breathing, the frequent 
 pauses, with which their sister climbed the short staircase ; 
 yet they dared not notice what they observed, with pangs of 
 suffering even deeper than hers. They dared not notice it 
 in words, far less by the caressing assistance of a helping 
 arm or hand. They sat, still and silent. 
 
 '*Nov. 23d, 1848. 
 " I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has 
 not rallied yet. She is very ilL I believe, if you were to 
 see her, your impression would be that there is no hope. A 
 more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect, I have not beheld. The 
 deep tight cough continues; the breathing after the least 
 exertion is a rapid pant ; and these symptoms are accom- 
 panied by pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only 
 time she allowed it to be 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 ha?* 
 been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God only known 
 how all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been 
 forced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as pos- 
 sible, 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 
 
66 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 medicines wliicli lie sent she would not take, denying thai 
 she was ill 
 
 *' Dec. lOth, 1848. 
 
 " I hardly know what to say to you about the subject 
 which now interests me the most keenly of any thing 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 ex- 
 treme 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, un- 
 known 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 stylish-looking 
 girls. They seemed overjoyed to see Anne : when I went 
 into the room, they were clinging round her like two chil- 
 dren — she, meantime, looking perfectly quiet and passive. 
 . . . . I. and H. took it into their heads to come here 
 I think it probable offence was taken on that occasion, — from 
 what cause, I know not ; and as, if such be the case, the 
 grudge must rest upon purely imaginary grounds, — and since, 
 besides, I have other things to think about, my mind rarely 
 dwells upon the subject. If Emily were but well, I feel a 
 
THE SPEAY OF HEATHER. 67 
 
 if I should not care who neglected, misuuderstood, or abused 
 me. I would rather you were not of the number either. 
 The crab-cheese arrived safely. Emily has just reminded 
 me to thank you for it : it looks very nice. I wish she were 
 well enough to eat it." 
 
 But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember 
 Miss Bronte's shiver at recalling the pang she felt when, 
 after having searched in the little hollows and sheltered 
 crevices cf the moors for a lingering spray of heather — just 
 one spray, however withered — to take in to Emily, she saw 
 that the flower was not recognized 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 her- 
 self as usual, making many a pause, but doing every thing 
 for herself, and even endeavoring to take up her employment 
 of sewing : the servants looked on, and knew what the catch- 
 ing, rattling breath, and the glazing of the eye too surely 
 foretold ; but she kept at her work ; and Charlotte and Anne, 
 though full of unspeakable dread, had still the faintest spark 
 of hope. On that morning Charlotte wrote thus, — probably 
 in the very presence of her dying sister : — 
 
 " Tuesday. 
 ^' I should have written to you before, if I had had one 
 word of hope to say; but I have not. She grows daily 
 weaker. The physician's opinion was expressed too obscurel 
 to be of use. He sent some medicine, which she would 
 not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. 
 I pray for God's support to us all. Hitherto He has granted 
 it." 
 
 The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse : she 
 
fi8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 oould only whisper In gasps. Now, when it was too late, she 
 said to Charlotte, " If you will send for a doctor, I will see 
 him now." About two o'clock she died. 
 
 "Dec. 21st, 1848. 
 
 *' Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. 
 She never will suffer more in this world. She is gone, after 
 a hard, short conflict. She died on Tuesday^ the very day I 
 wrote to you. I thought it very possible she might be with 
 us still for weeks ; and a few hours afterwards, she was in 
 eternity. Yes ; there is no Emily in time or on earth now. 
 Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly un- 
 der the Church pavement. We are very calm at present. 
 Why should we be otherwise ? The anguish of seeing her 
 suffer is over ; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone by ; 
 the funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need 
 now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind, Emily 
 does not feel them. She died in a time of promise. We 
 saw her taken from life in its prime. But it is God's will 
 and the place where she is gone is better than that she has 
 left. 
 
 " God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, 
 through such agony as 1 had not conceived. I now look at 
 Anne, and wish she were well and strong ; but she is nei- 
 ther ; nor is papa. Could you now come to us for a few 
 days ? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tel) 
 me if you could come next week, and by what train. I 
 would try to send a gig for you to Keighley. You will, I 
 trust, find us tranquil. Try to come. I never so much 
 needed the consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure, of 
 course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what 
 your kind heart would teach you to find in doing good V 
 others.'^ 
 
I'UNEEAL OF EMILY BRO:NTii:. 6ii 
 
 As the old bereaved father and his two surviving children 
 followed the coffin to the grave, they were joined by Keeper, 
 Emily's fierce, faithful bull-dog. He walked alongside of 
 the mourners, and into the church, and stayed quietly there 
 all the time that the burial service was being read. When 
 he came home, he lay down at Emily's chamber door, and 
 howled pitifully for many days. Anne Bronte drooped and • 
 sickened more rapidly from that time , and so ended the year 
 1848. 
 
70 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKOliTfi. 
 
 OHAPTEE 111. 
 
 An article on^^ A'anity Fair " and " Jane Ejre had appea/cd 
 in the Quarterly Eeview 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 unfavour- 
 able, 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 He- 
 view was accordingly sent. I am not aware that Miss Bronte 
 took any greater notice of the article than to place a few sen* 
 tences 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 wh^n 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 de- 
 served the criticisms which, while striving to be severe, failed 
 in logic, owing to the misuse of prepositions ; and have 
 smarted under conjectures as to the authorship of " Jane 
 Eyre," which, intended to be acute, were merely flippant. 
 But flippancy takes a graver name when directed against an 
 author by an anonymous writer. We call it then cowardly 
 insolence. 
 
 Every one has a right to form his own conclusion respect- 
 ing the merits and demerits of a book. I complain not ol 
 
THE QUARTERLY REVIEW ON " JANE EYRE."' Tl 
 
 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 Amer- 
 ica 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 re- 
 viewer's style of composition) I leave his criticisms regard- * 
 ing the merits of the work on one side. But when — forget- 
 ting the chivalrous spirit of the good and noble Southey, 
 who said : " In reviewing anonymous works myself, when I 
 have known the authors I have never mentioned them, taking 
 it for granted they had sufficient reasons for avoiding the 
 publicity" — the Quarterly reviewer goes on into gossiping 
 conjectures as to who Currer Bell really is, and pretends to 
 decide on what the writer may be from the book, I protest 
 with my whole soul against such want of Christian charity. 
 Not even the desire to write a " smart article," which shall 
 be talked about in London, when the faint mask of the 
 anonymous can be dropped at pleasure if the cleverness of the 
 review be admired — not even this temptation can excuse the 
 stabbing cruelty of the judgment. Who is he that should 
 say of an unknown woman : "She must be one who for some 
 sufficient reason has long forfeited the society of her sex " ? 
 Is he one who has led a wild and struggling and isolated 
 life, — seeing few but plain and outspoken Northerns, un- 
 skilled in the euphuisms which assist the polite world to 
 Bkim 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 
 
72 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 march through his household, sweeping the hearthstone bare 
 of life and love, still striven hard for strength to say, " It is 
 the Lord ! let Him do what seemeth to Him good " — and 
 sometimes striven in vain, until the kindly Light returned ? 
 If through all these dark waters the scornful reviewer have 
 passed clear, refined, free from stain, — with a soul that has 
 never in all its agonies, cried " lama sabachthani," — still 
 even then let him pray with the Publican rather than judge 
 with the Pharisee. 
 
 *' Jan. lOtli, 1849. 
 " Anne haa a very tolerable day yesterday, and a pretty 
 quiet night last night, though she did not sleep much. Mr. 
 Wheelhouse ordered the blister to be put on again. She 
 bore it without sickness. I have just dressed it, and she is 
 risen and come down stairs. She looks somewhat pale and 
 sickly. She has had one dose of the cod-liver oil ; it smells 
 and tastes like train oil. I am trying to hope, but the day 
 is windy, cloudy, and stormy. My spirits fall at intervals 
 very low ; then I look where you counsel me to look, beyond 
 earthly tempests and sorrows. I seem to get strength, if 
 not consolation. It will not do to anticipate. I feel that 
 hourly. In the night, I awake and long for morning ; then 
 my heart is wrung. Papa continues much the same ; he was 
 
 very faint when he came down to breakfast Dear 
 
 E , your friendship is some comfort to me. I 
 
 am thankful for it. I see few lights through the darkness 
 of the present time ; but amongst them the constancy of a 
 kind heart attached to me is one of the most cheering and 
 eerene." 
 
 *' Jan. 15th, 1849. 
 " I can scarcely say that Anne is worse, nor can I say 
 she is better. She varies often in the course of a day, yet 
 
A TIME OF DAKKJSTESS. 73 
 
 each day is passed pretty mucli the same. The morning is 
 usually the best time ; the afternoon and the evening the 
 most feverish. Her cough is the most troublesome at night, 
 but it is rarely violent. The pain in her arm still disturbs 
 her. She takes the cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron re- 
 gularly ; she finds them both nauseous, but especially the oil. 
 Her appetite is small indeed. Do not fear that I shall relax 
 in my care of her. She is too precious not to be cherished 
 with all the fostering strength I have. Papa, I am thankful 
 to say, has been a good deal better this last day or two, 
 
 " As to your queries about myself, I can only say, that 
 if I continue as I am I shall do very well. I have not yet 
 got rid of the pains in my chest and back. They oddly re- 
 turn with every change of weather ; and are still sometimes 
 accompanied with a little soreness and hoarseness, but I 
 combat them steadily with pitch plasters and bran tea. I 
 should think it silly and wrong indeed not to be regardful 
 of my own health at present; it would not do to be ill 
 now. 
 
 " I avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep 
 looking upward. This is not the time to regret, dread, or 
 weep. What I have and ought to do is very distinctly laid 
 out for me ; what I want, and pray for, is strength to per- 
 form it. The days pass in a slow, dark march ; the nights 
 are the test; the sudden wakings from restless sleep, the 
 revived knowledge that one lies in her grave, and another 
 not at my side, but in a separate and sick bed. However, 
 God is over all.'' 
 
 <• Jan. 22ncl, 1849. 
 '^ Anne really did seem to be a little better during some 
 mild days last week, but to-day she looks very pale and 
 languid again. She perseveres with the cod-liver oil, but 
 Btill finds it very nauseous. 
 
 VOL. II. — 4 
 
74 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKCNTE. 
 
 " 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 pre- 
 ferred that others should tell her. I have not written to 
 
 • either. I cannot write, except when I am quite 
 
 obliged." 
 
 *'reb. 11th, 1849. 
 " We received the box and its contents quite safely to- 
 day. The penwipers are very pretty, and we are very much 
 obliged to you for them. I hope the respirator will be use- 
 ful to Anne, in case she should ever be well enough to go 
 out again. She continues very much in the same state — I 
 trust not greatly worse, though she is becoming very thin. 
 I fear it would be only self-delusion to fancy her better. 
 What effect the advancing season may have on her, I know 
 not ; perhaps the return of really warm weather may give 
 nature a happy stimulus. I tremble at the thought of any 
 change to cold wind or frost. Would that March were well 
 over 1 Her mind seems generally serene, and her sufferings 
 hitherto are nothing like Emily's. The thought of what may 
 be to come grows more familiar to my mind ; but it is a sad, 
 dreary guest." 
 
 "March 16th, 1819. 
 *^ We have found the past week a somewhat trying one ; 
 it has not been cold, but still there have been changes of 
 
SUPPORT UKDER AFFLICTION. 75 
 
 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 new. The feeling of Emily's 
 loss does not diminish as time wears on ; it often makes it- 
 self most acutely recognised. It brings too an inexpressible 
 sorrow with it ; and then the future is dark. Yet I am well 
 aware, it will not do either to complain, or sink, and I strive 
 to do neither. Strength, I hope and trust, will yet be given 
 in proportion to the burden ; but the pain of my position is 
 not one likely to lessen with habit. Its solitude and isolation 
 are oppressive circumstances, yet I do not wish for any 
 friends to stay with me ; I could not do with any one — not 
 even you — to share the sadness of the house ; it would rack 
 me intolerably. Meantime, judgment is still blent with 
 mercy. Anne's sufferings still continue mild. It is my 
 nature, when left alone, to struggle on with a certain perse- 
 verance, and I believe Grod will help me." 
 
 Anne had been delicate all her life ; a fact which per- 
 haps 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 treat- 
 ment was prescribed, which was afterwards ratified by the 
 opinion of Dr. Forbes. 
 
 For a short time they hoped that the disease was arrested. 
 Charlotte — ^lierself ill with a complaint that severely tried 
 
76 LIFE OF CIIAELO^ITE BKONTE. 
 
 her spirits — was the ever-watchful nurse of this youngest, 
 last sister. One comfort was tBat Anne was the patientest, 
 gentlest invalid that could be. Still, there were hours, days, 
 weeks of inexpressible anguish to be borne ; under the pres- 
 sure of which Charlotte could only pray ; and pray she did, 
 right earnestly. Thus she writes on March 24th : — 
 
 *' Anne's decline is gradual and fluctuating ; but its na- 
 ture 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 sick- 
 ness, 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 ray father 
 and to myself. God, I think, is specially merciful to old 
 age ; and for my own part, trials, which in perspective would 
 have seemed to me quite intolerable, when they actually 
 came, I endured without prostration. Yet I must confess 
 that, in the time which has elapsed since Emily's death, there 
 have been moments of solitary, deep, inert affliction, far 
 harder to bear than those which immediately followed our 
 loss. The crisis of bereavement has an acute pang which 
 goads to exertion ; the desolate after-feeling sometimes para- 
 lyzes. I have learnt that we are not to find solace in our 
 own strength • we must seek it in God's omnipotence. For- 
 titude is good ; but fortitude itself must be shaken under us 
 to teach us how weak we are ! " 
 
 \11 through this illness of Anne's, Charlotte had the com- 
 
CRITICAL STATE OF ANNE BKONTE. 77 
 
 fort of being able to talk to her about her state ; a comfort 
 rendered inexpressibly great by the contrast which it pre- 
 sented 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, tc which E be- 
 longed, proposed that Anne should come to them ; in order 
 to try what change of air and diet, and the company of kindly 
 people could do towards restoring her to health. In answer 
 to this proposal, Charlotte writes : — 
 
 " March 24th. 
 ^^ I read your kind note to Anne, and she wishes me to 
 thank you sincerely for your friendly proposal. She feels, of 
 course, that it would not do to take advantage of it, by 
 
 quartering an invalid upon the inhabitants of ; but she 
 
 intimates there is another way in which you might serve her, 
 perhaps with some benefit to yourself as well as to her. 
 Should it, a month or two hence, be deemed advisable that 
 she should go either to the sea-side, or to some inland water- 
 ing-place — and should papa be disinclined to move, and I 
 consequently obliged to remain at home — she asks, could you 
 be her companion ? Of course I need not add that in the 
 event of such an arrangement being made, you would be put 
 o no expense. This, dear B., is Anne's proposal; I make 
 t to comply with her wish ; but for my own part, I must add 
 that I see serious objections to your accepting it — objections 
 I cannot name to her. She continues to vary; is sometimes 
 worse, and sometimes better, as the weather changes ; but, on 
 the whole^ I fear she loses strength. Papa says her state is 
 
78 LIFE OF CIIARIOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 most precarious ; she may be spared for some time, or a sud- 
 den alteration might remove her before we are aware. AYere 
 such an alteration to take place while she was far from home, 
 and alone with you, it would be terrible. The idea of it dis- 
 tresses 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 cer- 
 tainly 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 afikirs. I am 
 interested in all that interests you.'^ 
 
 FROM ANNE BRONTE. 
 
 '^ April 5th, 1849. 
 
 "My dear Miss , — I thank you greatly for your 
 
 kind letter, and your ready compliance with my proposal, aa 
 far as the will can go at least. I see, however, that yuiir 
 friends are unwilling that you should undertake the respon- 
 sibility 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 as helpful as any one could possibly be, 
 and I hope I should not be very troublesome. It would be 
 as a companion, not as a nurse, that I should wish for your 
 company ; otherwise I should not venture to ask it. As for 
 
 your kind and often-repeated invitation to , pray give 
 
 my sincere thanks to your mother and sisters, but tell them 
 I could not think of inflicting my presence upon them as I 
 uow am. It is very kind of them to make so light of the 
 
LETTER FROM ANNE BRONTE. 7S 
 
 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 reno- 
 vate 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 acknow- 
 ledge, but, according to my experience, we are almost certain 
 of some fine warm days in the latter half, when the labur- 
 nums 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 dis- 
 appointments 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, es- 
 pecially 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 tho 
 
 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 
 Bakes, but because I long to do some good in the world be- 
 
80 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 fore I leave it. I have many schemes in my head for future 
 practice — humble and limited indeed — hut still I should not 
 like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to 
 so little purpose. But God's will be done. Remember me 
 respectfully to your mother and sisters, and believe me, dear 
 
 Miss , yours most affectionately, 
 
 " Anne Bronte." 
 
 It must have been about this time that Anne composed 
 her last verses, before " the desk was closed, and the pen laid 
 aside for ever." 
 
 '* I hoped that with the brave and strong 
 My portioned task might lie ; 
 To toil amid the busy throng, 
 With purpose pure and high. 
 
 II. 
 
 " But God has fixed another part, 
 And He has fixed it well : 
 I said so with my bleeding heart, 
 When first the anguish fell. 
 
 III. 
 
 *' Thou, God, hast taken our delight, 
 Our treasured hope, away ; 
 Thou bid'st us now weep through the night, 
 And sorrow through the day. 
 
 " These weary hours will not be lost. 
 These days of misery, — ■ 
 These nights of darkness, anguish-tt st,— • 
 Can I but turn to Thee. 
 
ANNE BJRONTe'S LAST VERSES. 81 
 
 " Witli secret labour to sustain 
 
 In humble patience every blow ; 
 To gather fortitude from pain, 
 And hope and holiness from woe. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Thus let me serve Thee from my heart, 
 Whatever may be my written fate ; 
 Whether thus early to depart, 
 Or yet a while to wait. 
 
 VII. 
 
 " If Thou should'st bring me back to life, 
 More humbled I should be ; 
 More wise — more strengthened for the strife, 
 More apt to lean on Thee. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " Should death be standing at the gate, 
 Thus should I keep my vow ; 
 But, Lord, whatever be my fate. 
 Oh let me serve Thee now ! " 
 
 I take Charlotte's own ^vords as the best record of her 
 tloughts and feelings during all this terrible time. 
 
 *^ April 12th. 
 
 " I read Anne s letter to you ; it was touching enough, as 
 you say. If there were no hope beyond this world, — no eter- 
 nity, — ^no life to come, — ^Emily's fate, and that which threatens 
 Anne, would be heart-breaking. I cannot forget Emily's 
 death-day ; it becomes a more j5xed, a darker, a more fre- 
 quently recurring idea in my mind than ever. It was very 
 terrible. She was torn, conscious, panting, reluctant, though 
 resolute, out of a happy life. But it ivill not do to dwell on 
 these things. 
 
 " I am glad your friends object to your going with Anne 
 
 VOL. II.— 4* 
 
S2 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 it would never do. To speak truth, even if your mothei 
 and sisters consented, I never could, It is not that there is 
 any laborious attention to pay her ; she requires, and will ac- 
 cept, but little nursing ; but there would be hazard, and anx- 
 iety 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 Scarbu- 
 
 rough, which was Anne's own choice. I trust affairs may be 
 so ordered, that you may be able to be with us at least part 
 of the time. .... Whether in lodgings or not, I 
 should wish to be boarded. Providing oneself, is, I think, 
 an insupportable nuisance. I don't like keeping provisions 
 in a cupboard, locking up, being pillaged, and all that. It is 
 a petty, wearing annoyance." 
 
 The progress of Anne's illness was slower than ttiat of 
 Emily's had been ; and she was too unselfish to refuse trying 
 means, from which, if she herself had little hope of benefit, 
 her friends might hereafter derive a mournful satisfaction. 
 
 " I began to flatter myself she was getting strength. But 
 the change to frost has told upon her ; she suffers more of 
 late. Still her illness has none of the fearful rapid symp- 
 toms 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 up- 
 on 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 entertain- 
 ing sanguine hopes of recovery. The cod-liver oil he consi- 
 
ANNE Bronte's increasing illni:ss. 83 
 
 ders a peculiarly eflScacious medicine. He, too, disapproved 
 of cliange 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 applica- 
 tion of hot vinegar, which seemed to do good." 
 
 *' May 1st. 
 " I was glad to hear that when we go to Scarborough, 
 you will be at liberty to go with us, but the journey and its 
 consequences still continue a source of great anxiety to me ; 
 I must try to put it off two or three weeks longer if I can ; 
 perhaps by that time the milder season may have given Anne 
 more strength, — perhaps it will be otherwise ; I cannot tell. 
 The change to fine weather has not proved beneficial to her 
 so far. She has sometimes been so weak, and suffered so 
 much from pain in the side, during the last few days, that I 
 have not known what to think. . . . . She may rally 
 again, and be much better, but there must be some improve- 
 ment 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 th© 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 v/alk Papa 
 
 continues pretty well ; — I hope I shall be enabled to bear 
 up. So far, I have reason for thankfulness to God." 
 
84: • LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 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 be- 
 gan 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 
 good-sized sitting-room, and an airy double-bedded room 
 (both commanding a sea-view), in one of the best situations 
 of the town. Money was as nothing in comparison with life : 
 besides, Anne had a small legacy left to her by her godmo- 
 ther, and they felt that she could not better employ this than 
 in obtaining what might prolong life, if not restore health. 
 On May 16th, Charlotte writes : 
 
 " It is with a heavy heart I prepare ; and earnestly do I 
 wish the fatigue of the journey were well over. It may be 
 borne better than I expect ; for temporary stimulus often 
 does much ; but when I see the daily increasing weakness, 
 I know not what to think. I fear you will be shocked when 
 
 you see Anne ; but be on your guard, dear E , not to 
 
 express your feelings ; indeed, I can trust both your self- 
 possession and your kindness. I wish my judgment sanc- 
 tioned the step of going to Scarborough, more fully than it 
 does. You ask how I have arranged about leaving Papa. 
 I could make no special arrangement. He wishes me to 
 
 go with Anne, and would not hear of Mr. N -'s coming, 
 
 or anything of that kind ; so I do what I believe is for the 
 best, and leave the result to Providence." 
 
 They planned to rest and spend a night at York ; and, at 
 Anne's desire, arranged to make some purchases there. 
 Charlotte ends the letter to her friend, in which slie tells her 
 all this, with — 
 
DEPARTURE FOR SCARBOROUGH. 85 
 
 "May23r<L 
 " I wish it seemed less like a dreary mockery in us tc 
 talk of buying bonnets, &c. Anne was very ill yesterday. 
 She had difficulty of breathing all day, even when sitting 
 perfectly still. To-day she seems better again. I long for 
 the moment to come when the experiment of the sea-air will 
 be tried. Will it do her good ? I cannot tell ; I can only 
 wish. Oh ! if it would please God to strengthen and revive 
 Anne, how happy we might be together : His will, however, 
 be done ! " 
 
 The two sisters left Haworth on Thursday, May 24th. 
 They were to have done so the day before, and had mado 
 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 impos- 
 sible for the sisters to set out ; yet they had no means ot 
 letting their friend know of this, and she consequently arrived 
 at the Leeds station at the time specified. There she sate 
 waiting for several hours. It struck her as strange at the 
 time — and it almost seems ominous to her fancy now — that 
 twice over, from two separate arrivals on the line by which 
 she was expecting her friends, coffins were carried forth, and 
 placed in hearses which were in waiting for their dead, as she 
 was waiting for one in four days to become so. 
 
