CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS ONE OF A 
 tXDELECTION MADE BY" 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 1854-1919 
 
 AND BEQUEATHED TO 
 CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
B» .■^-.- Cornell University Library 
 PR 4168.G24 1873 
 
 The life of Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 3 1924 013 440 122 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 if^ >• 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013440122 
 
LIFE AND WORKS OF 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 AND HER SISTERS. 
 
^. 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'JANE EYRE,' 'SHIRLEY,' 'VILLETTE/ 'THE PROFESSOR/ 
 
 ETC. 
 
 By MRS. GASKELUC^^^/a^ 
 
 ROE HEAD, 
 
 LONDON 
 
 
 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 15 WATERLOO ^ PLACE. 
 
 NEW YORK : ^ 
 SCRIBNER, WELFORD AND CO. 
 
 <C 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Description of Keighley and its Neighbourhood — Haworth Parsonage and 
 Church — Tablets of the Bronte family I 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Characteristics of Yorkshiremen — Manufactures of the West Riding — De- 
 scendants 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, Curate of Haworth — His 
 opinion and treatment of his parishioners — The "arvill," or funeral 
 feasts^Haworth Field-Kirk — Chiirch-riots at Haworth on the appoint- 
 ment of Mr. Redhead as Perpetual Curate-^Characteristics of the popu- 
 lation — Arrival of Mr. Bronte at Haworth . . . . . -9 
 
 CHAPTER III, 
 
 The Rev. Patrick Bronte — ^His marriage with Miss Branwell of Penzance — 
 Social customs in Penzance — The Branwell family — Letters of Miss Bran- 
 well to Mr. Bronte — Marriage of Mrs. Bronte — Thornton, the birth-place 
 of Charlotte Bronte — Removal to Haworth — Description of the Parson- 
 age — The people of Haworth— The Bronte family at Haworth — Early 
 training of the little Brontes — Characteristics of Mr. Bronte — Death of 
 Mrs. Bronte— Studies of the Bronte family — Mr. Bronte's account of his 
 children • . 29 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Miss Branwell comes to Haworth — Account of Cowan Bridge School, estab- 
 lished by the Rev. Cams Wilson— Originals of "Miss Scatcherd," 
 "Helen Bums," and " Miss Temple"— Outbreak of fever in the school 
 —Characteristics of the Bronte sisters — Deaths of Maria and Elizabeth • 
 Bronte 45 
 
CONTENTS. 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The old servant Tabby— Patrick BranweU Bronte— Charlotte Bronte's cata- 
 logue of her juvenile productions, with specimen page — Extract from the 
 introduction to ' ' Tales of the Islanders "— " History of the year 1829 "— 
 Charlotte's taste for art — Extracts from other early vmtings in MS. — 
 Charlotte's mental tendencies and home duties — A strange occurrence at 
 the Parsonage — A youthful effusion in verse 59 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Personal description of Charlotte Bronte — Miss W % school at Roe Head 
 
 — Oakvifell Hall and its legends — Charlotte's first appearance at school — 
 Her youthful character and political feelings — School days at Roe Head 
 — Mr. Cartwright and the Luddites — Mr. Roberson of Heald's HaU — 
 Chapel scenes and other characteristics of Heckmondwike and Gomersall 71 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte leaves school, and returns home to instruct her sisters — 
 Studies and books at the Parsonage — Visit from a school friend — 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 . . . . . 89 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Charlotte as teacher at Miss W 's school — Emily's home-sickness — Let- 
 ters indicative of Charlotte's despondency and melancholy — ^The sisters 
 at home — Winter evenings at Haworth — Charlotte 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 despondency — 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 governesses — Charlotte's experience of governess life — 
 Advent of the first Curate at Haworth — A second proposal of marriage 
 — A visit to the sea-side ••■■•.... 104 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Branwell Bronte still at home — Miss Branwell and her nieces — Plan of keep- 
 ing a school — Charlotte commences her first story — The Curates at 
 Haworth — Charlotte's sentiments on marriage — She seeks and obtains a 
 situation as governess . . . . ... . . . . iVi 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Second experience of governess life — Project of a school revived, and plans 
 for its realisation — Miss W 's offer of her school declined — Arrange- 
 ments for leaving England 152 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Mr. Bronte accompanies his daughters to Brussels — The Pensionnat of 
 Madame Heger, and its inmates — M. Heger's account of Charlotte and 
 Emily Bronte — Charlotte's account of the school — Her exercises in 
 French composition — Her impressions of the Belgians — Arrangements 
 of the pensionnat— Charlotte's conduct as English teacher — Loss of a 
 young friend^Death of Miss Branwell, and return to Haworth — M. 
 Heger's letters to Mr. Bronte 165 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Charlotte returns to Brussels — Her account of Carnival and Lent — Solitari- 
 ness of the English teacher in the pensionnat — Her devoir " Sur la mort 
 de Napoleon" — Depression, loneliness, and home-sickness — Estrangement - 
 from Madame Heger, and return to Haworth — Traits of kindness — Emily 
 and her dog " Keeper " 191 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 Plan of school-keeping revived and abandoned — Deplorable conduct of Bran- 
 well Bronte, and its consequences . . . . . .210 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Publication of the poems of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell — Correspondence 
 
 with the publishers — Letters to Miss W and other friends — Letter of 
 
 advice to a young friend 222 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Mr. Bronte afflicted with blindness, and relieved by a successful operation for 
 cataract-^Charlotte Bronte's first work of fiction, " The Professor " — 
 She commences "Jane Eyre" — Circumstances attending its composition 
 — Her ideas of a heroine — Her attachment to home — Haworth in De- 
 cember—A letter of confession and counsel 234 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 State of Charlotte Bronte's health at the commencement of 1847 — Family 
 trials — "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" accepted by a pub- 
 
viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Usher— "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'sVeception 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 " Wuthering Heights " 
 — Domestic anxieties of the Bronte sisters— Currer Bell's correspon- 
 dence 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 Hall "—Misunderstand- 
 ing 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 Coffee-House— The Clergy Daughters' School at Casterton 
 — Death of Branwell Bronte — Illness and death of Emily Bronte. . 244 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The " Quarterly Review" on "Jane Eyre" — Severe illness of Anne Bronte 
 — Her letter and last verses — She is removed to Scarborough — Her last 
 hours, and death and burial there — Charlotte's return to Haworth, and 
 her loneliness ...... ... 288 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Commencement and completion of " Shirley" — Originals of the characters, 
 and circumstances under which it was written — Loss on railway shares — 
 Letters to Mr. Lewes and other friends on " Shirley," and the reviews of 
 it — Miss Bronte visits London, meets Mr. Thackeray, and makes the ac- 
 quaintance of Miss Martineau — Her impressions of literary men . . 307 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ' ' Currer Bell " identified as Miss Bronte at Haworth and the vicinity — Her 
 letter to Mr. Lewes on his review of ' ' Shirley " — Solitude, heavy mental 
 sadness and anxiety — She visits Sir J. and Lady Kay Shuttleworth— Her 
 comments on critics, and remarks on Thackeray's "Pendennis" and 
 Scott's ' ' Suggestions on Female Education " — Opinions of ' ' Shirley " by 
 Yorkshire readers ^24 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 An unhealthy spring at Haworth — Miss Bronte's proposed visit to London 
 
 Her remarks on ' ' The Leader " — Associations of her walks on the mooi-s 
 
CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 — Letter to an unknown admirer of her works — Incidents of her visit to 
 London — Letter to her servant Martha — Impressions of a visit to Scot- 
 land — Portrait of Miss Bronte, by Richmond — Anxiety about her father . 336 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Visit to Sir J. and Lady Kay Shuttleworth— The biographer's impressions of 
 Miss Bronte — Miss Bronte's account of her visit to the lakes of West- 
 moreland — Her disinclination for acquaintance and visiting — Remarks on 
 "Woman's Mission," Tennyson's "In Memoriam," &c. — Impressions 
 of her visit to Scotland — Remarks on a review in the ' ' Palladium" . 345 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Intended republication of ' ' Wuthering Heights " and ' ' Agnes Grey " — Reac- 
 tion after her visit to Scotland — Her first meeting vrith Mr. Lewes — Her 
 opinion of Balzac and George Sand — A characteristic incident — Ac- 
 count of a friendly visit to Ha worth Parsonage — Remarks on the "The 
 Roman," by Sydney Dobell, and on the character of Dr. Arnold^ — 
 Letter to Mr. Dobell , . . , ■ 353 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Miss Bronte's visit to Miss Martineau, and estimate of her hostess — Miss Mar- 
 tineau's anecdotes of her guest — Remarks on Miss Martineau's new work 
 and Mr. Ruskin's "Stones of Venice" — Preparations for another visit to 
 London — Letter to Mr. Sydney Dobell : the moors in autumn— Mr. 
 Thackeray's second lecture at Willis's Rooms, and sensation produced by 
 Currer Bell's appearance there — Her account of her visit to London — 
 She breakfasts with Mr. Rogers, visits the Great Exhibition, and sees 
 Lord Westminster's pictures — Return to Haworth, and letter thence — 
 Her comment on Mr. Thackeray's lecture — Counsel on development of 
 character 364 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Remarks on friendship — Letter to Mrs. Gaskell on her and Miss Martineau's 
 views of the Great Exhibition and Mr. Thackeray's lecture, and on the 
 " Saint's Tragedy " — Miss Bronte's feeling towards children — Her com- 
 ments on an article in the " Westminster Review " on the Emancipation 
 of Women — More illness at Haworth Parsonage — Letter on emigration 
 — Periodical returns of illness — Miss Bronte's impressions of her visit to 
 London — Progress of "Villette"- — Her increasing illness and sufferings 
 during winter — Her letter on Mr. Thackeray's "Esmond" — Revival of 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 sorrows and accession of low spirits— Remarks on some recent books- 
 Retrospect of the winter of 1851-2— Letter to Mrs. Gaskell on " Ruth " 381 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Miss Bronte revisits Scarborough— Serious illness of her father— Her own lU- 
 ' ness— " Villette " nearly completed— Further remarks on " Esmond" and 
 "Uncle Tom's Cabin "—Letter respecting " Villette "—Another letter 
 about " Villette "—More remarks on " Esmond"— Completion of "Vil- 
 lette " — Instance of extreme sensibility . . ... 402 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The biographer's difficulty — Deep and enduring attachment of Mr. NichoUs 
 for Miss Bronte — Instance of her self-abnegation — She again visits Lon- 
 don — Impressions of this visit — Letter to Mrs. Gaskell — Reception of 
 the critiques on " Villette "^Correspondence with Miss Martineau — 
 Letter on Mr. Thackeray's portrait — Visit of the Bishop of Ripon to 
 Haworth Parsonage — Miss Bronte's vrish to see the unfavourable critiques 
 on her works — Her nervous shyness of strangers, and its cause — Letter 
 on Mr. Thackeray's lectures . . .... 414 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Letters to Mrs. Gaskell — The biographer's •account of her visit to Haworth, 
 and reminiscences of conversations vrith Miss Bronte — Letters from Miss 
 Bronte to her friends — Her engagement to Mr. NichoUs, and preparations 
 for the marriage — The marriage ceremony and wedding tour — Her happi- 
 ness in the marriage state — New symptoms of illness, and their cause — 
 The two last letters written by Mrs. NichoUs — An alarming cliange — Her 
 death 430 
 
 CHAPTER -XXVIII. 
 Mourners at the funeral — Conclusion . . . 451 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Portrait of Charlotte Bronte Frontispiece. 
 
 Roe Head Vignette title. 
 
 Haworth Parsonage To face page 36 
 
 Facsimile of her handwriting „ 61 
 
 Facsimile of a sketch by Branwell Bronte „ 102 
 
 Casterton „ z8o 
 
 Portrait of the Rev. Patrick Bronte ,, 358 
 
 The BRONTii Waterfall „ 448 
 
LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Leeds and Skipton railway runs along a deep valley of the Aire . 
 a slow and sluggish stream, compared to the neighbouring river ot 
 Wharfe. Keighley station is on this line of railway, about a quarter 
 of a mile from the town of the same name. The number of inhabit- 
 ants 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 industry 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 flourishing town. It 
 is evident to the stranger that, as the gable-ended houses, which ob- 
 trude themselves comer-wise on the widening street, fall vacant, they 
 are pulled down to allow of greater space for trafiic and a more 
 modem slyle 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 pass- 
 ing hastily through the town, one hardly perceives where the neces- 
 
 r ' The first edition of this work was published in 1857. 
 
 '' ' B 
 
2 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 saiy lawyer and doctor can live, so 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, 
 sleepy, picturesque cathedral town in the south. Yet the aspect of 
 Keighley promises well for future stateliness, if not picturesqueness. 
 Greystone abounds ; and the rows of houses built of it have a kind of 
 solid grandeur connected with their uniform and enduring lines. The 
 framework 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 continual beautifying, or else present a shabby aspect; 
 and the stone is kept scrupulously clean by the notable Yorkshire house- 
 wives. 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 dis- 
 tinguishes the district, and which has already fiimished a Carrodus 
 to the musical world. The names over the shops (of which the one 
 just given is a sample) seem strange 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 hills that seem to bound his jour- 
 ney in a westerly direction. First come some villas ; just sufficiently 
 retired from the road to show that they can scarcely belong to any- 
 one liable to be summoned in a hurry, at the call of suffering or dan- 
 ger, from his comfortable fireside ; 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 at- 
 mospheric effects ; but in the country some brilliancy and vividness 
 seems to be instinctively expected, and there is consequently a slight 
 feeling of disappointment at the grey neutral tint of every object near 
 or far off, on the way from Keighley to Haworth. The distance is 
 
KEIGHLEY AND HA WORTH. 3 
 
 about four miles j and, as I have said, what with villas, great worsted fac- 
 tories, rows of workmen's houses, with here and there an old-fashioned 
 farmhouse and outbuildings, 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 certain 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; aid, 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 patches of arable land, consist of 
 pale, hungry-looking, grey-green oats. Right 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 back- 
 ground of dun and purple moors, rising and sweeping away yet higher 
 than the church, which is buUt at the very summit of the long narrow 
 street. AH round the horizon there is this same line of sinuous wave- 
 like hills; the scoops into which they fall only revealing other hills 
 beyond, of similar colour and shape, crowned with wild, bleak moors 
 — grand, from the ideas of soUtude 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 flagstones 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 aspect 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, aud 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. 
 
4 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 by a crowded churchyard, and a small garden 
 or court in front of the clergyman's house. As the entrance to this from 
 the road is at the side, the path goes round the comer into the Htfle 
 plot of ground. Underneath the windows is a narrow flower-border, 
 carefully tended in days of yore, although only 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 occupied by a square grass-plot and a gravel 
 walk. The house is of greystone, tv,'o stories high, heavily roofed 
 with flags, in order to resist the winds that might strip ofi' a lighter 
 covering. It appears to have been built about a himdred 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. Everjrthing 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 rise^ above the church, and is ter- 
 ribly fiiU 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 unmodemised, 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 13 17. The in- 
 
HAWORTH PARSONAGE .AND CHURCH. S 
 
 habitants refer inquirers concerning the date to the following inscrip- 
 tion on a stone in the church tower : — 
 
 Hie fecit Coenobium Monachorum Auteste fundator. A.D. sexcentissimo. 
 
 That is to say, before the preaching of Christianity in Northumbria. 
 Whitaker says that this mistake originated in the illiterate copying 
 out, by some modem stonecutter, 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 statu'' always 
 refers to the living. I suspect this singular Christian-name has been mistaken by 
 the stonecutter for Austet, a contraction of Eustatius ; but the word Tod, which 
 has been mis-read for the Arabic figures 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 imaginary ground- 
 work of a commotion which took place in Haworth about five-and- 
 thirty years ago, to which I shall have occasion to allude again more 
 particularly. 
 
 The interior of the chiurch is commonplace ; it is neither old enough 
 nor modem 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 monuments, but there is a mural tablet on the right- 
 hand side of the communion-table, bearing the following inscrip- 
 tion : — 
 
 HERE 
 LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 MARIA BRONTE, WIFE 
 
 OF THE 
 REV. P. BRONTE, A.B., MINISTER OF HAWORTH. 
 ' HER SOUL 
 
 DEPARTED TO THE SAVIOUR, SEPT. ISTH, 1 82 1, 
 IN THE 39TH YEAR OF HER AGE. 
 
 "Be ye also ready: for in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man 
 Cometh." — Matthew xxiv. 44. 
 
6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ALSO HERE LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 MARIA BRONTE, DAUGHTER OF THE AFORESAID; 
 
 SHE DIED ON THE 
 
 6th of may, 1825, IN THE I2TH YEAR OF HER AGE; 
 
 AND OF 
 
 ELIZABETH BRONTE, HER SISTER, 
 
 WHO DIED JUNE 15TH, l82S, IN THE IITH YEAR OF HER AGE. 
 "Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, 
 ye shall not enter into the kingdom of Heaven." — Matthevst xviii. 3. 
 
 HERE ALSO LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 PATRICK BRANWELL BRONTE, 
 
 VyHO DIED SEPT. 24TH, 1 848, AGED 30 YEARS; 
 AND OF 
 
 EMILY JANE BRONTE, 
 
 WHO DIED DEC. I9TH, 1848, AGED 29 YEARS, 
 
 SON AND DAUGHTER OF THE 
 
 REV. P. BR0NT6, INCUMBENT. 
 
 THIS STONE IS ALSO DEDICATED TO THE 
 
 MEMORY OF ANNE BRONTE,^ 
 
 YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF THE REV. P. BRONTE, A.B. 
 
 SHE DIED, AGED 27 YEARS, MAY 28TH, 1 849, 
 
 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 
 
 ' A reviewer pointed out the discrepancy between the age (twenty-seven 
 years) assigned, on the mural tablet, to Anne Bronte at the time of her death in 
 1849, and the alleged fact that she was bom at Thornton, from which place Mr. 
 Bronte removed on February 2Sth, 1820. I was aware of the discrepancy, but I 
 did not think, it of sufficient consequence to be rectified by an examination of the 
 register of births. Mr. Bronte's own words, on which I grounded my statement 
 as to the time of Anne Bronte's birth, are as follows : — "In Thornton Charlotte 
 Patrick Branwell, Emily Jane, and Anne were bom." And such of the in- 
 habitants of Haworth as have spoken on the subject say that all the children of 
 Mr. and Mrs. Bronte were bom before they removed to Haworth. There is 
 probably some mistake in the inscription on the tablet. 
 
TABLETS OF THE. -BRONTE FAMILY. 7 
 
 down, the survivors,, in their fond affection, thought httle pf the marr 
 gin 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. After the record of Anne's death, there is room for no 
 other. 
 
 But one more of that generation — the last of that nursery of six 
 little motherless children — ^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 moumfiil 
 list :— 
 
 ADJOINING LIE THE REMAINS OF 
 
 CHARLOTTE, WIFE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 REV. ARTHUR BELL NICHOLLS, A.B., 
 
 AND DAUGHTER OF THE REV. P. BRONTE, A.B., INCUMBENT. 
 
 SHE DIED MARCH 3IST, l8SS, IN THE 39TH 
 
 YEAR OF HER AGE.' 
 
 ' In the month of April, 1858, a neat mural tablet was erected within the 
 communion railing of the church at Haworth, to the memory of the deceased 
 members of the Bronte family. The tablet is of white Carrara marble on a 
 ground of dove-coloured marble, with a cornice surmounted by an ornamental 
 pediment of chaste design. Between the brackets which support the tablet is 
 inscribed the sacred monogram I.H.S., in old English letters. 
 
 This tablet, which corrects the error in the former tablet as to the age of Anne 
 Bronte, bears the following inscription in Roman letters ; the initials, however, 
 being in old English. 
 
 In Memory of 
 
 Maria, wife of the Rev. P. Bronte, A.B., Minister of Haworth. 
 She died Sept. 15th, 1821, in the 39th year of herS,ge. 
 
 Also, of Maria, their daughter, who died May 6th, 1825, in the 12th year of 
 
 her age. * 
 Also, of Elizabeth, their daughter, who died June 15th, 1825, in the nth year oi 
 
 her age. 
 Also, of Patrick Branwell, their son, who died Sept. 24th, 1848, aged 31 years. 
 Also, of EmBy Jane, their daughter, who died Dec. igth, 1848, aged 30 years. 
 
8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Also, of Anne, their daughter, who died May 28th, 1849, aged 29 years. She was 
 
 buried at the Old Church, Scarborough. 
 Also, of Charlotte, their daughter, wife of the Rev. A. B. NichoUs, B.A. She 
 
 died March 31st, 1855, in the 39th year of her age. 
 
 " The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law, but thanks be to 
 God which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ" — I Cor. xv. 
 56. 57. 
 
CHARACTER OF YORKSHIREMEN. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 For a right 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 earhest years were 
 passed, and from which both her own and her sisters' first impres- 
 sions 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 surrounding 
 districts. 
 
 Even an inhabitant of the neighbouring county of Lancaster is 
 struck by the peculiar force of character which the Yorkshiremen dis- 
 play. 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 independence rather apt to repel a stran- 
 ger. I use this expression "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 halp at the hands of his neigh- 
 bour. From rarely requiring the assistance of others, he comes to 
 doubt the power of bestowing it : from the general success of his 
 efforts, he grows to depend upon them, and to over-esteem his own 
 energy and power. He belongs to that keen, yet short-sighted class, 
 who consider suspicion of all whose honesty is not proved as a sign 
 of wisdom. The practical qualities of a man are held in great re- 
 spect; but the want of faith in strangers and untried modes of action, 
 extends itself even to the manner in which the virtues are regarded; 
 and if they produce no immediate and tangible result, they are rather 
 put aside as unfit for this busy, striving world; especially if they are 
 
10 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 more of a passive than an active character. The affections are strong 
 and their foundations lie deep : but they are not — such affections sel- 
 dom are — ^wide-spreading; nor do they show themselves on the sur- 
 face. Indeed, there is little display 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, prob- 
 ably, 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 hu- 
 mour ; the dweller's among them must be prepared for certain uncom- 
 plimentary, 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 
 correct exemplification of the form in which the latter frequently 
 appears, I need -only refer the reader of Wutfiering Heights to .the 
 character of *' Joseph." 
 
 From the same cause come also enduring grudges, in some cases 
 amounting to hatred, which occasionally has been bequeathed from 
 generation to generation. I remember Miss Bronte 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 Riding men are sleuth-hounds in pursuit of money. 
 Miss Bronte related to my husband a curious instance 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 company ! 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 ene- 
 mies ; but once lovers or haters, it is difficult to change their feeling. 
 
MEN OF THE WEST RIDING. il 
 
 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 III. It is traditionally said that a colony of 
 FJemings came over and settled in the West Riding to teach the in- 
 habitants what to do with their wool. The mixture of agricultural 
 with manufacturing labour that ensued and prevailed in the West 
 Riding 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 particu- 
 lars from the lips of tliose now living, there come out details of 
 coarseness--of the uncouthness of the rustic mingled with the sharp- 
 ness of the tradesman-T-of irregularity and fierce lawlessness-^-that 
 rather mar the vision of pastoral innocence and simplicity. Still, as 
 it is the exceptional 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 a,way 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 re- 
 strictions impbsed 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 considerably. Their independence of character, 
 their dislike of authority, and their strong powers of thought, pre- 
 disposed them to rebellion against the religious dictation 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 
 
12 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 occasion afterwards to give one or two instances of the warm feeling 
 and extensive knowledge on subjects of both home and foreig 
 politics existing at the present day in the villages lying west and eas 
 of the mountainous ridge that separates Yorkshire and Lancashire 
 the mhabitants of which are of the same race and possess the sam 
 quality of character. 
 
 The descendants of many who served under Cromwell at Dunbai 
 live on the same lands as their ancestors occupied then ; and perhap 
 there is no part of England where the traditional and fond recolle< 
 tions of the Commonwealth have lingered so long as in that inhabita 
 by the woollen-manufacturing population of the West Riding, whi 
 had the restrictions taken off their trade by the Protector's admirabl 
 commercial policy. I have it on good authority that, not thirt 
 years ago, the phrase, "in Oliver's days," was in common use ti 
 denote a time of unusual prosperity. The class of Christian-name 
 prevalent in a district is one indication of the direction in which it 
 tide of hero-worship sets. Grave enthusiasts in politics or religioi 
 perceive not the ludicrous side of those which they give to thei 
 children ; and some are to be found, still in their infancy, not ; 
 dozen miles from Haworth, that will have to go through hfe as La 
 martine, Kossuth, and Dembinsky. And so there is a testimony t( 
 what I have said, of the traditional feeling of the district, in the fac 
 that the Old Testament names in general use among the Puritan 
 are yet the prevalent appellations in most Yorkshire families c 
 middle or humble rank, whatever their religious persuasion may be 
 There are numerous records, too, that show the kindly way in which thi 
 ejected ministers were received by the gentry, as weU as by thi 
 poorer part of the inhabitants, during the persecuting days of Charle 
 II. These little facts all testify to the old hereditary spirit of inde 
 pendence, ready ever to resist authority which was conceived to bi 
 unjustly exercised, that distinguishes the people of the West Eidinj 
 to the present day. 
 
 The parish of Halifax touches that of Bradford, in which thi 
 chapelry of Haworth is included ; and the nature of the ground ii 
 the two parishes is much of the same wild and hilly description. Th 
 abundance of coal, and the number of mountain-streams in thi 
 district, make it highly favourable to manufactures ; and accordingly 
 as I stated, the inhabitants have for centuries been engaged in makini 
 
DESCENDANTS OF THE PURITANS. 13 
 
 cloth, as well as in agricultural pursuits. But the intercourse of trade 
 failed, for a long time, to bring amenity and civilisation into these 
 outlying hamlets, or widely scattered dwellings. Mr. Hunter, in his 
 Life of Oliver Heywood, quotes a sentence out of a memorial of 
 one James Rither, living itl 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 is 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 question 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 adventure which 
 happened to my husband and myself, three years ago, at Adding- 
 
 ham — 
 
 From Peuigent to Pendle Hill, 
 
 From Linton to 'Long-Addingham 
 And all that Craven coasts did tell, &c. — - 
 
 one of the places that sent forth its fighting men to the famous old 
 battle of Flodden Field, and a village not many miles from Haworth. 
 We were driving along the street, when one of those ne'er-do-weel 
 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 into a cottage before us. Besides receiving 
 another bad cut in the arm, he had completely laid open the artery, 
 and was 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 efiusion 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." 
 
14 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 "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 teU him the lad may bleed to death." 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " And what did he say ? " 
 
 " Why, only, ' p — 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 ne- 
 cessary in the way of bandages and plasters. The excuse made for 
 the surgeon was, that " he was near eighty, and getting a bit doited, 
 and had had a matter o' twenty chUder." 
 
 Among the most unmoved of the lookers-on was the brother of 
 the boy so badly hiurt ; 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 smoking his bit of black pipe, and 
 uttered not a single word of either sjrmp'athy or sorrow. 
 
 Forest customs, existing in the fringes of dark wood, which clothed 
 the declivity of the hiUs on either side, tended to brutalize the popu- 
 lation until the middle of the seventeenth century. Execution by 
 beheading was performed in a summary way upon either men or wo- 
 men who were guilty of but very slight crimes ; and a dogged, yet in 
 some cases fine, indifference 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 hamlets, crimes might be committed almost unknown, cer- 
 tainly without any great uprising of popular indignation calcu- 
 lated to bring down the strong arm of the law. It must be 
 remembered that in those days there was no rural constabulary ; and 
 the few magistrates, left to themselves, and generally related to one 
 
STATE OF THE ROADS IN YORKSHIRE. 15 
 
 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 beyond the precincts of home ; and when that ■ 
 business was conducted under a pressure of difficulties 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 overnight, but in the morning there 
 was a great gathering around it, and flashing of lanterns, and exami- 
 nation of horses' feet, before the ponderous waggon got under way ; 
 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 horseback 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 winter all such communication was impossible, 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 
 landlord and his family falling short before the inroads of the un- 
 expected visitors, they had recourse to the turkeys, geese, an^ 
 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 vUlages may be, they are in the world, com- 
 pared with the loneliness of the grey ancestral houses to be seen here 
 and there in the dense hollows of the moors. These dwellings are 
 not large, yet they are solid and roomy enough for the accommoda- 
 
l6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tion of those who live in them, and to whom the surrounding estates 
 belong. 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 yeo- 
 manry — small squires — who are rapidly becoming extinct as a class, 
 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 
 mountain-side, or the minerals beneath his feet, can be turned into a 
 new source of wealth ; and leaving the old plodding life of a land- 
 owner with small capital, he turns manufacturer, or digs for coal, or 
 quarries for stone. 
 
 StiU 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 eccentricity — ^what wild strength 
 of wUl — ^nay, even what unnatural 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 wilfiilness in the re- 
 moter districts. A singular account was recently given me of a land- 
 owner (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 sup- 
 posed 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 consideration. My informant 
 was struck with the appearance of the place, and proposed to the 
 countryman who was accompanjring 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 folk's legs, and let shot lodge 
 in 'em afore now, for going too near to his house." And finding, 
 on closer inquiry, that such was really the inhospitable custom of this 
 moorland squire, the gentleman gave up his purpose. I beheve that 
 the savage yeoman is stUl living. 
 
 Another squire, of more distinguished family and larger property 
 — one is tlience led to imagine of better education, but that does not 
 
CHARACTERS OF YORKSHIRE SQUIRES. 17 
 
 always follow — died at his house, not many miles from Haworth, only 
 a few years ago. His great amusement 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 up there, 
 and watched the bloody battle from his bed. As his mortal disea,se 
 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 see 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 par- 
 ticulars I have given, remembers the bull-baitings at Rochdale, 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 suddenly 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 character 
 than their neighbours on either side of the hills. The village lies 
 embedded in the moors, between the two counties, on the old road 
 between Keighley and Cojne. About the middle of the last century, 
 it became famous in the religious world as the scene of the ministra- 
 tions of the Rev. William Grimshaw, curate of Haworth for twenty 
 years. Before this time, it is probable that the curates were of the 
 saine order as one Mr. Nicholls, a Yorkshire clergyman, in the days- 
 immediately succeeding the Reformation, who was "rtiuch addicted 
 to drinking and company-keeping," and used to say to his companions, 
 
 c 
 
1 8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " You must not heed me but when I am got three feet above t 
 earth," that was, into the pulpit. 
 
 Mr. Grimshaw's hfe was written by Newton, Cowper's frien( 
 and from it may be gathered some curious particulars of the mann 
 in which a rough population were swayed and governed by a man 
 deep convictions and strong earnestness of purpose. It seems th 
 he had not been in any way remarkable for religious zeal, though 1 
 had led a moral life, and been conscientious in fulfilling his parochi 
 duties, until a certain Sunday in September, 1744, when the servai 
 rising at five, found her master aheady engaged in prayer ; si 
 stated that, after remaining in his chamber for some time, he went 
 engage in religious exercises in the house of a parishioner, then hoc 
 again to pray ; thence, stUl fasting, to the church, where, as he w 
 reading the second lesson, he fell down, and, on his partial recovei 
 ha:d to be led from the church. As he went out, he spoke to ti 
 congregation, and told them not to disperse, as he had something 
 say to them, and would return presently. He was taken to the clerli 
 house, and again became insensible. His servant rubbed him, 
 restore the circulation ; and when he was brought to himself " ] 
 seemed in a great rapture," and the first words he uttered were, '' 
 have had a glorious vision from the third heaven.'' He did not si 
 what he had seen, but returned into the church, and began the se 
 vice again, at two in the afternoon, and went on until seven. 
 
 From this time he devoted himself, with the fervour of a Wesle 
 and something of the fanaticism of a Whitfield, to calling out 
 religious life among his parishioners. They had been in the habit 
 playing at foot-ball on Sunday, using stones for this purpose ; 2sl 
 giving and receiving challenges fi-om other parishes. There we 
 horse-races held pn the moors just above the village, which we 
 periodical sources of drunkenness and profligacy. Scarcely a we 
 ding took place without the rough amusement of foot-races, whe 
 the half-naked runners were a scandal to all decent strangers. Tl 
 old custom of "arvills," or funeral feasts, led to frequent pit<£( 
 battles between the drunken mourners. Such customs were ti 
 outward signs of tihe kind of people with whom Mr. Grimshaw had 
 ' deal. But, by various means, some of the most practical kind, 1 
 wrought a great change in his parish. In his preaching he w 
 occasionally assisted by Wesley and Whitfield, and at such times ti 
 
MR. GRIMSHAW OF HAWORTH. 19 
 
 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 hoped 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 
 prevent them. He used to preach twenty or thirty times a week in 
 private houses. If he perceived anyone inattentive to his prayers, 
 he would stop and rebuke the offender, and not go on till he saw 
 everyone on tlieir knees. He was 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, " awakening " 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. Grimshaw ; 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 tried all means of 
 persuasion, and even intimidation, to have the races discontinued, 
 but in vain. At length, in despair, he prayed with such fervour of 
 earnestness that the rain came down in torrents, and deluged the 
 ground, so that there was no footiag 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 
 
20 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 resumed to this day. Even now the memory of this good man is 
 held in reverence, and his faithful ministrations and real virtues are 
 one of the boasts of the parish. 
 
 But after his time, I fear there was a falling back into the wild 
 rough heathen ways, from which he had pulled them up, as it were, 
 by the passionate force of his individual character. He had buUt a 
 chapel for the Wesleyan Methodists, and not very long after the 
 Baptists established themselves 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. Revenge 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 
 influx of riotous strangers to fill the public-houses, and make the 
 more sober-minded inhabitants long for good Mr. Grimshaw's stout 
 arm and ready horsewhip. The old custom of " arviUs " 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 
 refreshment for those who came from a distance, to pay the last 
 ijiark of respect to a friend. In the Life of Oliver Heywood there are 
 two quotations, which show what sort of food was provided for 
 "arvills" in quiet Nonconformist connections in the seventeenth 
 century; the first (from Thoresby) tells of "cold possets, stewed 
 prunes, cake, and cheese," as bemg 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 ot cake, draught of 
 wine, piece of rosemary, and pair of gloves." 
 
 But the arvills at Haworth were often far more jovial doings. 
 Among the poor, the mourners were only expected 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 
 
" ARVILLS" AT HAWORTH. -i-i 
 
 middle of the table. Richer people would order a dinner for their 
 friends. At the funeral of Mr. Chamock (the next successor but one 
 to Mr. Grimshaw in the incumbency), above eighty people were bid 
 to the arvill, and the price of the feast was 4J-. t'd. 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," 
 ajtid " gouging," and biting. 
 
 -Although I have dwelt on the exceptional traits in the character- 
 istics 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 
 Yorkshireman 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 ecclesiastical structures, accord- 
 ing 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 to 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 remaining nine parts of 
 his income. After the Reformation, the 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 ±at, after only 
 three weeks' possession, he was compelled to resign." A Yorkshire 
 gentleman, who has kindly sent me some additional information on 
 
22 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 this subject since the second edition of my work was published, 
 writes thus ; 
 
 " The sole right of presentation to the incumbency of Haworth is 
 vested in the Vicar of Bradford. He only can present. The funds, 
 however, from which the clergyman's stipend mainly proceeds, are 
 vested in the hands of trustees, who have the power to withhold them, 
 if a nominee is sent of whom they disapprove. On the decease of 
 Mr. Chamock, the Vicar first tendered the preferment to Mr. Bronte, 
 and he went over to his expected 'cure. He was told that towards 
 himself they had no personal objection ; but as a nominee of the 
 Vicar he would not be received. He therefore retired, with the 
 declaration tha^ if he could not come with the approval of the parish, 
 his ministry could not be useful. Upon this the attempt was made 
 to introduce Mr. Redhead. 
 
 " When Mr. Redhead was repelled, a fresh difficulty arose. Some 
 one must first move towards a settlement, but a spirit being evoked 
 which could not be allayed, action became perplexing. The matter 
 had to be referred to some independent arbitrator, and my father was 
 the gentleman to whom each party turned its eye. A meeting was 
 convened, and the business settled by the Vicar's conceding the 
 choice to the trustees, and the acceptance of the Vicar's presentation. 
 That choice forthwith fell on Mr. Bronte, whose promptness and 
 prudence had won their hearts." 
 
 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 transactions which had taken 
 place at Haworth on the presentation qf the living to Mr. Redhead, 
 and said that there had been so mucli 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 sur- 
 vivors among the actors and spectators, I have learnt the means 
 taken to eject the nominee of the Vicar. 
 
 The previous incumbent had been the Mr. Chamock whom I 
 have mentioned as next but one in succession to Mr. Grimshaw. He 
 had a long illness, which rendered him unable to discharge his duties 
 without assistance, and Mr. Redhead gave him occasional help, to 
 the great satisfaction of the parishioners, and was highly respected 
 by them during Mr. Charnock's hfetime. But the case was entirely 
 
PRESENTATION TO THE LIVING OF HA WORTH. 23 
 
 altered when, at Mr. Chamock's death in 1819, they conceived that 
 the trustees had been unjustly deprived of their rights by the Vicar of 
 Bradford, who appointed Mr. Redhead as perpetual curate. 
 
 The first Sunday he officiated, Haworth Church was filled even to 
 the aisles; most of the people wearing the wooden clogs of the 
 district. But while Mr. Redhead 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. Redhead 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 before, the church 
 was well filled, but the aisles were left clear ; not a creature, not an 
 obstacle was in the way. The reason 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 con- 
 gregation entirely drowned all sound of Mr. Redhead's voice, and, I 
 believe, he was obliged to desist. 
 
 Hitherto they had not proceeded to anything like personal 
 violence J but on the third Sunday they must have been greatly 
 irritated at seeing Mr. Redhead, 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 out-buildings belonging to the church that very morning, and 
 afterwards plied with drink till he was in a state of solemn intoxica- 
 tion. They placed him right before the reading-desk, where his 
 blackened face nodded a drunken, stupid assent to all that Mr. 
 Redhead said. At last, either prompted by some mischief-maker, or 
 from some tipsy impulse, he clambered up the pulpit stairs, and 
 attempted to embrace Mr. Redhead. Then the profane iun grew fast 
 and furious.- Some of the more . riotous 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 
 
24 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 without, threatening to stone 
 him and his friends. One of my informants is an old man, who was 
 the landlord of the inn 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. Tke "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. GrimshaVs horsewhip), the landlord 
 and some of the stable-boys rode the horses belonging to the party 
 from Bradford backwards and forwards before his 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 clergyman and his friends 
 mounted in haste, and had sped some distance before the people 
 found out that their prey had escaped, and came running to the 
 closed turnpike gate. 
 
 This was Mr. Redhead's last appearance at Haworth for many 
 years. Long afterwards, he came to preach, and in his sermon to a 
 large and attentive congregation he good-humouredly reminded them 
 of the circumstances which I have described. They gave him a 
 hearty welcome, for they owed him no grudge ; altliough before they 
 had been ready enough to stone him, in order to maintain what they 
 considered to be their rights. 
 
 The foregoing account, which I heard from two of the siurvivors, 
 in the presence of a friend who can vouch for the accuracy of my 
 repetition, has to a certain degree been confirmed by a letter from the 
 Yorkshire gentleman whose words I have already quoted : — 
 
 " I am not surprised at your difficulty in authenticating matter-of- 
 fact. I find this in recalling what I have heard, and the authority on 
 which I have heard anything. As to the donkey tale, I believe you 
 are right. Mr. Redhead and Dr. Ramsbotham, his son-in-law, are 
 no strangers to me. Each of them has a niche in my affections. 
 
 " I have asked, this day, two persons who lived in Haworth at the 
 
CHURCH RIOTS AT HA WORTH. 25 
 
 time to which you allude, the son and daughter of an acting trustee, 
 and each of them between sixty and seventy years of age, and they 
 assure me that the donkey was introduced. ' One of them says it was 
 mounted by a half-witted man, seated with his face towards the tail of 
 the beast, and having several hats piled on his head. Neither of my 
 informants was, however, present at these edifying services. I believe 
 that no movement was made in the church on either Sunday, until 
 the whole of the authorised reading-service was gone through, and I 
 am sure that nothing was more remote from the more respectable 
 party than any personal antagonism toward Mr. Redhead. He was 
 one ©f the most amiable and worthy of men, a man to myself 
 endeared by maiiy ties and obligations. I never heard before your 
 book that the sweep ascended the pulpit steps. He was present, 
 
 however, in the clerical habiliments of his order. I may 
 
 also add that among the many who were present at those sad Sunday 
 orgies the majority were non-residents, and came from those moor- 
 land fastnesses on the outskirts of the parish locally designated as 
 ' ovver th' steyres,' one stage more remote than Haworth from modem 
 civiHsation. 
 
 " To an instance or two more of the rusticity of the inhabitants of 
 the chapelry of Haworth, I may introduce you. 
 
 "A Haworth carrier called at the office of a friend of mine to 
 deliver a parcel on a cold winter's day, and stood with the door open. 
 ' Robin ! shut the door ! ' said the recipient. ' Have you no doors in 
 your country? ' ' Yoi,' responded Robin, ' we hev', but we niwer steik 
 'em:' I have frequently remarked the number of doors open .even in 
 winter. 
 
 " When well directed, the indomitable and independent energies 
 of the natives of this part of the country are invaluable ; dangerous 
 when perverted. I shall never forget the fierce actions and utterances 
 of one suifering from delirium tremens. Whether in its wrath,.disdain, 
 or its dismay, the countenance was infernal. I called once upon a 
 time on a most respectable yeoman, and I was, in language earnest 
 and homely, pressed to accept the hospitality of the house. I con- 
 sented. The word to me was, ' Nah, maister, yah mun stop an hev" 
 sum .te-ah, — yah mun, eah, yah mun.' A bountiful table was soon 
 spread ; at all events, time soon went while I scaled the hills to see 
 ' t' maire 'at wor thretty year owd, an' t' foil 'at wor fower.' On 
 
36 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 sitting down to the table, a venerable woman officiated, and after 
 filling the cups, she thus addressed me : ' Nah, maister, yah mun 
 loawze th' taible ' (loose the table). The master said, ' Shah meeans 
 yah mun sey f greyce.' I took the hint, and uttered the blessing, i 
 
 " I spoke with an aged and tried woman at one time, who, after 
 recording her mercies, stated^ among others, her powers of speech, by 
 asserting, ' Thank the Lord, ah niwer wor a meUly-meouthed wumman.' 
 I feel particularly at fault in attempting the orthography of the dialect, 
 but must excuse myself by telling you that I once saw a letter in 
 which the word I have just now used (excuse) was written 'ecksqueaize Ijl 
 
 " There are some things, however, which rather tend to soften the 
 • idea of the rudeness of Haworth. No rural district has been more 
 markedly the abode of musical taste and acquirement, and this at a 
 period when it was difficult to find them to the same extent apart 
 from towns in advance of their times. I have gone to Haworth and 
 found an orchestra to meet me, filled with local performers, vocal and 
 instrumental, to whom the best works of Handel, Hadyn, Mozart, 
 Marcello, &c. &c., were familiar as household words. By knowledge, 
 taste, and voice, they were markedly separate from ordinary village 
 choirs, and have been put in extensive requisition for the solo and 
 chorus of many an imposing festival. One man stiU survives, who, 
 for fifty years, has had one of the finest tenor voices I ever heard, and 
 with it a refined and cultivated taste. To him and to others many 
 inducements have been offered to migrate ; but the loom, the associ- 
 ation, the mountain air have had charms enow to secure their 
 continuance at home. I love the recollection of their performanci§*; 
 that recollection extends over more than sixty years. The attach- 
 ments, the antipathies, and the hospitalities of the district are ardent, 
 hearty, and homely. Cordiality in each is the prominent characteristic. 
 As a people, these mountaineers have ever been accessible to 
 gentleness and truth, so far as I have known them; but excite 
 suspicion or resentment, and they give emphatic and not impotent 
 resistance. Compulsion they defy. ' 
 
 " I accompanied Mr. Heap on his first visit to Haworth after his 
 accession to the vicarage of Bradford. It was on Easter Day, either 
 i8i6ori8i7. His predecessor, the venerable John Crosse, known 
 a-s the 'blind vicar,' had been inattentive to the vicarial claims. A 
 searching investigation had to be made and enforced, and as it pro- 
 
HA WORTH CHARACTERISTICS. 27 
 
 ceeded stout and sturdy utterances were not lacking on the part of 
 the parishioners. To a spectator, though rude, they were amusing 
 and significant, foretelling what might be expected, and what was 
 afterwards realised, on the advent of a new incumbent, if they deemed 
 him an intruder. 
 
 " From their peculiar parochial position and circumstances, the 
 inhabitants of the chapehry have been prompt, earnest, and pjersevering 
 in their opposition to church-rates. Although ten miles- from the 
 mother-church, they were called upon to defray a large proportion of 
 this obnoxious tax — I believe one-fifth. 
 
 " Besides this, they had to maintain their own edifice^ &c. &c. 
 They resisted, therefore, with energy, that which they deemed to be 
 oppression and injustice. By scores would they wend their way from 
 the hills to attend a vestry-meeting at Bradford, and in such service 
 failed not to show less of the suaviier in modo than the fortiter in re. 
 Happily such occasion for their action has not occurred for many 
 years. 
 
 " The use of patronymics has been common in this locality. 
 Inquire for a man by his Christian-name and surname, and you may 
 have some difficulty in finding him r ask, however, for ' George o' 
 Ned's,' or ' Dick o' Bob's,' or ' Tom o' Jack's,' as the case may be, 
 and your difficulty is at an end. In many instances the person is 
 designated by his residence. In my early years I had occasion to 
 inquire for Jonathan Whitaker, who owned a considerable farm in the 
 township. I was sent hither and thither, until it occurred to me to 
 ask for ' Jonathan o' th' Gate.' My difficulties were then at an end. 
 Such circumstances arise out of the settled character and isolation of 
 • the natives. 
 
 " Those who have witnessed a Haworth wedding, when the parties 
 were above the rank of labourers, will not easily forget the scene. A 
 levy was made on the horses of the neighbourhood, , and a merry 
 cavalcade of mounted men and women, single or double, traversed 
 the way to Bradford Church. The inn and church appeared to be 
 in natural connection, and as the labours of the Temperance Society 
 had then to begin, the interests of sobriety were not always consulted. 
 On remounting their, steeds they commenced with a race, and not 
 unfrequently an inebriate or unskilful horseman or woman was put 
 hors de combat. A race also was frequent at the end of these wedding 
 
28 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 expeditions, from the bridge to the toll-bar at Haworth. The race- 
 course you will know to be anything but level." 
 
 Into the midst of this lawless, yet not unkindly population, 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 background 
 of sweeping moors — struck on the gentle, delicate wife, whose health 
 even then was failing. 
 
THE REV. PATRICK BRONTE. 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 The Rev. 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 Loughbrickland. 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 
 descendants have cared to inquire. He made an early marriage, 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 personal 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, kno-vnng 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 li-ving he continued to follow for five or six years. He then became 
 a tutor in the family of the Rev. Mr. Tighe, rector of Drumgooland 
 parish. Thence he proceeded to St. John's College, Cambridge, 
 where he was entered in July, 1802, being at the time five-and-twerity 
 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 
 
30 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 Enghsh 
 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, &esh from the only life he had ever known, to present 
 himself at the gates of St. John's, proved no httle determination of 
 will, and scorn of ridicule. 
 
 While at Cambridge, he became one of a corps of volunteers, who 
 were then being called ou|t all over the country to resist the appre- 
 hended 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, in Yorkshire 
 — ^far removed from his birthplace and all his Irish connections; 
 with whom, indeed, he cared little to keep up any intercourse, and 
 whom he never, I believe, revisited after becoming a student at 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Hartshead is a very small village, l)Tng to the east of Huddersfield 
 and Halifax ; and, from its high situation — on a mound, as it were, 
 surrounded by a circular basin — commanding 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 Came ; and, both on 
 father's and mother's side, the Branwell family were sufiiciently well 
 descended to enable them to mix in the best society that Penzance 
 then afforded. Mr. and Mrs. Branwell would be living — their family 
 of four daughters 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, 
 
MR. AND MRS. BRANWELL. 31 
 
 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 apothecary, or a solicitor; the third to a 
 pewterer or watchmaker ; 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 in their respective 
 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. Visiting 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 these two periods, visiting 
 was almost entirely confined 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 respecting the super- 
 natural 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 people 
 walked by at night at a quickened pace, and with a beating heart! 
 Amongst the middle and higher classes there was httle 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 
 
32 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 delighted in. Smuggling 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 occasioned the ruin 
 of many respectable families.'' 
 
 I have given this extract because I conceive it bears some reference 
 to the life of Miss Bronte, whose strong mind and vivid imagination 
 must have received their first impressions 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 
 appears to have been considerably restrained, and whose life, both in 
 Ireland and at Cambridge, had been spent under pecuHar circum- 
 stances ; 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 purity of 
 character. Mr. Branwell, the father, according to his descendants' 
 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 fiill of tender 
 grace of expression and feminine modesty ; pervaded 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 firom Ahaderg, near 
 Loughbrickland. In the early summer of 1812, when she would be 
 twenty-nine, she came to visit her uncle, the Reverend John 
 Fennel, who was at that time a clergyman of the Church of England, , 
 living near Leeds, but who had previously been a Methodist minister. 
 Mr. Bronte was the incumbent of Hartshead; and had the reputation 
 in the neighbourhood of being a very handsome fellow, full of Irish 
 
MISS BRANWELL'S LETTERS. 
 