 The next day s^e <iould 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 
 
80 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 impending fc^ar. The lady who accompanied them, Char- 
 lotte's beloved friend of more than twenty years, has kindly 
 written out for me the following account of the journey— 
 and of the end. 
 
 " She left her home May 24th, 1849— died May 28th. 
 Her life was calm, quiet, spiritual : such was her end. 
 Through the trials and fatigues of the journey, she evinced 
 the pious courage and fortitude of a martyr. Dependence 
 and helplessness were ever with her a far sorer trial than 
 hard, racking pain. 
 
 " The first stage of our journey was to York ; and here 
 the dear invalid was so revived, so cheerful, and so happy, 
 we drew consolation, and trusted that at least temporary 
 improvement was to be derived from the change which 
 she had so longed for and her friends had so dreaded 
 for her. 
 
 " By her request we went to the Minister, and to her it 
 was an overpowering pleasure ; not for its own imposing and 
 impressive grandeur only, but because it brought to her feud- 
 ceptible nature a vital and overwhelming sense of omnipo- 
 tence. 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 excitin^^" 
 scene. 
 
 " Her weakness of body was great, but her gratitude for 
 every mercy was greater. After such an exertion as walk- 
 ing to her bed-room, she would clasp her hands and raise her 
 eyes in silent thanks, and she did this not to the exclusion of 
 wonted prayer, for that too was performed on bended knee, 
 ere she accepted the rest of her couch. 
 
 *^ On the 25th we arrived at Scarborough ; our dear in 
 valid having, during the journey, directed our attention to 
 every prospect worthy of notice. 
 
LAST DAYS OF ANNE BRONTE. 87 
 
 "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 friends, she 
 was charging the boy-master of the donkey to treat the poor 
 animal well. She was ever fond of dumb things, and would 
 give up her own comfort for them. 
 
 *' On Sunday, the 27th, she wished to go to church, and 
 her eye brightened with the thought of once more worship- 
 ping her God amongst her fellow-creatures. We thought it 
 prudent to dissuade her from the attempt, though it was 
 evident her heart was longing to join in the public act of 
 devotion and praise. 
 
 " She walked a little in the afternoon, and meeting with 
 a sheltered and comfortable seat near the beach, she begged 
 we would leave her, and enjoy the various scenes near at 
 hand, which were new to us but familiar to her. She loved 
 the place, and wished us to share her preference. 
 
 ^' The evening closed in with the most glorious sunset ever 
 witnessed. The castle on the cliff stood in proud glory gilded 
 by the rays of the declining sun. The distant ships glittered 
 like burnished gold ; the little boats near the beach heaved 
 on the ebbing tide, inviting occupants. The view was grand 
 beyond description. Anne was drawn in her easy-chair to 
 the window^ to enjoy the scene with us. Her face became 
 illumined almost as much as the glorious scene she gazed 
 upon. Little was said, for it was plain that her thoughts 
 were driven by the imposing view before her to penetrate 
 forwards to the regions of unfading glory. She again 
 thought of public worship, and wished us to leave her, and 
 join those who were assembled at the House of God. We 
 declined, gently urging the duty and pleasure of staying 
 with her, who was now so dear and so feeble. On returning 
 to her place near the fire, she conversed with her sister upon 
 
88 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 the propriety of returning to their home. She did not wish 
 it for her own sake, she said : she was fearing others might 
 suflfer more if her decease occurred where she was. She 
 probably thought the task of accompanying her lifeless re- 
 mains on a long journey was more than her sister could bear 
 — more than the bereaved father could bear, were she borne 
 home another, and a third tenant, of the family-vault in the 
 short space of nine months. 
 
 ^' The night was passed without any apparent accession of 
 illness. She rose at seven o'clock, and performed most of 
 her toilet herself, by her expressed wish. Her sister always 
 yielded such points, believing it was the truest kindness not 
 to press inability when it was not acknowledged. Nothing 
 occurred to excite alarm till about 11 a. m. She then spoke 
 of feeling a chaiage. ' 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 com- 
 pany 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 
 
DEATH OF ANNE BEONTE. 89 
 
 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, sho 
 said, ^ Take courage, Charlotte ; take courage.' Her faith 
 never failed, and her eye never dimmed till about two o'clock, 
 when she calmly and without a sigh passed from the temporal 
 to the eternal. So still, and so hallowed were her last hours 
 and moments. There was no thought of assistance or of 
 dread. The doctor came and went two or three times. The 
 hostess knew that death was near, yet so little was the house 
 disturbed by the presence of the dying, and the sorrow of 
 those so nearly bereaved, that dinner was announced as ready, 
 through the half-opened door, as the living sister was closing 
 the eyes of the dead one. She could now no more stay the 
 welled-up grief of her sister with her emphatic and dying 
 * Take courage,' and it burst forth in brief but agonizing 
 strength. Charlotte's affection, however, had another chan- 
 nel, and there it turned in thought, in care, and in tenderness 
 There was bereavement, but there was not solitude j — sym- 
 pathy was at hand, and it was accepted. Witli calmness, 
 came the consideration of the removal of the dear remains to 
 their home resting-place. This melancholy task, however, 
 was never performed ; for the afflicted sister decided to lay 
 the flower in the place where it had fallen. She believed 
 that to do so would accord with the wishes of the departed. 
 She had no preference for place. She thought not of tht 
 grave, for that is but the body's goal, but of all that is be- 
 yond it. 
 
 " Her remains rest, 
 
 * Where the south sun warms the now dear sod, 
 
 * Where the ocean billows lave and strike the steep and turf-covcred 
 
 rock.*** 
 
 Anne died on the Monciay. On the Tuesday Charlotte 
 
90 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 wrote to her father ; but, knowing that his presence was re- 
 quired 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 at- 
 tendance, hut it was respectfully declined. 
 
 Mr. Bronte wrote to urge Charlotte's longer stay at the 
 sea-side. 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 re- 
 turned homewards, — parting rather suddenly (it would seem) 
 from each other, when their paths diverged. 
 
 " July 1849. 
 *^ I intended to have written a line to j^ou to-day, if I had 
 not received yours. We did indeed part suddenly ; it made my 
 heart ache that we were severed without the time to exchanore 
 
 o 
 
 a word ; and yet perhaps it was better. I got here a little 
 before eight o'clock. All was clean and bright waiting for 
 me. Papa and the servants were well ; and all received me 
 with an affection which should have consoled. The dogs 
 seemed in strange ecstasy. I am certain they regarded me 
 as the harbinger of others. The dumb creatures thought 
 that as I was returned, those who had been so long absent 
 were not far behind. 
 
 '^ I left Papa soon, and went into the dining-room : I shut 
 the door — I tried to be glad that I was come home. I have 
 always been glad before — except once — even then I was 
 cheered. But this time joy was not to be the sensation. I 
 felt that the house was all silent — the rooms were all empty. 
 I remembered where the three were laid — in what narrow 
 
RETUEN TO THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 91 
 
 dark dwellings— ^never more to reappear on earth. So the 
 sense of desolation and bitterness took possession of me. The 
 agony that was to he under gone , and tvas not to be avoided, 
 came on. I underwent it, and passed a dreary evening and 
 night, and a mournful morrow ; to-day I am better. . 
 
 " I do not know how life will pass, but I certainly do feel 
 confidence in Him who has upheld me hitherto. Solitude may 
 be cheered, and made endurable beyond what I can believe. 
 The great trial is when evening closes and night approaches. 
 At that hour we used to assemble in the dining-room — wo 
 used to talk. Now I sit by myself — necessarily I am silent. 
 I cannot help thinking of their last days, remembering their 
 sufierings, and what they said and did, and how they looked 
 in mortal affliction. Perhaps all this will become less poig- 
 nant in time. 
 
 " Let me thank you once more, dear E , for your 
 
 kindness to me, which I do not mean to forget. How did 
 you think all looking at your home ? Papa thought me a 
 little stronger ; he said my eyes were not so sunken." 
 
 " July 14tli, 1849, 
 " I do not much like giving an account of myself. I like 
 better to go out of myself, and talk of something more cheer- 
 ful. My cold, wherever I got it, whether at Easton or else- 
 where, 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 be- 
 tween my shoulders likewise amazed me much. Say nothing 
 about it, for I confess I am too much disposed to be nervous 
 This nervousness is a horrid phantom. I dare communicate 
 no ailment to Papa ; his anxiety harasses me inexpressiblj". 
 
 " My life is what I expected it to be. Sometimes when 
 I wake in the morning, and know that Solitude, Kemembrance, 
 and Longing are to be almost my sole companions all day 
 
92 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 tlirough — tliat at night I shall go to bed with them, that they 
 will long keep me sleepless — that next morning I shall wake 
 to them again, — sometimes, Nell, I have a heavy heart of it. 
 But crushed I am not, yet ; nor robbed of elasticity, nor of 
 hope, nor quite of endeavour. I have some strength to fight 
 the battle of life. I am aware, and can acknowledge, I have 
 many comforts, many mercies. Still I can get on. But I 
 do hope and pray, that never may you, or any one I love, be 
 placed as I am. To sit in a lonely room — the clock ticking 
 loud through a still house — and have open before the mind's 
 eye the record of the last year, with its shocks, suiferings, 
 losses — is a trial. 
 
 " I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear 
 me with moderation — that you will not take alarm or think 
 mo in any way worse off than I am." 
 
THE CIIAEACTEPvS IN " SHIRLEY." 83 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The tale of" Shirley " had been begun soon after the pubii* 
 cation of " Jane Eyre." If the reader will refer to the ac- 
 count I have given of Miss Bronte's school-days at Roe Head, 
 he will there see how every place surrounding that house 
 was connected with the Luddite riots, and will learn how sto- 
 ries and anecdotes of that time were rife among the inhabi- 
 tants 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 Char- 
 lotte 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 waa 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 cha- 
 racters 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 de- 
 tection, 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, 
 
94: LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 in her graphic descriptions of their personal appearance, and 
 modes of action and turns of thought ; though thej were 
 placed in new positions, and figured away in scenes far dif- 
 ferent 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, 
 Bhe took that germ as the nucleus of an imaginary character, 
 and worked outwards ; — thus reversing the process of analy- 
 sat ion, and unconsciously reproducing the same external de- 
 velopment. The " three curates " were real living men^ 
 haunting Haworth and the neighbouring district ; and so ob- 
 tuse in perception that, after the first burst of anger at hav- 
 ing 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 read- 
 ing it, was simply that " she had not drawn them strong 
 enough." From those many-sided sons, I suspect, she drew 
 all that there was of truth in the characters of the heroes in 
 her first two works. They, indeed, were almost the only 
 young men she knew intimately, besides her brother. There 
 was much friendship, and still more confidence between the 
 Bronte family and them, — although their intercourse was 
 often broken and irregular. There was never any warmer 
 feeling on either side. 
 
 The character of Shirley herself, is Charlotte's represen- 
 tation of Emil^. 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 
 
•^THE VALLEY, OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH." 95 
 
 33 ut 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 and prosperity. 
 
 Miss Bronte took extreme pains with " Shirley." She 
 felt that the fame she had acquired imposed upon her a dou- 
 ble responsibility. She tried to make her novel like a piece 
 of actual life, — feeling sure that, if she but represented the 
 product of personal experience and observation truly, good 
 would come out of it in the long run. She carefully studied 
 the different reviews and criticisms that had appeared on 
 ^* Jane Eyre," in hopes of extracting precepts and advice 
 from which to profit. 
 
 Down into the very midst of her writing came the bolts 
 of death. She had nearly finished the second volume of her 
 tale when Branwell died, — after him Emily, — aftar her 
 Anne ; — the pen, laid down when there were three sisters 
 living and loving, was taken up when one alone remained. 
 Well might she call the first chapter that she wrote after this, 
 " The Valley of the Shadow of Death." 
 
 I knew in part what the unknown author of " Shirley " 
 must have suffered, when I read those pathetic words which 
 occur at the end of this and the beginning of the succeeding 
 chapter : — 
 
 " Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest 
 prayer. 
 
 " Not always do those who dare such divine conflict pre- 
 vail. Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark 
 on the forehead ; the supplicant may cry for mercy with that 
 Boundless voice the soul utters when its appeal is to the In- 
 visible. * Spare my beloved,' it may implore. * Heal my 
 life's life. Bend not from me what long affection entwines 
 
96 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 with luy whole nature. God of heaven — ^bend — hear — ^be 
 element ! ' And after this cry and strife, the snn may rise 
 and see him worsted. That opening morn, which used tc 
 salute him with the whispers of zephyrs, the carol of sky- 
 larks, may breathe, as its first accents, from the dear lips 
 which colour and heat have quitted, — ^ Oh ! I have had a 
 suffering night. This morning I am worse. I have tried 
 to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to, have troubled 
 me.' 
 
 " Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and 
 sees a new and strange moulding of the familiar features, 
 feels at once that the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows 
 that it is God's will his idol should be broken, and bends his 
 head, and subdues his soul to the sentence he cannot avert, 
 and scarce can bear 
 
 " No piteous, unconscious moaning sound — which so 
 wastes our strength that, even if we have sworn to be firm, 
 a rush of unconquerable tears sweeps away the oath — ^pre- 
 ceded her waking. No space of deaf apathy followed. The 
 first words spoken were not those of one becoming estranged 
 from this world, and already permitted to stray at times into 
 realms foreign to the living." 
 
 She went on with her work steadily. But it was dreary 
 to write without any one to listen to the progress of her tale, 
 — to find fault or to sympathise, — while pacing the length of 
 the parlour in the evenings, as in the days that were no 
 more. Three sisters had done this, — then two, the othei 
 sister dropping off from the walk, — and now one was left 
 desolate, to listen for echoing steps that never came, — and to 
 hear the wind sobbing at the windows, with an almost artic- 
 ulate sound. 
 
 But she wrote on, struggling against her own feelings of 
 illness ; " continually recurring feelings of slight cold ; slight 
 
ILLNESS AND ANXIETY. 97 
 
 soreness in the throat and chest, of which, do what I will,'* 
 she writes, " I cannot get rid." 
 
 In August there arose a new cause for anxiety, happily 
 but temporary. 
 
 " Aug. 23rd, 1849. 
 
 " Papa has not been well at all lately. He has ha 
 another attack of bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him 
 for some days — ^more wretched indeed than I care to tell 
 you. After what has happened, one trembles at any appear- 
 ance of sickness ; and when anything ails Papa, I feel too 
 keenly that he is the last — the only near and dear relative I 
 have in the world. Yesterday and to-day he has seemed 
 much better, for which I am truly thankful 
 
 " From what you say of Mr. , I think I should like 
 
 him very much. wants shaking to be put out about his 
 
 appearance. What does it matter whether her husband dines 
 in a dress-coat or a market-coat, provided there be worth, 
 and honesty, and a clean shirt underneath ? " 
 
 « Sept. lOth, 1849. 
 " My piece of work is at last finished, and despatched to 
 its destination. You must now tell me when there is a 
 chance of your being able to come here. I fear it will now 
 be difficult to arrange, as it is so near the marriage-day. 
 Note well, it would spoil all my pleasure, if you put yourself 
 or any one else to inconvenience to come to Haworth. But 
 when it is convenient^ I shall be truly glad to see you. . . . 
 Papa, I am thankful to say, is better, though not strong. 
 He is often troubled with a sensation of nausea. My cold is 
 very much less troublesome, I am sometimes quite free from 
 it. A few days since, I had a severe bilious attack, the 
 consequence of sitting too closely to my writing ; but it is 
 gone now. It is the first from which I have suffered since 
 
 VOL. IL — 5 
 
98 LMTE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 my return from the sea-side. I had them every month he 
 fore." 
 
 " Sept 13th, 1849. 
 " If duty and the well-being of others require that you 
 should stay at home, I cannot permit myself to complain, 
 still, I am very, very sorry that circumstances will not per- 
 mit 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 be- 
 ing delayed. Dear E , you certainly have a heavy bur- 
 den 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 a sign of radical weakness. The 
 strength, if strength we have, is certainly never in our own 
 selves ; it is given us." 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 " Sept. 21st, 1849. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I am obliged to you for preserving my 
 secret, being at least as anxious as ever (more anxious I can- 
 not well be) to keep quiet. You asked me in one of your 
 letters lately, whether I thought I should escape identifica- 
 tion in Yorkshire. I am so little known, that I think 1 
 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 
 
THE CHARACTEKS IN " SHUBLEY.'' 99 
 
 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 ex- 
 cept once — at the consecration of a church — when I was a 
 child of ten years old. I was then struck with his appear- 
 ance, and stern, martial air. At a subsequent period, I 
 heard him talked about in the neighbourhood where he had 
 resided: some mention him with enthusiasm — others with 
 detestation. I listened to various anecdotes, balanced evi- 
 dence against evidence, and drew an inference. The origi- 
 nal of Mr. Hall I have seen ; he knows me slightly ; but he 
 would as soon think I had closely observed him or taken him 
 for a character — ^he would as soon, indeed suspect me of 
 writing a book — a novel — as he would his dog, Prince. Mar- 
 garet Hall called ' Jane Eyre ' a * wicked book,' on the au- 
 thority of the ' Quarterly ; ' an expression which, coming 
 from her, I will here confess, struck somewhat deep. It 
 opened my eyes to the harm the * Quarterly ' had done. 
 Margaret would not have called it ' wicked,' if she had not 
 been told so. 
 
 " No matter, — whether known or unknown — misjudged, 
 or the contrary, — I am resolved not to write otherwise. I 
 shall bend as my powers tend. The two human beings who 
 understood me, and whom I understood, are gone : I have 
 some that love me yet, and whom I love, without expecting, or 
 having a right to expect, that they shall perfectly understand 
 me. I am satisfied ; but I must have my own way in the 
 matter of writing. The loss of what we possess nearest and 
 dearest to us in this world, produces an effect upon the 
 character : we search out what we have yet left that can sup- 
 port, and, when found, we cling to it with a hold of new- 
 Btrung 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, 
 
100 LITE OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 for I feel they have enabled me to give pleasure to others. 
 I am thankful to God, who gave me the faculty ; and it is 
 for me a part of my religion to defend this gift, and to profit 
 by its possession. Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Chaklotte Bronte." 
 
 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 well as to 
 nurse the two invalids. 
 
 The serious illness of the younger servant was at its 
 height, when a cry from Tabby called Miss Bronte into the 
 kitchen, and she found the poor old woman of eighty laid on 
 the floor, with her head under the kitchen-grate; she had 
 fallen from her chair in attempting to rise. When I saw 
 her, two years later, she described to me the tender care 
 which Charlotte had taken of her at this time ; and wound 
 up her account of " how her own mother could not have had 
 more thought for her nor Miss Bronte had," by saying, 
 " Eh ! she's a good one — she is I " 
 
 But there was one day when the strung nerves gave way 
 — when, as she says, " I fairly broke down for ten minutes ; 
 sat and cried like a fool. Tabby could neither stand nor 
 walk. Papa had just been declaring that Martha was in im- 
 minent danger. I was myself depressed with headache and 
 Bickness. 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 
 
THE SHOWEK-BATII. 101 
 
 her a sIiower-Latli — a thing for which she had long been 
 wishing. The receipt of it was acknowledged as follows : — 
 
 ** Sept. 28th, 1849. 
 
 "... Martha is now almost well, and Tabby much better. 
 A huge monster-package, from ' Nelson, Leeds,' came yester- 
 day. 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 drench- 
 ing in your own shower-bath. I have not yet unpacked the 
 wretch. — " Yours, as you deserve, 
 
 " C. B." 
 
 There was misfortune of another kind impending over 
 her. There were some railway shares, which, so early as 
 1846, she had told Miss Wooler she wished to sell, but had 
 kept because she could not persuade her sisters to look upon 
 the affair as she did, and so preferred running the risk of loss, 
 to hurting Emily's feelings by acting in opposition to her 
 opinion. The depreciation of these same shares was now 
 verifying Charlotte's soundness of judgment. They were 
 in the York and North- Midland Company, which was one of 
 Mr. Hudson's pet lines and had the full benefit of his pecu- 
 liar system of management. She applied to her friend and 
 publisher, Mr. Smith, for information on the subject; and the 
 following letter is in answer to his reply : — 
 
 '* Oct. 4th, 1849. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I must not thank you for, but acknow- 
 ledge 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 
 
102 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 small competency for me, with my views and habits. NoWj 
 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 pro- 
 vision laid up for the future, should take care how they com- 
 plain. The thought that ^ Shirley ' has given pleasure at Corn- 
 hill, yields me much quiet comfort. No doubt, however, you 
 are, as I am, prepared for critical severity; but I have good 
 hopes that the vessel is sufficiently sound of construction to 
 weather a gale or two, and to make a prosperous voyage for 
 you in the end." 
 
 Towards the close of October in this year, she went to pay 
 a visit to her friend ; but her enjoyment in the holiday, which 
 she had so long promised herself when her work was com- 
 pleted, was deadened by a continual feeling of ill health ; 
 either the change of air or the foggy weather produced con- 
 stant irritation at ^iie 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 wil- 
 ling to have it dimmed or lost. 
 
 " Shirley " was published on October 26th. 
 
 When it came out, but before reading it, Mr. Lewes wrote 
 to tell her of his intention of reviewing it in the *' Edin- 
 burgh." Her correspondence with him had ceased for some 
 time : much had occurred since. 
 
LETTER TO G. H. LEWES, ESQ. 103 
 
 TO G. H. LEWES, ESQ. 
 
 Nov. 1st, 1849. 
 " My dear Sir, — It is about a year and a half since you 
 wrote to me; but it seems a longer period, because since 
 tlien it has been my lot to pass some black milestones in the 
 journey of life. Since then there have been intervals when I 
 Lave 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 can- 
 not, when I write, think always of myself and of what is ele- 
 gant and charming in feminity; it is not on those terms, or 
 with such ideas, I ever took pen in hand : and if it is only 
 ou 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 ofi*, I 
 now watch to see what will become of * Shirley.' My expec- 
 tations are very low, and my anticipations somewhat sad and 
 bitter ; still, I earnestly conjure you to say honestly what 
 you think ; flattery would be worse than vain ; there is no 
 consolation in flattery. As for condemnation I cannot, on 
 reflection, see why I should much fear it ; there is no one but 
 myself to suffer therefrom, and both happiness and suffering 
 in this life soon pass away. Wishing you all success in your 
 Scottish expedition, — I am, dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
104 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Miss Bronte, as we have seen, had been as anxious as evel 
 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 pub- 
 lished, 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 min- 
 gled with pseudo-gallant allusions to her sex, mortified her 
 far more than actual blame. 
 
 But the secret, so jealously preserved, was oozing out at 
 last. The publication of " Shirley " seemed to ^x the con- 
 viction 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 produc- 
 tion 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 sus- 
 picion (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 dis- 
 tinctly known. She had been all along on most happy terms 
 with her publishers ; and their kindness had beguiled some 
 of those weary, solitary hours which had so often occurred of 
 late, by sending for her perusal boxes of books more suited 
 to her tastes than any she could procure from the circulating 
 library at Keighley. She often writes such sentences as the 
 following, in her letters to Cornhill : — 
 
 " I was indeed Tcry much interested in the books you 
 
THE CHAEACTEES IN " SIIIELEY." 105 
 
 sent. * Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe,' * Guesses 
 at Truth,' ' Friends in Council,' and the little work on Eng- 
 lish social life, pleased me particularly, and the last not 
 least. "We sometimes take a partiality to books as to char- 
 acters, 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 pro- 
 duction of a lady, and an amiable, sensible woman, and I 
 liked it. You must not think of selecting any works for me 
 yet ; my stock is still far from exhausted. 
 
 *' I accept your offer respecting the ' Athenaeum ; ' it is a 
 paper I should like much to see, providing that you can send 
 it without trouble. It shall be punctually returned." 
 
 In a letter to her friend she complains of the feelings of 
 illness from which she was seldom or never free. 
 
 ''Nov. 16th. 1849. 
 " You are not to suppose any of the characters m 
 
 * 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 setting. Since 
 you say you could recognise the originals of all except the 
 heroines, pray whom did you suppose the two Moores to re- 
 present ? I send you a couple of reviews : the one is in the 
 
 * Examiner,' written by Albany Fonblanque, who is called 
 the most brilliant political writer of the day, a man whose 
 dictum is much thought of in London. The other, In the 
 
 * Standard of Freedom,' is written by William Howitt, a 
 Quaker ! . . . I should be pretty well, if it were not for 
 headaches and indigestion. My chest has been better 
 lately." 
 
 VOL. n.—S"** 
 
106 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 In consequence of this long-protracted state of languor 
 headache, and sickness, to which the slightest exposure to 
 cold added sensations of hoarseness and soreness at the chest, 
 she determined to take the evil in time, as much for her 
 father's sake as for her own, and to go up to London and 
 consult some physician there. It was not her first intention 
 to visit anywhere ; but the friendly urgency of her publishers 
 prevailed, and it was decided that she was to become the 
 guest of Mr. Smith. Before she went, she wrote two charac- 
 teristic letters about ^' Shirley," from which I shall take a 
 few extracts. 
 
 " ^ Shirley' makes her way. The reviews shower in fast 
 .... The best critique which has yet appeared is in the 
 • Revue des deux Mondes,' a sort of European Cosmopolitan 
 periodical, whose head-quarters are at Paris. Comparatively 
 few reviewers, even in their praise, evince a just comprehen- 
 sion of the author's meaning. Eugene Forsarde, the re- 
 viewer in question, follows Currer Bell through every wind- 
 ing, 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 ita 
 ration ; it is fed ; it lies down for the present satisfied ; my 
 feculties 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 
 Hie. 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 
 
THE KEYIEW5 OF ^SHIRLEY." 107 
 
 others I wish only to be an obscure, steady-going, private 
 
 character. To you, dear E , I wish to be a sincere 
 
 friend. Give me your faithful regard ; I willingly dispense 
 with admiration." 
 
 *'Nov. 26th. 
 " It is like you to pronounce the reviews not good 
 enough, and belongs to that part of your character which 
 will not permit you to bestow unqualified approbation on any 
 dress, decoration, &c., belonging to you. Know that the re- 
 views are superb ; and were I dissatisfied with them, I should 
 be a conceited ape. Nothing higher is ever ^2i\^^ from, per- 
 fectly 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 dic- 
 tum. I insisted on the dresses being made quite plainly." 
 
 At the end of November she went up to the ^' big Baby 
 Ion," 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 iu 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 bo 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 
 
108 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 personal appearance and manners of some of tliose 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 ac- 
 customed to the early, regular hours of a Yorkshire Parson- 
 age , besides, the excitement of meeting, hearing, and sitting 
 next a man to whom she looked up with such admiration as 
 ghe did to the author of " Vanity Fair," was of itself over- 
 powering to her frail nerves. She writes about this dinner as 
 follows : — 
 
 *'Dec. lOth, 1849. 
 " As to being happy, I am under scenes and circum- 
 stances of excitement ; but I suffer acute pain sometimes, — 
 mental pain, I mean. At the moment Mr. Thackeray pre- 
 sented himself, I was thoroughly faint from inanition, having 
 eaten nothing since a very slight breakfast, and it was then 
 seven o'clock in the evening. Excitement and exhaustion 
 made savage work of me that evening. What he thought of 
 me I cannot tell." 
 
 She told me how difficult she found it, this first time of 
 meeting Mr. Thackeray, to decide whether he was speaking 
 in jest or in earnest, and that she had (she believed) com- 
 pletely misunderstood an inquiry of his, made on the gentle- 
 men's coming into the drawing-room. He asked her " if she 
 had perceived the secret of their cigars ; " to which she replied 
 literally, discovering in a minute afterwards, by the smile 
 on several faces, that he was alluding to a passage in " Jan(? 
 Eyre." Her hosts took pleasure in showing her the sights oi' 
 London, On one of the days which had been set apart foi 
 some of these pleasant excursions, a severe review of ^' Shir 
 
SEVERE REVIEW OF '^SHIRLEY." 109 
 
 ley " 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 
 aid that they had wished her to go to the day's engagement 
 Defore 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 per- 
 ceived 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 pub- 
 lished, with a curious note, in which Currer Bell offered a 
 copy of " Shirley " to Miss Martineau^ as an acknowledg- 
 ment of the gratification he had received from her works 
 From " Deerbrook " he had derived a new and keen plea- 
 sure, and experienced a genuine benefit. In his mind 
 " Deerbrook," &c. 
 
 Miss Martineau, in acknowledging this note and the 
 copy of '^ Shirley," dated her letter from a friend's house 
 
110 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 in the nelglibourliood of Mr. Smitli's residence ; and wlien 
 a week or two afterwards, Miss Bronte found Low near she 
 was to her correspondent, she wrote, m 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 ad- 
 dressed it to " Currer Bell, Esq." At every ring the eyes 
 of the party turned towards the door. Some stranger (a 
 gentleman, I think) came in; for an instant they fancied 
 he was Currer Bell, and indeed an Esq. ; he stayed some 
 time — went away. Another ring ; " Miss Bronte " was an- 
 nounced ; and in came a young-looking lady, almost child-like 
 in stature, "in a deep mourning dress, neat as a Quaker's, 
 with her beautiful hair smooth and brown, her fine eyes blaz- 
 ing with meaning, and her sensible face indicating a habit 
 of self-control." She came, — hesitated one moment at 
 finding four or five people assembled, — then went straight to 
 Miss Martineau with intuitive recognition, and, with the 
 free-masonry of good feeling and gentle breeding, she soon 
 became as one of the family seated round the tea-table ; and, 
 before she left, she told them, in a simple, touching manner, 
 of her sorrow and isolation, and a foundation was laid for 
 her intimacy with Miss Martineau. 
 
 After some discussion on the subject, and a stipulation 
 that she should not be specially introduced to any one, some 
 gentlemen were invited by Mr. Smith to meet her at dinner 
 the evening before she left town. Her natural place would 
 have been at the bottom of the table by her host; and th«^ 
 
LETTER TO A SCHOOLFELLOW. Ill 
 
 places of those Viho were to be her neighbours were arranged 
 accordingly ; but, on entering the dining-room, she quickly 
 passed up so as to sit next to the lady of the house, anxious 
 to shelter herself near some one of her own sex. This 
 slight action arose out of the same womanly seeking after 
 protection on every occasion, when there 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 keep 
 guard over me." 
 
 Eespecting this particular dinner-party she thus wrote 
 to the Brussels schoolfellow of former days, whose friendship 
 had been renewed during her present visit to London : — 
 
 " The evening after I left you passed better than I ex- 
 pected. 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 coura- 
 geously, 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 critics — men 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 re- 
 tired for the night, I wished to sleep — the 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 
 elumber. So utterly worn out was I when I got to Derby^ 
 that I was again obliged to stay there all night." 
 
112 LIFE OF CHARLOTTK BRONTE. 
 
 "Dec. 17tli. 
 
 " Here I am at Hawortli once more. I feel as if I liad 
 some out of an exciting whirl. Not that the hurry and 
 stimulus would have seemed much to one accustomed to so- 
 ciety 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 me — which never once happened, 
 for I met with perfect good breeding even from antagonists 
 < — men 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 of the 
 will 
 
 " Thackeray is a Titan of mind. His presence and pow- 
 ers 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 ad- 
 mire 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 hero- 
 worship in him to make him take a vivid pleasure in the ac- 
 counts 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 ar- 
 mouries in order that she might describe the stern steel harness 
 
HEB FILIAL AFFECTION. 1 ! 3 
 
 and glittering swords to her father, "whose imagination was 
 forcibly struck by the idea of such things ; and often after- 
 wards, 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 ar- 
 mies of strange weapons she had seen in London, till he re- 
 sumed his interest in the old subject, and was his own keen, 
 warlike, intelligent self again. 
 
Hi LIFE OF CHAKLOITE BROIH^. 
 
 CHAPTEH V. 
 
 Her life at Haworth was so unvaried that the postman's call 
 was the event of her day. • Yet she dreaded the great temp- 
 tation 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 her- 
 self 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 at- 
 tention 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 anni- 
 versary of her sister Emily's death came round ; all the re- 
 collections connected with it were painful, yet there were no 
 outward events to call off her attention, and prevent them 
 froiic pressing hard upon her. At this time, as at many 
 
FAME AT HOME. 115 
 
 others, I find her alluding in her letters to the solace which 
 she found in the books sent her from Cornhill. 
 
 " 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 other- 
 wise ; even when my tired sight will not permit me to con* 
 tinue 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 ex- 
 hausted. Some other friends have sent me books lately. 
 The perusal of Harriet Martineau's ^ Eastern Life ' has af- 
 forded me great pleasure ; and I have found a deep and in- 
 teresting subject of study in Newman's work on the * Soul.' 
 Have you read this work ? It is daring, — it may be mistak- 
 en, — ^but it is pure and elevated. Fronde's ^ Nemesis of 
 Faith ' I did not like ; I thought it morbid ; yet in its pages, 
 too, are found sprinklings of truth." 
 
 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 Ha- 
 worth moors; but "the concealment is but self-delusion." 
 
 Indeed it was. Far and wide in the West Biding had 
 spread the intelligence that Currer Bell was no other than a 
 daughter of the venerable clergyman of Haworth ; the vil- 
 lage itself caught up the excitement. 
 
 " Mr. , having finished ' Jane Eyre,' is now crying 
 
 out for the ' other book ; ' he is to have it next week. . . . 
 
 IMr. B 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 
 
IIG LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 — tho 
 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 meet- 
 ing 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 deliv- 
 er 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 shil- 
 ling per diem for longer detention. It would be mere non- 
 sense and vanity to tell you what they say." 
 
 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 be- 
 yond Bromley " to see her, as she went quietly and uncon- 
 Bciously into church ; and the sexton " gained many a half- 
 crown " for pointing her out. 
 
 But there were drawbacks to this hearty and kindly ap- 
 preciation which was so much more valuable than fame. The 
 January number of the " Edinburgh Review " had contained 
 
HER COKRESPONDENCE WITH MR. LEWES. 117 
 
 the ftiiicle 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 rela- 
 tion to her sex as a woman. Whether right or wrong, her 
 feeling was strong on this point. Now in this review of 
 " Shirley," the headings 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 re- 
 ceived the following note, — rather in the style of Anne, 
 Countess of Pembroke, Dorset, and Montgomery. 
 
 TO G. H. LEWES, ESQ. 
 
 " I can be on my guard against my enemies, but God de- 
 liver me from my friends ! 
 
 " CuRRER Bell." 
 
 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 
 
 j>r frankness of a review, which certainly was dictated by real 
 
 admiration and real friendship ; even under its objections tho 
 
 friend's voice could be heard." 
 
 The following letter is her reply :— 
 
 TO G. H. LEWES, ESQ. 
 
 "Jan. 19tli, 1850. 
 " 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 
 
118 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 praise was stinted (for, indeed, I think you gire me quite aa 
 much praise as I deserve), but because after I had said earn- 
 estly that I wished critics would judge me as an author^ not 
 as a woman, you so roughly — I even thought so cruelly — 
 handled the question of sex. I dare say you meant no harm, 
 and perhaps you will not now be able to understand why I 
 was so grieved at what you will probably deem such a trifle; 
 but grieved I was, and indignant too. 
 
 " There was a passage or two which you did quite wrong 
 to write. 
 
 " However, I will not bear malice against you for it ; I 
 know what your nature is ; it is not a bad or unkind one, 
 though you would often jar terribly on some feelings with 
 whose recoil and quiver you could not possibly sympathise. 
 I imagine you are both enthusiastic and implacable, as you 
 are at once sagacious and careless ; you know much and dis- 
 cover much, but you are in such a hurry to tell it all you 
 never give yourself time to think how your reckless eloquence 
 may affect others ; and, what is more, if you knew how it did 
 affect them, you would not much care. 
 
 ^^ However, I shake hands with you ; you have excellent 
 points ; you can be generous. I still feel angry, and think 
 I do well to be angry ; but it is the anger one experiences for 
 rough play rather than for foul play. — I am yours, with a 
 certain respect, and mors chagrin, 
 
 " CuRRER Bell." 
 
 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 pa- 
 thetic words, wrung out of the sadness of her heart,) " made 
 my faculties dull, made rest weariness, and occupation bur- 
 
HEAVY MENTAL SADNESS. 119 
 
 deusoine. Now and then, the silence of the house, the soli- 
 tude 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. Quick - 
 silver 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^ — ^pre- 
 sentiment indeed it is, but not at all supernatural I 
 
 cannot .help feeling something of the excitement of expec- 
 tation till the post hour comes, and when, day after day, it 
 brings nothing, I get low. This is a stupid, disgraceful, un- 
 meaning 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 agaiii^t 
 this folly. 
 
 " 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 writ- 
 ing 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 incur the just forfeiture of esteem 
 
 "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 
 
120 IJFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 Btrange 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 suff'erings, 
 the remembered words — most sorrowful to me, of those who 
 Faith assures me, are now happy. At evening and bed-time, 
 such thoughts would haunt me, bringing a weary heartache " 
 
 The reader may remember the strange prophetic vision, 
 which dictated a few words, written on the occasion of the 
 death of a pupil of hers in January, 1840 : 
 
 '^ 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 them — ^friend after friend, and are left to end 
 their pilgrimage alone." 
 
 Even in persons of naturally robust health, and with no 
 
 " Ricordarsi di tempo felice 
 Nella miseria — '* 
 
 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 < 
 
FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 Owing to Mr. Bronte's great age, and long formed 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 what- 
 ever 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 Char- 
 lotte 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 ser- 
 vants, 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 
 
 VOL. II.— 6 
 
122 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 souls of her sisters as no one but slie 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 dearly- 
 beloved striving to force their way to her. Some one con- 
 versing with her once objected, in my presence, to that part 
 of *^ Jane Eyre " in which she hears E-ochester'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 in her breath, ^' But it is a true thing; it 
 really happened." 
 
 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 sure to affect her 
 health. 
 
 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 suffered 
 so deeply. 
 
 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. Accor- 
 dingly, 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 
 aj) Gawthorpe Hall, their residence on the borders of East 
 
LETTER TO MR. SMITH. 123 
 
 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 con- 
 sented 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 to repay. 
 
 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 oak-panneled 
 drawing-room, while they suited him, did not too much op- 
 press 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 Lon- 
 don during the season. This, which would be a great enjoy- 
 ment 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 necessarily pay in mental distress and physical 
 wear and tear." 
 
 On the same day on which she wrote the above, she sent 
 the following letter to Mr. Smith. 
 
 "March IGth, 1850. 
 
 " I return Mr. H 's note, after reading it carefully, 
 
 T tried very hard to understand all he says about art ; but, 
 to speak truth, my efforts were crowned with incomplete 
 fcuccess. There is a certain jargon in use amongst critics on 
 this point through which it is physically and morally impos- 
 sible to me to see daylight. One thing, however, I see 
 plainly enough, and that is, Mr. Currer Bell needs improve- 
 ment, and ought to strive after it; and this (D. V.) ha 
 
124 LITE OF CIIAHLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 honestly intends to do — taking his time, howe^^er and fol- 
 lowing 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 mem- 
 bers of some of the ancient East Lancashire families, whose 
 mansions lie on the hilly border-land between the two couu« 
 ties. The question arises, whether do the London critics, 
 or the old Northern squires, understand the matter best ? 
 
 " 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 
 true-hearted 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 
 BO well. The parcel of books will come, I doubt not, at 
 8uch time as it shall suit the good pleasure of the railway 
 
REMARKS ON BOOKS. 125 
 
 officials to send it on, — or rather to yield it up to the repeat- 
 ed and humble solicitations of Haworth carriers ; till when 
 I wait in all reasonable patience and resignation, looking 
 with docility to that model of active self-helpfulness ^ Punch' 
 friendly offers the ' Women of England,' in his ' Unprotected 
 Female.' " 
 
 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 pleasant- 
 ly ; 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 
 remarks upon the kind of books sent. 
 
 " 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 compar- 
 atively 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 
 * Eepresentative Men ; ' but it seems invidious to particular- 
 ize 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 
 
J 26 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 of knowledge, and tlie cultivation of their minds; in these 
 days, women may be thoughtful and well read, without being 
 universally stigmatised as ^ Blues ' and ' Pedants.' Men be- 
 gin 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 con- 
 versation 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 re- 
 sult of reading and study, is chiefly spontaneous and intui- 
 tive.' .... Against the teaching of some (even clever) 
 men, one instinctively revolts. They may possess attain- 
 ments, 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 consi- 
 deration may come from unpretending sources, from minds 
 not highly cultured, but naturally fine and delicate, from 
 hearts kindly, feeling, and unenvious, learned dictums deliv- 
 ered 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 village — ^a 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 do- 
 cument is a sort of record of his feelings, after the perusal 
 of ^ Jane Eyre ; ' it is artless and earnest ; genuine and gen- 
 erous. You must return it to me, for I value it more than 
 V^stimonio*i from higher sources. He said, * Miss Bronto 
 
THE CITRATES m '^ SHIRLEY." 127 
 
 if she knew he had written it, would scorn him ; ' but, in- 
 deed. 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 poverty — by the trials of un- 
 certain health, and the claims of a large family. 
 
 " As to the ' Times,' as you say, the acrimony of its crit- 
 ique 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 man- 
 ifestations of even enthusiastic approbation. I deem it un- 
 wise 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 gratitude, — especially since 
 it has afforded a source of reviving pleasure to my father in 
 his old age. The very curates, poor fellows ! show no re- 
 sentment : 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 disquie- 
 tude, 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 nothing of the sort has occurred." 
 
128 rjFE OF CITAKLOTTE ERONTE. 
 
 C H AP T E E V I . 
 
 During the earlier months of this spring, Haworth was ex- 
 tremely 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 
 none — ^not the most skilful physician — can get at more than 
 the outside of these things; the heart knows its own bitter- 
 ness, 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." 
 
PROPOSED VISIT TO LONDON. 129 
 
 But the sensations of illness in the family increased ; the 
 eymptoms were probably aggravated, if not caused, by the 
 immediate vicinity of the church-yard, " paved with rain- 
 blackened tomb-stones." On April 29th she writes : — 
 
 " We have had but a poor week of it at Haworth. Papa 
 continues far from well ; he is often very sickly in the morn- 
 ing, a symptom which I have remarked before in his aggra- 
 vated attacks of bronchitis ; unless he should get much bet- 
 ter, I shall never think of leaving him to go to London. 
 Martha has suffered from tic-douloureux, 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." 
 
 A fortnight later she writes : — 
 
 " I did not think Papa well enough to be left, and ac- 
 cordingly 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 mo**e 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 red-hot plough- 
 shares ; 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 me so interesting." 
 VOL. II. — 6* 
 
130 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONtS. 
 
 It became requisite, however, before long, that she shouhi 
 go to London on business ; and as Sir James Kay Shuttle- 
 worth was detained in the country by indisposition,, she ac- 
 cepted Mrs. Smith's invitation to stay quietly at her house, 
 while she transacted her affairs. 
 
 In the interval between the relinquishment of the first 
 plan and the adoption of the second, she wrote the following 
 letter to one who was much valued among her literary 
 friends : — 
 
 ^' May 22nd. 
 
 *^ I had thought to bring the ^ Leader ' and the ^ Athe- 
 naeum ' 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 
 Shuttle worth's state of health is the cause — a 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 vulgarizing, 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 con- 
 tributors, and also what Lewes writes besides his ' Appren- 
 ticeship of Life.' I always think the article headed ^ Litera- 
 ture ' 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 novel one ? I do not remember seeing 
 anything precisely like it before. 
 
 " I have just received yours of this morning; thank you 
 tor the enclosed note. The longings for liberty and leisure 
 
LETTER TO AN UNKNOWN ADMIKER. 131 
 
 wliich May sunshine wakens in yon, stir my sympathy. I 
 am afraid Cornhill is little better than a prison for its in- 
 mates 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 hill-country 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 melan- 
 choly 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 Grreat Hope. Eternal Life is theirs 
 now.'' 
 
 She had to write many letters, about this time, toautnora 
 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 addressed to a young man at 
 Cambridge : — 
 
 « Maj 23r(l, 1850. 
 " Apologies are indeed unnecessary for a * reality of feel- 
 ing, for a genuine unaffected impulse of the spirit^' such as 
 
132 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 prompted you to write the letter which. I now briefly ac- 
 knowledge. 
 
 "Certainly it is * something to me' that what I write 
 should be acceptable to the feeling heart and refined intel- 
 lect ; undoubtedly it is much to me that my creations (such 
 as they are) should find harbourage, appreciation, indul- 
 gence, 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 thought- 
 ful, 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 cariy and can find household altars in human 
 hearts, they will fulfil the best design of their creation, in 
 therein maintaining a genial flame, which shall warm but not 
 scorch, light but not dazzle. 
 
 " 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 fresh- 
 ness, 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. 
 
 " Currer Eell." 
 
 Miss Bront(5 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 
 
INCIDENTS OF A VISIT TO LONDON. 133 
 
 limiting her visit to a fortnight, dreading the feverishness and 
 exhaustion which were the inevitable consequences of the 
 slightest excitement upon her susceptible frame. 
 
 ** June 12th. 
 
 " Since I wrote to you last, 1 have not had many moments 
 
 myself, except such as it was absolutely necessary to give 
 
 rest. On the whole, however, I have thus far got on very 
 
 well, suffering much less from exhaustion than I did last 
 
 time. 
 