 33 
 
 enthusiasm, and with something of an Irishman's capability of falling 
 easily in love. Miss Branwell was extremely small in person ; not 
 pretty, but very elegant, and always dressed with a quiet simplicity of 
 taste, which accorded well with 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 
 
 JuUet's — 
 
 But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more trae 
 Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
 
 There are plans for happy picnic pa,rties to Kirkstall Abbey, in 
 the glowing September days, when " Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin Jane " 
 — the last engaged to a Mr. Morgan, another 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 sanctioned it, and her brother and sisters in far-away Penzance 
 appear fully to have approved of it. In a letter dated September 1 8th, 
 she says : — 
 
 " For some years I have been perfectly my own mistress, subject 
 to no control whatever ; so far from it, that my sisters, who are many 
 years older than myself, and even my dear mother, used to consult 
 me on every occasion of importance, 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 of it. I have many times felt it a disadvantage, and 
 although, I thank God, it has 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 Jetter. 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 same 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 Branwell had neither father nor 
 
 D 
 
34 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 the Clergy 
 List at 202/. per annum, and she was in the receipt of a small annuity 
 (50/. 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, imtil 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 J 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 shipwreck, 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 stranded on the 
 coast of Devonshire, in consequence of which the box was dashed to 
 pieces with the violence of the sea, and all my little property, with the 
 exception of a very few articles, being swallowed up 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 reading 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 
 
MRS. BRONTE. 35 
 
 anything of Iier 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 j 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 impression on the minds of those relations who yet survive ; 
 they speak of her as " their favourite aunt, and one to whom they, 
 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 
 Riding parishes are almost like bishoprics for their amount of popu- 
 lation and number of churches. Thornton church is a little episcopal 
 chapel-of-ease, rich in Nonconformist monuments, as of Accepted 
 Lister and his friend Dr. Hall. The neighbourhood is desolate and 
 wild ; great tracts 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 Inde- 
 pendent firm, and the solid square chapel built by the members of 
 that denomination. Altogether 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 bom, on the 2rst of 
 April, 18 16. Fast on her heels followed Patrick Branwell, Emily 
 Jane, 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 necessaries of food and clothing are much more easily 
 supplied than the almost equal necessaries of attendance, care, 
 
 D 2 
 
36 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 soothing, 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 the 2Sth, 1820. 
 Those who knew her then, describe her as grave, thoughtful, 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 blessings 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 appearance, 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 stirength, and as an interruption to the comfort of 
 the household. 
 
 Haworth Parsonage is — as I mentioned in the first chapter — an 
 oblong stone house, facing down the hill on which the 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 occupied by the grassy garden, which is scarcely 
 wider than the house. The graveyard lies on two sides of the house 
 and garden. The house consists of four rooms on each floor, and is 
 two stories high. When the Brontes took possession, they made the 
 larger parlour, to the left of the entrance, the family sitting-room, 
 while that on the right was appropriated to Mr. Bronte as a study. 
 Behind this was the kitchen ; behind the former, a sort of flagged 
 store-room. Upstairs 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 staircase going up 
 right opposite to the entrance. There is the pleasant old fashion of 
 window-seats all through the' house ; and one can see that the par- 
 sonage was buUt in the days when wood was plentiful, as the 
 massive stair-banisters, and the wainscots, and the heavy wuidow- 
 frames testify. 
 
 This little extra upstairs room was appropriated to the children. 
 

 
 
 T4'f'^«r: 
 
MR. BRONTE'S E2CCLUSIVENESS. 37 
 
 Small as it was, it was not called a nursery ; indeed, it had not the 
 comfort of a fireplace in it ; the servants — two affectionate, warm- 
 hearted 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 brpught up the rear. Good 
 Mr. Grimshaw, Wesley's friend, had built a humble Methodist chapel, 
 but it stood close to the road leading on to the moor ; the Baptists 
 then raised a place of worship, witji the distinction of being a few 
 yards back from the highway ; 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 required, 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 visiting ; their surly independence would revolt from the 
 idea of anyone having a right, from his office, to inquire into their 
 condition, to counsel, or to admonish them. 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 miles 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 attended. 
 
 "A rare good one," said he : "he minds his own business, 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 
 
38 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 daughter Charlotte too ; but, cherishing and valuing privacy them- 
 selves, they were perhaps over-delicate in not intruding upon the 
 privacy of others. 
 
 From their, first going to Haworth, their walks were directed 
 rather out towards the heathery moors, sloping upwards behind the 
 parsonage,, than towards the long descending village street. A good 
 old woman, who came to nurse Mrs. Bronte in the illness — ^an internal 
 cancer — which grew, and gathered upon 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 ; subdued, 
 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 bedroom from which she never came 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, 
 but seven ! ) "in the children's study with a newspaper, and be able 
 to tell one everything 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. 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 ; " devotedly fond of her husband, who warmly 
 repaid her affection, 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 motherless, would have 
 agitated her too much. So the Httle things clung quietly together, 
 for their father was blisy in his study and in his parish, or with their 
 mother, and they took their meals alone ; sat reading, or whispering 
 
THE BRONTE CHILDREN. 
 
 39 
 
 low, in the " children's study," or wandered out on the hill-side, hand 
 in hand. 
 
 The ideas of Rousseau and Mr. Day on education had filtered 
 down through many classes, and spread themselves widely out. I 
 imagine Mr.' Bronte must have formed some of his opinions on the 
 management of children from these two theorists. His practice was 
 not half so wild or extraordinary as that to which an aunt of mine 
 was subjected by a disciple of Mr. Day's. She had been taken by 
 this gentleman 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 hardening 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 benevolent people, only strongly imbued with 
 the crotchet that by a system of training might be educed the hardi- 
 hood 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 corraptions and 
 refinements of civilization. 
 
 Mr. Bronte wished to make his children hardy, and indifferent to 
 the pleasures of eating and dress. In the latter he succeeded, as far 
 as regarded his daughters. 
 
 His strong, passionate, Irish nature was, in general, compressed 
 down with resolute stoicism ; but it was there notwithstanding kll his 
 philosophic calm and dignity of demeanour ; though he did not 
 speak when he was annoyed or displeased. Mrs. Bronte, whose 
 
40 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 sweet nature thought invariably of the bright side, would say, " Ought 
 I not to be thankful that' he never gave me an angry word ? " 
 
 Mr. Bronte 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 canie 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 
 ' appeared to him right. In the days of the Luddites, he had been 
 for the peremptory interference of the law, at a time when no magis- 
 trate could be found to act, and all the property of the West Riding 
 was in terrible danger. He became unpopular then among the mill- 
 workers, and he esteemed 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 qt night. 
 
 Many years later, during his residence at Haworth, there was a 
 strike ; the hands in the neighbourhood felt themselves aggrieved by 
 the masters, and refused to work : Mr. Bronte thought that 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 inhabitants of 
 Haworth and the neighbourhood 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 prin- 
 ciples of action eccentric and strange, his views of life partial, and 
 almost misanthropical ; but not one opinion that he held could be 
 stirred or modified by any worldly motive : he acted up to his prin- 
 ciples of action ; and, if any touch of misanthropy mingled with his 
 view of mankind in general, his conduct to the individuals who came 
 in personal contact with him did not agree with such view. It is 
 true that he had strong and vehement 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 
 
THE REV. MR. BRONTE. 41 
 
 points of character, and account for them, and bring them all into one 
 consistent and intelligible whole. The family 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 eccentricity in the father because I hold the know- 
 ledge of them t9 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 remembrance of her mother, and 
 could bring back two or three pictures of her. One was when, some 
 time 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 fragmentary 
 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, there- 
 fore 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 
 churchwardens, and visitors on parochial business ; and sometimes 
 by a neighbouring clergyman, who came down the hills, across the 
 moors, to mount up again to Haworth Parsonage, and spend an 
 evening there. But, owing to Mrs. Bronte's death so soon aftfer her 
 husband had removed into the district, and also to the distances 
 and the bleak country to be traversed, the wives pf 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. 
 
 But the children did not want society. To small infantine gaieties 
 they were unaccustomed. They were all in all to each other. I do 
 not suppose that there ever was a family more tenderly bound to 
 each other. Maria read the newspapers, and reported intelligence 
 to her younger sisters which it is wonderful they could take an 
 interest in. But I suspect that they had no " children's books,'' and 
 
42 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 that their eager minds " browzed undisturbed among the wholesome 
 pasturage of EngUsh 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 subject, their fatlier writes : — " The servants often 
 said that they had never seen such a clever little child " (as Char- 
 lotte), " 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 " time 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 sisfer. 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 years ago, one of these former servants went over 
 from Bradford to Haworth on purpose to see Mr. Bronte, and offer 
 him her true sympathy, when his last child died. I may add a little 
 anecdote as a testimony to the admirable character of the likeness of 
 Miss Bronte prefixed to this volume. A gentleman who had kindly 
 interested himself, in the preparation of this Memoir took the first 
 volume, shortly after the publication, to the house of this old servant, 
 in order to show her the portrait. The moment she caught a glimpse 
 of the frontispiece, "There she is,'' in a minute she exclaimed. 
 " Come, John, look ! " (to her husband) ; and her daughter was 
 equally struck by the resemblance. 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, 
 Charlotte and her brother and sisters used to invent and act litfle 
 plays of their own, in which the Duke of Wellington, 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 
 
MR. BRONTE'S ACCOUNT OF HIS CHILDREN. 43 
 
 dead, I had sometimes to come in as arbitrator, and settle the dispute 
 according to the best of my judgment. Generally, in the manage^ 
 meiit 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 circumstance now occurs to toy 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 that they knew more than I had yet 
 discovered, in order to make them speak with less timidity, 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 him.' I asked Branwell what was the best way of 
 knowing the difference between the intellects of man and woman ; 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 for a woman ; she answered, ' That 
 which would make her rule her house well.' Lastly, I asked the 
 oldest what was 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, how- 
 ever, 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 circumstances surrounding the Brontss. 
 They knew no other children. They knew no other modes of thought 
 than what were suggested to them by the fragments of clerical con- 
 versation which they overheard in the parlouf, or the subjects of 
 
44 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 the foreign as well as home 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 HAWORTH. 45 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 About a year after Mrs. Bronte's death, an elder sister, as I have 
 before mentioned, came from Penzance to superintend her brother's 
 household, and look after his children. Miss Branwell 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 distaste 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 entrance. 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 had been her parents' friends before they were hers ; she dis- 
 liked 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 stone quarries are near, and trees are far to 
 seek. I have heard that Miss Branwell always went about the house 
 
46 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 in pattens, clicking up and down the stairs, from her dread of catching 
 cold. For the same r£ason, in the latter years of her life, she passed 
 nearly all her time, and took most of her meals, in her bedroom. 
 The children respected her, and had that sort of affection for her 
 which is generated by esteem ; but I do not think they ever freely 
 loved her. It was a severe trial for anyone at her time of life to- 
 change neighbourhood and habitation so entirely as she did, and the 
 greater her mept. 
 
 I do not know whether Miss Branwell taught her nieces anything 
 besides sewing, and the household arts in which Charlotte afterwards 
 was such an adept. Their regular lessons were said to their father ; 
 and they were always in the habit of picking up an immense amount 
 of miscellaneous information 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 Bridge, a 
 small hamlet on the coach-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 (accord- 
 ing to the entrance lailes given in the report for 1842, and I believe 
 they had not been increased since the establishment of the schools in 
 1823) was as follows : — 
 
 "Rule II. — The terms for lodgmg, clothing, boardmg, and 
 educating are 14/. a year ; half to be paid in advance, when the 
 pupils are sent ; and also i/. entrance-money, for the use of books, 
 &c. The system of education comprehends history, geography, tlie 
 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 3/. a year is made for music or drawing, each." 
 
 Rule 3rd requests that the friends will state the Ime of education 
 desired in the case of every pupil, having a regard to her future 
 prospects. 
 
 Rule 4th states the clothing and toilette articles which a giri 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, therefore, they are required to bring 3/. in lieu of frocks, 
 
COWAN BRIDGE SCHOOL. 47 
 
 pelisse, bonnet, tippet, and frills ; making the wliole sum which each 
 pupil brings with her to the school — 
 
 7/. half-year in advance. 
 I/, entrance for books. 
 ll. entrance' for clothes. 
 
 The 8th rule is, — " All letters and parcels are inspected by the 
 superintendent ; " but this is a very prevalent regulation in all 
 young ladies' schools, where I think it is generally understood that 
 the schoolmistress may exercise this privilege, although it is certainly 
 imwise 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 daughters to Cowan 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 difficulty 
 in treating, because the evidence relating to it on each side is so con- 
 flicting 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 thought the place would 
 have been so immediately identified with Cowan Bridge, although 
 there was not a word in her account of the institution but 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 
 failings, as she might have done, if dispassionately analysing 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 which was made upon the public mind by 
 her vivid picture, though even she, suffering 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 themseh es— her conception of truth for the absolute truth. 
 
 In some of the notices of the pi'evious editions of this "work, it is 
 assumed that I derived the greater part of my information with regard 
 to her sojourn at Cowan Bridge from Charlotte Bronte herself. I 
 never heard her speak of the place but once, and that was on the 
 second day of my acquaintance with her. A little child on that 
 
48 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTM. 
 
 occasion expressed some reluctance to finish eating his piece of 
 bread at dinner ; and she, stooping down, and addressing him in a 
 low voice, told him how thankful she should have been at his age for 
 a piece of bread ; and when we — though I am not sure if I myself 
 spoke — asked her some questions as to the occasion she alluded to, 
 she replied with reserve and hesitation, evidently shying away from 
 what she imagined might lead to too much conversation on one of 
 her books. She spoke of the oat-cake at Cowan Bridge (the clap- 
 bread of Westmorland) as being different to the leaven-raised oat- 
 cake of Yorkshire, and of her childish distaste for it. Some one pre- 
 sent made an allusion to a childish dislike in the true tale of " The 
 terrible knitters o' Dent" given in Southe/s Common-place Book; 
 and she smiled faintly, but said that the mere difference in food was 
 not all : that the food itself was spoilt by the dirty carelessness of the 
 cook, so that she and her sisters disliked their meals exceedingly ; and 
 she named her relief and gladness when the doctor condemned the 
 meat, and spoke of having seen him spit it out. These are all the 
 details I ever heard from her. She so avoided particularising, that I 
 think Mr. Carus Wilson's name never passed between us. 
 
 I do not doubt the general accuracy of my informants — of those 
 who have given, and solemnly repeated, the details that follow — but 
 it is only just to Miss Bronte to say that I have stated above pretty 
 nearly all that I ever heard on the subject from her. 
 
 ■ A 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 accom- 
 plishment of his ends. 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 annually by subscription, to complete the amount 
 required to furnish a solid and sufficient English education, for which 
 the parents' payment of 14/. 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 boarding, and the educa- 
 tion provided for by the subscriptions. 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 
 
COWAN BRIDGE SCHOOL. 49 
 
 lived nearer the school than anyone else who was interested in it. So 
 his character for prudence and judgment was to a certain degree 
 implicated in the success or failure of Cowan Bridge School ; and the 
 working of it was for many years the great object and interest of his 
 life. But he was apparently unacquainted with the prime element 
 in good administration — seeking out thoroughly competent persons 
 to fill each department, and then making them responsible for, 
 and judging them by, the result, without perpetual interference with 
 the details. 
 
 So great was the amount of good which Mr. Wilson did, by his 
 constant, unwearied superintendence, that I cannot help feeling 
 sorry that, in his old age and declining health, the errors which he 
 was believed to have committed, should have been brought up against 
 him in a form which received such wonderful force from the touch 
 of Miss Bronte's great genius. No doubt whatever can be entertained 
 of the deep interest which he felt in the success of the school. As I. 
 write, I have before me his last words on giving up the secretaryship 
 in 1850 : he speaks of the "withdrawal, from decHning 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 instrumentality (the infirmities and 
 unworthinesses of which he deeply feels and deplores)." 
 
 Cowan Bridge is a cluster of some six or seven cottages, 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 manufacturing 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 Bridge had a more prosperous look than it 
 bears at present. It is prettily situated ; just where the Leek fells 
 swoop into the plain ; and by the course of the beck alder-trees and 
 willows and hazel-bushes grow. The current of the stream is 
 intemipted 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, 
 
 E 
 
so LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 vigorous Leek, run long pasture-fields, of the fine short grass common 
 in high land ; for though Cowan 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 th3rme-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 
 dwelling, 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, 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. This original house was an old dwelling of the 
 Picard family, which they had inhabited for two generations. They 
 sold it for school purposes, and an additional building was erected, 
 running at right angles from the older part. This new part was 
 devoted expressly to school-rooms, dormitories, &c. ; and after the 
 school was removed to Casterton, it was used for a bobbin-miU con- 
 nected with tlie stream, where wooden reels were made out of the 
 alders, which grow profusely in such ground as that surrounding 
 Cowan Bridge. This mill is now destroyed. The present cottage 
 was, at the time of which I write, oceupied by the • teachers' rooms, 
 the dining-room and kitchens, and some smaller bedrooms. 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 
 1 years ago ; the windows do not open freely and widely ; and the 
 passage upstairs, leading to the bedrooms, is narrow and tortuous: 
 altogether, smells would linger about the house, and damp cling to it. 
 But sanitary matters were Mttle understood thirty years ago ; and it 
 was a great 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 
 
COWAN BRIDGE SCHOOL. 51 
 
 educational scheme. There was much need of such an institution ; 
 numbers 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 realisation of his 
 idea was anticipated, and opened the school with less than a hundred 
 pounds in hand, and with pupils, the number of whom varies 
 according to different accounts ; Mr. W. W. Cams Wilson, the son of 
 the founder, giving it as seventy ; while Mr. Shepheard, the son-in- 
 law, states it to have been only sixteen. 
 
 Mr. 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 subscriptions did not iiow very 
 freely into an untried scheme ; and great economy was necessary in 
 all the domestic arrangements. He determined to enforce this b)f 
 frequent personal inspection ; carried perhaps to an unnecessary 
 extent, and leading occasionally to a meddling with little matters, 
 which had sometimes the effect of producing irritation of 
 feeling. Yet, although there was economy in providing for the 
 household, there does not appear to have been any parsimony. 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 unwholesome ; nor, on the whole, was it 
 wanting in variety. Oatmeal 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 Con- 
 fidence, and against whom for a long time no one durst utter a com- 
 plaint, was careless, dirty, and wasteful. To some .^ihildren oatmeal 
 porridge is distasteful, and consequently unwholesome, even when 
 properly made; at Cowan Bridge School it was too often sent up, not 
 merely burnt, but with offensive fragments of other substances dis- 
 coverable in it. The beef, that should have been carefully salted 
 
52 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 pre- 
 pared. There was the same carelessness 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 impregnated 
 with the dust lodging on the roof, whence it had 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 coun- 
 try 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 Saturdays, a 
 ' kind of pie, or mixture of potatoes and meat, was served 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 appe- 
 tising ; and, I believe, that this dinner was more loathed than any in 
 the early days of Cowan Bridge School. One may fancy how repul- 
 sive 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 tempting and wholesome. 
 At many a meal the little Brontes went without food, although crav- 
 ing with hunger. They were not strong when they came, having only 
 just recovered from a complication of measles and whooping-cough : 
 indeed, I suspect they had scarcely recovered; for there was some 
 consultation 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 teachers were brought together for an en- 
 tirely different work — that of education. They were expressly given 
 to understand that such was their department ; the buying in and 
 management of the provisions rested with Mr. Wilson and the cook. 
 
CO IVAN BRIDGE SCHOOL. 53 
 
 The teachers would, of course, be unwilling to lay any complaints on 
 the subject before him. 
 
 There was another trial of health common to all the girls. The 
 path from Cowan Bridge to Tunstall Church, where Mr. Wilson 
 preached, and where they all attended on the Sunday, is more than 
 two miles in length, and goes sweeping along the rise and fall of the 
 unsheltered country, in a way to make it a fresh and exhilarating walk in 
 summer, but a bitter cold one in winter, especially to children like the 
 delicate little Brontes, whose thin blood flowed languidly in conse- 
 quence of their feeble appetites rejecting the food prepared for them, 
 and thus inducing a 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 mist 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 chamber over the 
 entrance, opening out of the former galleries. The arrangements for 
 this day were peculiarly trying to delicate children, particularly to 
 those who were spiritless and longing for home, as poor Maria Bronte 
 must have been ; for her ill health was increasing, and the old cough, 
 the remains of the whooping-cough, lingered about her. 
 
 She was far superior in mind to any of her play-fellows and com- 
 panions, 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 Scatcherd" m Jane Eyre, and whose real name I 
 will be merciftil enough not to disclose. I need hardly say, that 
 Helen Burns is as exact a transcript of Maria Bronte as Charlotte's 
 wonderful power of reproducing character could give. Her heart, to 
 the latest day on which 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 scenes between the pupil and 
 the teacher. Those who had been pupils at the same time knew who 
 must have written the book from the force with which Helen Burns' 
 sufferings are described. They had, before that, recognised the de- 
 scription of the sweet dignity and benevolence of Miss Temple as 
 only a just tribute to the merits of one whom all that knew her ap- 
 pear to hold in honour; but when Miss Scatcherd was held up to 
 
S4 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE 'BRONTE. 
 
 opprobrium they also recognised in the writer oijane Eyre an uncon- 
 sciously avenging sister of the sufferer. 
 
 . One of their fellow-pupils, among other statements even worse, 
 gives me the following : — The dormitory in which Maria slept was a 
 long room, holding a row of narrow Httle beds on each side, occupied 
 by the pupils j and at the end of this dormitory there was a small 
 bed-chamber opening out of it, appropriated to the use of Miss 
 Scatcherd. Maria's bed stood nearest to the door of this room. One 
 morning, after she had become so seriously unwell as to have had a 
 blister apphed to her side (the sore from which was not perfectly 
 healed), when the 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 girls 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 interfere ; 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 in- 
 fonnant spoke as if she saw it yet, and her whole face flushed out 
 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 vigorous 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 slow, trembling movements, widi many a pause, she went 
 down-stairs at last, — and was punished for being late. 
 
 Any one may fancy how such an event as 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 Bridge, 
 after Maria's and Elizabeth's deaths. But frequently children are un- 
 conscious of the effect which some of their simple revelations would 
 have in altering the opinions entertained by their friends of the per- 
 sons placed around them. Besides, Charlotte's earnest, vigorous mind 
 saw, at ai) unusually early age, the immense importance of education, 
 as furnishing her with tools which she had the strength and tliewill 
 to wield, and she would be aware that the Cowan Bridge edu- 
 
COWAN BRIDGE SCHOOL. 55 
 
 cation 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. He went to a kind 
 motherly woman, who had had some connection with the school — as 
 laundress, I believe — and asked her to come and tell him what was 
 the matter with them. She made herself ready, and drove with him 
 in his gig. When she entered the school-room, she sa;w from twelve 
 to fifteen girls lying about; some resting their aching heads on the 
 table, others on the ground; all heavy-eyed, flushed, indifferent, 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 con-, 
 veying the infection to her own children; but he half commanded, 
 and half entreated her to remain and nurse them; and finally mounted 
 his gig and drove away, while she was still urging that she must re- 
 turn to, her own house, and to her domestic duties, for which she 
 had provided no substitute. However, when she was left in this un- 
 ceremonious 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 everything ordered by the doctors, of the 
 best quality and in the most liberal manner ; the invalids were at- 
 tended by Dr. Batty, a very clever surgeon in Kirby, who had had 
 the medical superintendence of the establishment from the beginning, 
 and who afterwards became Mr. Wilson's brother-in-law. I have 
 heard from two witnesses besides Charlotte Bronte, that Dr. Batty 
 condemned the preparation of the foOd by the expressive action of 
 spitting out a portion of it. He himself, it is but fair to say, does 
 not remember this circumstance, nor does he speak of the fever itself 
 as either alarming or dangerous. About forty of the girls suffered 
 from this, but none of them died at Cowan Bridge; though one die4 
 at her own home, sinking under the state of health which followed it. 
 None of the Brontes had the fever. But the same causes, which af- 
 fected 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. 
 
S6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 The bad management of the cook was chiefly to be blamed for 
 this; she was dismissed, and the woman who had been forced against 
 her will to serve as head nurse, took the 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 comprising domestic and educational arrangements 
 for nearly a hundred persons, should work quite smoothly at the be- 
 ginning. 
 