 '^ Of course I cannot give ]pou in a letter a regular chron- 
 icle of how my time has been spent. I can only just notify 
 what I deem three of its chief incidents : — a sight of the 
 Duke of Wellington at the Chapel Eoyal (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,' and I suppose it was. The giant sate before me ; ? 
 was moved to speak to him of some of his short-comings (lit 
 erary of course) ; one by one the faults came into my head, 
 and one by one I brought them out, and sought some expla- 
 nation 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 this evening. 
 
 " I have seen Lewes too I could not feel 
 
 otherwise to him than half-sadly, half-tenderly, — 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 ex- 
 pression : whatever Lewes says, I believe I cannot hate him. 
 
134 LIFE OF CriAKLOTTF BRONTE. 
 
 Another likeness I liave seen, too, that touched me sorrow 
 fully. 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 half-frankly, half-tremblingly ; we sate 
 
 down together, and when I had talked with her five minutes, 
 her face was no longer strang-e, but mournfully familiar ; — it 
 was Martha* in every lineament. I shall try to find a mo- 
 ment 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 jus*, 
 now unroofed ; repairs were become necessary. 
 
 She soon followed her letter to the friend to whom it was 
 written ; but her visit was a very short one, for, in accord- 
 ance 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 compar- 
 ison. 
 
 '' My stay in Scotland " (she wrote some weeks later) 
 " was short, and what I saw was chiefly comprised in Edin- 
 burgh and the neighbourhood, in Abbotsford and in Melrose, 
 for 1 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, associa- 
 tion, and circumstance, that I think the enjoyment expe- 
 rienced 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 his- 
 
 ^ The friend of her youth, who died at Brussels. 
 
HER IMPRESSIONS OF SCOTLAND. 135 
 
 tory compared to a large dull treatise on political ecouomy , 
 and as to Melrose and Abbotsford, the very names possess 
 music and magic." 
 
 And again, in a letter to a different correspondent, slic 
 says : — 
 
 " 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 da- 
 guerreotype 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 descrip- 
 tion ; you will, before now, have received a pithy and pleas- 
 ant 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 Border — especially are 
 they prone to perpetrate that last excursion ; and who, in- 
 deed, that has once seen Edinburgh, with its couchant crag- 
 lion, but must see it again in dreams, waking or sleeping? 
 My dear sir, do not think I blaspheme, when I tell you that 
 your great London, as compared to Dun-Edin, [ 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 
 
136 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tlie glories of architecture assembled together, yon hayc no 
 thing like Arthur's Seat, and above all, you have not the 
 Scotch national character; and it is that grand character 
 after all which gives the land its true charm, its true great- 
 ness." 
 
 On her return from Scotland, she again spent a few 
 days with her friends, and then made her way to Haworth. 
 
 "July 15th. 
 
 *^ I got home very well, and full glad was I that no in- 
 
 superable 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 misera- 
 ble ever since he got Miss 's letter. I found on my ar- 
 rival, 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 pub- 
 lished 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." 
 
HER POETRAIT BY RICHMOND. 137 
 
 While Miss Bronte was staying in London, she was in- 
 duced 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 life-like. She sent the following amus- 
 ing account of the arrival of the portrait to the donor : — 
 
 "Aug. 1st. 
 " 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 superero- 
 gation, but now, when I see it again, I cannot but acknow- 
 ledge 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 expres- 
 sion, 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 nota- 
 ble exception ; viz., our old servant, who tenaciously main- 
 tains that it is not like — that it is too old-looking ; but as 
 she, with equal tenacity, asserts that the Duke of Welling- 
 ton's picture is a portrait of * the Master ' (meaning Papa), 
 I am afraid not much weight is to be ascribed to her opin- 
 ion ; doubtless she confuses her recollections of me as I was 
 in childhood with present impressions. Requesting alwaya 
 
138 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 to be very kindly remembered to your mother and sisters, 1 
 am, yours very thanklessly (according to desire), 
 
 It may easily be conceived that two people living to- 
 gether 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 anx- 
 iety respecting each other's health. There is not one letter 
 of hers which I have read, that does not contain some men- 
 tion of her father's state in this respect. Either she thanks 
 God with simple earnestness that he is well, or some infirmi- 
 ties 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 state, and return and report. 
 
 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 that the subject of her 
 health should be as little alluded to as possible. 
 
 •■'Aug. 7th. 
 " I am truly sorry that I allowed the words to which you 
 refer to escape my lips, since their effect on you has been un- 
 pleasant ; but try to chase every shadow of anxiety from 
 your mind, and, unless the restraint be very disagreeable to 
 
NERVOUS SENSIBILITY. 139 
 
 you, permit me to add an earnest request tbat 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 philoso- 
 phy must at times totally fail ; and subjugation to which is 
 a cruel terrible fate — the fate, indeed, of him whose life was 
 passed under a sword suspended by a horse-hair. I have 
 had to entreat Papa's consideration on this point. My ner- 
 vous system is soon wrought on. I should wish to keep it 
 in rational strength and coolness ; but to do so I must de- 
 terminedly resist the kindly-meant, but too irksome expres- 
 sion of an apprehension, for the realization or defeat of 
 which I have no possible power to be responsible. At pre- 
 sent, I am pretty well. Thank God ! Papa, I trust, is no 
 worse, but he complains of weakness." 
 
140 LIFE OF CnAELO'ITE BKO:^rTE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Her father was always anxious to procure evcr^ change 
 that was possible for her, seeing, as he did, the benelit 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 two-edged 
 sword, it cuts both ways ; the memory of one loss is the an- 
 ticipation of another." 
 
 It was during this visit at the Briery — Lady Kay Shut- 
 tleworth having kindly invited me to meet her there — that 
 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 author's impeessions of miss bkonte. 141 
 
 the level road to Low-wood ; tlien a stoppage at a pretty 
 house, and then a pretty drawing-room, in which were Sir 
 James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth, and a little lady in a 
 black silk 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, &c., came down to tea ; the little 
 lady worked away and Hardly spoke, but I had time for 
 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 with- 
 out 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 ways — if you 
 
 can fancy Miss to have gone through suffering enough 
 
 to have taken out every spark of merriment, and to be shy 
 ap.d silent from the habit of extreme, intense solitude. Such 
 a life as Miss Bronte's I never heard of before. de- 
 scribed 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, &c. &c. 
 
 " 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 
 irink tea quietly at Fox How \ and I then saw how severely 
 
143 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 her nerves were taxed by the effort of going amongst stran- 
 gers. 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 Low-wood, 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 charac- 
 ter of the prospect from Ha worth 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 impres- 
 sions and feelings respecting this visit : — 
 
 " You said I should stay longer than a week in West- 
 moreland ; 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 pass- 
 ed off very well ; I am very 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 
 
HER IMPRESSIONS OF THE LAKES. 143 
 
 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. Some- 
 times, while was warning me against the faults of the 
 
 artist-class, all the while vagrant artist instincts were busy 
 in the mind of his listener. 
 
 " I forgot 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 distinguished 
 looking, 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 well-timed present : a day or two be- 
 fore Papa had been wishing for some." 
 
 To these extracts I must add one other from a letter re- 
 ferring 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 cottage 
 lodgings. 
 
 "Haworth, Sept. 27th, 1850. 
 
 " 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 
 
144: LIFE OF CHARLOTIE BRONTE. 
 
 have gone to you. I have already had my excursion, and 
 there is an end of it. Sir James Kay Shuttleworth is ve-r 
 siding near Windermere, at a house called the ^ Eriery,' and 
 it was there I was staying for a little time this August. He 
 very kindly showed me the neighbourhood, as it can he 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 spring-cart, even a post-chaise 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 enthusiastic, and thus drawing atten- 
 tion to the ^ lioness ' — the authoress. 
 
 " 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 pro- 
 portionate regard, I could not help concentrating my feel- 
 ings ; 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 Shuttle worth's and my publisher's. From this 
 eystem 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 seventy-fifth year, the 
 infirmities of age begin to creep upon him ; during the sum- 
 
LETTER TO THE AUTHORESS. 115 
 
 mer lie lias been mucli harassed by cbronic broncliitls, but I 
 am thankful to say that he is now somewhat better. I 
 think my own health has derived benefit from change and 
 exercise. 
 
 " Somebody in D professes to have authority for say- 
 ing, that ' when Miss Bronte was in London she neglected 
 to attend Divine service on the Sabbath, and in the week 
 jjpent her time in going about to balls, theatres, and operas.' 
 On the other hand, the London quidnuncs make my seclu- 
 sion 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 foundation her stories may be." 
 
 I must now quote from the first letter I had the privi- 
 lege of receiviDg from Miss Bronte. It is dated August 
 the 27th. 
 
 " 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 bo thankful for, and, amongst the 
 rest, that this morning I received a letter from you, and that 
 this evening I have the priyilege of answering ifc. 
 
 " I do not know the ^ Life of Sydney Taylor; ' when- 
 ever I have the opportunity I will get it. The little French 
 book you mentioned shall also take its place on the list of 
 books to be procured as soon as possible. It treats a sub- 
 ject 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 Eeview ' 
 is not a periodical I see regularly, but some time since I 
 
 VOL. 11— 7 
 
146 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 got hold of a number — for last January, I tliink-— in which 
 there was an article entitled * Woman's Mission ' (the 
 phrase is hackneyed), containing a great deal that seemed to 
 nie 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 
 etrong, think and speak of it with a candour that commands 
 my admiration. They say, however — and, to an extent, 
 truly — that 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 — 
 deep-rooted in the foundations of the social system — 
 which no efforts of ours can touch : of which we cannot 
 complain ; of which it is advisable not too often to think. 
 
 ^^ 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 somewhat 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 out in verse. 
 
 *' 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, hut you are 
 never, on any account^ io do this except when inclination 
 prompts and leisure permits. I should never thank you 
 for a letter which you had felt it a task to write." 
 
 A short time after we had met at the Briery, she sent me 
 tnc volume of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell's poems ; and 
 
IIEK IMPKESSIONS OF SCOTLAND. 147 
 
 thus alludes to them in the note that accompanied tho 
 parcel : — 
 
 *' The little book of rhymes was sent by way of fulfilling 
 a rashly made promise ; and the promise was made to pre- 
 vent 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 vigor- 
 ous, and Acton's have the merit of truth and simplicity. 
 Mine are chiefly juvenile productions ; the restless efferves- 
 cence of a mind that would not be still. In those days, the 
 sea too often * wrought and was tempestuous,' and weed, sand, 
 shingle — all 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 ^ Athenseum ' is very accepta- 
 ble, not merely for its own sake, — though I esteem the op- 
 portunity 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 be- 
 come a task to you ; in this case, discontinue it at once. 
 
 " I did indeed enjoy my trip to Scotland, and yet I saw 
 jittle of the face of the country; nothing of its grander or 
 finer scenic features : but Edinburgh, Melrose, Abbotsford — 
 these three in themselves sufficed to stir feelings of such deep 
 interest and admiration, that neither at the time did I re- 
 gret, 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 chil- 
 dren, I shall not soon forget how I felt when, having reached 
 
14:8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 its summit, we all sat down and looked over tlie cily — -to- 
 wards 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 literature. You 
 cannot be blamed. 
 
 " 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 watch — D. 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 labour mechanically. 
 
 ^' 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 late — alas ! in one sense, too late. Of 
 this, however, and of the pang of regret for a light prema- 
 turely 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 com- 
 parison 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, restless endeavour to combat 
 mental sufierings that were scarcely tolerable. 
 
 *' You sent the tragedy of * Galileo Galilei,' by Samuel 
 Brown, in one of the Cornhiil parcels ; it contained, I remem- 
 ber, 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 
 
•*• Lli^E OF SYDNEY TAYLOU." 149 
 
 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 pe- 
 rusal. Of course, when I name any book, it is always un- 
 derstood that it should be quite convenient to send it." 
 
ITjO i.rFK OF cifAELOTTE ijuorrjii 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It was thought desirable about this time, to republish 
 " "Wuthering Heights " and " Agnes Grey," the works of the 
 two sisters, and Charlotte undertook the task of editing 
 them. 
 
 She wrote to Mr. Williams, September 29th, 1850, " It 
 is my intention to write a few lines of remark on * Wuthering 
 Pleights,' 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 iSrst 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 permit- 
 ted 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 this — nothing could make her 
 conscious of it. 
 
 '' And this makes me reflect, — perhaps i am too incapable 
 of perceiving the faults and peculiarities of my own style. 
 
 " 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 dia 
 
SOLITUDE AND DEPRESSION. 151 
 
 lect to a Yorkshire ear, yet, I am sure Southerns must find 
 it unintelligible ; and thus one of the most graphic characters 
 in the book is lost on them. 
 
 ^' I grieve to say that I possess no portrait of either of my 
 sisters." 
 
 To her own dear friend, as to one who had known and 
 loved her sisters, she writes still more fully respecting the 
 painfulness of her task. 
 
 " There is nothing wrong, and I am writing jcu 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, &c. 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 duiy^ I went on, and now can bear 
 it better. It is work, however, that I cannot do in the even- 
 ing, 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 visit to 
 the Lakes. She expressed her regret, &c., at not being at 
 home. 
 
 " 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 
 
152 LIFE OF ClIARLOTIE BRONTE. 
 
 one or two nights, I scarcely knew liow to get on till morn 
 ing ; 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 
 w^orst. 
 
 " 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, &c. 
 There was a reaction that sunk me to the earth ; the deadly 
 silence, solitude, desolation, were awful ; the craving for com- 
 panionship, the hopelessness of relief, were w^hat I should 
 dread to feel again. 
 
 " Dear , when I think of you, it is with a compas- 
 sion and tenderness that scarcely cheer me. Mentally, I fear 
 you also are too lonely and too little occupied. It seems oui 
 doom, for the present at least. May God in His mercy help 
 us to bear it 1 " 
 
 During her last visit to London as mentioned in one of 
 her letters, she had made the acquaintance of her correspond- 
 ent, Mr. Lewes. That gentleman says : — 
 
 " Some months after " (the appearance of the review of 
 " Shirley '^ in the " Edinburgh"), " Currer Bell came to Lon- 
 don, and I was invited to meet her at your house. You may 
 remember, she asked you not to point me out to her, but al- 
 
HER OPINIONS OF BALZAC AND GEOKGE SAND. 153 
 
 low Iier to discover me if slie could. She did recognise mo 
 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 al- 
 ways, then ? ' I asked. * No ! not always,' she said, signifi- 
 cantly ; and that was the only allusion she made to the of- 
 fending article. I lent her some of Balzac's and George 
 Sand's novels to take with her into the country ; and the fol- 
 lowing 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 his 
 acquaintance, through the medium of ^ Modesto Mignon,' and 
 ' Illusions perdues,' you cannot doubt I have felt some inter- 
 est. 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 dis- 
 cover, with delight, where his force lay : is it not in the analy- 
 sis 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 L forever hold- 
 ing up in strong light our defects, and who rarely draws forth 
 our better qualities. 
 
 " Truly, I like George Sand better. 
 
 " Fantastic, fanatical, unpractical enthusiast as she oftcB 
 h> — far from truthful as are many of her views of life — mis- 
 
 VOL. II 7* 
 
151' LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE, 
 
 led, as slie is apt to be, by ber feelings — George Saud bas a 
 better nature than M. de Balzac ; ber brain is larger, ber 
 beart warmer tban bis. Tbe ^ Lettres d'un Voyageur ' are 
 full of tbe writer's self; and I never felt so strongly, as in 
 tbe perusal of tbis work, tbat most of ber very faults spring 
 from tbe excess of ber good qualities : it is tbis excess wbicb 
 bas often burried ber into difficulty, wbicb bas prepared for 
 ber enduring regret. 
 
 *^ But I believe ber mind is of tbat order wbicb disastrous 
 experience teacbes, witbout weakening or too mucb dishearten- 
 ing ; and, in tbat case, tbe longer sbe lives tbe better sbe 
 will grow. A bopeful point in all ber writings is tbe scar- 
 city of false French sentiment ; I wish I could say its ab- 
 sence ; but the weed flourishes here and there, even in the 
 'Lettres.'" 
 
 I remember the good expression of disgust which Miss 
 Bronte made use of in speaking to me of some of Balzac's 
 novels : " They leave such a bad taste in my mouth. " 
 
 The reader will notice that most of tbe letters from which 
 I now quote are devoted to critical and literary subjects. 
 These were, indeed, ber principal interests at this time ; the 
 revision of ber 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 
 ber sorrowful recollections, she sought relief in long walks 
 on the moors. A friend cf hers, who wrote to me on the 
 appearance of tbe eloquent article in the " Daily News " upon 
 the " Death of Currer Bell," gives an anecdote which may 
 well come in here. 
 
 " They are mistaken in saying she was too weak to roam 
 the bills for tbe benefit of the air. I do not think any one, 
 certainly not any woman, in this locality, went so much on 
 the moors us she did, when the weather permitted Inieed, 
 
A CIlARACrERISTIC INCIDENT. 155 
 
 she was so much in the habit of doing so, that people, who 
 live quite away on the edge of the common, knew her per- 
 fectly 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 cofe — v/hat we call a stirk, 
 yah know. Miss Bronte ; will yah turn it this way if yah 
 happen to see't, as yah're going back. Miss Bronte ; nah do, 
 Miss Bronte.' " 
 
 It must have been about this time that a v'sit 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 long-plan- 
 ned excursion to Haworth ; so we packed ourselves into the 
 buffalo-skin, and that into the gig, and set off about eleven. 
 The rain ceased, and the day was just suited to the scenerj^, 
 — wild and chill,— with great masses of cloud glooming over 
 the moors, and here and there a ray of sunshine covertly steal- 
 ing 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 Ha- 
 worth ; for the last four miles we were ascending a huge 
 moor, at the very top of which lies the dreary black-looking 
 village of Haworth. The village-street itself is one of the 
 steepest hills I have ever seen, and the stones are so horribly 
 jolting that I shculd have got out and walked with W -, 
 
156 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 if possible, but, having once begun the ascent, to stop waa 
 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 wo 
 went, — a dreary, dreary place, being literally paved with rain- 
 blackened 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 
 bouse before us, a small oblong stone house, with not a tree to 
 screen it from the cutting wind ; but how we were 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 Bichmond, 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 prop- 
 ped on wood, were all scrupulously clean and neat. When 
 we went into the parlour again, we began talking very com- 
 fortably, 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 st«dy on the opposite side of 
 
 the passage ; presently emerging again to bring W a 
 
 country newspaper. This was his last appearance till we 
 
A VISIT TO IIAWOETII PARSONAGE. 157 
 
 wont. Miss Bronte spoke with tlie greatest warmtli 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, &c., 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 curlj-haired 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 
 
 W ' found that it was half-past three, and we had fourteen 
 
 or fifteen miles before us. So we hurried ofi*, 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 
 good-bye, we returned to the inn, and made the best of our 
 way homewards. 
 
 " Miss Bronte put me 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 f^et were heard about the 
 ^, house, even thab desolate crowded grave-yard and biting 
 blast could not quench cheerfulness and hope. Now there 
 is something touching in the sight of that little creature en- 
 tombed 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 nothing has been 
 able to freeze or extinguish.*' 
 
 In one of the preceding letters, Miss Bronte referred to 
 Hn article in the " Palladium," which had rendered whai 
 
15S LIFE OF CHARLOTIE BRONTfi. 
 
 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 grate- 
 ful 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 
 
 "Peculiar people whom Death had made dear.*' 
 
 She looked with interest upon everything he wrote ; and 
 before long we shall find that they corresponded. 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 " Oct. 25tli. 
 
 " The box of books came last night, and, as usual, I have 
 only gratefully to admire the selection made : ^ Jefi'rey's Es- 
 says,' ' Dr. Arnold's Life,' ' The Koman,' ^ Alton Locke,' 
 these were all wished for and welcome. 
 
 " You say I keep no books ; pardon me — I am ashamed 
 of my own rapaciousness : I have kept ' Macaulay's History,' 
 and Wordsworth'3 ^ Prelude,' and Taylor's ^ Philip Yan 
 Artevelde.' I soothe my conscience by saying that the tv/o 
 last, — being poetry — do 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 value, except for 
 trunk-makers. 
 
 " 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. 
 
CRITICISM ON THE '^ K0M.4N." 159 
 
 " The autumn, as you say, lias been very fine. I and 
 fiolitude and memory have often profited by its sunshine on 
 the moors. 
 
 " I had felt some disappointment at the non-arrival of 
 the proof-sheets of * Wuthering Heights ; ' a feverish impa- 
 tience to complete the revision is apt to beset me. The work 
 of looking over papers, &c., 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, — afibrding a 
 solace which could not be yielded by the very same books 
 procured from a common library. 
 
 " 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, unbor- 
 rowed, unmimicked. You hear Tennyson, indeed, some- 
 times, and Byron sometimes, in some passages of the ' Eo- 
 man ; ' 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 
 Life:— 
 
 *'Nov. Cth. 
 " 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 
 
160 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE, 
 
 fcerms seem wanting. This is not a character to be dis- 
 missed with a few laudatory words ; it is not a one-sided 
 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 posi- 
 tive, those were his sole faults (if, indeed, that can be called 
 a fault which in no shape degrades the individual's own char- 
 acter, but is only apt to oppress and overstrain the weaker 
 nature of his neighbours). Afterwards come good qualities. 
 About these there is nothing dubious. Where can we find 
 justice, firmness, independence, earnestness, sincerity, fuller 
 and purer than in him ? 
 
 " 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 true-hearted affection. Without 
 this, however one might admire, we could not love him ; but 
 with it I think we love him much. A hundred such men 
 — ^fifty^ — ^nay, 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 ex- 
 emption 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 
 
AN EVENING SPENT AT FOX HOW. 161 
 
 was excellent ; his undertakings were crowned with sue* 
 cess ; 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 w^s 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 al- 
 most dark ere I reached it ; still I could perceive that the 
 situation was lovely. The house looked like a nest half bu- 
 ried in flowers and creepers ; and, dusk as it was, I could feel 
 that the valley and the hills round were beautiful as imagi- 
 nation could dream." 
 
 If I say again what I have said already before, it is only 
 to impress and re-impress upon my readers the dreary mono- 
 tony of her life at this time. The dark, bleak season of the 
 year brought back the long evenings, which tried her severe- 
 ly ; all the more so, because her weak eyesight rendered her 
 incapable of following any occupation but knitting by candle- 
 light. 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 Amble 
 side. She also proposed to come to Manchester and see lae, 
 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 pro- 
 posal, 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 at their house. Sho 
 acknowledged this invitation in a letter to me, dated 
 
162 LITE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 "Bee. 13th, 1850. 
 
 " Mj 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 well — that if I could go and be with you for a 
 week or two in a quiet south-country house, and with such 
 kind people as you describe, I should like it much. 1 find the 
 proposal marvellously to my taste ; it is the pleasantest, gen- 
 tlest, 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 Marti- 
 neau's, and returned home, and considered well whether it is 
 a scheme as right as agreeable. 
 
 ^' Meantime, the mere thought does me good." 
 
 On the 10th of December, the second edition of '' Wuth- 
 ering Heights " was published. She sent a copy of it to Mr. 
 Dobcll, with the following letter : — 
 
 TO MR. DOBELL. 
 