 All this occurred during the first two years of the establishment, 
 and in estimating its effect upon the character of Charlotte Bronte, 
 we must remember that she was a sensitive, thoughtful child, capable 
 of reflecting deeply, if not of analysing truly; and peculiarly suscep- 
 tible, as are all delicate and sickly children, to painful impressions. 
 What the healthy suffer from but momentarily and then forget, those 
 who are ailing brood over involuntarily and remember long, — per- 
 haps with no resentment, but simply as a piece of suffering that has 
 been stamped into their very life. The pictures, ideas, and concep- 
 tions 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 cen- 
 tury afterwards. She saw but one side of Mr. Wilson's character ; 
 and many of those who knew him at that time assure me of the fidelity 
 with which this is represented, while at the same time they regret 
 that the delineation should have obliterated, as it were, nearly all 
 that was noble or conscientious. And that there were grand and fine 
 qualities in Mr. Wilson, I have received abundant evidence. Indeed 
 for several weeks past I have received letters aftnost daily, bearing 
 on the subject of this chapter ; some vague, some definite; many full 
 of love and admiration for Mr. Wilson, some as full of dislike and in- 
 dignation; few containing positive facts. After giving careful con- 
 sideration to this mass of conflicting evidence, I have made such 
 alterations and omissions in this chapter as seem to me to bg required. 
 It is but just to state that the major part of the testimony with which 
 I have been favoured from old pupils is in high praise of Mr. Wilson. 
 Among the letters that I have read, there is one whose evidence 
 ought to be highly respected. It is from the husband of " Miss Tem- 
 ple.'' She died in 1856, but he, a clergyman, thus wrote in reply to 
 a letter addressed to him on the subject by one of Mr. Wilson's 
 friends : — " Often have I heard my late dear wife speak of her 
 
THE BRONTE SISTERS. 57 
 
 sojourn at Cowan Bridge; always in terms of admiration of Mr. Cams 
 Wilson, his parental love to his pupils, and their love for him; of the 
 food and general treatment, in terms of approval. I have heard her 
 allude to an unfortunate cook, who used at times to spoil the por- 
 ridge, but who, she said, was soon dismissed." 
 
 The recollections left of the four Bronte sisters at this period of 
 their lives, on the minds of those who associfited with them, are not 
 very distinct. Wild, strong hearts, and powerful minds were hidden 
 under an enforced propriety and regularity of demeanour and expres- 
 sion, 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 al- 
 ready spoken. The only glimpse we get of Elizabeth, through the 
 few years of her short life, is contained in a letter which I have re- 
 ceived from " Miss Temple." " The second, Elizabeth, is the only 
 one of the family of whom I have a vivid recollection, from her meet- 
 ing with a somewhat alarming accident, in consequence of which I 
 had her for some days and nights in my bedroom, not only for the 
 sake of greater quiet, but that I might watch over her myselft 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 recollec- 
 tions, save that one, a darling child, under five years of age, was 
 quite the pet nursling of the school." This last would be Emily. 
 Charlotte was considered the most talkative (if the sisters — a "bright, 
 clever little child." Her great friend was a certain " Mellany Hane" 
 (so Mr. Bronte spells the name), whose brother paid for her school-' 
 ing, 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 encroachments on the part 
 of the elder gfrls. Charlotte always remembered her with affection 
 and gratitude. 
 
 I have quoted the word " bright" in the account of Charlotte. I 
 suspect that this year of 1825 was the last time it could ever be ap- 
 plied to her. In the spring of it, Maria became so rapidly worse 
 that Mr. Bronte was sent for. He had not previously been aware of 
 
S8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 her illness, and the condition in which he found her was a terrible 
 shock to him. He took her Jiome by the Leeds coach, the girls 
 crowding out into the road to follow her with their eyes oyer 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 faUing 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 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 mother- 
 less 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 Midsum- 
 mer holidays in this fatal year. But before the next winter it was 
 thought desirable to advise their removal, as it was evident that the 
 damp situation of the house at Cowan Bridge did not suit their 
 health. • 
 
 ' With regard to my own opinion of the present school, I can only give it as 
 formed after what was merely a cursory and superficial inspection, as I do not 
 believe that I was in the house above half an hour; but it was and is this, — ^that 
 the house at Casterton seemed thoroughly healthy and well-kept, and is situated 
 in a lovely spot; that the pupils looked bright, happy, and well, and that the lady 
 superintendent was a most prepossessing-looking person, who, on my makii^ 
 some inquiry as to the accomplishments taught to the pupils, said that the scheme 
 of education was materially changed since the school had been opened. I would 
 have inserted this testimony in the first edition, had I believed that any weight 
 could be attached to an opinion formed on such slight and superficial grounds. 
 
THE OLD SERVANT TABBY. 
 
 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 
 servant at the parsonage. She remained there, as a member of the 
 household, for thirty years; and from the length 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 appcMance, 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 
 that 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 whoever might be in 
 or about the house. To obviate this publication of what it might be 
 desirable to keep secret, Miss 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 high, 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 adorn- 
 ment, carrying the produce of the country from Keighley over the 
 hills to Colne and Burnley. Wliat 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 
 
6o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 tragedies, and dark superstitious dooms ; and in telling these 
 things, without the least consciousness that there might ever be any- 
 thing requiring to be softened down, would give at full length the 
 bare and simple details. 
 
 Miss Branwell instructed the childrea 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 opinions of his strong and indepen- 
 dent 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 painfiilly the tender re- 
 sponsibility which rested upon her with reference to her remaining 
 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 her years, made her feel considerably older than 
 she really was. 
 
 Patrick Branwell, their only brother, was a boy of remarkable - 
 promise, and, in some ways, of extraordinary precocity of talent. 
 Mr. Bronte's friends advised him to send his son to school ; but, re- 
 membering both the strength of will of his own youth and his mode 
 of employing it, he believed 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 parochial 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 intellectual nature. I have 
 had a curious packet confided to me, containing an immense amount 
 of manuscript, in an inconceivably small space : tales, dramas, poems, 
 
FAC SIMILE OF A PAGE OF M S 
 
 O H^TTTBII tV.-B. -1ST 
 
 AJ<jJ- *A>m.. haa •U»im|'''» *- ■»».-.< •«■««. * ta*^Ai f.»a.»«t k.»«™ »»• >^»«- 
 
 J*^,5^.-? •;*?':.? ?*?--v '^i •»—«» ,tr "■v.iv^»il..;i>^ „iii5-,«.T"* --**.•»«! — ,•■ -i* 
 t^iWf '•■^■^^ .» c-<;<^«ia;v v.. „>tj kiu.su,^ v-T'T-"''*-^ * *"' —=-»••• r-i?"' '•trVS 
 
 r*^**. =*Tir- 
 
 
 «WJfiV..Tj't;r,3^viV3r.:a.V«J-';^': 
 
JUVENILE WORKS IN MANUSCRIPT. 6i 
 
 romances, written principally by Charlotte, in a hand which it is almost 
 impossible to decipher without the aid of a magnifying glass. No 
 description 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 composition had 
 seized upon her : — 
 
 Catalogite of my Books, with the period of their completion, 
 up to August 2,fd, 1830. 
 
 Two romantic tales, in one volume ; viz., The Twelve Adven- 
 turers and the Adventures in Ireland, April 2nd, 1829. 
 
 The Search after Happiness, a Tale, Aug. ist, 1829. 
 
 Leisure Hours, a Tale, and two Fragments, July 6th, 1829. 
 
 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 eminen. 
 Persons of the Age, a Tale, June loth, 1830. 
 
 Tales of the Islanders, in four volumes. Contents of the ist 
 Vol. : — I. An Account of their Origin ; 2. A Description of Vision- 
 Island ; 3. Ratten's Attempt ; 4. Lord Charles Wellesley and the 
 Marquis,ofDouro's Adventure ; completed June 3rst, 1829. 2nd Vol.: 
 — I. The School-rebellion ; 2. The strange Incident in the 
 Duke of Wellington's Life ; 3. Tale to his Sons ; 4. The Marquis 
 of Douro and Lord Charles Wellesley's Tale to his little King and 
 Queen ; completed Dec. 2nd, 1829. 3rd Vol. : — i. 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 ; com- 
 pleted May 8th, 1830. 4th Vol. : — r. The three old Washerivomen 
 of Strathfieldsaye ; 2. Lord C. Wellesley's Tale to his Brother ; com- 
 pleted 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 month's double number, completed December 
 the i2th, 1829. General Index to their contents : — i. 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; 
 
62 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 10. The Table and Vase in the Desert, a Song ; ii. 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 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 
 Genii in Council ; 22. Harvest in Spain; 23. The Swiss Artists con- 
 tinued ; 24. Conversations. 
 
 The Poetaster, a Drama, in 2 volumes, July 12th, 1830. 
 
 A Book of Rhymes, finished December 17th, 1829. Contents : — 
 I. The Beauty of Nature ; 2. A Short Poem ; 3. Meditations while 
 Journeying in a Canadian Forest ; 4. A Song of an Exile ; 5. On 
 seeing the Ruins 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. Contents: — 
 I. The Churchyard ; 2. Description of the Duke of Wellington's Pa- 
 lace 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, ist. The Vision ; 2nd, A Short untitled Poem; the 
 Evening Walk, a Poem, June 23rd, 1830. 
 
 Making in the whole twenty-two volumes. 
 
 C. Bronte, August 3, 1830. 
 
 As each volume contains from sixty to a hundred pages, and the 
 size of the page lithographed is ratlierless than the average, the amount 
 of the whole seems very great, if we remember that it was all written 
 in about fifteenth 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 revealing 
 something of the quiet domestic life led by these children, I take an 
 extract from the introduction to " Tales of the Islanders," the tide 
 of one of their " Little Magazines :" — • 
 
 "June the 31st, 1829. 
 " The play of the ' Islanders' was formed in December, T827, 
 in the following manner. One night, about the time when the cold 
 sleet and stormy fogs of November are succeeded by the snow-storms, 
 
A WINTER EVENING CONVERSATION. 63 
 
 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 Branwell saying, 
 in a lazy manner, 'I don't know what to do.' This was echoed 
 by Emily and Anne. 
 ■ "Ta^^j'.— 'Wha, yamay go t'bed.' 
 
 " Branwell. — ' I'd rather do anything than that.' 
 
 " Charlotte. — ' Why are you so glum to-night, Tabby ? Oh ! sup- 
 pose 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 shall be Guernsey.' 
 
 " We then chose who should be chief men in our islands. Bran- 
 well chose John Bull, Astley Cooper, and Leigh Hunt ; Emily, 
 Walter Scott, Mr. Lockhart, Johnny Lbckhart ; Anne, Michael Sad- 
 ler, Lord Bentinck, Sir Henry Halford. I chose the Duke of 
 Wellington and two sons, Christopher North and Co., and Mr. Aber- 
 nethy. Here our conversation was interrupted 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 wotth 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 Island was fifty miles 
 in circumference, and certainly appeared more like the work of 
 enchantment than anything real," &c. 
 
 Two or three things strike me much in this fragment : one is the 
 graphic yividness 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 the desolate snow-covered moors, commg 
 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 expanse — is contrasted with the glow, and busy brightness of 
 the cheerful kitdhen where these remarkable children are grouped. 
 
64 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Tabby moves about in her quaint country-dress, frugal, peremptory, 
 prone to find fault pretty sharply, yet allowing no one else to blame 
 her children, we may feel sure. Another noticeable fact is the intelli- 
 gent partisanship with which they choose their great men, who are 
 almost all staunch Tories of the time. Moreover, they do not con- 
 fine themselves to local heroes ; their range of choice has been 
 widened by hearing much of what is not usually considered to inter- 
 est 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 hand- 
 writing, written about this time, and which gives some idea of the 
 sources of their opinions : — 
 
 " The History of the Year 1289. 
 
 " Once Papa lent my sister Maria a book. It was an old geo- 
 graphy-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. AVhile I write this I am in the kitchen of the 
 Parsonage, Haworth ; Tabby, the servant, is washing up the breakfast 
 things, and Anne, my youngest sister (Maria was my eldest), is kneel- 
 ing on a chair, looking at some cakes which Tabby has been baking for 
 us. Emily is in the parlour, brushing the carpet. Papa and Bran- 
 well are gone to Keighley. Aunt is upstairs in her room, and I am 
 sitting by the table writing this in the kitchen. Keighley is a small 
 town four miles from here. Papa and Branwell are gdhe 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 Yiktv^\st Blackwood's Magazine, the most able periodical there 
 is. The editor is Mr. Christopher North, an old man seventy-four 
 years of age ; the ist of April is his birth-day ; his company are 
 Timothy Tickler, Morgan O'Doherty, Macrabin Mordecai, MuUion, 
 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. 
 
HER "HISTORY OF THE YEAR 1829." 65 
 
 These are our three great plays, that are not kept secret. Emily's 
 and my best plays were established the ist 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 '^sop'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 bought Branwell some wooden soldiers at Leeds ; when Papa 
 came home it was night, and we were in bed, so next 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 up one 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- 
 lopking fellow, and we called him ' Gravey.' Anne's was a queer 
 little thing, much like herself, and we called him 'Waiting Boy.' 
 Branwell chose his, and called him ' Buonaparte.' " 
 
 The foregoing extract shows something of the kind of reading in 
 which the little Brontes were interested ; but their desire for know- 
 ledge must have been excited in many directions, for I find a " list of 
 painters whose works I wish to see," drawn up by Charlotte when she 
 was scarcely thirteen : — 
 
 " Guido Reni, Julio Romano, Titian, Raphael, Michael Angelo, 
 Correggio, Annibal Caracci, 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 misters, whose works she longs to see some time, in the 
 dim future that lies before her ! There is a paper remaining which 
 contains minute studies of, and criticisms upon, the engravings in 
 " Friendship's Offering for 1829 ;" showing how she had early formed 
 those habits of close observation, and patient analysis of cause and 
 effect which served so well in after-life as handmaids to her genius. 
 
 F 
 
66 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 The way in which Mr. Bronte made his children sympathise with 
 him in his great interest in politics, must have done much to lift them 
 above the chances of their minds being limited or tainted by petty 
 local gossip. I take the only other remaining personal fragment out 
 of " Tales of the Islanders ;" it is a sort of apology, contained in the 
 introduction to the second volume, for their not having been con- 
 tinued before ; the writers had been for a long time too busy, and 
 latterly too much absorbed in politics. 
 
 "Parliament was opened, and the great Cathojic question was 
 brought forward, and the Duke's measures were disclosed, and all 
 was slander, violence, party-spirit, and confusion. 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 Wellington, and Mr. Peel. I remember the day 
 when the Intelligence Extraordinary came with Mr. Peel's speech in 
 it, containing the terms on which the .Catholics were to be let in ! 
 AVith 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 explained, 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 security ! 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 we 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 say- 
 ing that his words were like precious gold ; and lastly, the majority 
 of one to four (sic) in favour of the Bill. But this is a digression," 
 &c. &c. 
 
 This must have been written when she was between thirteen and 
 fourteen. 
 
 It will be interesting to some of my readers to know what 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 language ahke run riot, sometimes to the very 
 
FIRST IMAGINATIVE WRITING. 67 
 
 borders of apparent 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 assertions, 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 pestilential vapours of which shall slay all living 
 creatures, except the bloodthirsty beast of the forest, and the raven- 
 ous bird of the rock ; but that in the midst of this desolation the palace 
 of the Chief Genii 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 haste to subscribe myself, &c. 
 
 "July 14, 1829." 
 
 It is not unlikely that the foregoing letter may have had some 
 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 of 
 Douro, or Lord Charles Wellesley, came ready to her hand. There 
 is hardly one of her prose writings at this time in which they are not 
 the principal personages, and in which their " august father " does 
 not appear as a sort of Jupiter Tonans, or Deus ex Machinl 
 
 As one evidence how Wellesley haunted her imagination, I copy 
 'DUt a few of the titles to her papers in the various magazines. 
 "Liffey Castle, a Tale by Lord C. Wellesley." 
 " Lines to the River Aragua, by the Marquis of Douro." 
 "An Extraordinary Dream, by Lord C. Wellesley." 
 
68 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " 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, presents, 
 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 one of these aside, before it has 
 assumed a vague and mysterious importance. 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 strongly in Charlotte's 
 writings at this time. Indeed, under the circumstances, it is no 
 peculiarity. It has been common to all, from the Chaldean shep- 
 herds — "the lonely herdsman stretched on the soft grass through 
 half a summer's day "—the solitary monk — to all whose impressions 
 from without have had time to grow and vivify in the imagmation, 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 strong 
 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 quantity, to gain certain ideas ■ 
 she had, besides, to brush rooms, to run errands up and down stairs, 
 to help in the simpler forms of cooking, to be by turns play-fellow 
 and mohitress to her younger sisters and brother, to maie and to 
 mend, and to study economy under her carefiil aunt. Thus we see 
 that, while her imagination received vivid 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'clock p.m. 
 " Haworth, near Bradford. 
 "The following strange occurrence happened on the 22nd of 
 June, 1830 :— At the time Papa was very ill, confined to his bed, and 
 so weak that he could not rise without assistance. Tabby and I 
 
HER POETICAL TAJ^ENT. 69 
 
 were alone in the kitchen, about half-past nine *ante-meridian. Sud- 
 denly 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 ? ' 
 
 " Tabby.—'' Yes.' 
 
 " Old Man. — ' I wish to see him.' 
 
 " Tabby. — ' He is poorly in bed.' 
 
 " Old Man. — ' I have a message for him.' 
 
 "ra%.—' Who from?' 
 
 " Old Man.— 'Vrom the Lord.' 
 
 "Tabby.—' Who V 
 
 " Old Man. — ' The Lord. He desires me to say that the Bride- 
 groom is coming, 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 perhaps, but utterly ignorant of true piety ; yet I could 
 not forbear weeping at his words, spoken so unexpectedly at that 
 particular period." 
 
 Though the date of the following poem is a little uncertain, 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 diminutive writings of this time ; at least, 
 in all of them which I have been able to read : — 
 
 THE WOUNDED STAG. 
 
 Passing amid tlie deepest shade , 
 
 Of the wood's sombre heart, 
 'Last night I saw a wounded deer 
 
 Laid lonely and apart. 
 
 Such light as pierced the crowded boughs 
 
 (Light scattered, scant, and dim,) 
 Passed through the fern that formed his couch 
 
 And centred full on him. 
 
70 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Pain trembled in his weaiy limbs, 
 
 Pain filled his 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 ! 
 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 Griefs sharp sting 
 
 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 
 Around the bed of state and gloom. 
 Where Adam's oSspring dies ! 
 
PERSONAL DESCRIPTION OF MISS BRONTE. 71 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 This is perhaps a fitting time to give some personal description of 
 Miss Bronte. In 1831, she was a quiet, thoughtfiil 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 deformity could properly be applied to her ; 
 with soft, thifck 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 expression was of quiet, listening 
 intelligence ; but now and then, on some just occasion for vivid 
 interest or wholesome indignation, a light would shine out, as if some 
 spiritual lamp had been kindled, which glowed behind those expres- 
 sive 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 \yas 
 placed in mine, it was like the soft touch of a bird in the middle of 
 my 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. 
 
72 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 when 
 she found herself in the position 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, her aunt, on whom the duty of dressing her 
 nieces principally devolved, had never .been in society since she left 
 Penzance, eight or nine years before, and the Penzance fashions of 
 that day were still de^r to her heart. 
 
 In January, 183 1, Charlotte was sent to school again. This time 
 
 she went as a pupil to Miss W , 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. Three tiers of_old-fashioned 
 semicircular bow windows run from basement to roof ; and look down 
 upon a long green slope of pasture-land, ending in the pleasant woods 
 of Kirldees, 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 they enjoyed a different climate. The soft 
 curving and heaving landscape round the former gives a stranger the 
 idea of cheerful airiness' on the heights, and of sunny. warmth in the 
 broad green valleys below. It is just such a neighbourhood as the 
 monks loved, and traces of the old Plantagenet times are to be met 
 with ever)rwhere, side by side with the manufacturing interests of the 
 West Riding of to-day. There is 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 depth 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 pictured sign to correspond. And this quaint old inn is fre- 
 quented by fustian-dressed mill-hands from the neighbouring worsted 
 factories, which strew the high-road from Leeds to Huddersfield, and 
 form the centres round which future villages gather. Such are the 
 
NEIGHBOURHOOD OF ROE HEAD. 73 
 
 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, strange contact as in the district in which Roe Head is situated. 
 
 Within six miles of Miss W '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 is 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 Birstall and 
 Batley woollen-mills would formerly repair on Palm Sunday, when the 
 waters possess remarkable medicinal efficacy ; and it is still believed 
 by some that they assume a strange variety of colours at six o'clock 
 on the morning of that day. 
 
 All round the lands held by the farmer who lives in the remains 
 of Howley Hall are stone houses of to-day, ocQupied 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 stone carvings of coats of arms for heraldic 
 ornament ; belonging 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 ancient "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 different state of things, remember that their fore- 
 fathers lived in, agricultural dependence upon the owners of these 
 halls ; and treasure up the traditions connected with the stately 
 households that existed centuries ago. Take Oakwell Hall, for 
 instance. It stands in a 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 at 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-paths bordering the high-road. Turning off from this 
 to the right, you ascend through an old pasture-field, and enter a 
 
74 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 field in which Oakwell 
 Hall is situated. It is known in the neighbourhood to be the place 
 described as "Field-head," Shirley's residence. 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 love to coo and stmt in the sun, — are described in 
 Shirley. The scenery of that fiction lies close around ; the real events 
 which suggested it took place in the immediate neighbourhood. 
 
 They show a bloody footprint in a bedchamber of OakweU 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 room, where he vanished. He had been killed in a duel in 
 London that very same afternoon of December 9th, 1684. 
 
 The stones of the Hall formed part of the more ancient vicarage, 
 which an ancestor of Captain Batt's had seized in the troublous times 
 for property which succeeded the Reformation. This Henry Batt 
 possessed himself of houses and money without scruple ; and, at last, 
 stole the great bell of Birstall Church, for which sacrilegious theft a 
 fine was imposed on the land, and has to be paid by the owner of 
 the Hall to this day. 
 
 But the Oakwell property passed out of the hands of the Batts at 
 the beginning of the last century ; collateral descendants succeeded, 
 and left this picturesque 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 ist of September, 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 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 
 
SCHOOL AT ROE HEAD. 75 
 
 1855. Passing on from Oakwell there lie houses right and left, which 
 were well known to Miss Bronte when she lived at Roe Head, as the 
 hospitable homes of some of her schoolfellows. Lanes branch off 
 for three or four miles 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 schoolroom. The dining-room was on one side of the 4oor, 
 and faced the road. 
 
 The number of pupils, during the year and a half Miss Bronte was 
 there, ranged from seven to ten ; and as they did not require the 
 whole of the house for their accommodation, the third story was un- 
 occupied, 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 W , and the small number 
 
 of the girls, made the estabHshment more like a private family than a 
 school. Moreover, she was a native of the district immediately 
 surrounding Roe 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 oi Shirley) lived still nearer ; two 
 or three came fi-om 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 Charlotte Bronte's. 
 The time referred to is her first appearance 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 W 's. When she appeared in the schoolroom, her 
 
 dress was changed, but just as old. 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 
 
76 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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-hfe. Another of 
 the girls recalls her first sight of Charlotte, on the day she came, 
 standing by the schoolroom window, looking out on the snowy land- 
 scape, and crjdng, 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-demonstra- 
 tive kindness would have scared the wild little maiden firom Haworth ; 
 but " E." (who is shadowed forth in the Caroline Helstone of Shirley) 
 managed to win confidence, 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 
 
 school-fellows. But Miss W was a lady of remarkable intelligence 
 
 and of deUcate, tender sympathy. She gave a proof of this in her 
 first treatment of Charlotte. The little girl was well read, but not 
 
 well grounded. Miss W 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 the knowledge of 
 grammar, &c. ; but poor Charlotte received this announcement with 
 
 so sad a fit of crying, that Miss W 's kind heart 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. 
 
IMPRESSIONS OF A SCHOOL-FELLOW. 77 
 
 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 once 
 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 foimd 
 that she could not see the ball, so we put her out. She took all our . 
 proceedings with pliable indifference, and always seemed to need a 
 previous resolution to say ' No ' to anything. She used to go and 
 •stand under the trees in the 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 
 Bridge she used to stand in the burn, on a stone, to watch the water 
 flow by. 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 impertinent. 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. Whenever 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 
 exceedingly 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 — I must mention that the writer of this letter, dated 
 January i8th, 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 fiirious politicians, as one could hardly 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. 
 
78 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 She worshipped the Duke of Wellington, but said that Sir Robert 
 Peel was not to be trusted ; he did not act from principle like the rest, 
 but 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 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 pohtics ; but the extreme pleasure I felt at 
 the news of the Reform Bill's being thrown out by the House of 
 Lords, and of the expulsion, or resignation, of Earl Grey, &&, con- 
 vinced me that I have not as yet lost all my penchant for politics. I 
 am extremely glad that aunt has consented to take in Fraser'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 remaining 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 climate 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 ased to believe them to have been 
 wonders of talent and kindness. She told 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 EKzabeth. 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. 
 
HER SCHOOL-DAYS AT ROE HEAD. 79 
 
 " 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 ' histories, and invent characters 
 and events. I told her sometimes they were like growing potatoes in 
 a cellar. She said, sadly, ' Yes ! I know we are ! ' 
 
 " Some one at school said she ' was always talking about clever 
 people : Johnson, Sheridan, &c.' She said, ' Now you don't know the, 
 meaning of clever; Sheridan might be clever ; yes, Sheridan was 
 clever, — scamps often are ; but Johnson hadn't a: spark of cleverality 
 in him.' No one appreciated the opinion ; they made some trivial 
 remark about ' cleverality^ and she said no more. 
 
 " This is the epitome of her life. At our house she had just as 
 little chance of a patient hearing, for though not school-girlish, , we 
 were more intolerant. We had a rage for practicality, and laughed 
 all poetry to scorn. Neither she nor we had any idea but that our 
 opinions were the opinions of all the sensible people in the world, and 
 we used to astonish each other at every sentence. . . . Charlotte, 
 at school, had no plan of life beyond what circumstances made for 
 her. She knew that she must provide for herself, and chose her trade ; 
 at least chose to begin it at once. Her idea of self-improvement ruled 
 her even at school. It was to cultivate her tastes. She always said 
 there was enough of hard practicality and useful knowledge forced on 
 us by necessity, and that the thing most needed was to soften and 
 refine our minds. She picked up every scrap of information concern- 
 ing painting, sculpture, poetry, music, &c., as if it were gold." 
 
 What I have heard ofher school-days from other sources, confirms 
 the accuracy of tlie details in this remarkable letter. She was an 
 indefatigable student : constantly reading and learning ; with a strong 
 conviction of the necessity and value of education, very imusual 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 effect was such 
 
8o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 that she was led to scream out aloud, and Miss W , coining 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 indefatigable craving for knowledge tempted Miss W on 
 
 into setting her longer and longer tasks of reading for examination ; 
 and towards the end of the year and a half 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 W was sorry, 
 
 and regretted that she had set Charlotte so long a task. 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 was unjust — for who had tried to do 
 her duty like her? — and testified their feeling in a variety of ways, 
 
 until Miss W , 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 
 wa,y during the week or two that remained of- the half-year, choosing 
 
 to consider that Miss W , in giving Charlotte Bronte so long a 
 
 task, had forfeited her claim to obedience 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 ^^me 
 
 to Miss W to say them. She had a remarkable knack of making 
 
 them feel interested 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 compulsory pressure of school was taken away. 
 They had been taught to think, to analyse, to reject, to appreciate. 
 Charlotte Bronte was happy in the 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. They 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, 
 
HER SCHOOL DAYS AT ROE HEAD. 8i 
 
 about which so much had to be told, both of its past and present 
 history. 
 
 Miss W must have had in great perfection the French art, 
 
 "conter," to judge from her pupil's recollections of the tales she 
 related during these long walks, of this old house, or that new mUl, 
 and of the states of society consequent on the changes involved by 
 the suggestive dates of either building. She remembered the times 
 when watchers or 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 Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Nottingham- 
 shire, should make their voice heard in a terrible slogan, since their 
 true and pitiful complaints could find no hearing in Parliament. We 
 forget, now-a-days, so rapid have been the changes for the better, how 
 cruel was the condition of numbers of labourers 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 has become 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 W spoke of those 
 
 times; of the mysterious nightly drillings; of thousands on lonely 
 moors; of the muttered threats of individuals too 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 Rawfolds, 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 i8iz, when many other circum- . 
 stances conspired to make the condition of the mill-hands unbearable- 
 from the pressure of starvation and misery. Mr. Cartwright was a 
 very remarkable 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 
 
 G 
 
82 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 a suspicious circumstance to the bigoted nationality of those days. 
 Altogether he was an unpopular man, even before he took the last 
 step of employing shears, instead of hands, to dress his wool. He 
 was quite aware of his unpopularity, and of the probable consequences. 
 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 the impede the ascent of the rioters, if they succeeded in 
 forcing the doors. 
 
 On the night of Saturday the nth of April, 1812, the assault was 
 made. Some hundreds of starving cloth-dressers assembled in the 
 very field near Kirklees that sloped down from the house which Miss 
 
 W 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 such 
 inhabitants of lonely houses as had provided themselves with these 
 means of self-defence. The silent sullen multitude 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 o,wn 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 multitude 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 attempting to 
 go up his own staircase. His dwelling was near the factory. Some 
 of die rioters vowed that, if he did not give in, they would leave this, 
 and go to his house, and murder his wife and children. This was a 
 terrible threat, for he had been obliged to leave his famUy with only 
 one or two soldiers to defend them. Mrs. Cartwright knew what 
 they had tlireatened ; and on that dreadful night, hearing, as she 
 thought, steps approaching, she snatched up her two infant children, 
 and put them in a basket up the great chimney, common in old- 
 
MR. CARTWRIGHT AND THE LUDDITES. 83 
 
 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 offered 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-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 Rawfolds, 
 another manufacturer who employed the obnoxious machinery was 
 shot down in broad dayhght, as he was passing over Crossland Moor, 
 which was skirted by a small plantation 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 remembered 
 fiill well those terrible times of insecurity to life and property on the 
 one hand, and of bitter starvation and blind ignorant despair on the 
 other. 
 
 Mr. Bronte himself had been living amongst these very people in 
 18 r 2, 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 surrounding magistrates, who, in their dread of the Luddites, 
 refiised 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 pubhc 
 mind. He lived near Heckmondwike, a large, straggling, dirty 
 village, not two miles from Roe Head. It was principally inhabited 
 by blanket-weavers, who worked in their own cottages ; and Heald's 
 Hall is the largest house in the 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 for his opinions, both 
 
84 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 himself and his household, and 
 was prepared to come to the rescue, in the event of a signal being 
 given that aid was needed. Thus far is likely enough. Mr. Roberson 
 had plenty of warlike spirit in him, man of peace though he was. 
 
 But, in consequence of his having taken the unpopular side, ex- 
 aggerations 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 de- 
 fence. Moreover, this stem, 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, unflinching, energy, that it was 
 believed he had been supematurally aided ; and the country people, 
 stealing into the fields surrounding Heald's Hall on dusky winter 
 evenings, years after this time, declared that through the windows 
 they saw Parson Roberson 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 his strength of will; and the for- 
 mer quality suggested to his fancy strange out-of-the-way kinds of 
 punishment for any refractory pupils : for instance, he made them 
 stand on one leg in a comer of the schoolroom, 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 along- 
 side of his horse for the many miles they had to traverse before reach- 
 ing Heald's Hall. 
 
MR. ROBERSOJSr OF HEALD'S HALL. 85 
 
 One other illustration of his character may be given. He dis- 
 covered 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 ques- 
 tioned Richard whether he had come after Betty; and on his confess- 
 ing the truth, Mr. Roberson gave the word, " Off with him, lads, to , 
 the pump ! " The poor lover was dragged to the court-yard, and the 
 pump set to play upon him; and, between every drenching, the ques- 
 tion was put to him, "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 soaked 
 " follower " was forced to 3deld, and renounce his Betty. 
 
 The Yorkshire character of Mr. Roberson would be incomplete if 
 I did not mention his fondness for horses. He lived to be a very old 
 man, dying some time nearer to 1840 than 1830; and even after he 
 was eighty years of age, he took great delight in breaking refractory ' 
 steeds ; if necessary, he would sit motionless on their backs for half- 
 an-hour or more to bring them to. There is a story current that once, 
 in a passion, he shot his wife's favourite horse, and buried it near a 
 quarry, where the ground, some years after, miraculously 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 with his own hands, and buried it where, the ground 
 sinking afterwards by the working of a coal-pit, the bones came to 
 light. The traditional colouring shows the animus with which his 
 memory is regarded by one set of people. By another, the neigh- 
 bouring 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 to 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 Chmrch. Mr. Roberson 
 was a friend of Charlotte Bronte's father; lived within a couple of 
 
86 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 miles of Roe Head while she was at school there; and was deeply 
 engaged in transactions, 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 Roe Head; for the "Tory and clergy- 
 man'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 Indepen- 
 dents. In the village of Heckmondwike, at one end of which Roe 
 Head is situated, there were two large chapels belonging to that de- 
 nomination, and one to the Methodists, all of which were well filled 
 two or three times on a Simday, besidies having various prayer-meet- 
 ings, fully attended, on week-days. The inhabitants were a chapel- 
 going people, very critical about the doctrine of their sermons, tyran- 
 nical to their ministers, and violent Radicals in politics. A fiiend, 
 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 Heckmond- 
 wike, 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 quitting 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 cus- 
 tom. In this he was supported by many members of the chapel and 
 congregation; but so strong was the democratic 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 appear- 
 ance, 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 pulpit 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, 
 
SCENES AT HECKMONDWIKE CHAPELS. 87 
 
 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 con- 
 duct 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 conclude with prayer, when up 
 started the singers and screamed , forth anotli^r hymn. These dis- 
 graceful scenes were continued 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 temperate and 
 respectable part of the congregation, and the singers remained tri- 
 umphant. 
 
 " I believe there was such a violent contest respecting the choice 
 of a pastor, about this time, in the Upper C^iapel at Heckmondwike, 
 that the Riot Act had to be read at a church-meeting.'' 
 
 Certainly, the soi-disant Christians who forcibly ejected Mr. Red- 
 head 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 members 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 Char- 
 lotte Bronte spent her school-days, and describes things as they ex- 
 isted at that very time. The writer says, — " Having been accustomed 
 to the respectful manners of the lower orders in the agricultural dis- 
 tricts, I was, at first, much disgusted and somewhat alarmed at the 
 great freedom displayed by the working-classes of Heckmondwike 
 and Gomersall to those in a station above them. The term ' lass ' was 
 as freely applied to any young lady, as the word ' wench' is in Lanca- 
 shire. The extremely untidy appearance of the villagers 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 brewingTtubs on the other, and the 
 frequent perfume of malt and hops as you walked along, proved that 
 fire and 'home-brewed' were to be found at almost every man's 
 hearth. Nor was hospitality, one of the many virtues of Yorkshire, 
 
88 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 succession were delivered at the Upper 
 Chapel. Of course, the service was a very long one, and as the time 
 was June, and the weather often hot, it used to be regarded by my- 
 self and my companions as no pleasurable way of passing the morn- 
 ing. The rest of the day was spent in social enjoyment; great num- 
 bers 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 whitewashing, assumed quite a 
 holiday look. 
 
 "The village of Gomersall" (where Charlotte Bronte's friend 
 " Mary " lived with her family), " which was a much prettier place 
 than Heckmondwike, contained a strange-looking cottage, built of 
 rough, unhewn stones, many of them projecting considerably, ivith 
 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 quite shut 
 out." 
 
 Fearless — because this people were quite famihar to all of them — 
 
 amidst such a population, lived and walked the gentle Miss W 's 
 
 eight or nine pupils. She herself was bom and bred among this 
 rough, strong, fierce set, and knew the depth of goodness and loyalty' 
 that lay beneath their 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 a year and a half, the 
 plain, short-sighted, oddly-dressed, studious littie girl they called 
 Charlotte Bronte. 
 
LEAVING SCHOOL. 89, 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Miss Bronte left Roe Head in 1832, having won the affectionate 
 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 a large portion of Miss Bronte's cor- 
 respondence with her. This she has been induced to do by her 
 knowledge of the urgent desire on the part of Mr. Bronte that the 
 life of his daughter should be written, and in compliance with a re- 
 quest from her husband that I should be permitted to have the use 
 of these letters, without' which such a task could be but very imper- 
 fectly executed. In order to shield this friend, however, from any 
 blame or misconstruction, it is only right to state that, before grant- 
 ing nie this privilege, she throughout most carefully and completely 
 effaced the names of the persons and places which occurred in them; 
 and also that such information as I have obtained from her bears 
 reference solely to Miss Bronte and her sisters, and not to any other 
 individuals whom I may find it necessary to allude to in connection 
 with them. 
 
 In looking over the earlier portion of this correspondence, I am 
 struck afresh by the absence of hope, which formed such a strong 
 characteristic 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 
 
90 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 hopeless- 
 ness. If her trust in God had been less strong, she would have given 
 way to unbounded anxiety, at many a period of her life. As it was, 
 we shall see, she made a grjsat and successful effort 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 2 1 St, 1832, of her course of life at the parsonage: — 
 
 " An account of one day is an account of all. In the 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." 
 
 I may here introduce a quotation from a letter which I have re- 
 ceived from " Mary " since the publication of the previous editions of 
 this Memoir : 
 
 "Soon after leaving school she admitted reading something of 
 Cobbett's. ' She did not like him,' she said; ' but all was fish that 
 came to her net' At this time she wrote to me that reading and 
 drawing were the only amusements she had, and that her supply oi 
 books was very small in proportion to her wants. She never spoke 
 of her aunt. When I saw Miss Branwell she was a very precise per- 
 son, and looked very odd, because her dress was so utterly out 
 of fashion. She corrected one of us once for using the word ' spit ' 
 or ' spitting.' She made a great favourite of Branwell. She. made her 
 nieces sew, with purpose or without, and as far as possible discour- 
 aged any other culture. She used to keep the girls sewing charity 
 clothing, and maintained to me that it was not for the good of the 
 recipients, but of the sewers. ' It was proper for them to do it,' she 
 said. Charlotte never was 'in wild excitement' that I know of. 
 
LIFE AT THE PARSONAGE. 91 
 
 When in health she used to talk better, and indeed when in low- 
 spirits never spoke at all. She needed her best spirits to say what 
 was in her heart, for at other times she had not courage. She never 
 gave decided opinions at such times 
 
 " Charlotte said she could get on with any one who had a bump 
 at the top of their heads (meaning conscientiousness). I found that I 
 seldom differed from her, except that she was far too tolerant of 
 stupid people, if they had a grain of kindness in them." 
 
 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. Although they never attained to any- 
 thing like proficiency, they took great interest in acquiring this art ; 
 evidently, from an instinctive desire to express their powerful imagina- 
 tions 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 toward 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 entering the house of the very poorest, uninvited. They were 
 steady teachers at the Sunday-school, a habit which Charlotte kept 
 up very faithfully, even after she was left alone ; but they never faced 
 their kind voluntarily, and always preferred 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 neighbourhood of Roe 
 Head, and brought her- into pleasant contact wjth many of her old 
 school-fellows. 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 improvement 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 Eng- 
 lish idioms hardly constituted French composition; but the effort was 
 laudable, and of itself shows how willing they both were to carry on 
 
92 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 the education which they had begun under Miss W . I will give 
 
 an extract which, whatever 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 k Haworth en parfaite sauvete sans le moindre 
 accident ou malheur. Mes petites soeurs couraient hors de la 
 maison pour me rencontrer aussitot que la voiture se fit voir, et elles 
 m'embrassaient avec autant d'empressement et de plaisir comma si 
 j'avais 6t€ absente pour plus d'an. Mon Papa, ma Tante, et le • 
 monsieur dont mon frbre avoit parld, furent tous assembles dans le 
 Salon, et en peu de temps je m'y rendis aussi. C'est souvent I'ordre 
 du Ciel que quand on a perdu un plaisir il y en a un autre pret k 
 prendre sa place. Ainsi je venois de partir de trfes-chers amis, mais 
 tout k rheure je revins k des parens aussi chers et bon dans le 
 moment. Meme que vous me perdiez (ose-je croire que mon depart 
 vous etait un chagrin ?) vous attendites I'arrivee de votre frfere, et de 
 votre sosur. J'ai donn^ k mes sceurs les pommes que vous leur 
 ehvoyiez avec tant de bonte ; elles disent qu'elles sont sur que 
 Mademoiselle E. est trfes-amiable et bonne ; I'une et I'autre sont 
 extremement impatientes de vous voir ; j'espfere qu'en peu de mois 
 elles auront ce plaisir." 
 
 But it was some time yet 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 criticise 
 books. 
 
 Of these there were many in different plights, and according 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, but as it was ' often a choice between 
 binding an old one, or buying a new one, the familiar volume, which 
 had been hungrily read by all the members of the family, was some- 
 times in such a condition that the bedroom shelf was considered its 
 fitting place. Up and down the house were to be found many 
 standard works of a solid kind. Sir Walter Scott's writings, Words- 
 worth's and Southey's poems were among the lighter literature ; 
 while, as having a character of their own — earnest, wild, and occa- 
 
BOOKS AT THE PARSONAGE. 93 
 
 sionally fanatical — may be named some of the books which came 
 from the Branwell side of the family — froni 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 Shirley : — 
 "Some venerable Lad/s Magazines, that had once performed a 
 voyage with their owner, and undergone a storm '' — (possibly part of 
 the relics of Mrs. Bronte's possessions, contained in the ship wrecked 
 on the coast of Cornwall)— " and whose pages were stained with 
 salt water ; some mad Methodist Magazines full of miracles and 
 apparitions, and preternatural warnings, ominous dreams, and frenzied 
 fanaticisms ; 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 house- 
 hold 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 circu- 
 lating library at Keighley ; and many a happy walk, up those long 
 four miles, must they have had, burdened with some new book, into 
 which they peeped as they hurried home. Not that the books were 
 what would generally be called new ; in the beginning of 1833, the 
 two friends seem almost simultaneously to have fallen upon Kenil- 
 worth, and Charlotte writes as follows about it : — 
 
 " I am glad you like Kmilworth ; 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. ' Vamey ' 
 is certainly the personification of consummate villany ; and in the 
 delineation of his dark and profoundly artful mind, Scott exhibits a 
 wonderful knowledge of human nature, aS well as a surprising, skill 
 in embodying his perceptions, so as to enable others to become 
 participators in that knowledge." 
 
 Commonplace as this extract may seem, it is noteworthy on two 
 or three accounts : in the first place, instead of discussing the plot 
 or story, she analyses the character of " Vamey ; " 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. 
 
94 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 What was formal and set in her way of writing to " E." diminished 
 as their personal acquaintance increased, and as each came to know 
 the home of the other ; so that small details concerning people and 
 places had their interest and their significance. In the summer of 
 1833, she wrote to invite 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 
 seasons, 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 fuUy 
 grown than her elder sister ; extremely reserved in manner. I 
 distinguish reserve from sh3mess, because I imagine sh5mess would 
 please, if it knew how ; whereas, reserve is indifferent whether it 
 pleases or not Anne, like her eldest sister, was shy ; Emily was 
 reserved. 
 
 BranweU 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 different to any people or family " K" 
 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 behaviour 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 nonsense about your 
 ladyship than I care to repeat. It is now so dark that, notwith- 
 standing the singular property of seeing in the night-time, which the 
 young ladies at Roe Head used to attribute to me, I can scribble no 
 longer." 
 
 To a visitor at the parsonage, it was a great thing to have Tabby's 
 good_ word. She had a Yorkshire keenness of perception into 
 character, and it was not everybody she liked. 
 
 Haworth is built with an utter disregard of all sanitary 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 
 
VISIT OF "E." TO THE PARSONAGE. 95 
 
 season it was to the family in the parsonage': their usual walks 
 obstructed 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 churchyard, 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 indifference. But it was otherwise 
 with Charlotte Bronte. One of her friends says : — "I have seen her 
 turn pale and faint when, in Hartshead Church, some one accidentally 
 remarked that we were walking over graves. Charlotte was certainly 
 afraid of death. Not only of dead bodies, or dying people. She 
 dreaded it as something horrible. She thought we did not know how 
 long the ' moment of dissolution ' might really be, or how terrible. 
 This was just such a terror as only h5rpochondriacs can provide for 
 themselves. She told me long ago that a misfortune was- often 
 preceded by the dream frequently repeated which she gives to Jane 
 Eyre, of carrying a little wailing child, and being unable to still it. 
 She described herself as having the most painful sense of pity for the 
 little thing, lying inert, as sick children do, while she walked about in 
 some gloomy place with it, such as the aisle of Haworth Church. 
 The misfortunes she mentioned were not always to herself She 
 thought such sensitiveness to omens was like the cholera, present to 
 susceptible people, — some feeling more, some less.'' 
 
 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 
 Ramhler, 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 stabihty is 
 restored, her own imagination is deeply moved by the idea of what 
 great wonders are to be seen in that vast and famous city. 
 
 " Haworth, February 20th, 1834. 
 
 " Your letter gave me real and heartfelt pleasure, mingled with no 
 small share of astonishment. Mary had previously informed me of 
 
96 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 your departure for London, and I had not ventured to calculate on 
 any communication from you while surroimded by the splendours 
 and novelties of that great city, which has been called the mercantile 
 metropoHs of Europe. Judging from human nature, I thought that a 
 Httle 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 fascination of those scenes which were then pre- 
 sented to her view. Your kind, interesting, and most welcome 
 epistle showed me, however, that I had been both mistaken and 
 uncharitable 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 
 exclamations of astonishment from travelled men, experienced in the 
 world, its wonders and beauties. Have you yet seen anjfthing of the 
 great personages whom the sitting of Parliament now detains in 
 London — the Duke of Wellington, Sir Robert Peel, Earl Grey, 
 Mr. Stanley, Mr. O'Connell ? If I were you, I would not be too 
 anxious to spend my tinie 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 postscript she adds : — 
 
 "Will you be kind enough to inform me of the number of 
 performers in the King's military band ? " 
 
 And in something of the same strain she writes on 
 
 "June 19th. 
 
 " My own dear E., 
 
 " I MAY rightfully and truly call you so now. You have returned 
 or are returning from London — ^from the great city which is to me 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 letters enable me to form a correct judgment — a heart as 
 
ON A VISIT TO LONDON. 97 
 
 unsophisticated, 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 acquaintance, 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, incon- 
 sistencies, 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 myself, 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 done as you have done— would haye beheld the glare, and 
 glitter, and dazzling display of London with dispositions so unchanged, 
 heart so uncontaminated. I see no aifectation in your letters, no 
 trifling, no frivolous contempt of plain, and weak admiration of 
 sho-wy persons and things." 
 
 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 Pilgrim'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 request me to tell you of your faults. Now, 
 really, how can you be so foohsh ! I won't 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 
 
98 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 bestow on me. Conceited, dogmatical, hypocritical little humbug, I 
 should think, would be the mildest. Why, child ! I've neither time 
 nor inclination to reflect on yonr faults when you axe so far from me, 
 and when, besides, kind letters 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 impleasant office. I have no 
 doubt their advice is completely at your service ; why then should I 
 intrude mine ? If you will not hear them, it wiU be vain though one 
 should rise from the dead to instruct you. Let us have no more 
 
 nonsense, if you love me. Mr, is going to be married, is he? 
 
 Well, his wife elect appeared to me to be a clever and amiable lady, 
 as far as I could judge from the little I saw of her, and from your 
 account. Now to that flattering sentence must I tack on a Ust 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 femUy haUs 
 
 of England, surrounded by lawn and woodland, speaking of past 
 times, and suggesting (to me at least) happy feelings. 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 wiU never wish to read them over 
 twice. Omit the comedies of Shakspeare, and the 'Don Juan,' 
 perhaps 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 Csesar. Scott's sweet, wild, 
 romantic poetry can do you no harm. Nor can Wordsworth's, nor 
 Campbell's, nor Southe/s — the greatest part at least of his ; some is 
 certainly objectionable. For history, read Hume, RoUin, and the 
 Universal Histoiy, if you can; I never did. For fiction, read Scott 
 alone ; all novels after his are worthless. For biography, read 
 
CHOICE OF BOOKS. 
 