 " Ilaworth, near Keighley, Yorkshire. 
 ''Dec. 8th, 1850. 
 
 " I ofier this little book to my critic in the ^ Palladium,' 
 and he must believe it accompanied by a tribute of the sin- 
 cerest 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 
 ephere and mine, and human blame and praise are nothing 
 to her now. But to me, for her sake, they are something 
 
nEK LETTER TO MK. DOBELL. 103 
 
 fitill ; it revived me for many a day to find that, dead as slie> 
 was, the work of her genius had at last met with worthy ap- 
 preciation. 
 
 " Tell me, when you have read the introduction, whether 
 any doubts still linger in your mind respecting the author- 
 ship of ' Wuthering Heights,' ' Wildfell Hall,' &c. Your 
 mistrust did me some injustice ; it proved a general concep- 
 tion 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 millihusj^^ but a plain country parson's daughter 
 
 ^' Once more I thank you, and that with a full heart. 
 
 ^^ a Bronte." 
 
1 04 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE EPvONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Immediately after the republication of her sister's book slie 
 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 with- 
 out ; 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 breakfa,st and got 
 to her work by seven o'clock). I pass the morning in the 
 drawing-room — she, in her study. At two o'clock we meet 
 — work, talk, and walk together till five, her dinner hour, 
 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 
 
HER VISIT TO MISS MARTINEAtJ. 165 
 
 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 
 warm-hearted, 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. Ar- 
 nold. 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 re- 
 turned 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 servant being ill in bed, 
 and the other. Tabby, aged upwards of eighty. 
 
 This visit to Ambleside did Miss Bronte much good, 
 and gave her a stock of pleasant recollections, and fresh in- 
 terests, to dwell upon in her solitary life. There are many 
 references in her letters to Miss Martineau's character and 
 kindness. 
 
 " 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 
 
166 LIFE OF CHAELOITE BEONTE. 
 
 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 grat- 
 itude." " 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 ? Scarce- 
 ly ; 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 abso- 
 lutely clear, it was inferred that in time I should prove an 
 excellent subject. The question of mesmerism will be dis- 
 cussed 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 legiti- 
 mate ground for speculation, will be handled." 
 
 " Your last letter evinced such a sincere and discriminat- 
 ing admiration for Dr. Arnold, that perhaps you w^ll not be 
 wholly uninterested in hearing that, during my last visit to 
 Miss Martineau, I saw much more of Fox How and its in- 
 mates, 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, benevo- 
 lence, 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. Shr 
 
HER IMPliESSIONS OF MISS MARTINEATJ. . IC? 
 
 Bceins to me the benefactress of Ambleside, yet takes no sort 
 of credit to herself for her active and indefatigable philan- 
 thropy. The government of her household is admirably ad- 
 ministered ; 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 over-strict, nor too rigidly exacting : her servants and 
 her poor neighbours love as well as respect her. 
 
 " 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 me they 
 appear very trivial weighed in the balance against her excel- 
 lences." 
 
 " 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, slow-beating heart, lay under his marble outside. 
 But he is a materialist : he serenely denies us #ur 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 hia 
 mocking tongue so perversely deny the better feelings of his 
 better moods ? '' 
 
 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 
 
168 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 and angry with herself for her inability. In February, she 
 writes as follows to Mr. Smith : — 
 
 " 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 lit- 
 tle redbreasts come every morning to the window for crumbs. 
 One can lay no plans three or four months beforehand. Be- 
 sides, 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 confinement — without even a letter from Cornhill — 
 till 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 three- volume MS. in my hand, or else with a condi- 
 tion of intellect that would exempt me ever after from lite- 
 rary efforts and expectations." 
 
 Meanwhile, she was disturbed and distressed by the pub- 
 lication of Miss Martineau's " Letters," &c. ; they came 
 down with a peculiar force and heaviness upon a heart that 
 looked, with fond and earnest faith, to a future life as to the 
 meeting-place with those who were " loved and lost awhile." 
 
 "Feb. 11, 1851. 
 
 ^^ My dear Sir, — Have you yet read Miss Martineau's and 
 Mr. Atkinson's new work, ^ Letters on the Nature and 
 Development of Man ? ' If you have not, it would be worth 
 your while to do so. 
 
 " Of the impression this book has made on me, I will not 
 now say much. It is the first exposition of avowed atheism 
 aiid materialism I have ever read ; the first unequivocal dec- 
 
MISS MAETINEAU'S " LETTERS." 169 
 
 laratlon of dislbelief in tlie existence of a God or a future life 
 I have ever seen. In judging of sucli exposition and decla- 
 ration, 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 blank — to receive this bitter 
 bereavement as great gain — to welcome this unutterable des- 
 olation 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 /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 time — not otherwise,'''' 
 
 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 pub- 
 lication 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 error — the gravity 
 of which she admitted — in the conduct of a person who had, 
 all her life long, been striving, })j deep thought and noble 
 words, to serve her kind. 
 
 " Your remarks on Miss Martineau and her book pleased 
 mo greatly, from their tone and spirit. I have even taken 
 
 VOL. IT.— 8 
 
170 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BrvONTE. 
 
 the liberty of transcribing for her benefit one or two phrascSj 
 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 out 
 what she felt and thought about ^' The Stones of Venice." 
 
 " ^ The Stones of Venice' seem nobly laid and chiselled. 
 How grandly the quarry of vast marbles is disclosed ! Mr. 
 lluskin seems to me one of the few genuine writers, as dis- 
 tinguished from book-makers, 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 dicta — the 
 private property of one John Kuskin, Esq." 
 
 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 night-mare." She became afraid of sinking as low 
 as she had done in the autumn ; and to avoid this, she pre- 
 vailed 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 
 
A THIRD OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 171 
 
 in itself, and from the self-restraint of thought imposed by 
 the necessity of entertaining her and looking after her com- 
 fort. On this occasion, Miss Bronte said, " It will not do tc 
 get into the habit of running away from home, and thus 
 temporarily evading an oppression instead of facing, wrest- 
 ling with and conquering it, or being conquered by it.'^ 
 
 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 ex- 
 traordinary power with which she represented the passion of 
 love in her novels, that she herself was easily susceptible of it. 
 
 " Could I ever feel enough for , to accept of him as a 
 
 husband ? Friendship — gratitude — esteem — I 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 per- 
 fect 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 over-ruled by One above us ; that in 
 His hands our very will is as clay in the hands of the pot- 
 ter." 
 
 4. 
 
 I have now named all the offers of marriage she ever re- 
 ceived, 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 end of her life ; a circum- 
 stance to his credit and to hers. 
 
 Before her friend E took her departure, Mr. Bronte 
 
 cauglit cold, and continued for some weeks much out of health, 
 
172 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 with an attack of bronchitis. His spirits too, became much 
 depressed ; and all his daughter's efforts were directed towards 
 cheering him. 
 
 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 every one remembers, the time of 
 the great Exhibition ; but even with that attraction in pros- 
 pect, 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 dis- 
 agreed with her both mentally and physically. She never 
 looked excited except for a moment, when something in con- 
 versation 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 haggard ; yet she averred that the change 
 invariably did her good afterwards. 
 
 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 be- 
 coming, yet remembering consistency, both with her general 
 appearance and with her means, in every selection she made. 
 
 " 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 msrely 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 
 
PREPARINa FOR A VISIT TO LONDOTT. 173 
 
 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 oflF, 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 efiect 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 cour- 
 teous, and sent to London for one, which I have got this 
 morning. The price is less, being but 11, 14s. Oc?. ; it is 
 pretty, neat and light, looks well on black ; and upon reason- 
 ing 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 ever see 
 it and call it * trumpery ' so much the worse." 
 
 " 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, &c., 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 re- 
 gret this, because papa says he would have lent me a sove- 
 reign 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 mat- 
 
174 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ters to arrange, before I leave, as they will clean, &c. in nij 
 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 in good condition for the visit ; it is fated otherwise. 
 No matter. Calm your passion ; yet I am glad to see it. 
 Such spirit seems to prove health. Good bye, in haste. 
 
 " Your poor mother is like Tabby, Martha and Papa ; all 
 these fancy I am somehow, by some mysteiious 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 housekeeping and go into 
 lodgings ! " 
 
 I copy the following, for the sake of the few words de- 
 scribing the appearance of the heathery moors in late sum- 
 mer. 
 
 TO SYDNEY DOBELL, ESQ. 
 
 "May 24tli, 1851. 
 
 " 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 Temp- 
 tation, but the stern Impossible holds me back. No 1 I can- 
 not go to Switzerland this summer. 
 
 " Why did the editor of the ^ Eclectic ' erase that 
 most powerful and pictorial passage ? He could not be 
 insensible to its beauty ; perhaps he thought it profane. 
 Poor man ! 
 
MK. Thackeray's lecture, etc. 175 
 
 " I know notliing of such an orchard-countrj as you do- 
 scribe. 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 re- 
 served 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 ; other- 
 wise, how glad I should be if you would call. With kind 
 regards to Mrs. Dobell, — Believe me, sincerely yours, 
 
 " C. Bronte." 
 
 Her next letter is dated from London. 
 
 " June 2nd. 
 
 " I came here on Wednesday, being summoned a day 
 sooner than I expected, in order to be in time for Thacke- 
 ray's second lecture, which was delivered on Thursday after- 
 noon. 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 held — a 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 
 mo or notice me under these circumstances, with admiring 
 duchesses and countesses seated in rows before him ; but he 
 met me as I entered — shook hands — took me to his mother, 
 whom I had not before seen, and introduced me. She is a 
 fine, handsome, young-looking old lady ; was very gracious, 
 and called with one of her grand-daughters next day. 
 
 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 
 
176 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 are a sort of essays, characterised by his own peculiai 
 originality and power, and delivered with a finished taste 
 and ease, which is felt, but cannot be described. Just Jbe- 
 fore the lecture began, somebody came behind me, leaned 
 over and said, ' Permit me, as a Yorkshireman, to introduce 
 myself.' I turned round — saw a strange, not handsome, 
 face, which puzzled me for half a minute, and then I said, 
 ' You are Lord Carlisle.' He nodded and smiled ; he talked 
 a few minutes very pleasantly and courteously. 
 
 " 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 sight — a 
 mixture of a genii palace, and a mighty bazaar, but it is not 
 much in my way ; I like 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. Sunday — yesterday — was a day to be marked with 
 a white stone ; through most of the day I was very happy, 
 without being tired or over-excited. In the afternoon, I 
 went to hear D'Aubigne, the great Protestant French 
 preacher ; it was pleasant — half sweet, half sad — and 
 strangely suggestive to hear the French language once more. 
 For health, I have so far got on very fairly, considering that 
 I came here far from well." 
 
 The lady, who accompanied Miss Bronte to the lecturt 
 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 Misa 
 Eront6 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 cl 
 
PUBLIC CURIOSriY KESPECTING MISS BRONTE. 177 
 
 " Jane Ejre,'* Miss Bronte said, " I am afraid Mr. Thacke- 
 ray 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 self-control, 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 over-eagerness, I 
 liked his naivete, I would have praised him; I had plenty 
 of praise in my heart ; but alas ! 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 congratulations, covered my defi- 
 ciency by their redundancy." 
 
 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 
 VOL. IT. — 8* 
 
178 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BROISITE. 
 
 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 ex 
 press her sympathy or try to give her strength by any touch 
 or word, lest it might bring on the crisis she dreaded. 
 
 Surely, such thoughtless manifestation of curiosity is a 
 blot on the scutcheon of true politeness ! The rest of the ac- 
 count 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 inexpres- 
 sibly 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 ; Eachel, the great 
 French actress, amongst the number. But to-day I really 
 have no pith for the task. I can only wish you good bye 
 with all my heart." 
 
 " 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 com- 
 pels me to comparative silence and solitude for eleven months 
 in the year, and in the twelfth, while offering social enjoy- 
 ment, takes away the vigour and cheerfulness which should 
 turK it to account. But circumstances are ordered for us, 
 and we must submit." 
 
 " Your letter would have been answered yesterday, but I 
 
VISIT TO THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 179 
 
 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. J) , a 
 
 beautiful, and, I think, a kind woman too ; but this I reso- 
 lutely 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 sight- — terrible 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 archi- 
 episcopal 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 patriarch- 
 poet. Mrs. D and Lord Glenelg were there ; no one 
 
 else : this certainly proved a most calm, refined, and intellec- 
 tual 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, &c. ; indeed, I hardly knew how to ask him 
 questions. I was spared all trouble : without being ques- 
 tioned, he gave information in the kindest and simplest man- 
 ner. After two hours spent at the Exhibition, and where., aa 
 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 splendid gallery." 
 
 To another friend she writes : — 
 
 *^ may have told you that I have q)ent a month in 
 
180 LIFE OF CnAELOTTE BRONTEc 
 
 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 bewilderiog enough ; but I never was able to 
 get up 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 than mine." 
 
 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 
 w ith her London sight-seeing, that we did little but sit in- 
 doors, 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 old-fash- 
 ioned country manner. Miss Bronte took great pains in 
 seeking out one which she thought would please the old wo- 
 man. 
 
 On her arrival at home, she addressed the following letter 
 to the friend with whom she had been staying in London : — 
 
 *' Eaworth, July 1st, 1851. 
 " 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 other- 
 wise pleasant enough. The two stout gentlemen, who filled 
 
ME. TIIACKEEAy's LAST LECTURE. 181 
 
 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 con- 
 trast, yet even Haworth Parsonage does not look gloomy in 
 this bright summer weather ; it is somewhat still, but with 
 he windows open I can hear a bird or two singing on certain 
 horn-trees in the garden. My father and the servants think 
 me looking better than when I left home, and I certainly feci 
 better myself for the change. You are too much like your 
 son to render it advisable I should say much about your kind- 
 ness during my visit. However, one cannot help (like Cap- 
 tain 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 regard to all your circle, believe 
 me very sincerely yours, 
 
 " 0. BRONTii:." 
 
 *' July 8tli, 1851. 
 " 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 obliga- 
 tions and individual duties, seem to me also true and full of 
 mental and moral vigour The International Copy- 
 right Meeting seems to have had but a barren result, judg- 
 ing from the report in the Literary Gazette. I cannot seo 
 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 publishers— honest 
 men — are 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 competitioi> in 
 
182 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BKONT^. 
 
 piracy, would influence tliem more ; but, I suppose, all es 
 tablished 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 
 gee 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 reso- 
 lution, never to degenerate thence. Be jealous of a shadow 
 of falling off. Determine rather to look above that stand- 
 ard, and to strive beyond it. Every body appreciates cer- 
 tain 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 tena- 
 ciously 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 
 gain — derive 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 continu- 
 ous 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 
 
LETTEK TO A FRIEND. 183 
 
 to come (intending afterwards to extend this abstinence tc 
 gix 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 io them a 
 violence, to which they entirely refuse to submit. I can 
 only observe that when it pleases you to write, whether so- 
 riously or for a little amusement, your notes, if they come 
 
 to me, will come where they are welcome. Tell ■ I will 
 
 try to cultivate good spirits, as assiduously as she cultivates 
 her geraniums." 
 
184 
 
 TIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BFwONTE 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 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 friend- 
 ship, sufficiently account for the constancy of affection which 
 Miss Bronte earned from all those who once became her 
 friends. 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 "July 21st, 1851. 
 
 "... 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 now — will these 
 alter their character some day ? 
 
 ^' Perhaps they may — though I have faith to the contra- 
 ry, because I thinkj I do not exaggerate my partialities ; I 
 think I take faults along with excellences — ^blemishes to- 
 gether with beauties. And, besides, in the matter of friend- 
 ship, 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 over-estimate of their liking for 
 and opinion of us ; and that if we guard ourselves with suf- 
 ficient scrupulousness of care from error in this direction, 
 and can be content, and even happy to give more affection 
 
REMARKS ON FRIENDSHIP. 185 
 
 than we receive — can make just comparison of circumstances, 
 and be severely accurate in drawing inferences thence, and 
 never let self-love blind our eyes — I think we may managa 
 to get through life with consistency and constancy, unembit- 
 fcered 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 wo 
 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 self-love would be 
 a cause of coldness ; in the former, only some painful change 
 in the friend's character and disposition — some fearful 
 breach in his allegiance to his better self — could alienate the 
 heart. 
 
 " How interesting your old maiden-cousin's gossip aDout 
 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 lit- 
 tle decaying hamlet amongst the chalk hills. After all, de- 
 pend upon it, it is better to be worn out with work in a 
 thronged community, than to perish of inaction in a stag- 
 nant solitude : take this truth into consideration whenever 
 you get tired of work and bustle." 
 
 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 upon myself 
 to pass it over without a few extracts : — 
 
 *' Haworth, Aug. 6th, 1851. 
 " My dear Mrs. Gaskeil, — I was too much pleased with 
 your letter, when I got it at last, to feel disposed to murmui 
 now about the delay. 
 
186 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BR0:N'TE. 
 
 " About a fortniglit ago, I received a letter from Mi.sa 
 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 side — to study the two 
 aspects of mind — to 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 medicine 
 — harsh, 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 flattering the palate ; it sustains, 
 without forcing the strength. 
 
 '* I very much agree with you in all 3'ou sa}^ For the 
 sake of variety, I could almost wish that the concord of 
 opinion were less complete, 
 
 "To begin with Trafalgar Square. My taste goes with 
 yours and M eta'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 Crystal Palace, 
 my thoughts are precisely yours. 
 
 " Then I feel sure you speak justly of Thackeray's lecture. 
 You do well to set aside odious comparisons, and to wax im- 
 patient 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 oi originality and novelty; a lack 
 of that refined perception which, dispensing with the stimulus 
 >f an ever-new subject, can derive sufficiency of pleasure from 
 
TWO VIEWS OF THE SAME SUBJECTS. 187 
 
 frcsliness of treatment. To sucli 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 breakfast-dish, they would remain insensible to 
 such influences as lie in sunrise, dew, and breeze : therein 
 would be * nothing new.' 
 
 *' It is Mr. \s family experience which has influenced 
 
 your feelings about the Catholics ? I own, I cannot be sor- 
 ry for this commencing change. Good people — very good 
 people — I doubt not, there are amongst the Romanists, but 
 the system is not one which should have such sympathy as 
 yours. Look at Popery taking off the mask in Naples ! 
 
 ^ 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 maybe, 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 
 had, 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 ex- 
 istence. This is good: this is true. A sound mind, a 
 healthy intellect, would have dashed the priest-power to the 
 wall ; would have defended her natural affections from his 
 grasp, as a lioness defends her young ; would have been as 
 tfue to husband and children, as your leal-hearted 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 wall — I stopped — there needed no 
 more. 
 
 "Deep truths are touched on in this tragedy— touched 
 
188 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BROJi^TE. 
 
 on, not fully elicited ; truths that stir a peculiar pity — a 
 compassion hot witli wrath, and bitter with pain. This is no 
 poet's dream : we know that such things have been done ; 
 that minds ho^ve been thus subjugated, and lives thus laid 
 waste. 
 
 " Kemember 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 missing ever since I saw 
 her. — Believe me, sincerely and affectionately yours, 
 
 '' C. Bronte." 
 
 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 hid 
 her do anything for me," she said ; *^ it has been so sweet 
 hitherto to have her rendering her little kindnesses spontanea 
 ouslyy 
 
 As illustrating her feelings with regard to children, I 
 may give what she says in 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 half-admiring, half-puzzled speculation." 
 
ON AN ARTICLE BY J. S. MILL. 189 
 
 The following is part of a long letter which I received 
 from her, dated September 20th, 1851 : — 
 
 "... Beautiful are those sentences out of James Mar- 
 tineau's sermons ; some of them gems most pure and genu- 
 ine ; ideas deeply conceived, finely expressed. I should like 
 much to see his review of his sister's book. Of all the arti- 
 cles respecting which you question me, I have seen none, ex- 
 cept that notable one in the ' Westminster ' on the Emanci- 
 pation 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. Well-argued it is, — clear, 
 logical, — but vast is the hiatus of omission ; harsh the conse- 
 quent jar on every finer chord of the soul. What is this hi- 
 atus ? I think I know ; and, knowing, I will venture to say. 
 I think the writer forgets there is such a thing as self-sacri- 
 ficing love and disinterested devotion. When I first read 
 the paper, I thought it was the work of a powerful-minded, 
 clear-headed woman, who had a hard, jealous heart, muscles 
 of iron, and nerves of bend * leather ; of a woman who langed 
 for power, and had never felt affection. To many women af- 
 fection is sweet, and power conquered indifferent — though 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 article — especially 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 suc- 
 ceed will succeed, or, at least, will have a fair chance — the in- 
 capable will fall back into their right place. He likewise 
 disposes of the ^ maternity ' question very neatly. In short, 
 
 * " Bend," in Yorkshire, is strong ox leather. 
 
190 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 ; glad am I that it is so. 
 
 " 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 na- 
 ture (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. Gas- 
 kell from the number of his audience ? I thought his Lon- 
 don plan too narrow. Charles Dickens would not thus limit 
 his sphere of action. 
 
 " You charge me to write about myself. What can I say 
 en that precious topic ? My health is pretty good. My 
 spirits arc not always alike. Nothing happens to me. I 
 hope and expect little in this world, and am thankful that 1 
 do not despond and sufi'er more. Thank you for inquiring 
 after our old servant ; she is pretty well ; the little shawl, 
 &c. pleased her much. Papa likewise, I am glad to say, is 
 pretty well ; with his and my kindest regards to you and 
 Mr. Gaskell — Believe me sincerely and afi'ectionately yours, 
 
 ^'C. Bkonte." 
 
 Before the autumn was far advanced, the usual effects of 
 her solitary life, and of the unhealthy situation of Ilaworth 
 Parsonage, began to appear in the form of sick-headaches 
 
MOKE ILLNESS AT HAWOETH PARSONAGE. 191 
 
 and miserable, starting, wakeful niglits. She does not dwell 
 on this in her letters ; but there is an absence of all cheer- 
 fulness 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 household — taking 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. 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 *' Sept. 2Cth. 
 
 '^ 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 
 ourselves — to 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 fellow-creatures undergo a different 
 lot ; it is well to have sleepy sympathies excited, and lethar- 
 gic selfishness shaken up. If, on the other hand, we be con- 
 tending with the special grief, — the intimate trial, — the pe- 
 culiar bitterness with which God has seen fit to mingle our 
 own cup of existence, — it is very good to know that our over- 
 cast 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 rivalling — some surpassing — the private pain 
 over which we are too prone exclusively to sorrow. 
 
 " All those crowded emigrants had their troubles, — their 
 antoward causes of banishment ; you, the looker-on, had 
 ' your wishes and regrets,' — ^your anxieties, alloying your 
 home happiness and domestic bliss ; and the parallel might 
 m pursued further, and still it would be true^, — still the 
 
192 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 same ; a thorn in tlie flesli for each; some burden, some con- 
 flict for all. 
 
 " How far this state of things is susceptible of ameliora- 
 tion from changes in public institutions, — alterations in na- 
 tional 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 rem- 
 edy is obscure and vague ; yet for such difficulties as spring 
 from over-competition, 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 lite- 
 rature, — the rarest, the most precious claim by which an au- 
 thor can be recommended. Are not your publishing pros- 
 pects for the comiog 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 position, his faculties 
 and his fate." 
 
 My husband and I were anxious that she should pay us 
 a visit before the winter had set completely in ; and she thus 
 wrote, declining our invitation : — 
 
 *' Nov. 6th. 
 
 *^ If anybody would tempt me from home, you would ; 
 but, just now, from home I must not, will not go. I feel 
 
A VISIT FROM MISS WOOLER. 193 
 
 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 head- 
 ache, or I am ground to the dust with deep dejection of 
 spirits (not, however, such dejection but I can keep it to my- 
 self). 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 failing health : I need say no more. 
 
 " 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 ofi*, 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 invitation — goes 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 without some little 
 drawback of this description ? It is a pity." 
 
 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 occa- 
 
 VOL. II. — 9 
 
194 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Bional letters brought. It must be remembered tliat Lei 
 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 diflOiculty 
 of breathiug, on the least exposure to cold. 
 
 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 sen- 
 tence 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 after -thought. 
 
 " 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'Au- 
 bigne's, Melville's, and Maurice's preaching, and the Crys- 
 tal Palace. 
 
 " Mr. Thackeray's lectures you will have seen mentioned 
 and commented on in the papers ; they were very interest- 
 ing. I could not always coincide with the sentiment ex- 
 pressed, or the opinions broached ; but I admired the gen- 
 tlemanlike ease, the quiet humour, the taste, the talent, the 
 simplicity, and the originality of the lecturer. 
 
 ^' Rachel's acting transfixed me with wonder, enchained 
 me with interest, and thrilled me with horror. The tremen- 
 dous force with which she expresses the very worst passions 
 
 1 
 
IMPliESSIONS OF HEE FIKST VISIT TO LONDON. 195 
 
 in their strongest essence forms an exhibition as exciting a a 
 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 com- 
 pany 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 work from her pen. ^' Villette " was 
 begun, but she lacked power to continue it. 
 
 " 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, 
 
196 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 long — very 
 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 in- 
 dulgent, even blindly partial to their own. Even if it should 
 turn out reasonably well, still I regard it as ruin to the pros- 
 perity 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 expecta- 
 tion, such as no performance can realise: then ensue disap- 
 pointment 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 botton of the den,' my hand would fall 
 paralysed on my desk. However, I can but do my best, 
 and then muffle my head in the mantle of Patience, and sit 
 down at her feet and wait." 
 
 The " mood " here spoken of did not go off; it had a 
 physical origin. Indigestion, nausea, headache, sleepless- 
 ness, — 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 
 
HER INCKEASING ILLNESS. 197 
 
 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 curly-headed 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 he ought to he put away, which neither papa 
 nor I liked to think of." 
 
 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, she — so patient, 
 silent, and enduring of suffering — so afraid of any unselfish 
 taxing of others — ^had to call to her friend for help : 
 
 " 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 weeks — and 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 to-morrow and say whether this be possible, and what 
 time you will be at Keighley, that I may send the gig. 
 I do not ask you to stay long: a few days is all I re* 
 ^uest." 
 
198 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 deep-rooted to be 
 more than palliated for a time by " the little cheerful so« 
 ciety " for which she so touchingly besought. 
 
 A relapse came on before long. She was very ill, and the 
 remedies employed took an unusual efiect on her peculiar sen- 
 eitiveness of constitution. Mr. Bronte was miserably anx- 
 ious about the state of his only remaining child, for she was 
 reduced to the last degree of weakness, as she had been un- 
 able to swallow food for above a week before. She rallied, 
 and derived her sole sustenance from half-a-tea-cup of liquid, 
 administered by tea-spoonfuls, in the course of the day. Yet 
 she kept out of bed, for her father's sake, and struggled in 
 solitary patience through her worst hours. 
 
 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 her own." 
 
 Happily for all parties, Mr. Bronte was wonderfully well 
 this winter ; good sleep, good spirits, and an excellent steady 
 *fcppetite, all seemed to mark vigour ; and in such a state of 
 health, Charlotte could leave him to spend a week with her 
 friend, without any great anxiety. 
 
 She benefited greatly by the kind attentions and cheer- 
 
HER SUFFEKINGS DURING WINTER. 199 
 
 ful society of the family witli -whom slie went to stay. Tlipy 
 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 npon their 
 tender regard, from the solitary woman, whom they had first 
 known as a little, motherless school-girl. 
 
 Miss Bronte wrote to me about this time, and told me 
 something of what she had suffered. 
 
 " Feb. 6tli, 1852. 
 " 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 be- 
 fore 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 tne 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, is is with deep thankfulness that I can 
 say, I am greatly better. My sleep, appetite, and strength 
 seem all returning." 
 
 It was a great interest to her to be allowed an early 
 
200 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 reading of " Esmond ; " and she expressed her thoughts on 
 the subject, in a criticising letter to Mr. Smith, who had 
 given her this privilege. 
 
 " Feb. Uth, 1852. 
 
 ^^ 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 admira- 
 tion. And still one can never lay down a book of his with- 
 out 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 scene-painter 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 sur- 
 geon did not seem so fiercely pleased with his work. Thack- 
 eray 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 
 great satirist would like society to be perfect. 
 
 " 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 
 
HER KEMAEK8 ON THACKERAy's " ESMOND." 201 
 
 I noticed that, for my part, grieved and exasperated me as 1 
 
 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. Thack- 
 eray, in his heart, does not value political or religious in- 
 trigues 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 master-faculty 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 cares to do his best. Thank 
 you once more ; and believe me yours sincerely. 
 
 " 0. Bronte.'^ 
 
 Miss Bronte's health continued such, that ahe could nvt 
 apply herself to writing as she wished, for many weeks after 
 the serious attack from which she had suffered. There waa 
 VOL. :r. — 9* 
 
203 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 not very much to cheer her in the few events that touched 
 her interests during this time. She heard in March of tho 
 death of a friend's relation in the Colonies; and we see 
 something of what was the corroding dread at her heart. 
 
 " 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 ven- 
 tured to read it once. It ripped up half-scarred wounds 
 with terrible force. The death-bed was just the same, — 
 breath failing, &c. 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 la<jk 
 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 
 
CHAT ON PAPEK. 203 
 
 see her people, nor hear them speak ; a great mist of head- 
 aclie had blotted them out ; they were non existent 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 which can 
 be extracted, and which is worth preserving. 
 
 " M 's letter is very interesting ; it shows a mind 
 
 one cannot but truly admire. Compare its serene trustiog 
 
 strength, with poor 's vacillating dependence. When 
 
 the latter was in her first burst of happiness, I never remem- 
 ber the feeling finding vent in expressions of gratitude to 
 God. There was always a continued claim upon your sym- 
 pathy in the mistrust and doubt she felt of her own bliss. 
 
 M believes ; her faith is grateful and at peace ; yet 
 
 while happy in herself, how thoughtful she is for others ! '' 
 
 " March 23rd, 1852. 
 
 '^ 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. 
 
 ^ % ^ %f? *- 
 
 "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 and spirit/ is worth 
 three half-pence farthing." 
 
204 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 "March 25th, 1852. 
 
 " Mj 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 to-day, per rail, a return-box of Cornhill 
 books. 
 
 " I have lately read with great pleasui e, * 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 ^ Eose Douglas.' I thought the authoress 
 committed a mistake in shifting the main interest from the 
 two personages on whom it first rests — ^viz.. Den Wilson and 
 Mary — to other characters of quite inferior conception. 
 Had she made Den 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 excellcmt, even an original, book might have been the 
 result. As for Lilias and Donald, 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 gentleman. 
 
 " I ought long since to have acknowledged the gratifica 
 tion with which I read Miss Kavanagh's ^ Women of Chris- 
 tianity.' Her charity and (on the whole) her impartiality 
 lire 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 
 (gharities seeming lo be fewer than Catholic. She forgets, 
 or does not know, that Protestantism ia a quieter creed than 
 Komanism ; as it does not clothe its priesthood in scarlet, so 
 neither does it set up its good women for saints, canonize 
 
REMARKS ON " THE SCHOOL FOR FATHERS." 205 
 
 their names, and proclaim their good works. In the icccrds 
 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 sincerely, 
 
 " 0. Bronte." 
 
 * April 3rd, 1852, 
 '^ My dear Sir, — The box arrived quite safel J, and I rory 
 much thank you for the contents, which are most kindly 
 selected. 
 
 " 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 sub- 
 ject, character, and epoch give the tale a certain attractive 
 ness. There is also, I think, a graphic rendering of 
 situations, and a lively talent for describing whatever is 
 visible and tangible — what 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 dra- 
 matic 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 dillettante 
 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 fox-hunt or, and the frivolous 
 existence of the fine gentleman present extremes each in its 
 
206" LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BPwONtS. 
 
 way so repugnant, that one feels half inclined to smile when 
 called upon to sentimentalize over the lot of a youth forced 
 to pass from one to the other ; torn from the stables, to be 
 ushered perhaps into the ball-room. 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 rcight possibly 
 have broken his neck in a fox-hunt. The character of Sir 
 Thomas Warren is excellent ; consistent throughout. That 
 of Mr. Addison not "Isad, but sketchy, a mere outline — want- 
 ing colour and finish. The man's portrait is there, and his 
 costume, and fragmentary anecdotes of his life ; ^ut where is 
 the man's nature — soul and self? I say nothing about the 
 female characters — ^not 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, and — that 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 consummation — the marked tendency, I 
 fear, of the day — produces, 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 en- 
 hanced 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 pain will meet their reward. 
 "Believe me, my dear Sir, sincerely yours, 
 
 '' 0. Bronte." 
 
EETIiOSPECT OF A DREAKY WINTER. 207 
 
 A letter to her old Brussels schoolfellow gives a short 
 retrospect of the dreary "winter she had passed through. 
 
 "Haworth, April 12th, 1852. 
 
 " .... I struggled through the winter, and the earlj 
 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 deniecl 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 com- 
 paratively ameliorated form in which it has hitherto shown 
 itself. 
 
 " 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 
 tep, and a day seldom passes that he does not express grat- 
 
208 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 itude and pleasure at the restoration of tliat inestimablo 
 privilege of vision whose loss he once knew." 
 
 I had given Miss Bronte, in one of my letters, an out- 
 line of the story on which I was then engaged, and in repl^ 
 she says : — 
 
 " The sketch you give of your work (respecting which I 
 am, of course, dumb) seems to me very noble ; and its pur- 
 pose 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. 
 
 " Yet hear my protest ! 
 
 " Why should she die ? Why are we to shut up the book 
 weeping ? 
 
 " 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 she writes to her 
 friend : — 
 
 "May nth. 
 
 " Dear E , — I must adhere to my resolution of 
 
 neither visiting nor being visited at present. Stay you 
 quietly at 13., till you go to S., as I shall stay at Haworth 
 
LETTER TO A FKIEND. 209 
 
 fts sincere a farewell can be taken with the heart as with the 
 lips, and perhaps less painful. I am glad the weather ia 
 changed ; the return of the southwest wind suits me ; but I 
 hope you have no cause to regret the departure of your fa- 
 vourite east wind. What you say about does not sur- 
 prise me ; I have had many little notes (whereof I answer 
 about one in three) breathing the same spirit, — self and child 
 the sole all-absorbing 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 
 two-fold 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 bet- 
 ter-warranted 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 circum- 
 stances 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 seems a 
 fair prospect of the wish being realised. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, 
 
 "0. Bkonte." 
 
210 LIFE OF CHAKT.OTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ClIAPTEE XI 
 
 The reader will remember that Anne Bronte liad been in- 
 terred 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 de- 
 cent 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 preservation. 
 
 "Cliffe House, Filey, June 6tli, 1852. 
 
 *' 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 erro^-s. 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 
 
SCARBOROUGH REVISITED. 211 
 
 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 tome much 
 altered ; more lodging-houses — some of them very handsome 
 — have 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 
 Bay. 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 di- 
 rectly, and tell me this, and anything and everything else 
 that comes into your mind. 
 
 *^ Believe me, yours faithfully, 
 "C. Broote." 
 
 "Filey, June 16th, 1852. 
 
 " Dear E , — Be quite easy about me. I really think 
 
 £ 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 cheer- 
 fulness 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 
 
 fehe sufi'ers ; but I do not much like her style of expressing 
 
212 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 language." 
 
 Soon after her return from Filey she was alarmed by 
 a very serious and sharp attack of illness with which Mr. 
 E route was seized. There was some fear, for a few days, 
 that his sight was permanently lost and his spirits sank pain- 
 fully under this dread. 
 
 '^ This prostration of spirits," writes his daughter, " whicli 
 accompanies anything like a relapse is almost the most diffi- 
 cult 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 circum- 
 stances, that I feel the lack either of society or occupation ; 
 my time is pretty well filled up, and my thoughts appropri- 
 ated 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 com- 
 bined strength and resignation may be continued to you. 
 Submission, courage, exertion, when practicable, — these seem 
 to be the weapons with which we must fight life's loDg bat- 
 tle." 
 
 I suppose that, during the very time when her thoughts 
 were thus fully occupied with anxiety for her father, she re- 
 ceived 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 followiug letter to Mr. Williams, bearing refer- 
 ence to some of Messrs. Smith and Elder's proposed arrango 
 inentd 
 
' SHIELEY." 213 
 
 " TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 *^ July 28th, 1852. 
 
 " 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 au- 
 thor, 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 ac- 
 tually in my publisher's hands. Perhaps we are none of us 
 justified in speaking very decidedly where the future is con- 
 cerned ; 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 does right who does his best. 
 
 *' 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 spii- 
 its, 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, 
 
 '^C. Bronte." 
 
 Before the end of August, Mr. Bronte's convalescenco 
 
214 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONtS. 
 
 became quite established, and he was anxious to resume his 
 duties for some time before his careful daughter would per 
 mit him. 
 
 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 g^ven in 
 the following extract from a letter to her friend : — 
 
 " 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 wel- 
 come you to Haworth. But oh I I don't get on ; I feel fret- 
 ted — incapable-— sometimes very low. However, at present, 
 the subject must not be dwelt upon; it presses me too hardly 
 — nearly^ — and painfully. Less than ever can I taste oi 
 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 na- 
 tion 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. Eead * Uncle Tom's Cabin': probably, though, you 
 have read it. 
 
 " Papa's health continues satisflictory, 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 hin- 
 ders me in working — depresses both power and tone of feel- 
 ing. I must expect this derangement from time to time." 
 
 Ilaworth was in an unhealthy state, as usual ; and both 
 l^Iiss Bronte and Tabby suffered severely from the prevailing 
 
SADNESS AND SOLITUDE. 215 
 
 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 antici- 
 pations 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, just 
 for a single week. 
 
 " 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 reviving week.'' 
 
 But she would only accept of the company of her friend 
 for the exact time specified. She thus writes to Miss Wooler 
 on October the 21st : — 
 
 <« E has only been my companion one little week. I 
 
 would not have her any longer, for I am disgusted with my- 
 self 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 low — ^prostrate sometimes — and 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 plea- 
 sure." 
 
 Miss 's visit had done her much good. Pleasant 
 
216 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 '^Yillette," 
 now drawing to a conclusion. The following letter to Mr. 
 Smith, seems to have accompanied the first part of the MS. 
 
 "Oct. 30th, 1852. 
 " My dear Sir, — You must notify honestly what you think 
 of ^ Yillette ' 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 circum- 
 stances, nor were two-thirds of ^ Shirley.' I got so miserable 
 about it, I could bear no allusion to the book. It is not fin- 
 ished yet ; but now I hope. As to the anonymous publica- 
 tion, 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, &c., I would not press 
 the point ; but if no such detriment is contingent, I should 
 be most thankful for the sheltering shadow of an incog- 
 nito. I seem to dread the advertisements — the large-let- 
 tered ^ Currer Bell's New Novel,' or ^ New Work, by the 
 Author of Jane Eyre.' These, however, I feel well enough, 
 ire 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 history — too little story." 
 
 In another letter, referring to " Esmond," she uses the 
 following words : — 
 
 ^' The third volume seemed to me to possess the most 
 parkle, impetus, and interest. Of the first and second my 
 
LETTEK TO MK. SMITH. 217 
 
 judgment was, that parts of them were admirable; but there 
 was the fault of containing too much History — too 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 well-made, not too rich, plum-pudding." 
 
 Her letter to Mr. Smith, containing the allusion to 
 " Esmond," which reminded me of the quotation just given, 
 continues : — 
 
 " 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 studied — their 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 ^ ViL 
 lette,' and tell Mr. Williams to be unsparing : not that I am 
 likely to alter anything, but I want to know his impressions 
 and yours." 
 
 VOL II.— 10 
 
218 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 TO G. SMITH, ESQ. 
 
 *' Nov. 3rd. 
 
 *' My dear Sir, — I feel very grateful for your letter ; it 
 relieyed me much, for I was a good deal harassed by doubts 
 as to how ^ Yillette' 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 dis- 
 approbation. 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 man- 
 hood, — 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 standard — held 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 arrangements, I leave them to 
 Cornhill. There is, undoubtedly, a certain force in what you 
 say about the inexpediency of affecting a mystery which can- 
 not 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 ostrich-longing for 
 concealment. Most of the third volume is given to the de- 
 velopment of the ^ crabbed Professor's' character. Lucy 
 must not marry Dr. John ; he is far too youthful, handsome, 
 bright-spirited, and sweet-tempered ; 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 Professor — a man in whom there is much to forgive, 
 much to ' put up with.' But I am not leniently disposed to- 
 wards 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 
 
A LETTER ABOUT "VILLETTE." 219 
 
 mj best, however. Ifc 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 let 
 ter, 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 fairy-tales) " 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 meaning. 
 
 TC W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 "Nov. 6th, 1852. 
 " My dear Sir, — I must not delay thanking you for your 
 kind letter, with its candid and able commentary on ^ Vil- 
 lette.' 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, T doubt whether the regular novel-reader will 
 
220 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 consider the ^ agony piled sufficiently high' (as the Americana 
 say), or the colours dashed on to the canvass with the proper 
 amount of daring. Still, I fear, they must be satisfied with 
 what is offered : my palette affords no brighter tints ; were I 
 to attempt to deepen the reds, or burnish the yellows, I 
 should but botch. 
 
 " 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.' Subsequent- 
 ly, 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 ^ luciis a non lucendo ' principle — 
 partly on that of the * fitness of things,' for she has about 
 her an external coldness. 
 
 " You say that she may be thought morbid and weak, 
 unless the history of her life be more fully given. I con- 
 sider that she is both morbid and weak at times ; her charac- 
 ter 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 confes- 
 sional, for instance ; it was the semi-delirium 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 statement of 
 impressions, I am, my dear Sir, yours very sincerely, 
 
 ^'C. BkontIj. 
 
MORE REMARKS ON "ESMOND.'' 221 
 
 " I trust the work will Ibe seen in MS. by no one except 
 Jlr. Smith and yourself." 
 
 " Nov. lOth, 1852. 
 ^^ My dear Sir, — I only wished the publication of ' Shir- 
 ley ' 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 be- 
 fore 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 im- 
 petus 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 satis- 
 faction. * 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 im- 
 pressions of a new kind — ^new, at least, to me. Beatrix 
 is not, in herself, all bad. So much does she sometimes re- 
 veal of what is good and great as to suggest this feeling — 
 you 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 be- 
 come its greatest disgrace. At times, what is good in her 
 
222 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 struggles against this terrible destiny, but the Fate conquers 
 Beatrix cannot be an lionest woman and a good man's wife. 
 She ' tries, and she cannoV 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 disheart- 
 ening 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 identical — sketched 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 
 your time or my own with further remarks. Believe me 
 yours sincerely, 
 
 '^0. Bronte." 
 
 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 hostility." 
 
 As her labour was ended, she felt at liberty to allow her- 
 self a little change. There were several friends anxious to 
 see her and welcome her to their homes : Miss Martin'eau, 
 
 Mrs. Smith, and her own faithful E — . With the last, 
 
 in the same letter as that in which she announced the com- 
 pletion of " Villette," she offered to spend a week. She be- 
 gan, also, to consider whether it might not be well to avail 
 lierself of Mrs. Smith's kind invitation, with a view to the 
 ^Dnvenience of being on the spot to correct tho proofs. 
 
INSTANCE OF EXTREME SENSIBILITY. 223 
 
 The following letter is given, not merely on account of 
 Iier own criticisms on " Villette," but because it shows how 
 she had learned to magnify the meaning of trifles, as all do 
 who live a self-contained 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 cf hers had 
 given offence ; and had not the Sunday intervened, and so 
 allowed time for Mr. Smith's letter to make its appearance, 
 she would certainly have crossed it on her way to London. 
 
 " Dec. 6tb, 1852. 
 " 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 pro- 
 nounce you right again, in your complaint of the transfer of in- 
 terest 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 
 apon 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 life — inconsistent with truth — at va- 
 
224 LIFE OF CIIAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 riance witli probability. I greatly apprebend, bowever, tbal 
 tbe weakest cbaracter in tbe book is tbe one I aimed at mak- 
 ing the most beautiful ; and, if tbis be tbe case, tbe fault 
 lies in its wanting tbe germ of tbe real — in its being purel;y 
 imaginary. I felt tbat tbis cbaracter lacked substance ; I 
 fear tbat tbe reader will feel tbe same. Union witb it re- 
 Bembles too mucb tbe fate of Ixion, wbo was mated witb a 
 cloud. Tbe cbildbood of Paulina is, bowever, I tbink, pretty 
 well imagined, but ber . . . . " (tbe remainder of tbis in- 
 teresting sentence is torn off tbe letter). " A brief visit to 
 London becomes tbus more practicable, and if your motber 
 will kindly write, wben sbe bas time, and name a day after 
 Cbristmas wbicb will suit ber, I sball bave pleasure, papa's 
 bealtb permitting, in availing myself of her invitation. I 
 wish I could come in time to correct some at least of tbe 
 proofs ; it would save trouble." 
 
THE BIOGKArnER's DIFFICULTY. 225 
 
 CHAPTEEXII. 
 
 Tde difficulty tbat presented itself most stroDgl}^ to me, 
 when I first liad tlie 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 ybyj 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 ; b^at 
 more than all other events (because of more recent date, and 
 concerning another as intimately as herself, it requires 
 delicate handling oti 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 par- 
 ticulars of the course of events which led to her few months 
 of wedded life — that 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, 
 VOLe IT. — IC^ 
 
226 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 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 man — a daily spectator of her manner of life 
 for years — is a great testimony to her character as a 
 woman. 
 
 How deep his affection was I scarcely dare to tell, even 
 if I could in words. She did not know — she had hardly be- 
 gun to suspect — that she was the object of any peculiar re- 
 gard on his part, when, in this very December, he came one 
 evening to tea. After tea, she returned from the study to 
 her own sitting-room, as was her custom, leaving her father 
 and his curate together. Presently she heard the study-door 
 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 statue-like, thus trembling, stirred, and over- 
 come, 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 out of the room." 
 