 99 
 
 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 Byrpn, Wolfe's Remains. Fpr Natural History, read 
 Bewick and Audubon, and Goldsmith, and White's History of 
 Seiborne. Fpr 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 -correspondents were anxiously 
 alive to many questions discussed among the stricter rehgionists. 
 The morality of Shakspeare needed the confirmation of Charlotte's 
 opinion to the sensitive " E. ; " and a little later, she inquired whether 
 dancing was objectionable, when indulged in for an hour or two in 
 parties qf-boys and girls. Charlotte replies, " I should hesitate fto 
 
 express a difference of opinion from Mr. , or from your excellent 
 
 sister, but really the matter seems to xae. 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 hoiu: among young people (who surely may, without any breach 
 of God's commandments, be allowed a litde 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 firom Charlotte required a good deal of pre-arrange- 
 ment. 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 gther places^ which would occasion trouble to others. 
 The whole family, had an ample share of that sensitive pride 'which 
 led them to dread incurring obligations, and to fear " outstaying their 
 welcorhe " when on any visit. I am not sure whether Mr. Bronte 
 did not consider distrust of others as a part of that knowledge of 
 human nature on which he piqued himself. His precepts to this 
 
loo LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 ftiends. 
 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 ; formerly 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 Opposition 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 middle of the summer of 1835, a great family plan was 
 mooted at the parsonage. The question was. To what trade or pro- 
 fession 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 recognised their own, or each other's powers, but they 
 knew his. The father, ignorant of many failings in moral conduct, 
 did proud homage to the great gifts of his son ; for Branwell's talents 
 were readily and willingly brought 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 gatherings, for the 
 Yorkshiremen have a keen reUsh for intellect ; and it Ukewise 
 ♦procured him the undesirable distinction of having his company 
 recommended by the landlord of the " Black Bull" to any chance 
 traveller who might happen to feel solitary or dull over his Uquor. 
 "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, though in his own family he was always "Branwell"). 
 And while the messenger went, the landlord entertained his guest 
 
PORTRAITS OF THE SISTERS. loi 
 
 with accounts of the wonderful talents of the boy, whose precocious 
 cleverness and great conversational powers were the pride of the 
 village. The attacks of ill health to which Mr. Bronte had been sub- 
 ject 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 companionship ^^ranwell 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 everything connected 
 with it — all descriptions or engravings of great pictures j and, in 
 default of good ones, they would take and analyse any print or 
 drawing which came in their way, and find out how much thought 
 had gone to 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 not with pre-Raphaelite accuracy, for she 
 ■ drew firom fancy rather 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 fi-ame 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 
 
102 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE SRONTM. 
 
 dress of that day. of gigot 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 attained their fiiU 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- foretell 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 the 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 augured truly that, if Branwell had but the opportunity, and, 
 alas ! had but the moral qualities, he might turn out a great painter. 
 
 The best w^y of preparing him to become so appeared to be to 
 send him as a pupil to the Royal Academy. I daresay he longed 
 and yearned to follow this path, principally because it would lead him 
 to that mysterious Londoh-^that Babylon the great — ^which seems to 
 have filled the imaginations and haunted the minds of all the 
 younger members of this jecluse family. To Branwell it was more 
 than a vivid imagination, it was an impressed reality. By dint of 
 studying maps, he was as well acquainted with it, even down to its 
 by-ways, as if he had lived there. Poor misguided fellow ! this 
 craving t& see and know London, and that stronger 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, ^^1 ^^ 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 idolized wish. 
 Would to God they might be the last who met with such a miserable 
 return ! 
 
 "Haworth, July 6th, 1835. 
 
 " I had hoped to have had the extreme pleasure of seeing you at 
 Haworth this summer but human affairs are mutable, and human 
 

PROSPECT OF SEPARATION. 103 
 
 resolutions must bend to the course of events. We are all about to 
 divide, break up, separate. 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 some time, ' and better sune as syne,' to use the Scotch 
 proverb ; and knowing well that papa would have enough to do with 
 his limited income, should Branwell be placed at the Royal 
 Academy, and Emily at Roe Head. Where am I going to reside ? 
 you will ask. Within four miles of you, at a place neither of us is 
 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 W 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 stem 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 time, 
 and I repeat it now with double earnestness ; if anything would cheer 
 me, it is the idea of being so near you. Surely, you and Polly wUl 
 come and see me ; it would be wrong in me to doubt it ; you were 
 never unkind yet. Emily 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 W— — ." 
 
104 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 On the 29th of July, 1835, Charlotte, now a litde more than nme- 
 teen years old, went as teacher to Miss W 's. Emily accom- 
 panied her as a pupil ; but she became literally iU 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 substitution of her 
 younger sister in her place at Miss W '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 fortitude. 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 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 montjhs at school ; and it was some years before 
 the experiment of sending her from home was again ventured on." 
 
 This physical suffering on Emily's part when absent from Ha worth, 
 after recurring several times under similar circumstances, became at 
 
FROM HOME. 105 
 
 length so much an acknowledged fact, that whichever was obliged to 
 leave home, the sisters decided 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 accompan)ring 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 kitchen-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 goodness 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, prac- 
 tically, that to take an active part in all household work was, in 
 their position, woman's simple duty; but in their carefiil employ- 
 ment 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 W 's was a very happy one, until her 
 
 health failed. She sincerely loved and respected the former school- 
 mistress, to whom she was now become both companion and friend. 
 The girls were hardly strangers to 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 W 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 remark 
 occurred which they wished to express, there was an intelligent com- 
 panion ready to sympathise, and yet they were not compelled to 
 " make talk." 
 
 Miss W was always anxious to afford Miss Bronte every 
 
 opportunity of recreation in her power ; but the difiEiculty often was 
 to persuade her to avail herself of the invitations which came, urging 
 lier to spend Saturday and Sunday with " E." and " Mary " in their 
 respective homes, that lay within the distance of a walk. She was 
 too apt to consider that allowing herself a hoUday was a dereliction 
 
io6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 of duty, and to refuse herself the necessary change, from something 
 of an over-ascetic spirit, betokening a loss of healthy balance in either 
 body or mind. Indeed, it is cleai that such was the case, from a 
 passage, referring, to this time, in the letter of " Mary," from which 
 I have before given extracts : — 
 
 "Three years after" — (the period when they were at school 
 
 together) — " I heard that she had gone as teacher to Miss W '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 something. She confessed it was not 
 brilliant, but what could she do ? I had nothmg 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 over- 
 shadowed 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 endeavoured to be firm ; shaking 
 my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly round 
 the dark room ; at this moment a light gleamed on the walk Was it 
 a ray from the moon penetrating 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 another world. 
 My heart beat thick, my head grew hot ; a sound filled my ears which 
 I deemed the rustling of wings ; something seemed near me." ' 
 
 " From that time," Mary adds, " her imaginations became gloomy 
 or frightful ; she could not help it, nor help thinking. She could 
 not forget the gloom, could not sleep at night, nor attend in the day. 
 
 " She told me that one night, sitting alone, about this time, she 
 heard a voice repeat these lines : — 
 
 ' ' Come thou high and holy feehng, 
 Shine o'er mountain, flit o'er wave, 
 Gleam like light o'er dome and shieling. 
 
 ' Jane Eyre, p. 12. 
 
DESPONDENCY. 107 
 
 " There were eight or ten more lines which I forget. She insisted 
 that she had not made them, that she had heard a voice repeat them. 
 It is possible that she had read them^ and 1 unconsciously recalled 
 them. They are not in the volume of poems which the sisters 
 published. She repeated a verse of Isaiah, which she said had 
 inspired 'them, and which I have forgotten. Whether, the lines were 
 recollected, or invented, the tale proves such habits of sedentary, 
 monotonous solitude . of thought as would have- shaken a feebler 
 mind." 
 
 Of course, the state of health thus described came on gradually, 
 and is not to be taken as a picture of her condition in 1836. Yet 
 even then there is a i 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 impressed her. His words, his 
 verses, came more frequently to her memory, I imagine, than those 
 of any other poet. 
 
 ' " Mary " says : " Cowper's poem, ' The Castaway,' was known to 
 them all, and they all at times appreciated, or almost appropriated it. 
 Charlotte told me once that Branwell had done so ; and though his 
 depression was the result of his faults, it was in no other respect 
 different from hers. Both were not mental, but physical illnesses. 
 She was well aware of this, and would ask how that mended matters, 
 as the feeling, was there all the same, and was not removed by 
 knowing the cause. 1 She had a larger religious toleration than a 
 person would have who had never questioned, and the manner of 
 recommending religion was always that of offering comfort, not 
 fiercely enforcing a duty. One time I mentioned that some one had 
 asked me what religion I was of (with the view of getting me for a 
 partisan), and that I had said that that was between God and me ; — 
 Emily (who was . lying on the hearth-rug) exclaimed,.' That's right.' 
 This was all I ever heard Emily say on religious subjects. 
 Charlotte was free from religious depression when in tolerable health j 
 when that failed, her depression returned. You have probably seen 
 such instances. They don't get over their difficulties ; they forget 
 them, when their stomach (or whatever organ it is that inflicts such 
 misery on sedentary people) will let them. I have heard her 
 condemn Socinianism, Calvinism, and many other ' isms ' inconsistent 
 with Church of Englandism. I used to wonder at her acquaintance 
 with such subjects." 
 
io8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 "May loth, 1836. 
 
 " I was Struck with the note you sent me with the umbrella ; 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 h)rpocrite ; 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 Zionward, 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 daresay despise 
 me. But I know the treasures of the 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 pure 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 stiU more embarrassing 
 to accept. At any rate, I cannot come this week, for we are in the 
 very thickest milk of the Repetitions. I was hearing the terrible 
 
 fifth section when your note arrived. But Miss W says I must 
 
 go to ' Mary ' next Friday, as she promised for me on Whit-Sunday ; 
 and on Sunday morning I will join you at church, if it be convenient, 
 and stay still Monday. There's a free and easy proposal ! Miss 
 W has driven me to it. She says her character is implicated." 
 
 Good, kind Miss W ! however monotonous and trying 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 genfle and 
 melancholy Cowper : — 
 
RELIGIOUS DEPRESSION. log 
 
 " My dear dear E 
 
 "I AM at this moment trembling all over with excitement, 
 after 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 
 froni answering your questions. I do wish to be better than I am. 
 I pray fervently sometimes to be made so. I have stings of conscience, 
 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 implore 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, gloomy uncer- 
 tainty that, at this moment, I would submit to be old, grey-haired, 
 to have passed all my youthful days of enjoyment, 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 j and now, if possible, the 
 clouds are gathering darker, and a more oppressive despondency 
 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 excitement 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 
 tiie 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 Roe Head. Then girls, running round the comer of the house and 
 
no LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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, 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 I say nothing but 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 melancholy. 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-rr-in old age, how I should conjure up the 
 memory of my youthful days, andwhat a melancholy pleasure I should 
 feel in dwelling on the recoltection of my early friend ! . . . I have 
 some qualities that make me very miserable, some feelings' that you 
 can have no participation in— .rthat 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 received your 
 epistle and what accompanied it. I can't tell what should induce 
 you and your sisters to waste your kindness on such a one 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 have troubled her 
 while she was at Miss W- — '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 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 
 
LIFE OF A GOVERNESS. ni 
 
 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 had 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 un- 
 broken 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 pleasant new booL The Life of Oherlin, 
 and Leigh Richmond's Domestic Portraiture, are the last of this 
 description. The latter work strongly attracted and strangely fasci- 
 nated my attention. Beg, borrow, or steal it without delay; and read 
 the ' Memoir of WUberforce,' — 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 it 
 details, but because of the simple narrative it gives of a young, 
 talented, sincere Christian." 
 
 About this time Miss W removed her school from the fine, 
 
 open, breezy situation of Roe Head, to Dewsbury Moor, only two or 
 three miles distant. Her new residence was on a lower site, and the 
 air was less exhilarating to one bred in the wild hill-village of 
 Haworth. 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 appalling account of 
 her duties ; hard labour from six in the morning to eleven at night, 
 with 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 afforded of em- 
 ployment and remuneration. They felt tijat it was a duty to relieve 
 their father of the bidden of their support, if not entirely, or tha,t of all 
 three, at least that of one or two ; and, naturally, the lot devolved upon 
 the elder ones to find some occupation which would enable them to 
 do this. They knew that they were never likely to inherit much 
 money. Mr. Bronte had but a small stipend, and was both charitable 
 
112 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 and liberal. Their aunt had an annuity of 50/., 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 of being simrounded 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 sedentary and monotonous nature of the life, too, was preying 
 upon her health and spirits, although, with necessity " as her mistress," 
 she might hardly like to acknowledge this even to herself. But Emily 
 — that free, wild, untameable spirit, never happy nor well but on the 
 sweeping moors that gathered round her home — 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 herself, 
 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 tiU nine 
 o'clock at night. At that hour. Miss BranweU generally went to bed, 
 and her nieces' duties for the day were accounted 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-hght, and out into 
 the shadow, perpetually. At this time, they talked over past cares 
 and troubles ; they planned for the future, and consulted each other 
 as to their plans. In after years this was the time for discussing 
 together the plots of their novels. And again, stiH 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 the 
 " days that were no more." But this Christmas of 1836 was not with- 
 out its hopes and daring aspirations. They had tried their hands at 
 story- writing, in their miniature magazine, long ago ; they aU of them 
 "made out" perpetually. They had likewise attempted 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 Hkely to 
 
LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 113 
 
 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 not met with any part of that correspondence. 
 
 On December 29th her letter to Southey was despatched ; 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 realities of life. 
 
 This, most Hkely, was the first of those adventurous letters that 
 passed through the little post-ofiice of Haworth. Morning after 
 morning of the holidays slipped away, and there was no answer ; the 
 sisters had to leave home, and Emily to return to her distastefiil duties, 
 without knowing even whether Charlotte's letter had ever reached its 
 destination. 
 
 Not dispirited, however, by the delay, Branwell determined to try 
 a similar venture, and addressed the following letter to Wordsworth. 
 It was given by the poet to Mr. Quillinan in 1850, after the name of 
 Bronte had become known and famous. I have no means of ascer- 
 taining 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. 
 
 "Haworth, near Bradford, 
 «gjjj " Yorkshire, January 19, 1837. 
 
 " 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 life, I have lived among secluded hills, 
 where I could neither know what I wag, or what I could do. I read 
 for the same reason that I ate or drank — 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 there was the end of it. Foras to self-conceit,, 
 that could not receive food from flattery, since to this hour not half 
 a dozen people in the world know that I have ever penned a line. 
 " But a change has taken place now, sir ; and I am arrived at an 
 
 I 
 
114 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 ; and still, if they are worthless, time will henceforth be too 
 precious to 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 further tide to the notice of 
 the world j 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 sub- 
 ject, in which I have striven to develop strong passions and weak 
 principles struggling with a high imagination and acute feelings, till, 
 as youth hardens towards age, evil deeds and short enjojrments 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 
 pretend 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 dark- 
 ness — 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, because my feelings in this matter 
 cannot be cool ; and believe me, sir, with deep respect, 
 
 " Your really humble servant, 
 
 " P. B. Bronte." 
 
BRANWELUS POETRY. 115 
 
 The poetiy enclosed seems to me by no means equal to parts of 
 the letter ; but, as every one likes to judge for himself, 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 starry skies of night, 
 Amid his Paradise of light, 
 Oh, why may I not be ? 
 
 Ofi when awake on Christmas morn, 
 In sleBplessi twilight laid forlorn. 
 Strange thoughts have o'er my mind been borne. 
 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 Eterriity. 
 
 So "I can read 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. 
 
 Soon after Charlotte returned to Dewsbury Moor, she was 
 distressed by hearing that her friend " E." was likely to leave the neigh- 
 bourhood for a considerable length of time. 
 
 "Feb. 20th. 
 
 " What shall I do without you? How long are we likely to be 
 
 separated? AVhy are we to be denied each other's society? 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 mea- 
 
1 16 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 sure 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 sorrowfiiUy 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 rebeUious, 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 every 
 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 — z. 
 sweet, placid sensation, like those, I remember, which used to visit me 
 when I was a little child, and, on Sunday evenings in smnmer, stood 
 by the open window reading the life of a certain French nobleman, 
 who attained a purer and 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 Roe Head ; and on Saturday 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 W 's. 
 
 We used to dispute about politics and religion. She, a Tory and 
 clergyman's daughter, was always in a minority of one in our house 
 of violent Dissent and Radicalism. She used to hear over again, 
 delivered with autJiority, 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 generally said nothing. Her feeble health gave 
 her her yielding 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, sometimes 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 
 
A REPUBLICAN FAMILY. 117 
 
 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 Republi- 
 canism and Dissent. No other county but Yorkshire could have 
 produced such a man. His brother had been a dttenu 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 
 continental 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 engravings of the pictures 
 which he particularly admired, and his house was full of works of art 
 and of books ; but he 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 Republican principles ; independence of thought and action 
 was encouraged ; 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 httle, quiet, resolute 
 clergjnnan'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. iv. 
 
 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 indifference 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 
 the high spirits and the generous desires of youth," he goes on to 
 
Ii8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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, and I can well understand the state of mind they 
 indicate. 
 
 " It is not my advice that you have asked as to the direction 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 depreciating it when I say that in these times it is not rare. 
 Many volumes of poems are now published every year without 
 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 disappointment. 
 
 " 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, never- 
 theless, bound in duty to caution every young man who applies as an 
 aspirant to me for encouragement and advice, against taking so 
 perilous 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 
 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 
 unprofitable, 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 she 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 
 in imagination for excitement, of which the vicissitudes of this life, 
 and the anxieties from which you must not hope to be exempted, be 
 your state what it may, will bring with them but too much. 
 - " But do not suppose that I disparage the gift which you possess, 
 
LETTER FROM SOUTHEY. 119 
 
 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 render 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 soul; 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 discipline 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 temper, 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 happiness here and hereafter, your true friend, 
 
 "Robert Southey." 
 
 I was with Miss Bronte when she received Mr. Cuthbert Southey's 
 note, requesting her permission tp 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 did 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 foregoing extracts from it : — 
 
 " March i6th. 
 
 "Sir,— 
 
 " I CANNOT rest till I have answered your letter, even though 
 by addressing you a second tirhe I should appear a little intrusive ; 
 but I must thank you for the kind and wise advice you have con- 
 descended to^ve me. I had not ventured to hope for such a reply; 
 so considerate in its tone, so 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 painfiil 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 
 
120 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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, 
 absorbing, exquisite gratification. I am afraid, sir, you think me very 
 foolish. I know the first letter I wrote to you was all senseless trash 
 firom beginning to end; but I am not altogether the idle, dreaming 
 being it would seem to denote. My father is a clergyman of limited 
 though competent income, 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 dream of the imagination. In the evenings, I 
 confess, I do 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 suspect the nature of my 
 pursuits. Following my father's advice— who firom 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 fiilfil, 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 shaU 
 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. Bronte. 
 
LETTER FROM SO UTHE V. 121 
 
 " P.S. — Pray, sir, excuse me for writing to you a second time ; I 
 could not help writing, partly to tell you how thankful 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 : — 
 
 "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 improve- 
 ment 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, 
 
 " Robert Southey." 
 
 Of this second letter, atlso, she spoke, and told me that 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." A-t the time we con- 
 versed 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 ot 
 literary enterprise. She bent her whole energy towards the fulfilment 
 of the duties in hand; but her occupation was not sufficient food for 
 her great forces of intellect, and they cried out perpetually, "Give, give," 
 
122 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 while the comparatively less breezy air of Dewsbury Moor told upon 
 her health and spirits more and more. On August 27, 1837, she 
 writes : — 
 
 "I am again at Dewsbury, engaged in the old business, — teach, 
 teach, teach. . . . When will you come home i Make haste ! 
 You have been at Bath long enough for all purposes ; by this time you 
 have acquired polish enough, I am 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 Saturday comes 
 round, and I can have no hope of hearing your knock at the door, and 
 then being told that ' MissE; 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 
 estrangement 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 aberra- 
 tions of memory warn me pretty intelligibly that I am getting past my 
 prime." ^tat. 21 ! And the same tone of despondency runs through 
 the following letter : — 
 
 " I wish exceedingly that I could come to you before Christinas, 
 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 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, strengthening each other in that power 
 of self-denial, that hallowed and glowing devotion, which the first 
 saints of God often attained to. My eyes fill with tears when I contrast 
 the bUss of such a state, brightened by hopes of the future, with the 
 melancholy state I now live in, uncertain that I ever felt true con- 
 trition, wandering in thought and deed, longing for holiness, which I 
 shall never, never obtain, smitten at times to the heart with the 
 
CHRISTMAS HOLIDA YS. 123 
 
 conviction that ghastly Calvinistic doctrines are true — darkened, in 
 short, by the very shadows of spiritual death. If Christian perfection 
 be necessary to salvation, I- shail never be saved; my heart is a very 
 hotbed for sinful thoughts, and when I decide on an action I scarcely 
 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 returned to thp 
 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 without 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 family. Emily was iinpervious to influ- 
 ence; she never came in contact with public opinion, 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 7\ime, 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 visit them ; and 
 this Christmas she had promised to do so, but her -coming had to be 
 delayed on account of a little domestic accident, detailed in the 
 following letter : — 
 
 " Dec. 29, 1837. 
 
 " I 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 was 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 
 
124 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 passer-by. She was lifted up and carried into the druggist'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 doubtfiil 
 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 additional duty of nursing Tabby, 
 falls on ourselves. Under 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 long. 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 
 resignation to that decision, whatever it might be, I hold it my duty 
 to )deld 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 disap- 
 pointment, I never dare reckon with certainty on the enjo)anent 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 con- 
 tamination 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 mortifies and disappoints me most keenly, and I am not the only 
 one who is disappointed. All in the house were looking to your visit 
 with eagerness. Papa says he highly approves of my friendship with 
 you, and he wishes me to continue it through life." 
 
 A good neighbour of the Brontes — a clever, intelligent Yorkshire 
 
AN ILLIBERAL PROPOSAL. 125 
 
 woman, who keeps a. druggist's shop in Haworth, and from her occu- 
 pation, her experience, and excellent sense, holds the position of 
 village doctress and nurse, and, as such, 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 the vUlage; 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; look- 
 ing 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 repugnant to his liberal 
 nature. But Miss Branwell persevered; urged economical motives; 
 pressed on his love for his daughters. He gave way. Tabby was to 
 be removed to her sister's, and there nursed and cared for, Mr. Bronte 
 coming in with his aid when her own resources fell short. This 
 decision was commimicated to the girls. There were s)rmptoms of a 
 quiet but sturdy rebellion, that winter afternoon, in the small precincts 
 of Haworth Parsonage. They made one unanimous and stiff remon- 
 strance. 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 and silent, and the meal went away untouched by any of the 
 three. So it was at breakfast; they did not waste many words on the 
 subject, but each word they did utter was weighty. They " struck" 
 eating till the resolution was rescinded, and Tabby was allowed to 
 remain a helpless invalid entirely dependent upon them. Herein was 
 the strong feeling ofduty 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 
 
126 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 the air of Dewsbury Moor 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 suifer 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 W- — — considered 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 W 
 
 for her fancied indifference to Anne's state of health. Miss W^ 
 
 felt these reproaches keenly, and wrote to Mr. Bronte about them. 
 He immediately replied most kindly, expressing his fear that Char- 
 lotte's apprehensions and anxieties respecting her sister had led her 
 to give utterance to over-excited expressions of alarm. Through 
 
 Miss W-; 's kind consideration, Anne was a year longer at school 
 
 than her friends' intended. At the close of the half-year Miss W — — 
 sought for the opportunity of an explanation of each other's words, 
 and the issue proved that " the falling out of faithful friends, renewing 
 is of love." And so ended the first, last, and only difference Charlotte 
 ever had -with good, kind Miss W . 
 
 Still her heart had received a shock in the perception of Anne's 
 delicacy j. and all these holidays she watched over her with the longing, 
 fond anxifety, which is so full of sudden pangs of fear. 
 
 Emily . had' given up her situation in the Halifax school, at the 
 expiration of six months of arduous trial, on account of her health, 
 which could only be re^estabhshed 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 Royal 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 pre-vious 
 monotonous life. 
 
RETURN TO HAWORTH. 127 
 
 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 lengthj through Miss W 's entreaty, she was led. to consult, 
 
 insisted on her return to the parsonage. She had led too sedentary 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 hfe in 
 her own family, were needed, to save either reason or life. So, as 
 One higher than she had overruled that for a time she might relax 
 her strain, she returned to Haworth'; and after a seaison of utter quiet 
 her father sought for her the enlivening society of her two friends, 
 Mary and Martha T. At the conclusion of the following letter, 
 written to the then absent E., 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, 183S. 
 
 "I received your packet of despatches on ■ Wecihesday; it was 
 brought me by Maiy and Martha, ivho have been staying at Haworth 
 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 I 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 rnei 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 Uke yours cannot conceive the feelings 
 of the shattered wretch who is now writing to you, when, ;afte!: weeks 
 of mental and bodily anguish not to be described, spmething 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 
 
128 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 caimot write any 
 more. Mary is pla3dng on the piano; Martha is chattering as fast as 
 her little tongue can run; and Branwell is standing before her, 
 laughing at her vivacity." 
 
 Charlotte grew much stronger in this quiet, happy period at home. 
 She paid occasional visits to her two great friends, and they in return 
 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 chapters 
 of Jane Eyre, and, like him, in holy orders : — 
 
 "March 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 wUhng to die for him; 
 and if ever I marry, it must be in that Ught of adoration that I wiU 
 regard my husband. Ten to one I shall never have the chance 
 again; but riimporte. 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 character ; he 
 would think I was a wild,' romantic enthusiast indeed. I could not 
 sit all day long making a grave face before my husband. 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 declined 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 Uvehhood. But 
 neither she nor her sisters were naturally fond of children. The 
 
ACQUIREMENTS. 129 
 
 hierogl)rphics of childhood were an unknown 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 
 acquiring it ; a kind of sympathetic tact, which instinctively perceives 
 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 daughter^" 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 young 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 15th, 1839. 
 