 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 let- 
 tci about it. And now I pass to my second reason for dwell- 
 ing 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 
 
LETTER TO MRS. GASKELL. 227 
 
 father and told him all. He always disapproved of mar- 
 riages, 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 j udgment^ 
 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 pas- 
 sive 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 ; and thither she accordingly went in the first week 
 of the year 1853. 
 
 Prom thence I received the following letter. It is with 
 a sad, proud pleasure I copy her words of friendship now. 
 
 " January 12th, 1853, 
 "It is with you the ball rests. I have not heard from 
 yoa since I wrote last ; but I thought I knew the reason of 
 your silence, viz. application to work, — and therefore I ac- 
 cept it, not merely with resignation, but with satisfaction. 
 
 "I am now in London, as the date above will show; 
 staying very quietly at my publisher's, and correcting proofs, 
 fee. Before receiving yours, I had felt, and expressed to 
 
22S LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 Mr. Smith, reluctance to come in the way of ' Euth ' 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 ^ Euth' 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 be protracted. 
 
 " 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 give clasp for clasp. 
 
 " '" 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 ground 
 
 of surpassing power : I think it much quieter than ^ Jane 
 
 Eyre.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 " 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 remem- 
 brances to Mr. Gaskell and all your precious circle, I am,*^ 
 &c. 
 
 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 
 
LAST VISIT TO LONDON". 229 
 
 and being allowed to have her own choice of sights, she select- 
 ed 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 Found- 
 ling and Bethlehem. She was also taken, at her own request, 
 to see several of the great City sights; the Bank, the Ex- 
 change, Rothschild's, &c. 
 
 The power of vast yet minute organization, 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 deeply — so 
 much so as to render her incapable of the immediate expres- 
 sion 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 spoken out on these things. 
 
 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 toning-down 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 Keighlfty on her return, and the two proceeded to Haworth 
 together. 
 
 " Villette ' — which, if less interesting as a mere story 
 than " Jane Eyre," displays yet more of the extraordinary 
 genius of the author — was received with one burst of aecla- 
 mation. Out of so small a circle of characters, dwelling in 
 so dull and monotonous an area as a "pension," this wonder 
 ful tale was evolved ! 
 
 See how she receives the good tidings of her success I 
 
230 IJFE OF CIIAELOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 " Feb. 15th, 1853. 
 " I got a budget of no less than seven papers yesterday 
 and to-day. 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 gratiJScation. The longer I live, the more plainly I 
 see that gentle must be the strain on fragile human nature ; 
 it will not bear much," 
 
 I suspect that the touch of slight disappointment, per 
 ceptible in the last few lines, arose from her great suscepti- 
 bility to an opinion she valued much, — that of Miss Marti- 
 neau, who, both in an article on " Yillette " 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 equa- 
 nimity, from whatever quarter it comes ; but its force is de- 
 rived 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 at- 
 tach 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 misjudgment, not merely of writings 
 but of character. 
 
 She had long before asked Miss Martineau to tell hci 
 
IIER EEPUGNANCE TO IMPEOPKIETY. 231 
 
 whether she considered that any want of womanly delicacy 
 or propriety was betrayed in " Jane Eyre." And on re- 
 ceiving 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 
 truth-speaking, Miss Martineau fulfilled when "Villette'' 
 appeared. Miss Bronte writhed under what she felt to bo 
 injustice. 
 
 This seems a fitting place to state how utterly uncon- 
 scious 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 con- 
 stantly ; Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth and I ex- 
 pressed our belief that such violations of propriety were al- 
 together unconscious on the part of those to whom reference 
 had been made. I remember her grave, earnest way of say- 
 ing, " I trust Grod will take from me whatever power of in- 
 vention or expression I may have, before He lets me become 
 blind to the sense of what is fitting or unfitting to be said ! " 
 
 Again, she was invariably shocked and distressed when 
 she heard of any disapproval of " Jane Eyre " on the ground 
 above-mentioned. 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 mother — if she had not been motherless 
 from earliest childhood — whether, indeed, there was any- 
 thing so wrong in " Jane Eyre." 
 
232 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE EKONTE. 
 
 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 Eochester talked to Jane Eyre. Take this in connection 
 with her poor brother's sad life, and the out-spoken people 
 among whom she lived, — remember her strong feeliog 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 skin deep. 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 per- 
 son 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 no- 
 
MISUNDEESTANDING WITH MISS MAKTINEAU. 233 
 
 ble ; hundreds have forsaken her, more, I fear, in the appre- 
 hension that their fair names may suffer, if seen in connec- 
 tion with hers, than from any pure convictions, such as you 
 suggest, of harm consequent on her fatal tenets. With these 
 fair-weather 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 kindli- 
 ness, 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 a faulty 
 course." 
 
 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 misunderstanding, they were a pair 
 of noble women and faithful friends. 
 
 , I turn to a pleasanter subject. While she was in Lon- 
 don, Miss Bronte had seen Lawrence's portrait of Mr. 
 Thackeray, and admired it extremely. Her first words, af- 
 ter 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 her a copy of it 
 
234 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 TO G. SMITH, ESQ. 
 
 "Hawortli, Feb. 26tli, 1853. 
 *^ My dear Sir, — At a late hour yesterday evening I had 
 the honour of receiving, at Haworth Parsonage, a distin- 
 guished 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 "Welling- 
 ton, (do you remember giving me that picture ?) and for con- 
 trast and foil Richmond's portrait of an unworthy individ- 
 ual, who, in such society, must be nameless. Thackeray 
 looks away from the latter character with a grand scorn, ed- 
 ifying 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 fea- 
 tures. 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 child- 
 like simplicity — ^perhaps even a degree of irresoluteness, in- 
 consistency — weakness in short, but a weakness not unamia- 
 ble. 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 sj)itej most vividly marked in the orig- 
 inal, is here softened, and perhaps a little — a very little — of 
 the power has escaped in this ameliorating process. Did it 
 strike you thus ? " 
 
 Miss Bronte was in much better health during this wm- 
 tcr of 1852-3, than she had been the year before. 
 
 " For my part," (she wrote to me in February) '^ I have 
 
VISIT OF THE BISHOP OF RIPOJST. 235 
 
 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. Decern 
 ber, January, February, '51-2, passed like a long stormy 
 night, conscious of one painful dream, all solitary grief and 
 sickness. The corresponding months in '52--3 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 receiv- 
 ing 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 char- 
 acter 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 cor- 
 ner. His Lordship, I have been told, was agreeably impress- 
 ed with the gentle unassuming manners of his hostess, and 
 with the perfect propriety and consistency of the arrange- 
 ments in the modest household. So much for the Bishop's 
 recollection of his visit. Now 'We will turn to hers. 
 
 " Marcli 4th. 
 " 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 compe- 
 tent to check encroachments. His visit passed capitally 
 well ; and at its close, as he was going away, he expressed 
 
236 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONI'E. 
 
 himself thorouglilj gratified with all he had seen. The In- 
 spector 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 Ha worth 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, thongh 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 to-day : of course, it is the re-action con- 
 sequent 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 Beviews had begun to find 
 fault with " Villette." Miss Bronte made her old request. 
 
 TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 
 
 ^' 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 i^?isatisfac- 
 tory 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. 
 
LETTER TO W. S. WILLIAMS, ESQ. 237 
 
 Slie is where I meant her to be, and where no charge of self- 
 laudation can touch her. 
 
 " The note you sent this morning from Lady Harrietto 
 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 tea-drinkings, 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; aud 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 unex- 
 pected sight of a strange face had affected her. 
 
 It was now two or three years since I had witnessed a 
 eimilar effect produced on her, in anticipation of a quiet even- 
 ing at Fox-How ; and since then she had seen many and 
 
238 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 various people in London: but the physical sensations pro- 
 duced by shyness were still the same ; and on the following 
 day she laboured under severe headaches. 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 be- 
 gan " 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 strug- 
 gle with herself might bring on one of her trying headaches, 
 I entered at last and made the best apology I could for her 
 non-appearance. Much of this nervous dread of e^icountering 
 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 re- 
 markable 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 gentle- 
 men who saw her during this visit, without knowing at the 
 time who she was, were singularly attracted by her ap- 
 
RESERVE BEOKEN THROUGH. 239 
 
 pearance ; 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 enter- 
 tained to her works. 
 
 There was another circumstance that came to my know* 
 ledge at this period which told secrets about the finely-strung 
 frame. One night I was on the point of relating some dismal 
 ghost story, just before bed-time. 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 cominoj to us, she had found a letter on her 
 dressing-table from a friend in Yorkshire, containing a story 
 which had impressed her vividly ever since ; — that it min- 
 gled with her dreams at night, and made her sleep restless 
 and unrefreshing. 
 
 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 arew back' with timid reserve from all their advances, 
 replying to their questions and remarks in the briefest man- 
 ner possible ; till at last they gave up their efibrts 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 espe- 
 cially dwelt upon. One gentleman objected to it strongly, as 
 calculated to do moral harm, and regretted that a man hav- 
 ing 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 
 
240 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tlieir pleasures, &c. 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 on in the course of the evening. 
 
 What she said, and which part she took, in the dispute 
 about Thackeray's lecture, may be gathered from the follow 
 ing letter, referring to the same subject : — 
 
 " 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 eloquence, — ^his 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 wrong — dangerously 
 wrong. Had Thackeray owned a son, grown, or growing up, 
 and a son, brilliant but reckless — would 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 
 
MR. THACKEEAY^S LECTURE ON FIELDING. 24:1 
 
 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 con- 
 demn 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 earnestly.'' 
 
 VOL. IL — 11 
 
342 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE 
 
 ::!HAPTER XIII. 
 
 AriER lier visit to Manchester, she had to return to a re- 
 opening of the painful circumstances of the previous winter, 
 as the time drew near for Mr. Nicholls' departure from Ha- 
 worth. 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 aboiit him in the future, 
 unless it was some second-hand 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 se- 
 vere an attack of influenza, accompanied with such excru- 
 ciating 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 ex- 
 tract, as it shows both her conception of what fictitious 
 writing ought to be, and her always kindly interest in what 
 1 was doing. 
 
A THOUGHT ON WEITINa FICTION. 243 
 
 ".July 9tli, 1853. 
 " Thank you for your letter ; it was as pleasant as a quiet 
 cliat, 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 
 ' git down to write, to isolate yourself from all those ties, and 
 their sweet associations, so as to be your own woman^ unin- 
 fluenced 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 clear-seeing 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 to-day 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 wild-flower, — 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 ap. 
 peared, stepping supreme from the portico towards the car- 
 riage, 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." • , 
 
244 LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Towards the latter end of September I went to Hawortli 
 At the risk of repeating something which I have previously 
 gaid, I will copy out parts of a letter which I wrote at the 
 time. 
 
 ** It was a dull, drizzly Indian-inky day, all the way on 
 the railroad to Keighley, which is a rising wool-manufacturing 
 town, lying in a hollow between hills — not a pretty hollow, 
 but more what the Yorkshire people call a * bottom,' or 
 ^ botham.' I left Keighley in a car for Haworth, fcur miles 
 off — four tough, steep, scrambling miles, the road winding 
 between the wave-like 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 lead-coloured ; 
 the road had stone factories alongside of it, — ^grey, dull- 
 coloured rows of stone cottages belonging to these factories 
 and then we came to poor, hungry-looking fields; — stone 
 fences everywhere, and trees nowhere. Haworth is a long, 
 straggling village : one steep narrow street — so steep that 
 the flag-stones with which it is paved are placed end-ways, 
 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 Sex- 
 ton's, past the school-house, up to the Parsonage yard-door. 
 I went round the house to the front door, looking to the 
 church; — moors everywhere beyond and above. The crowded 
 grave-yard surrounds the house and small grass enclosure for 
 drying clothes. 
 
 " I don't know that I ever saw a spot more exquisitely 
 
THE biographer's VISIT TO HAWORTII. 24!i 
 
 clean ; the most dainty place for that I ever saw. To be. 
 sure, the life is like clock-work. 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 buz- 
 zing 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 iousework ; for one 
 of their servants, Tabby, is nearly ninety, and the other only 
 a girl. Then I accompanied her in her walks on the sweep ' 
 ing moors : the heather-bloom had been blighted by a thunder- 
 storm 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 ! Home to 
 dinner at two. Mr. Eronte has 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 has 
 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 crim- 
 son, to make a warm setting for the cold grey landscape 
 without. There in her likeness by Eichmond, and an en- 
 graving from Lawrence's picture of Thackeray ; and two re- 
 cesses, on each side of the high, narrow, old-fashioned mantel- 
 piece, filled with books, — books given to her, books she has 
 bought, and which tell of her individual pursuits and tastes ; 
 not standard books. 
 
 " 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 
 
246 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 copied nimini-plmini copper-plate engraviugs 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 ex- 
 quisitely faithful copy of the engraving. She wanted to learn 
 to express her ideas hy 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. 
 
 " 33ut now to return to our quiet hour of rest after din- 
 ner. 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 regular- 
 ity. 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 her- 
 self 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 dis- 
 liked 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, 
 — ^great-gran i-daughter of the giants who used to inhabit 
 earth. One day, Miss Bronte brought down a rough, common- 
 looking oil-painting, done by her brother, of herself, — a 
 little, rather prim-looking girl of eighteen, — and the two 
 other sisters, girls of sixteen and fourteen, with cropped hair, 
 
 and sad, dreamy-looking eyes Emily had a great 
 
 dog, — half mastiff, half bull-dog, — so savage, &c 
 
 This dog went to her funeral, walking side by side with her 
 
THE BIOGKAPIIEr's VISIT TO HAWORTII. 2i7 
 
 father ; and then, to the day of its death, it slept at her 
 room door, snuffing under it, and whining every morning. 
 
 " We have generally had another walk before tea, which 
 is at six ; at half-past 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 Bronte come 
 down and walk up and down the room for an hour or so." 
 
 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 spent — where 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 every- 
 thing I could tell him of the high admiration I had at any 
 time heard expressed for her works. He would ask for cer- 
 tain speeches over and over again, as if he desired to impress 
 them on his memory. 
 
 • I remember two or three subjects of the conversations 
 which she and I held in the evenings, besides those alluded 
 to in my letter. 
 
 I asked her whether she had ever taken opium, as tho 
 description given of its effects in " Viliette ' was so exactly 
 like what I had experienced,— vivid and exaggerated pres- 
 
248 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ence of objects, of wliicli tlie outlines were indistinct, or losH 
 m golden mist, &c. 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 ex- 
 perience ; 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 pro- 
 gress 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 said it. 
 
 She made many inquiries as to Mrs. Stowe's personal ap- 
 pearance ; 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 English. 
 
 I recollect, too, her saying how accutely 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 concep- 
 tion of Jane Eyre's character from that of " Francesca," the 
 narrator of Miss Bremer's story. For my own part, I can • 
 not see the slightest resemblance between the two charac- 
 ters, and so I told her; but she persisted in saying that 
 Francesca was Jane Eyre married to a good-natured " Bear " 
 of a Swedish surgeon. 
 
 We went, not purposely, but accidentally, to see various 
 poor people in our distant walks. From one we had borrowed 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CONVERSATION. 249 
 
 an umbrella ; in the house of another we had taken sheltei* 
 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 mem- 
 bers of the family to inquire after. Her quiet, gentle words, 
 few though they might be, were evidently grateful to thoso 
 Yorkshire ears. Their welcome to her, though rough and 
 curt, was sincere and hearty. 
 
 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 all — as Scripture told us — ■ 
 to 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 ex- 
 pectations, 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 hap- 
 piness and sorrow came in strong patches of light and shad- 
 ow, (so to speak,) while in the lives of others they were pret- 
 ty 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 face out the truth in a religious faith. 
 
 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 Scot* 
 
 VOL. 11 — 11* 
 
250 LIFE OF CIIAELOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 land. 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 month's 
 pleasant ramble. 
 
 We parted with many intentions, on both sides, of renew- 
 ing very frequently the pleasure we had had in being togeth- 
 er. We agreed that when she wanted bustle, or when I 
 wanted quiet, we were to let each other know, and exchange 
 visits as occasion required. 
 
 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 en- 
 deared to her by eT ery year. 
 
 TO MISS WOOLEPv. 
 
 *'Dec. 12tb, 1853. 
 ^' I wonder how you are spending these long winter eve- 
 nings. 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 
 Goming to visit me, I fear you must be very solitary at 
 
LETTER TO MR. DOBELL ON " BALDER." 251 
 
 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 won 
 derful to me, because you are not, like Mrs. , phlegmat- 
 ic 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 self-discipline, 
 which keeps ^^ou 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 1853-4 in a solitary and 
 anxious manner. But the great conqueror Time was slowly 
 achieving his victory over strong prejudice and human re- 
 solve. By degrees Mr. Bronte became reconciled to the 
 idea of his daughter's marriage. 
 
 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 conscien- 
 tious woman about to become a wife, and in the too short, 
 almost perfect, happiness of her nine months of wedded 
 life. 
 
 *' Haworth, near Keighley, 
 
 ^'Feb. 8rd, 1854. 
 
 " 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 guch that 
 
252 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 the time was passed 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 mentioned 
 — your wife's illness — which 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 looke i at him, before cut- 
 ting his leaves, with singular pleasure. Eemembering well 
 his elder brother, the potent * Koman,' 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 trouble — would make his heart ache. It seemed to mc, 
 that his strength and beauty were not so much those of 
 Joseph, the pillar of Jacob's age, as of the Prodigal Son, who 
 troubled his father, though he always kept his love. 
 
 *' How is it that while the first-born of genius often brings 
 honour, the second as almost often proves a source of depres- 
 sion and care ? I could almost prophesy that your third 
 will atone for any anxiety inflicted by this his immediate 
 predecessor. 
 
 *' 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 charac- 
 ter ? It seems to me that those defects were never thrown 
 out in stronger lines. I did not and could not think you 
 meant to ofi'er him as your cherished ideal of the true, great 
 poet ; I regarded him as a vividly-coloured picture of inflated 
 $jelf-esteem, almost frantic aspiration ; of a nature that has 
 made a Moloch of intellect — offered up, in pagan fires, the 
 natural affections — sacrificed the heart to the brain. Be 
 
LETTER TO A SCHOOLFELLOW. 253 
 
 wc not all know that true greatness is simple, self-oblivious, 
 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 
 know — better, perhaps, than they — that 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 in- 
 tent on finding the best way to accomplish what he under- 
 takes to think great things of himself — the instruuient. 
 And if Grod places seeming impediments in his way — if his 
 duties sometimes seem to hamper his powers — he feels keen- 
 ly, perhaps writhes, under the slow torture of hindrance and 
 delay ; but if there be a true man's heart in his breast, he 
 can bear, submit, wait patiently. 
 
 " Whoever speaks to me of ' Balder ' — though I live too 
 retired a life to come often in the way of comment — shall 
 be answered according to your suggestion and my own im- 
 pression. Equity demands that you should be your own in 
 terpre^.er. Goodbye for the present, and believe me, 
 " Faithfully and gratefully, 
 " Charlotte Beonte. 
 
 '' Sydney Dobell, Esq." 
 
 A letter to her Brussels schoolfellow gives an idea of the 
 external course of things during this winter. 
 
 " March 8th. 
 " 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 1 was begin 
 niug to have some sad presages as to the cause of your si 
 lence. Your letter happily does away with all these; it 
 
254 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 brings, on the whole, glad tidings both of your papa, luamaj 
 your sisters, and last, but not least, your dear respected Eng- 
 lish 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 ear- 
 nestly 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 England— into all these things he throws himself 
 heart and soul ; they seem to carry him back to his compar- 
 atively 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 Ty- 
 ranny 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 uni- 
 form and retired— more so than is quite healthful either for 
 
HER ENGAGEMENT TO MR. NICHOLLS. 255 
 
 mind or body ; yet I find reason for often-renewed feelings 
 of gratitude, in the sort of support which still comes and 
 cheers me on from time to time. My health, though not un 
 broken, 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 sea- 
 son for a few days I do not yet know ; but if I do, I shall 
 hope to call in P. Place." 
 
 In April she communicated the fact of her engagement 
 to Miss Wooler. 
 
 "Haworth, April 12th. 
 
 " My dear Miss Wooler, — The truly kind interest which 
 you have 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 inmate into this house. 
 
 " It gives me unspeakable content to see that now my 
 farther has once admitted this new view of the case, he dwells 
 on it very complacently. In all arrangements, his conven- 
 ience 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 des' 
 
256 LIFE V.I? CHAKLOTTE BEONXfi. 
 
 tiny which Providence in His goodness and wisdom seems t<i 
 offer me will not, I am aware, be generally regarded as bril- 
 liant, 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 take place this sum- 
 mer ; he urges the month of July, but that seems very soon. 
 " 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. NichoUs' return to Haworth (respecting which he was 
 consulted), and such kind gratification at the domestic ar- 
 rangements which are to ensue. It seems his penetration dis- 
 covered the state of things when he was here in June 1853." 
 
 She expressed herself in other letters, as thankful to One 
 who had guided her through much difficulty, and much dis- 
 tress and perplexity of mind ; and yet she felt what most 
 thoughtful women do, who marry when the first flush of care- 
 less youth is over, that there was a strange, half-sad feeling, 
 in making announcements of an engagement — for cares and 
 fears came mingled inextricably with hopes. One great re- 
 lief 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 g^-eat age and 
 failing sight, .which made it a paramount obligation on so 
 dutiful a daughter as Charlotte, to devote as much time and 
 
PEEPARATI0N8 FOR HER MARRIAGE. 257 
 
 assistance as ever in attending to his wants. Mr. NicLolls, 
 too, hoped that he might be able to add some comfort and 
 pleasure by his ready presence, on any occasion when the 
 old clergyman might need his services. 
 
 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 neighbour- 
 hood of Leeds, there to make such purchases as were re- 
 quired for her marriage. Her preparations, as she said, 
 could neither be expensive nor extensive ; consisting chiefly 
 in a modest replenishing of her wardrobe, some re-papering 
 and re-painting in the Parsonage; and, above all, converting 
 the small flagged passage-room, 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, T sup- 
 pose, all women feel in such discussions — especially 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 to the pleasure of obtaining a 
 thing at last. 
 
 *' Haworth, May 22nd. 
 " 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. NichoUs comes to-morrow. I feel anx- 
 ious about him ; more anxious on one point than I dare 
 quite express to myself. It seems he has again been suffer- 
 ing 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 
 
258 LIFE OF CHAEI.OTTE BEONTE. 
 
 to me ; dropped no hint on the subject. Alas ! he was 
 hoping he had got the better of it, and I know how this con- 
 tradiction of his hopes will sadden him. For unselfish reasons 
 he did so earnestly wish this complaint might not become 
 chronic. I fear — I 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 ! I 
 look forward to to-morrow with a mixture of impatience and 
 anxiety." 
 
 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 case — ^not unpleas- 
 antly, 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 ar- 
 rangements by which Miss Wooler's journey to be present at 
 the marriage could be facilitated. 
 
 " I write to Miss Wooler to-day. Would it not be bet- 
 ter, 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, &c. with Miss Wooler, and let me know. 
 Be sure and give me timely information, that I may write to 
 the Devonshire Arms about the cab. 
 