 " I could not write to you in the 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 summon more courage if thrown entirely upon her 
 own resources. We have had one letter from her since she went. 
 
 She expresses herself very well satisfied, and says that Mrs. is 
 
 extremely kind; the two eldest children alone are under her care, the 
 rest are conjfned 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 some- 
 times 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 
 
 K 
 
130 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 of place. • By the way, I have lately discovered I nave quite a 
 talent fpr 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 labour. I won't be a cook ; I hate 
 cooking. I won't be a nurserymaid, nor a lady's-maid, far less a kdy's 
 companion, or a mantua-maker, or a straw-bonnet maker, or la taker-in 
 
 of plain work. I won't be an)fthing 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 g^eat act of self denial to 
 refuse, yet I have almost made up my mind to do so, thiaugh the 
 society of the T.'s is one of the most rousing pleasures I have ever 
 known. ' Good-by, my darling E., &c. 
 
 " P.S. — Strike out that word •' darling ;' it is humbug. Where'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 remarks from Miss Bronte's 
 letters ; but it is necessary that the difficulties she had to encounter in 
 hfer 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 prettily 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 realise 
 the dark side of " respectable " human nature; under no great temp- 
 tation to crime, but daily giving way to selfishness 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 Uttle boy, three 
 or four years old, during the absence of his parents on a<iay's excur- 
 
HER EXPERIENCE OF "GOVERNESS" LIFE. 131 
 
 sion, and particularly enjoined 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 occasioned the mark on her forehead. She simply replied, "An 
 accident, ma'am," and no further enquiry was made; but the children 
 (both brothers and sisters) had been present, and honoured her for 
 not " telling tales." From that time she began to obtain influence 
 over all, more or less, according to their different characters ; and as 
 she insensibly gained their 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 8th, 1839. 
 
 " 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 constantly with me. As for conrecting 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 myself", 
 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 me ; that she cares nothing about m?, . 
 
132 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 
 needlework ; yards of cambric to hem, muslin nightcaps to 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, sur- 
 rounded, 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, tliat 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 foUow a 
 
 little behind. As he strolled on through his fields, with his magnifi- 
 cent Newfoundland dog at his side, he looked very like what a frank, 
 wealthy Conservative gentleman ought to be. He spoke freely and 
 unaffectedly to the people he met, and, though he indulged his 
 children and allowed them to tease himself far too much, he would 
 not suffer them grossly to insult others." 
 
 ( Written in pencil to a friend^ 
 
 "July, 1839. 
 " I cannot procure ink, without going into the drawjng-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 I not been daily expecting a letter 
 from yourself, and wondering and lamenting that you did not write ; 
 for you will remember it was your turn. I must not bother you too 
 much with my sorrows, of which, I fear, you have heard an exaggerated 
 account. If you were near me, perhaps I might be 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, 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 
 
HER EXPERIENCE AS A GOVERNESS. 133 
 
 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 astonish- 
 ment, 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 
 dependent 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. 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 holidays 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 
 
134 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 and strength had again affected her health ; but when this delicacy 
 became a,pparent 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- 
 indulgence, and could bear many a paiii and relinquish many a hope 
 in silence. 
 
 After she had been at home about a week, her friend proposed 
 that she should accompany her 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 realised. In its fulfilment at last, it 
 was a favourable specimen of many a similar air-bubble dancing 
 before her eyes in her brief career, in which stem realities, rather 
 than pleasures, formed the leading incidents. 
 
 "July 26th, 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 6f absence for longer than a week, and I'm afi-aid 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." 
 
PROPOSAL OF A PLEASURE EXCURSION. 135 
 
 I fancy that, about this time, Mr. Bronte found it necessary, either 
 from faihng health or the increased populousness 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 the first of a succession of curates, 
 who henceforward revolved round Haworth Parsonage, and made an 
 impression on the mind of one of its inmates which she has conveyed 
 pretty distinctiy to the world. The Haworth curate brought his 
 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 uncommon in the lot of most 
 , women, and is a testimony in tliis case to the unusual . power of 
 attraction^though so plain in feature — ^which Cliarlotte possessed, 
 when she let herself go in the happiness and freedom of home ; — 
 
 "August 4th, 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? Burlington, 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 discpnteiited 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, 
 whom I like and know, and who know me. 
 
 " I "have an odd circumstance to relate to you : prepare for a 
 
 hearty laugh ! The other day, Mr. , a vicar, came to spend the 
 
 day with us, bringing with him his own curate. The latter gentleman, 
 
136 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 by name Mr. B., is a young Irish clergjmian, fresh from Dublin 
 University. It was the first time we liad any of us seen him, but, 
 however, after the manner of his countrymen, 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 
 miserable mauvaise honie which torments and constrains me else- 
 where. So I conversed with this Irishman, and laughed at his jests ; 
 and, though I saw faults in his character, excused 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 accus- 
 tomed 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, expressed 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. I 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." 
 
 On the 14th 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 
 
PLEASURE EXCURSION. 137 
 
 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 acquiesced 
 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 dis- 
 content, I )aeld 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 daresay, but I am provoked that she reserved the expression of fier 
 decided 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 sufficient 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 immediately to the 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 impressions of the sea. 
 
 "Oct. 24th. 
 " Have you forgotten the sea by this time, E. ? Is it grown dim 
 in your mind ? Or can you 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 helpmate, 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 incon- 
 
138 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 veniericed 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 2 1st, 1839. 
 
 " We are at present, and have been during the last month, rather 
 busy, as, for that space of time, we have been 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 meantime, 
 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 animals, 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 anywhere 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 forgot I was a subscriber. I intend to force 
 myself to take another situation when I can get one, though I hate 
 and abhor the very thoughts of governess-ship. But I must do it ; 
 and, therefore, I heartily wish I could hear of a family where they 
 need such a commodity as a governess." 
 
CHARACTER OF BRAN WELL BRONTE. 139 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The year 1840 found all the Brontes living at home, except Anne. 
 As I' have already intimated, for some reason with which I am 
 unacquainted, the plan iof sending Branwell to study at the Royal 
 Academy had been 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 
 Miss W — ■■ — '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 
 intellect, while at the same time he would have a licence 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 brilliant " Patrick " 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 
 
HO UFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 lanes or back streets ; and it was only towards the end of the evening 
 that the traveller discovered, from his companion's volmitary con- 
 fession, that he 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 do, while they are only to be; 
 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 render- 
 ing 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 
 attracting 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 desir- 
 ous 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 conversa- 
 tion became gradually coarser, and, for a time, his sisters tried to 
 persuade themselves that such coarseness was a part of manliness, 
 and to 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 know- 
 ing, still he was their hope and their darling ; 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 
 BranwelFs profile ; it is what would be generally esteemed very hand- 
 some ; 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 retreat- 
 ing chin conveys an idea of weakness of will. His hair and com- 
 
BRANWELL BRONTE. 141 
 
 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 manuscripts 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 afford the means of judg- 
 ing whether he had much dramatic talent, as the persons of the story 
 are not thrown into conversation. But altogether the elegance and 
 composure of style are such as one would not have expected 
 from this vehement 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 outlets for 
 his talents. He wrote and sent poems to Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge, who both expressed kind and laudatory opinions, and he fre- 
 quently contributed verses to the Leeds Mercury. In 1840, he was 
 living at home, employing himself in occasional composition of vari- 
 ous kinds, and waiting till some occupation, for which he might be 
 fitted without any expensive course of preliminary training, should 
 turn up ; waiting, not impatiently ; for he saw society of one kind 
 (probably what he called " life '.') at the " Black Bull; " and at home 
 he was as yet the cherished favourite 
 
 Miss Branwell was unaware of the fermentation of unoccupied 
 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 she took no note. Next to her 
 nephew, the docile, pensive Anne was her favourite. Of her she had 
 taken charge 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 fre- 
 quently. But, in general, notwithstanding that Miss Branwell might 
 be occasionally unreasonable, she and her nieces went on smoothly 
 enough ; and though they might now and then be annoyed by petty 
 tyranny, she still inspired them with sincere respect, and not a Htde 
 
142 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 affection. 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 everything ; a perfect knowledge of all kinds 
 of household work ; an exact punctuality, and obedience to the laws 
 of time and place, of which no one but themselves, I hav| heard 
 Charlotte say, could tell the value in after-life; with their impulsive 
 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 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 learning, had 
 served them as a schoolroom; at certain (early) hours they had their 
 meals ; from six to eight, Miss Branwell read aloud to Mr. Bronte ; at 
 punctual eiglit, the household assembled to evening prayers in his 
 study ; and by nine he, the aunt, and Tabby, were all in bed, — the 
 girls free to pace up and down (like restless wild animals) in the 
 parlour, 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 keep- 
 ing a school. They thought that, by a litde 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 pro- 
 fession 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 U 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, fonned 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 their friends, of a cheerful character. In Januaiy, 
 
HER FIRST STORY. 143 
 
 1840,. Charlotte heard of the death of a young girl who had been a 
 pupil of hers, and a schoolfellow of Anne's, at the time when the 
 sisters, were together at Roe Head ; and had attached herself very 
 strongly 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 thus 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 'hfe'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 being, 
 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 in writ- 
 ing 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 pre- 
 face to the Professor, 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 acknow- 
 ledges, was on a scale commensurate with one of Richardson's novels, 
 of seven or eight volumes. I gather some of these particulars from 
 a copy of a letter, apparently in reply to one from Wordsworth, to 
 whom she had sent the commencement of the story, some time in 
 the summer of 1840 : — 
 
 " Authors are generally very tenacious of their productions, 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 Riehardsonian 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. 
 
144 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 It is very edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own 
 brains, and people it with inhabitants, who are s6 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' Maga- 
 zine 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 introducmg 
 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 antiquated 
 volumes, and 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 
 Ladie^ Magazine infinitely superior to any trash of modem 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 criticism. . . . 
 I am pleased that you cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney's 
 clerk or a novel-reading dressmaker. I will not help you at all in the 
 discovery ; and as to my handwriting, or the lady-like touches in my 
 style and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion from that-^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 fi-om 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 correspondents, she occasionally calls her- 
 self " 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 different 
 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 appealed to the higher parts of her nature. 
 
THE CURATES AND THE DISSENTERS. 145 
 
 in calling her to consider whether Uterature was, or was not, the best 
 course for a woman to pursue. But the person to whom she addressed 
 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 
 very probably existed 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 speci- 
 mens she had seen, such as the curates whom she afterwards repre- 
 sented in Shirley. 
 
 These curates were full of strong, High-Church feeling. Bellige- 
 rent by nature, it was well for their professional character that they 
 had, as clergymen, sufficient scope 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 Saracens, they entered on a 
 crusade against Methodists in broadcloth ; 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 ferment, and if papa had not kept him quiet, partly 
 by persuasion 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 in- 
 vited to come and hear, and they actually shut up their chapels, and 
 came in a body ; of course the church was crowded. Mr. W. de- 
 
 L 
 
146 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 livered a noble, eloquent, High-Church, Apostolical-Succession dis- 
 course, 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 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, who 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 with 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 ; 77iais, 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 antagonist. 
 
 " P.S. — Mr. W. has given another lecture at the Keighley Me- 
 chanics' 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 intellect should emanate from 
 the village of Haworth, 'situated among the bogs and mountains, 
 and, until very lately, supposed 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 : 
 
 "May isth, 1840. 
 " Do not be over-persuaded to marry a man you can never re- 
 spect — I do not say love; because, I think, if you can respect a per- 
 son before marriage, moderate love at least will come after; and as to 
 intense /af.fw«, 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 
 
LETTER TO A FRIEND. 147 
 
 last the honeymoon, and then, perhaps, give place to disgust, or 
 indifference, 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 W-ell convinced that I shall never marry at all. 
 Reason 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 con- 
 dition 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 arrangement will not allow much 'time, but it is the only practic- 
 able one which, considering all the circumstances, I can effect. Do not 
 urge me to Stay more than two or three days, becatiBe I shall be obliged 
 to refuse you. I intend to walk to Keighley, there to Jake 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 con- 
 trive very well. I shall reach B. by about five o'clock, and then I shall 
 have the cool of the evening for the walk. I have communicated the 
 whole arrangement to M. I desire exceedingly to see both her and 
 you. Good-by. 
 
 " C. B. 
 
 " C. B. 
 
 " C. B. 
 
 " C. B. 
 
 " If you have 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 wish they, or 
 somebody else, would get me a situation. I have answered adver- 
 tisements without number, but my applications have met with no 
 success. 
 
 • " I have got another bale of French books from G. containing 
 upwards of forty volumes. I have read about hdf. They are like 
 the rest, clever, wicked, sophistical, and immoral. The best of it is, 
 
148 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 they give one a thorough idea of France and Paris, and are the best 
 substitute for French conversation, 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 «ound 
 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 
 be correctly 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 off, day by day, 
 till at last, fearing that she will ' curse me by her gods,' I feel con- 
 strained to sit down and tack a few lines together, which she may 
 call a letter or not as she pleases. 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 — com- 
 pound a stew — toss up an omelette'soufflk d, la Frangaise, 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 everytliLng couhur 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 
 
LETTER TO A FRIEND. I49 
 
 to do just what one pleases. But I recollect some scrubby old fable 
 about grasshoppers and ants, by a scrubby old knave yclept .(Esop ; 
 the grasshoppers 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, adventurous, 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 better side of his cha- 
 racter. Last Saturday night he had been sitting an hour in the parlour 
 with' papa j and, as he went 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 repUed 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 kind-heartedness 
 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 ; wljat 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 reserved. 
 We seldom speak ; and when we do, it is only to exchange the most 
 trivial and common-place remarks." 
 
 The Mrs, B. alluded to in this letter, as in want of a governess. 
 
ISO LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 entered into a correspondence with Miss Bronte, and expressed 
 herself much pleased with the letters she received from her, with the 
 " style and candour of the application," in which Charlotte had 
 taken care to tell her, that if she wanted a showy, elegant, or 
 fashionable person, her 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 
 accordingly 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 meantime, a little occurrence took place, described in one 
 of her letter?, 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 dis- 
 missal from his curacy ; she knew, from bitter experience, that his 
 vices were utterly hopeless. He treated her and her child savagely ; 
 with much more to the same effect. 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. dismissed him. She expressed great 
 disgust and contempt towards him, and did not affect to have the 
 shadow of regard 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 now. I am 
 morally certain no decent woman could experience anything 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 uncontrollable degree. I hated to talk with 
 
A CASE OF MORAL UGLINESS. 151 
 
 him — hated to look at him.; though as I was not certain that there 
 was substantial reason for such a disHke, 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 nian, Charlotte ! ' I thought, ' He is indeed.' " 
 
IS2 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Early in March, 1841, Miss Bronte obtained her second 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 acquirements were few, she had to eke them out 
 by employing her leisure time in needlework ; and' altogether her 
 position was that of " bonne " or nursery governess, liable to repeated 
 and never-ending calls upon her time. This description of uncertain, 
 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 multitude of small talks, plans, duties, pleasures, &a 
 that make up most people's days, her home life was nearly destitute. 
 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 — later on, in her too short 
 career — the intensity of her feeling 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 
 nature. Yet all exercise of her strongest and most characteristic 
 faculties was now out of the question. She could not (as while she 
 
 was at Miss W 's) feel, amidst the occupations 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 
 
NEW EXPERIENCES AS GOVERNESS. 153 
 
 them. Moreover, the little Brontes had been brought up motherless ; 
 and from knowing nothing of the gaiety and sportiveness of childhood 
 — from never having experienced caresses or fond attentions them- 
 selves — they were ignorant of the very nature of infancy, or how to 
 call out its engaging qualities. Children were to them the trouble- 
 some 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 1 could not persuade her that they were only average specimens 
 of well-brought-up children. She was surprised and touched by any 
 sign of thoughtfulness 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 differed on the point of their 
 unusual excellence. All this must be borne in mind while reading 
 the following letters. And it must likewise be borne in mind — ^by 
 those who, surviving her, look back upon her life from their mount of 
 observation — how no distaste, no suffering ever made her shrink 
 from any course which she believed it to be her duty to engage in : — 
 
 " March 3rd, 1841. 
 
 " I told you some time since, that I meant to get a situation, and 
 when I said so my resolution was quite fixed. I felt that however 
 often I was disappointed, I had no intention of relinquishing my 
 efforts. After being 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. 
 ***** 
 
 " The house is not very large, but exceedingly comfortable 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 I 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 16/. per' 
 annum, though it is nominally 20/., but the expense of washing will 
 be deducted therefrom. My pupils are two in number, a giri 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 
 
IS4 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 her© 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 employ- 
 ment Do not think that I fail to blame myself for this, or that I 
 leave any means unemployed to conquer this feeling. Some of my 
 greatest difficulties lie in things that would appear to you compara- 
 tively trivial. I find it so hard to repel the rude famiUarity 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 removal. 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 2ist. 
 " You must excuse a very short answer to yoiu: 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 
 
KIND EMPLOYERS. 155 
 
 affects me sorely. I like Mr. extremely. The children are 
 
 over-indulged, and consequently hard at times to manage. Bo, 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 forsaking you ; 
 my darling, I could not afford to do it. J. find it is not in my nature 
 to get on in this weary world without s}mipathy and attachment in 
 some quarter ; and seldom indeed do we find it. It is too great a 
 treasure to be ever wantonly thrown away when once secured." 
 
 Miss Bronte had not been many weeks in her new situation 
 before she had a proof of the kind-hearted hospitality of her 
 
 employers. Mr. • wrote to her father, and urgently 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 daresay, that I 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. I 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 
 can tell as well as me the lonely feeling of being without a com- 
 panion." 
 
 Soon after this was written, Mr. and Mrs. returned, in time 
 
IS6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 
 maintain themselves, all might go well. They would have some time 
 of their own, in which to try again and yet again at that Uterary 
 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 i8th, 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 disappointment 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 mystery. I talk of a plain and every-day 
 occurrence, though, in Delphic style, I wrap up the information in 
 figures of speech concerning eggs, chickens, etcastera, etcseterorum. 
 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 offer a loan 
 for the purpose in question. A loan, however, she has offered, or 
 rather intimates that she, perhaps will offer in case pupils can be 
 secured, an eligible situation obtained, &c. This sounds very fair, 
 
PROJECT OF A SCHOOL. 157 
 
 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 150/. in such a venture ; and would it be possible to establish a 
 respectable, (not by any means a sJiowy) 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 mind 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 foundation. 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 remember whether there was any other school 
 
 there besides that of Miss ? This is, of course, a perfectly 
 
 crude and random idea. There are a hundred reasons why it 
 should be an impracticable* one. We have no connections, no 
 acquaintances there ; it is far from home, &c. Still, I fancy the 
 ground in the East Riding is less fully occupied than in the West. 
 Much inquiry and consideration will be necessary, 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 sown which 
 was to grow up into a plan materially influencing her future life : — 
 
 "August 7th, 1 84 1. 
 " 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 my- 
 self — housekeeper and governess — for Mr. and Mrs. are staying 
 
 at . To speak truth, though I am soUtary while they are away, 
 
 it is still by far the happiest part of my time. The children are under 
 decent control, 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 conver- 
 sable. Martha , it appears, is in the way of enjoying great 
 
 advantages ; so is Mary, for you will be surprised to hear that she is 
 returning immediately to the Continent with her brother ; not, how- 
 
IS8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ever, 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 handsome black silk scarf, and a pair of beautiful kid gloves, 
 
 bought at Brussels. Of course, I was in one sense pleased with the 
 
 gift — pleased that they should • think of me so far ofif, dmidst the 
 
 excitements of one of the most splendid capitals 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 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 tantalised by the consciousness of faculties unexercised, 
 
 -r-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 viv& voce. These .rebellious and absurd 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 z, 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 estrangement from one's real character — the adoption of a cold, 
 
 rigid, apathetic exterior, that is painful You will not mention 
 
 our school project at present. A project not actually commenced 
 
 is always uncertain. Write to me often, my dear Nell ; you know 
 
 your letters are valued. Your ' loving child ' (as you choose to call 
 
 me so), 
 
 " C. B. 
 
 . "P;S. — I am well in health ; don't fancy I am not y but I have 
 
DELIBERATION ON THE PROJECT. 159 
 
 one' aching feeling at my heart (I must allude to it, though I had 
 resolved not to). It is about' Anne; she has so much to endure; 
 far, far more than I ever had. When my thoughts turn to her, they 
 always see her as a patient, persecuted 'stranger. I know what con- 
 cealed 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 patiently 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, lo-ving 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 these two whose life and happiness were ever to 
 Charlotte far more than her own. But no trembling impatience 
 should lead her to take an unwise step in haste. She inquired in 
 every direction she could, as to the chances which a new school might 
 have of success. In all there seemed more estabhshments 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 informa- 
 tion ; but these are qualifications scarcely fit to be inserted 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 instruc- 
 , tion, they couM engage to give lessons in- it. 
 
 Just about this .time, Miss W was thinking of rehnquishing 
 
 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 diminished ; and, if the Brontes undertook it, 
 
i6o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE- BRONTE. 
 
 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 : — 
 
 "Sept. 29th, 1841. 
 " Dear Aunt — 
 
 "I HAVE heard nothing of Miss W yet since I wrote 
 
 to her, intimating that I would accept her offer. I cannot con- 
 jecture the reason of this long silence, unless some unforeseen 
 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 intervening time in some school on the continent They say 
 schools in England are so numerous, competition so great, that with- 
 out some such step towards attaining superiority, we shall probably 
 have a very hard struggle, and may fail in the end. They say, more- 
 over, that the loan of 100/., which you have been so kind as to offer 
 
 us, will, perhaps, not be all required now, as Miss W will lend 
 
 us the furniture ; and that, if the speculation is intended to be a good 
 and successful 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 principle. 
 
 "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 
 travelling, would be 5/. ; 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 Europe. 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, /. e., providing my health continued 
 as good as it is now. Mary is now staying at . Brussels, at a first-rate 
 estabUshment there. I should not think of going to the Chiteau de 
 Koekelberg, where she is resident, as the terms are much too high ; 
 
HER IDEA OF GOING TO BRUSSELS. i6i 
 
 but if I wrote to her, she, with the assistance of Mrs. Jenkins, the 
 wife of the British Chaplain, would be able to secure me a cheap, 
 ■decent residence and respectable protection. I should have the 
 opportunity of seeing her 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 any 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. I 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 
 favour, it is often done in style ; and depend upon it, 50/., or 100/., 
 thus laid out, would be well employed. Of course, I know no other 
 friend in the world to whom I could apply on 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 
 without ambition? When he left Ireland to go to Cambridge 
 University, he was as ambitious as I am now. I want us aK 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 bver 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. 
 
 "Nov. 2nd, 1841. 
 " Now let us begin to quarrel. In the first place, I must consider 
 whether I will commence operations on the defensive, or the offensive. 
 
l62 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 The defensive I think. You say, nd I see plainly, that your 
 feelings have been hurt by an apparent want of confidence on my 
 
 part. You heard from others of Miss W '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 confession of a fault, and I do not feel that 
 I have been in fault. The plain fact is, I was not, I am not now, 
 certain of my destiny. On the contrary, I have been most imcertain, 
 perplexed 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 always 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. 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 increase my attainments — to become some- 
 thing 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 — encouraged me, and in her own strong, energetic language, 
 heartened me on. I longed to go to Brussels ; but how could I get 
 there. I wished for one, at least, of my sisters to share the advantage 
 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 atmt for 
 assistance, whicli was answered 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. In my 
 secret soul, I beheve there is no cause to regret it. My plans for the 
 
PLAN FOR GOING TO LILLE. 163 
 
 future are bounded to this intention : if I once get to Brussels, and 
 
 my health is spared, I will do my best to make the utrnost of every 
 
 advantage that shall come within my reach. When, the half-year is 
 
 expired, I will do what I can. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " Believe me, though I was bom in April, the month of cloud 
 and sunshine, I am not (^angeful. My spirits are unequal, 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 em- 
 ployers 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 
 Railway, in which he ;. had been engaged for five months,, Anne 
 arrived before Christmas Day. , She ha(| rendered herself so valuable 
 in her difficult situation, thatlier employers vehemently urged her to 
 return, although she had announced her resolution to leave them ; 
 partly on account of the harsh treatment she had received, and partly 
 because her stay at home, during her sisters' absence in Belgium, 
 seemed desirable, when the age of the three remaining inhabitants of 
 the parsonage was taken into consideration. 
 
 After some correspondence and much talking over plans 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 recommended by Baptist Noel and 
 other clergymen. Indeed, 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 : — 
 
 M2 
 
i64 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " January 20th, 1842. 
 