 " 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 mo grateful ' 
 
HER MAERIAGE. 259 
 
 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 ar- 
 rangements I was going to propose to him about providing 
 
 for your departure, &c. 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 jSxed that the marriage was to take place on the 
 29th of June. Her two friends arrived at Haworth Parson- 
 age 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 ab- 
 sence from home. When all was finished — the trunk packed, 
 the morning's breakfast arranged, the wedding-dress 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 
 Prayer-book 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 ia 
 specified as to the sex of the ^ friend." So Miss Wooler, 
 ever kind in emergency, volunteered to give her old pupil 
 away. 
 
 The news of the wedding had slipt abroad before the lit- 
 tle party came out of church, and many old and humble 
 friends were there, seeing her look " like a snow-drop," as 
 they say. Her dress was white embroidered muslin, with 
 a lace mantle, and white bonnet trimmed with green leaves, 
 
260 LIFE OF CIIARLOrTE BRONTE. 
 
 whicli perhaps miglit suggest the resemblance to the pala 
 wintry flower. 
 
 Mr. Nicholls and she went to visit his friends and rehi- 
 tions 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 
 1 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 peace- 
 ful murmurs of sound, telling of the gladness within ; and 
 we looked at each other, and gently said, " After a hard and 
 long struggle — after many cares and many bitter sorrows- 
 she is tasting happiness now ! " We thought of the slight as- 
 tringencies 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 hoped, and we 
 prophesied, in our great love and reverence. 
 
 But God's ways are not as our ways ! 
 
 Hear some of the low murmurs of happinesss we, who 
 listened, heard: — 
 
•WEDDED HAPPINESS. 261 
 
 " 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, accord- 
 ingly ; 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 ; accord- 
 ingly, the Sunday and day scholars and teachers, the church- 
 ringers, singers, &c., to the number of five hundred, were 
 asked to tea and supper in the School-room. They seemed 
 to enjoy it much, and it was very pleasant to see their hap- 
 piness. 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 net 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 hap- 
 piness and health, seems, I scarcely know why, even stronger 
 in me now inan 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 ?»€ cured papa good aid in his old age." 
 
262 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 "September lOtli. 
 " Yes ! I am tliankful 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 half- 
 past 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 con- 
 tinued affection and kind attentions, it does not become 
 me to say much of them ; but they neither change nor 
 diminish." 
 
 Her friend and bridesmaid came to pay them a visit in 
 October. I was to have gone also, but I allowed some little 
 obstacle to intervene, to my lasting regret. 
 
 " 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 signification to us to that which we accept 
 while young. 
 
 " You kindly inquire after Papa. He i^i better, and seema 
 
VISIT FROM SIR JAMES KAY SHUTTLE WORTH. 263 
 
 to gain strength as the weather gets colder ; indeed, of late 
 years his 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 im- 
 munity from headache, &c., 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, kind, attached hus- 
 band; and every day my own attachment to him grows 
 stronger." 
 
 Late in the autumn. Sir James Kay Shuttleworth crossed 
 the border-hills that separate Lancashire from Yorkshire, 
 and spent two or three days with them. 
 
 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 husband was held. 
 
 "Nov. 29. 
 " 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 be- 
 gan to rain while we were watching it, and wo returned 
 home under a streaming sky. However, I enjoyed the walk 
 inexpressibly, and would not have missed the spectacle on any 
 account." 
 
264 LIFE OF CHAELOTTE BEONTE. 
 
 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 sorethroat and cold, which hung about her, and 
 made her thin and weak. 
 
 *^ Did I tell you that our poor little Flossy is dead ? She 
 drooped for a single day, and died quietly in the night with- 
 out pain. The loss even of a dog was very saddening ; yet, 
 perhaps, no dog ever had a happier life, or an easier death." 
 
 On Christmas-day 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 spice-cake 
 to make glad her heart. On Christmas-day 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 over damp 
 ground in thin shoes. 
 
 Soon after her return, she was attacked by new sensations 
 of perpetual nausea, and ever-recurring faintness. After this 
 state of things had lasted for some time, she yielded to Mr. 
 Nicholl's 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 
 sio-ht 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 
 
HEK LAST LETTEES. 265 
 
 the last daugliter of the house she had served 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 sometime," she would say ; " but I am 
 so ill — so weary — '' Then she took to her bed, too weak 
 to sit up. From that last couch she wrote two notes — in 
 pencil. The first, which has no date, is addressed to her 
 own " Dear Nell." ^ 
 
 ^'I must write one line out cf my dreary bed. The 
 
 hews of M 's probable recovery came like a ray of joy to 
 
 me. I am not going to talk of my sufferings — it would be 
 useless and painful. I want to give you an assurance, which 
 I know will comfort you — and 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 ? Papa — thank God ! — is better. Our 
 poor old Tabby is dead and buried. Give my kind love to 
 Miss Wooler. May God comfort and help you. 
 
 ^' C. B. NiCIIOLLS." 
 
 The other — also in faint, faint pencil marks — was to 
 her Brussels schoolfellow. 
 
 ^'Feb. 15th. 
 " 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 
 
 VOL. II — 12 
 
266- LIFE OF CHAKLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 wrote more now ; for I am 
 much reduced and very weak. God bless you all. — Yours 
 afifectionately, 
 
 "C. B. NlCHOLLS." 
 
 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 woe-worn 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 
 happy." 
 
 Early on Saturday morning, March 81st, the solemn 
 tolling of Haworth church-bell 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 thought of the 
 two sitting desolate and a^ore in the old grey house. 
 
K^R DEATH AND FUNERAL. 267 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 I HAVE always been much struck with a passage in Mr. Pors- 
 ter's Life of Goldsmith. Speaking of the scene after his 
 death, the writer says : — 
 
 " 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, soli- 
 tary, 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 cir- 
 cumstances attendant on Charlotte's funeral. 
 
 Few beyond that circle of hills knew that she, whom the 
 nations praised far off, lay dead that Easter morning. Of 
 kith and kin she had more in the grave to which she was 
 soon to be borne, than among the living. The two mourn- 
 ers, 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 
 self-denial 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 life with trembling happy hope. 
 
268 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Among those Inimble friends wlio 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 Char- 
 lotte. She had .sheltered her with her help, her counsel, hei 
 strengthening words ; had ministered to her needs in hei 
 time of trial. Bitter, bitter was the grief of this poor young 
 woman, wh^n she heard that her friend was sick unto death, 
 and deep is her mourning until this day. A blind girl, liv- 
 ing 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 
 moor-paths, 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." 
 
 Such were ihe mourners over Charlotte Bronte's grave. 
 
 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 debateable land. One who knew her long 
 and well, — the " Mayy " of this Life — writes 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 difl&culty than people have of stronger nerves, and bet- 
 ter 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 
 
CONCLUSION.' 269 
 
 she liad, — ^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 public, — 'in- 
 clined to judge harshly because they have only seen superfi- 
 cially and not thought deeply. I appeal to that larger and 
 more solemn public, who know how to look with tender hu- 
 mility at faults and errors ; how to admire generously extra- 
 ordinary genius, and how to reverence with warm, full hearts 
 all noble virtue. To that Public I commit the memory of 
 Charlotte Bronte 
 
 THE END. 
 
GEACE AaUILAR'S WOEKS. 
 
 HOME INFLUENCE. 
 MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE. 
 VALE OE CEDARS. 
 WOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 DAYS OF BRUCE. 
 ;VOMEN OF ISRAEL. 
 HOME SCENES AND HEART 
 STUDIES. 
 
 1 voly 12/no, Illustrated, price $1, with a Memoir of the Author, 
 
 HOiVIE li^SFLUENCE, 
 
 A TALE FOR MOTHEBS AND DAUGHTERS. 
 
 By GRACE AGUILAR. 
 
 " Grace Aguilar wrote and spoke as one inspired ; she condensed and 
 Bplritaalized, and all lier thoui^lits and feelings were steeped in the essence 
 of celestial love and truth. To those who really knew Grace Aguilar, all 
 eul02:iura falls short of her deserts, and she has left a blank in her particular 
 walk of literature, which we never expect to see filled up." — Pilgrimages to 
 English Shrines^ by Mrs. HalL 
 
 "A clever and interesting tale, corresponding well to its name, illustrat- 
 ing the silent, constant influence of a wise and atfectionate parent over 
 characters the most diverse."— C/im/Iia/i Lady's Magazine. 
 
 "This interesting volume unquestionably contains many valuable hints 
 on domestic education, much powerful writing, and a moral of vast impor 
 tance.'''— Englishwoman's Magazine. 
 
 "It is very pleasant, after reading a book, to speak of it in terms of high 
 commendation. The tale before us is an admirable one, and is executed 
 with taste and ability. The language is beautiful and appropriate ; the anal- 
 ysis of character is skilful and varied. The work ought to be in the hands 
 of all who are interested in tlie proper training of the youthful mind."— Pa^- 
 ladium. 
 
 "In reviewing this work, we hardly know what words in the English 
 language are strong enouirli to express the admiration we have felt iu ita 
 perusal." — Bucks Chronicle. 
 
 " The object and ei!»d of the writings of Grace Aguilar were to improve 
 the heart, and to lead her readers to the consideration of higher motives and 
 objects than this world can ever aftbrd." — BeWs Weekly Messenger. 
 
 " * Home Influence ' will not be forgotten by any who have perused it.-' — 
 Critic. 
 
 "A well-known and valuable tsile.''^— Gentleman's Magazine. 
 
 " A work which possesses an extraordinary amount of influence to elevate 
 the mind and educate the heart, by showing that rectitude and virtue con- 
 duce no less to material prosperity, and worldly comfort and happiness, than 
 to the satisfaction of the conscience, the approval of the good, and the bopj 
 and certainty of bliss hereafter."— Zfer^s County Fress. 
 
 Kew York : D. APPLETON & CO 
 
GliACE AGUILAR'S WORKS. 
 
 THE SEQUEL TO HOME INFLUENCE. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE. 
 
 A SEQUEL TO 
 
 ^*' Home Influence^ a Tale for Mothers and Daughter iiP 
 By GPwACE AGXJII.AII. 
 
 1 Vol., 12mo. Cloth. $1. With Illustrations. 
 
 *' Grace Aguilar belonf^erl to the school of which Maria Edfreworth was 
 the foundress. Thedesi<zn of the hook is carried out forcibl}^ and constantly, 
 
 * The Home Influence ' exercised in earlier years being shown in its active 
 germination." — Atlas. 
 
 '^ The writings of Grace A<?nilar have a charm inseparable from produc- 
 tions in which feeling is combined with intellect ; they go directly to the 
 heart. 'Home Influence,' the deservedly popular story to which this is a 
 sequel, admirably teaches the lesson implied in its name. In the present 
 tale we have the same freshness, earnestness, and zeal — the same spirit of 
 devotion, and love of virtue — the same enthusiasm and sincere religion which 
 characterized that earlier work. We heboid the mother now blessed in the 
 love of good and affectionate offspring, who, parents themselves, are, after 
 her example, training their children in the way of rectitude and piety." — 
 Morning Chronicle. 
 
 " This beautiful story was completed when the authoress was little above 
 the age of nineteen, yet it has the sober sense of middle age. There is no 
 age nor sex that will not profit by its perusal, and it will afford as much 
 pleasure as profit to the reader."— C/rxi^ic. 
 
 ''The same kindly spirit, the same warm charity and fervor of devotion 
 Vvhich breathes in every line of that admirable book, 'Home Influence,' will 
 be found adorning and inspiring ' The Mother's Recompense.' " — Morning 
 Advertiser. 
 
 *' The good which she (Grace Aguilar) has effected is acknowledged on 
 all hands, and it cannot be doubted but that the appearance of this volume 
 will increase the usefulness of one who may yet be said to be still speaking 
 to the heart and to the aflections of human nature." — BelVs Messenger. 
 
 " It will be found an interesting supplement, not only to the book to 
 which it specially relates, but to all the writer's other works."— G^e/i^^ema/i's 
 Magazine. 
 
 "'The Mother's Recompense' forms a fitting close to its predecessor, 
 
 * Home Influence.' The results of maternal care are fully developed, its rich 
 rewards are set forth, and its lesson and its moral are powerfully enforced." 
 ^Morning Post. 
 
 " We heartily commend this volume; a better or more useful present to 
 » youthful friend or a young wife could not well be selected."— //^r^5 CowUg 
 
 !few York: D. APPLETOK & CO. 
 
GRACE AGUILAR'8 WORKS. 
 
 THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 
 
 A Storij from Scottish History, 
 
 BY GRACE AGUILAR. 
 
 With Illustrations. 2 vols., ISmo. Cloth, $2.00. 
 
 *'We have had an opportunity of observing the interest it awakens in 
 flifferent classes of readers, and in no instance has it failed to rivet attention, 
 Rnd to induce a hic^h estimate of the author's powers. Miss Aguilar was 
 evidently well read in the times of Bruce. It is long since we met with a 
 work which combines so happily the best qualities of historical fiction."— 
 Eclectic Review. 
 
 *'The life of the hero of Bannockbum has furnished matter for innumer- 
 able tales in prose and verse, but we have met with no records of that 
 famous era so instructive as 'The Days of Bruce.' " — Britannia. 
 
 '"The Days of Bruce' was written when, in the vigor of intellectual 
 strength, Grace Aguilar was planning many things, and all for good ; it was, 
 we know, her especial favorite; it is full of deep interest."— Jfr^. 8. C. Hall^ 
 in Sharpe''s Magazine. 
 
 "It is a volume which may be considered as solid history, but is never- 
 theless entertaining as the most charming novel ever produced by genius. 
 Sir Walter Scott's name as an author would not have been dis^aced by it 
 had it appeared on the title-page instead of Grace AguMfxr.''— Bucks Chronicle. 
 
 "This deeply-interesting romance— a composition of great eloquence, 
 written with practised polish and enthusiastic energy. We are not surprised 
 at the eloquence, the warmth, and the pathos with which Grace Aguilar 
 l)aints love-passages; but we are astonished at the fire and accuracy with 
 which she depicts scenes of daring and of death." — Observer. 
 
 " The tale is well told, the interest warmly sustained throughout, and the 
 delineation of female character is marked by a delicate sense of moral beau- 
 ty. It is a work that may be confided to the hands of a daughter by her 
 parent."— Cowr^ Journal. 
 
 " Every one who knows the works of this lamented author, must observe 
 that she rises with her subjects. In ' The Days of Bruce' she has thrown 
 herself into the rugged life of the fourteenth century, and has depicted the 
 serai-civilization of the period in a manner that is quite marvellous in a 
 young woman. Grace Aguilar always excelled in her delineations of female 
 character, while the skill she evinces in the illustration of the historical 
 personages, and her individualization of the imaginary ones, might at once 
 entitle her to a birthplace among historical novelists." — Ladies'' Companion. 
 
 " Her pen was ever devoted to the cause of virtue ; and her various pub- 
 lications, exhibiting the beauties and enforcing the practice of the 'tender 
 charities ' of domestic life, have, we doubt not, recommended themselves to 
 the hearts of numbers of her countrywomen. The work before us diiTens 
 from the former publications of its author, inasmuch as it is in fact an his- 
 torical romance, for thig species of writing the high feeling of Grace Aguilar 
 peculiarly fitted her; many of the sceues are very highly wrought; and 
 while it will fix in the reader's mind a truthful idea of the history and styla 
 of manners of ' The Days of Bruce,' it will also impress upon him a strong 
 sense of the ability and noble cast of thought which distinguished its 
 *Araented aiilhor.''^— Englishwoman's Magazine. 
 
 New York: D. APPLETON & CO. 
 
GRACE AGUILARS WORKS. 
 
 " We look npon ' The Days of Bnice' as an elegantly- written and inter 
 estinc: romance, and place it by the side of Miss Porter's ' Scottish Chiefs.' " 
 — Gentleman's Magazine. 
 
 " A very pleasing and successful attempt to combine ideal delineation of 
 character with the records of history. Very beautiful and very true are the 
 portraits of the female mind and heart which Grace Aguilar knew how to 
 draw. This is the chief charm of all her writings, and in ' The Days of 
 Bruce' the reader will have the pleasure of viewing this skilful portraiture 
 lu the characters of Isoiine and Agnes, and Isabella of Buchan." — Literary 
 Gazette, 
 
 *' What a fertile mind was that of Grace Aguilar ! What an early develop- 
 ment of reflection, of feeling, of taste, of power of invention, of true and 
 earnest eloquence 1 'The Days of Bruce' is a composition of her early 
 youth, but full of beauty. Grace Aguilar knew the female heart better than 
 any writer of our day, and in every fiction from her pen we trace the same 
 masterly analysis and development of the motives and feelings of woman's 
 nature. ' The Days of Bruce ' possesses also the attractions of an extremely 
 interesting story, that absorbs the attention, and never suffers it to flag till 
 the last paire is closed, and then the reader will lay down the volume with 
 vQgiQ.V— Critic. 
 
 E SCENES Hi HEART STUDIES, 
 
 By GRACE AG-UILAR. 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 One volume, ISmo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 
 
 The Perez Family. 
 
 The Stone-Cutter's Boy of 
 
 POSSAGNO. 
 
 Amete and Yafeh. 
 
 The Fugitive. 
 
 The Edict; a Tale of 1492. 
 
 The Escape ; a Tale of 1755. 
 
 Red Rose Villa. 
 
 GoNZALYo's Daughter. 
 
 The Authoress. 
 
 The Triumph 
 
 Helon. 
 Lucy. 
 
 The Spirit's Entreaty. 
 Idalie. 
 
 Lady Gresham's Fete. 
 The Group of Sculpture. 
 The Spirit of Night. 
 Recollections of a Rambler, 
 Cast thy Breap upon the 
 Waters. 
 
 OF LOYE. 
 
 New York : D. APPLETOH & CO. 
 
GRACE AGUILARS WORKS, 
 
 THE WOMEN OF ISRAEL ; 
 
 Or, Chakacters and Sketches from the Holy Scriptuees, illtjstiia- 
 
 TivE OF the past History, present Duties, and future 
 
 Destiny of Hebrew Females, as based on 
 
 THE Word of God. 
 
 By GRACE AGUILAR. 
 Tivo volumes, 12nio, I^rice $2.00, 
 
 PRIITCIPAL CONTENTS. 
 
 FmST PERIOD— WIVES OF THE PATRIARCHS. 
 Eve.— Sarah.— Rebekah.—Leali and Rachel. 
 
 SECOND PERIOD— THE EXODUS AND THE LAW. 
 
 Egyptian Captivity, and Jochehed. — The Exodus — Mothers of Israel. — Laws 
 >or Wives in Israel.— Laws for Widows and Daughters in Israel.— Maid- 
 servants in Israel, and other Laws. 
 
 THIRD PERIOD— BETWEEN THE DELIVERY OF THE LAW AND 
 THE MONARCHY. 
 
 Miriam.— Tabernacle Workers— Caleb's Daughter.— Deborah.— Wife of Ma 
 noah .—Naomi. — Hannah. 
 
 FOURTH PERIOD— THE MONARCHY. 
 
 Michal. — Abigail. — ^Wise Women of Tekoah. — ^Woman of Abel. — Rispah.— 
 Prophet's Widow.— The Shunamite.— Little Israelitish Maid.— Huldah. 
 
 FIFTH PERIOD— BABYLONIAN CAPTIVITY. 
 
 The Captivity.— Review of Book of Ezra. — Suggestions as to the identity 
 of the Ahasuerus of Scripture. — ^Esther. — Review of Events narrated in 
 Ezra and Nehemiah. 
 
 SIXTH PERIOD— CONTINUANCE OF THE SECOND TEMPLE. 
 Review of Jewish History, from the Return from Babylon to the Appeal 
 of Hycanus and Aristobulus to Pompey. — Jewish History from the "^Ap- 
 peal to Pompey to the Death of Herod.— Jewish History from the Death 
 of Herod to the V/ar,~The Martyr Mother.— Alexandra.— Mariamne.-- 
 Salome. — Helena. — Berenice. 
 
 SEVENTH PERIOD— WOMEN OF ISRAEL IN THE PRESENT i\S 
 
 INFLUENCED BY THE PAST. 
 The War and Dispersion.— Thoughts on the Talmud.— Talmudic Ordinanccg 
 and Tales.— Effects of Dispersion and Persecution.— General Remarks. 
 
 "A work that is sufficient of itself to create and crown a reputation." 
 Pilgrimages to English Shrines, hy Mrs. S. C. Hall. 
 
 ITew York: D. APPLETON ^ CO. 
 
GRACE AGUILAR'S WORKS. 
 
 WOMAN'S FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 A STORY OF DOMESTIC LIFE. 
 
 By GEAOE AGUILAS. 
 
 With Illustrations, One voluniCf 12nio. Cloth, JPrice, $1.00, 
 
 " To show Tis how divine a thing 
 A woman may be made."— Wohdswokth. 
 
 '*This story ilhistrates, with feeling and power, that beneficial influence 
 which women exercise, in their own quiet way, over characters and events 
 in our every-day Mia.''— Britannia. 
 
 "The book is one of more than ordinary interest in various ways, and 
 presents an admirable conception of the depths and sincerity of female 
 friendship, as exhibited in England by Englishwomen."— Tf^<?A;/y Chronicle. 
 
 '' We began to read the volume late in the evening ; and, although it con- 
 sists of about 400 pages, our eyes could not close in sleep until we had read 
 the whole. This excellent book should find a place on every drawing-room 
 table — nay, in every library in the kingdom." — Bucks Chronicle. 
 
 *' We congratulate Miss Aguilar on the spirit, motive, and composition 
 of this story. Her aims are eminently moral, and her cause comes recom- 
 mended by the most beautiful associaticms. These, connected with the skill 
 here evinced in their development, insure the success of her labors." — 
 Illustrated News. 
 
 "As a writer of remarkable grace and delicacy, phe devoted herself to 
 the inculcation of the virtues, more especially those which are the peculiar 
 charm of women." — Critic. 
 
 " It is a book for all classes of readers; and we have no hesitation in 
 saying, that it only requires to be generally known to become exceedingly 
 popular. In our estimation it has far more attractions than Miss Burney's 
 celebrated, but overestimated, novel of 'Cecilia.' " — Herts County Press, " 
 
 " This very interesting and agreeable tale has remained longer without 
 notice on our part than we could have desired; but we would now endeavor 
 to make amends for the delay, by assuring our readers that it is a most ably- 
 written publication, full of the nicest points of information and utility that 
 could have been by any possibility constructed ; and, as a proof of its value^ 
 it may suffice to say, that it has been taken from our table again and again 
 by several individuals, from the recommendation of those who had already 
 perused it, and so prevented our giving an earlier attention to its manifold 
 claims for the favorable criticism. It is peculiarly adapted for the young, 
 and wherever it goes will be received with gratification, and command very 
 extensive approbation. "--^e^^^ Weekly Messenger. 
 
 "This is a handsome volume: just such a book as we would expect to 
 find among the volumes composing a lady's library. Its interior corrc"- 
 Fponds with its exterior ; it is a most fascinating tale, full of noble and just 
 lecnliineuts."— /^a^/ac^Ewm. 
 
 l^cw York : D. APPLETON & CO.