 " I consider 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 fiilly 
 expect him, however, next Saturday. Under these circumstances 
 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 come. I get an interesting 
 impression of old age upon my face ; and when you see me next I 
 shall certainly wear caps and spectacles.'' 
 
THE LILLE PLAN RELINQUISHED. 165 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I AM not aware of all the circumstances which led to the relinquish- 
 ment 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. In 
 one of her letters reference has been made to Mrs. Jenkins, the wife 
 of the chaplain of the British Embassy. At the request of his 
 brother — a clergyman, living not many miles from Haworth, and an 
 acquaintance 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, accompanied her to Brussels, in the 
 capacity of reader. This lady's granddaughter was receiving her 
 education at the pensionnat of Madame Hdger ; and so satisfied was 
 the grandmother 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. Hdger informs me that, on 
 receipt of a letter from Charlotte, making very particular inquiries as 
 to the possible amount of what are usually termed " extras," he and 
 his 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." 
 
i66 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 This was accordingly done ; the agreement was concluded, and 
 the Brontes prepared to leave their native county for the first time, if 
 we except the melancholy and memorable residence at Cowan Bridge. 
 Mr. Bronte determined to accompany 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 subsequent 
 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. 
 
 Mary's account of their journey is thus given : — 
 
 " In passing through London, she seemed to think our business 
 was, and ought to be, to see aU the pictures and statues we could. 
 She knew the artists, and knew where other productions of theirs 
 were to be found. I don't remember what we saw except St. Paul's. 
 Emily was like her in these habits of mind, but certainly never took 
 her opinion, but always had one to offer. ... I don't know what 
 Charlotte thought of Brussels. We arrived in the dark, and went 
 next morning to our respective schools to see them. We were, of 
 course, much preoccupied, and our prospects gloomy. Charlotte 
 used to like the country round Brussels. ' At the top of every hill 
 you, see something.' She took long solitary walks on the occasional 
 holidays." 
 
 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 firom 
 every strange and unaccustomed contact — far away from their 
 beloved home, and the dear moors beyond — their indomitable will 
 ivas 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 establishment on 
 the continent. The same suffering and conflict ensued, heightened 
 by the strong recoil of her upright heretic and EngHsh spirit from 
 
BRUSSELS. • 167 
 
 the gentle Jesuitry of the foreign and -Romish system. Once more 
 she seemed sinking, but this time she rallied through the mere force 
 of resolution : 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-won knowledge 
 back 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 inter- 
 course with their fellows, they 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 sometimes 
 excited sufi5ciently to speak eloquently and well — on certain subjects; 
 but before her tongue was thus loosened, she had a habit of gradually 
 wheehng 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 seeing 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 Jan and Jannika, the 
 aboriginal giant and giantess, looked over fhe 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 indignant with themselves for having been susceptible of 
 this impression, and their stout Protestant hearts arrayed themselves 
 against the false Duessa that had thus imposed upon them. 
 
 The very building they occupied as pupils, in Madame Roger's 
 pensionnat, had its own ghostly train of splendid associations, 
 marching for ever, in shadowy procession, through and through the 
 
i68 . LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ancient rooms, and shaded alleys of the gardens. From the splendour 
 of to-day in the Rue Royale, if you turn asjde, near the statue of the 
 General Beliard, you look down four flights of broad stone steps 
 upon the Rue d'Isabelle. The chimneys of the houses in it are 
 below your feet. Opposite to the lowest flight of steps, there is a 
 large 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 Rue d'Isabelle looks as though it 
 had been untouched by the innovations of the builder for the last 
 three centuries ; and yet any one might drop a stone into it from the 
 back windows of the grand modem hotels in the Rue Royale; built 
 and furnished in the newest Parisian fashion. 
 
 In the thirteenth century, the Rue dTsabelle was. called the 
 Fossd-aux-Chiens ; and the kennels for the ducal hounds occupied 
 the place where Madame Hdger's pensioimat 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 religious order, in a bmlding 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 the 
 members whereof were required to prove their noble descent un- 
 tainted for so many generations, before they could be admitted into 
 the guild ; and, being admitted, were required to swear a solenrn 
 oath, that no other pastime or exercise 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 Roi des Arbale'triers 
 
 ' Scott describes the sport, " Shooting at the Popinjay," "as an ancient game 
 formerly practised with archery, but 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 paiTot. It was suspended to a pole, and served for a mark at which 
 the competitors discharged their fiisees and carbines in rotation, at the distance of 
 
THE RUE D'ISABE:LLE. 169 
 
 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 bovmd 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 
 of the Flemish towns. Hence they were protected by the authorities, 
 and easily obtained favourable and sheltered sites for their exercise- 
 ground. And thus they came to occupy the old fosse, and took 
 possession of the great orchard of the hospital, l5ang tranquil and 
 siinny in the hollow below the rampart. 
 
 But, in the sixteenth century, it became necessary to construct a 
 street through the exercise-ground of the " Arbaldtriers du Grand 
 Serment," and, after much delay, the company were induced by the 
 beloved Infanta Isabella to give up the requisite plot of ground. In 
 recompence for this, Isabella — ^who herself was a member of the 
 guild, and had even shot down the bird, and been queen in 16 15 — 
 . made many presents, to the arbal^triers ; and, in return, the grateful 
 city, which had long wanted a nearer road to St. Gudule, but been 
 baffled by the noble archers, called the street after her name. She, 
 as a sort of indemnification to the arbaldtriers, caused a "great 
 mansion" to be built for their accommodation in the new Rue 
 dTsabelle. This mansion was placed in 'front of their exercise- 
 ground, and was of a square shape. On a remote part of the walls, 
 may still be read — 
 
 PHILLIPPO nil. HISPAN. REGE. ISABELLA-CLARA-EUGENIA HISPAN. 
 INFANS. MAGNjE GULDjE REGINA GULD^ FRATRIBUS POSUIT. 
 
 In that mansion were held all the splendid feasts of the Grand 
 Serment des Arbaldtriers. The master-archer lived there constantly, 
 
 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 usually 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. 
 
ijo LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 in 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 Spa,niards 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 pensionnat of Madame 
 Hdger. 
 
 , This lady was assisted in the work of instruction by her 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 oppor- 
 tunities 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 personnelleriient M. H^ger, mais je sais qu'il 
 est ,peu de caractferes aussi nobles, aussi admirables que le sien. II 
 est un des membres les plus zdles de cette Socidtd de S. Vincent de 
 Paijl dont je t'ai ddjk parld, et ne se contente pas de servir les 
 pauvres et les malades, mais leur consacre encore les soirdes. Aprfes 
 des joumdes absorbdes tout entiferes par les devoirs que sa place lui 
 impose, il rdunit les pauvres, les ouvriers, leiu: donne des cours 
 gratuits, et trouve encore le moyeh de les amuser en les instruisant. 
 Ce ddvouement te dira assez que M. Hdger est profonddment et 
 Quvertement religieux. II a des manibres franches et avenantes ; il 
 se fait aimer de tous ceux qui l'approchent,-et surtout des enfants. 
 II a la parole facile, et possfede k un haut degrd I'dloquence du bon 
 sens et du coeur. II n'est point auteur. Homme de zfele et de 
 conscience, il vient de se ddmettre des fonctions dlevdes et lucratives 
 qu'il exergait k I'Athdn^e, celles de Pr^fet des Etudes, parce qu'il ne 
 peut y rdaliser le bien qu'il avait espdre, introduire I'enseignement 
 
THE BRONTE SISTERS AT BRUSSELS. 171 
 
 religieux dans le programme des etudes. J'ai vu una fois Madame 
 H^ger, qui a quelque chose de froid at de compass^- dans son 
 maintien, at qui .prdvient peu an sa ifavaur. i: Je la crois pourtant 
 aim^e et appr&i^e par ses dlbves^' 
 
 There ware from eighty to a hundred pupils in the pensionnat, 
 when Charlotte and EmUy Bronte entered in February 1842. 
 
 M. Roger's account is that • thay knew nothing of French. I 
 suspect they knew as much (or as littie), for all conversational 
 purposes, as any English girls do, who have never been abroad, and 
 have ,only learnt the idioms and pronunciation from an English- 
 woman. 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 EmUy 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 ware 
 " gone out." Her petticoats, too, had not a curve or a wave in 
 them, but hung down straight and longj chnging to her lank figure.' 
 The sisters spoke to no one but from necessity. They were too full 
 of earnest thought, and of the axUe's sick yearning, to.be ready for 
 careless conversation or merry game. M. Hdger, who had done 
 little but observe, during the few first weeks of their residence in the 
 Rue dTsabelle, perceived that with their unusual characters, and 
 extraordinary talents, a different mode must be adopted from that in 
 which he generally taught French to Enghsh 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. .H^ger. Impairing the 
 force of this gift, was a 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. H^ger in speaking of her. " Her powerful 
 reason would have deduced new spheres of 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, ier faculty of imagination 
 
172 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 was such that, if she had written a history, her view of scenes and ' 
 characters would have been so vivid, and so powerfully 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, who was always 
 unselfish (this is M. Hdger'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. H^ger told them that he meant 
 to dispense wi,th 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 proposed 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 Roman 
 Christians in the Bibliothlque choisie des Ptres de I'Eglise, &c.), and 
 after having thus impressed the complete effect of the whole, to 
 analyse 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 with pupils capable, from their ready S)fmpathy with the 
 intellectual, the refined, the polished, or the noble, of catching the 
 echo of a style, and so reproducing their own thoughts in a some- 
 what similar manner. 
 
 After explaining his plan to them, he awaited their reply. Enuly 
 spoke first ; and said that she saw no good to be derived from it ; 
 and that, by adopting it, they should lose all originality of thought 
 and expression. She would have entered into an argument on the 
 subject, but for this, M. Hdger had no time. Charlotte then spoke ; 
 she also doubted the success of the plan ; but she would follow out 
 M. Hdger'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 (May?). 
 
 " 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 
 
M. AND MADAME HEGER. IT^ 
 
 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 unnatural to command. 
 
 " This is a large school, in which there are about forty extemes, 
 or day pupils, and twelve pensionnaires, or boarders. Madame 
 Hdger; 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 dis- 
 appointed, 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, her bitter eriemies. 
 No less than seven masters attend, to 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 gouvemante, of Madame's children, an EngUsh- 
 woman, in rank something between a lady's-maid and a nursery 
 governess. 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 congenial 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. H^ger, the husband 
 of Madanie. 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 '^ peu correct.' He did not tell, me so, 
 but wrote the word on the margin of my book, and asked, in brief 
 stem phrase, how it happened that my compositions were always 
 better than my translations ? adding that the thing s,eemed to him 
 
174 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 inexplicable. The fact is, some weeks ago, in a high-flown humour, 
 he forbade me to use either dictionary or grammar in translating the 
 most difficult English compositions into French. This makes the 
 task rather arduous, and cornpels 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 lilje 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 acquired a considerable 
 knowledge of the French language, otherwise they will lose a great 
 deal of time, for the course of instruction is adapted to natives and 
 not to foreigners ; and in these large establishments they will not 
 change their ordinary course for one or two strangers. The few 
 private lessons that M. Hdger 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. Hdger is represented • as 
 prohibiting the use of dictionary or grammar, refers, I 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 
 Charlotte's devoirs, vnritten about this time. I am tempted, in illus- 
 tration of this season of mental culture, to recur to a conversation 
 which I had with M. H^ger 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 remarks upon it. 
 
 He told me that one day this summer (when the Brontes had 
 
CHARLOTTE'S FIRST FRENCH THEME. 175 
 
 been for about four months receiving instruction from him) he read 
 to, them Victor Hugo's celebrated portrait of Mirabeau, "mais, dans 
 ma legon je me bomais k ce qui conceme Mirabeau orateur. C'est . 
 aprfes I'analyse de ce morceau, considdr^' surtout du point de vue du 
 fond, de la disposition, de ce qu'on pourrait appeler la charpente; 
 qu'ont €vL 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 tht subject of a 
 similar kind of portrait. This selection M. H^ger 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 beeii excited. I 
 must leave that to you." The marginal comments, I need hardly 
 say, are M. H^ger-s ; the words in italics are Charlotte's, for which 
 he substitutes a better form of expression, which is placed between 
 brackets. 
 
 Imitation. 
 
 " Le 31 Juillet, 1842. 
 Portrait de Pierre l'Hermite. Charlotte 
 Bronte. 
 
 " De temps en ternps, il parait sur la. terre dgs hommes 
 destinds k Stre les instruments [predestines] de grands pourquoi cette 
 changements moraux ou politiques. Quelquefois c'est un ^^^^ 
 conqudrant, un Alexandre ou un Attila, qui passe comme 
 un ouragan, et purifie I'atmosphfere jnoral, comme I'orage 
 purifie I'atmosphfere physique; quelquefois, c'est un 
 revolutionnaire, un Cromwell, ou un Robespierre, qui fait 
 expier par un roiA les vices de toute une dynastie ; quel- les fautes et 
 quefois c'est un enthousiaste religieux comme Mahomet, 
 ou Pierre l'Hermite, qui, avec le seul levier de la pensde, 
 soulfeve des nations entibres, les d^racine et les transplante 
 dans des climats nouveaux, peuplant I'Asie avec les habi- Ce d^a ne 
 
 convient qua 
 
 tants de I'Europe. Pierre l'Hermite etait gentilhomme Pierre. 
 
176 
 
 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE.. 
 
 , Inutile, quand 
 vous ^crivez en 
 frangais. 
 
 Vous avez 
 commence k 
 parler de 
 Pierre : vous 
 etes entree 
 dans le sujet : 
 marchez au 
 but. 
 
 Inutile, quand 
 vous avez dit 
 illusion. 
 
 de Picardie, en France, pourquoi done n'a-t-il pass^ sa 
 vie comme les autres gentilhommes, ses contemporains, 
 ont pass^ la leur, "k table, \ la chasse, dans son lit, sans 
 s'inquidter de Saladin, ou de ses Sarrasins ? N'est-ce pas, 
 parce qu'U y a dans certaines natures une ardeur [un 
 foyer d'activit^ indomptable qui ne leur permet pas de 
 rester inactives, qui les' force h se remuer afin d'exercer les 
 facult'es puissantes, qui mime en dormant sont prites, comme 
 Sampson, d, briser les noeuds qui les retiennent 1 
 
 " Pierre prit la profession des armes ; si son ardeur 
 avait 'etk de cette espece [s'il n'avait eu que cette ardeur 
 vulgaire] qui provient d'une robuste sant^ ilaurait [c'eut] 
 €ti un brave militaire, et rien de plus ; mais son ardeur 
 Aait celle de I'ime, sa flamme ^tait pure et elle s'devait 
 vers le del. 
 
 " Sans doute [II est vrai que] la jeunesse de Pierre 
 kait [fiit] troubl^e par passions orageuses ; les natures 
 puissantes sont extremes en tout, elles ne connaissent la 
 tiddeur ni dans le bien, ni dans le mal ; Pierre done ehereha 
 d'abord avidement la gloire qui se fldtrit et les plaisirs qui 
 trompent, mais ilfitbientotla dkouverte [bientot il s'apergut] 
 que ee qu'il povursuivait n'dtait qu'une illusio n k laquelle il ne 
 pourrait jamais atteindre ; il retouma done sur ses pas, il 
 recommenga le voyage de la vie, mais cette fois il ^vita le 
 chemin spacieux qui mbne k la perdition et il prit le ehemin 
 dtroit qui mfene k la vie ; puisque [comme] le trajet dtait 
 long et difRcUe il jeta la casque et les armes du soldat, et 
 se vetit de I'habit simple du moine. A la vie militaire 
 succdda la vie monastique, car les extremes se touchent, 
 et chez I'homme sincere la sincdrit^ du repentir amfene 
 [ndeessairement k la suite] avec ltd la rigueur de la peni- 
 tence. [Voilk done Pierre devenu moine !] 
 
 " Mais Pierre [il] avait en lui un principe qui I'empg- 
 ehait de rester long-temps inactif, ses id^es, sur quel 
 
AN EXERCISE IN FRENCH COMPOSITION. 177 
 
 sujet qiiil «z/[que ce flit] ne pouvaient pas Stre bomdes ; 
 il ne lui suffisait pas que lui-m^me fflt religieux, que 
 lui-meme ffit convaincu de la rdalit^ de Christianismd 
 (sic), il fallait que toute I'Europe, que toute I'Asie, parta- 
 geat sa conviction et professat la croyance de la Croix. 
 La Pidtd [fervente] dlev^e par la Gdnie, nourrie par la 
 ^oX\\x\A.t., fit naltre une esplce d^ inspiration [exalta son dme 
 jusqu'k I'inspiration] dans son ame, et lorsqu'il quitta sa 
 cellule et reparut dans le monde, il portait comme Moi'se 
 rempreinte de la Divinity sur son front, et tout [tous] re- 
 connurent en lui la veritable ap6tre de la Croix. 
 
 " Mahomet n'avait jamais remu^ les moUes nations de 
 rOrient comme alors Pierre reipua les peuples aust^res de 
 rOcddent ; il fallait que cette Eloquence fdt d'une force 
 presque miraculeuse quipouvait\^\x\s<yi't\\€\ persuader [ait] 
 aux rois de vendre leurs royaumes afin de procurer [pour 
 avoir] des armes et des soX^zXs pour aider [k oiifirir] k Pierre 
 dans la guerre sainte qu'il voulait livrer aux infiSMes. 
 La puissance de Pierre [I'Hermite] n'Aait nuUement une 
 puissance physique, car la nature, ou pour mieux dire, 
 Dieu est impartial dans la distribution de ses donsj il 
 accorde \ I'un de ses enfants la grace, la beaut^, les 
 perfections corporelles, k I'autre I'esprit, la grandeur morale. 
 Pierre done dtait un homme petit, d'une physionomie peu 
 agr^able ; mais il avait ce courage, cette Constance, cet 
 enthousiasme, cette ^nergie de sentiment qui dcrase toute 
 opposition, et qui fait que la volontd d'un seul homme 
 devient la loi de toute une nation. Pour se former une 
 juste id^e de I'influence qu'exerga cet homme sur les 
 caractlres [choses] et les id^es de son temps, il faut se le 
 repr^senter au milieu de I'arm^e des croisdes dans son 
 double r61e de prophfete et de guerrier ; le pauvre hertnite, 
 vetu du pauvre [de I'humble] habit gris est Ik plus puissajit 
 
 N 
 
178 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 qu'un roi ; il est entourd d'une [de la] multitude [avide] 
 une multitude qui ne voit que lui, tandis que lui, il ne 
 voit que k' ciel; ses yeux lev^s semblent dire, 'Je vois 
 Dieu et les ang es, et j'ai perdu de vue la terre ! ' 
 
 " Dansce moment le [mais ce] pauvre habit [froc] gris 
 est pour lui comme le manteau d'Elijah ; U I'enveloppe 
 d'inspiration; //[Pierre] lit dans I'avenir; il voit Jerusalem 
 d^livrde; [il voit] le saint s^pulcre libre; il voit le 
 Croissant, argent est arrach^ du Temple, et I'Oriflamme et 
 la I Groix rouge sont dtabli ^ sa place ; non-seulement 
 Pierre voit ces merveilles, mais il les fait voir k tous ceux 
 qui I'entourent ; il ravive I'espdrance et le courage dans 
 [tous ces corps ^puisds de fatigues et de privations]. La 
 bataille ne sera livrde. que demain, mais la victoire est 
 ddcid^e. ce soir. Pierre a promis ; et les Croisds se fient 
 "k sa parole, comme les- Israelites se fiaient \ celle de 
 Mo'ise et de Josu£" 
 
 As a companion portrait to this, EmUy 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 knowledge 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 frequently took 
 characters and scenes from the Old Testament, witli which all her 
 writings show that she was especially familiar. The picturesqueness 
 and colour (if I may so express it), the grandeur and breadth of its 
 narrations, impressed her deeply. To use M. Hdger's expression^ 
 " Elle dtait nourrie de la Bible." After he had read De laVigne'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. H^ger's remarks. After 
 describing, in a quiet and simple manner, the circumstances under [ 
 
M. HEGERS PLAN OF INSTRUCTION. 179 
 
 which Moses took leave of the Israelites, her imagination becomes 
 wanned, 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 have been thrown on the 
 miraculous relations of the Old Testament. M. Hdger 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 
 imagination, 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 verisi- 
 militude : 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. H^ger 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 difference by 
 causing them to examine well into the character and position of each 
 separate writer, and how they would be likely to affect his conception 
 of truth. For instance, take Cromwell. He would read Bossuefs 
 description of him in the " Oraison Funfebre de la Reine 
 d'Angleterre," and show how in his he was considered entirely from 
 the religious point of vi^w, as an instrument in the hands of God, pre- 
 ordained to His work. Then he would make tKem 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 Royalist and Commonwealth men 
 had each thfeir different opinions of the great Protector. And from 
 these conflicting characters 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 het 
 
i8o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 attachihent which made them suffer as they did 
 whenever they left Haworth. They were Protestant to the backbone 
 in other things beside their religion, but pre-eminently so in that. 
 Touched as Charlotte 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 Missionnaire, Sierra Ldone, 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 Hdger has made a proposal for both me and Emily 
 to stay another half-year, offering to dismiss 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 are to be allowed to continue our studies in French and 
 German, and to have board, &c., without paying for it j no salaries,, 
 however, are offered. The proposal is kind, and in a great selfish 
 city like Brussels, and a great selfish school, containing nearly ninety 
 pupils (boarders and day pupils included), implies a degree of interest 
 which demands gratitude in return. I am inclined to accept it. 
 What think you ? I don't deny I sometimes wish to be in England,, 
 or that I have brief attacks of home sickness ; but, on the whole, I 
 have borne a very valiant heart so far ; and I have been happy in 
 Brussels, because I have always been fully occupied with the employ- 
 ments that I like. Emily is making rapid progress in French, 
 German, music, and drawing. Monsieur and Madame H^ger 
 begin to recognise the valuable parts of her character, under her 
 singularities. 
 
 " If the national character 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 principles are rotten 
 to the core. We avoid them, which, it is not difficult to do. as we 
 
HER ENGLISH FRIENDS AT BRUSSELS. l8l 
 
 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 
 changing their faith. My advice to all Protestants who are tempted 
 to do an)fthing 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 then, 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 consider Methodism, 
 Quakerism, and the extremes of High and Low Churchism fooUsh, 
 but Roman CathoUcism 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 remaining there for six months, or until the grandes vacances began 
 in September. The duties of the school were then suspended for 
 six weeks or two months, and it seemed a desirable period for their 
 return. But the proposal 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 inexpressible solace to residents in a 
 foreign country — and peculiarly 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 establishment 
 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 family, 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 expressed it) to "gather up her 
 
l82 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 andthe 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. He placed them 
 at Madame Hdger's school in July, 1842, not a month before the 
 beginning qf the grandes vacances on August isth. In order to make 
 the most ,pf their time, and become accustomed to the language, 
 ithese English sisters went daily,_through the holidays, to the pensionnat 
 in the Rue 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, 
 analpgous to what is often called that of 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 estrade, or platform, for the presiding instructor. On the last 
 row, in the quietest comer, sat Charlotte and Emily, side by side,' 
 so deeply absorbed in their studies as to be insensible 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-r-went to the r^fectoire (a room with two long 
 tables, having an oiWamp suspended over each), to partake of bread 
 
ARRANGEMENTS OF THE PENSIONNAT. 183 
 
 and fruit ; the externes, or morning pupils, who had brought their own 
 refreshment with them, adjBtiming to eat it in the 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 
 externes left ; arid the remaining girls dined in the r^fectoire, M. and 
 Madame Hdger presiding. From five to six there was recreation ; 
 from six to seven, preparation for lessons ; and, after that, succeeded 
 the lecture pieuse — Charlotte's nightmare. On rare occasions, M. 
 H^ger himself would come in, and substitute a book of a different and 
 more interesting kind. At eight, there was a slight meal of water and 
 pistoieis (fiis delicious little Brussels rolls), which was immediately 
 followed by prayers, and then to bed. 
 
 The principal bedroom was over the long classe, or school-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 they had been in a separate apartment. 
 
 During the hours of recreation, which were always spent in 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 impertinence 
 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 outwatd tokens she gave of being conscious 
 of the annoyance to which she was subjected. But this dignified 
 endurance of hers subdued her pupils, in the long run, far more than 
 the voluble tirades of the other mistresses. My informant adds : — 
 " The effect of this manner was singular. I can speak from personal 
 experience. I was at that time high-spirited and impetuous, not 
 respecting the French mistresses ; yet, to my own astonishment, at 
 one word from her, I was perfectly tractable ; so much so, that at 
 length M. and Madame Hdger invariably preferred all their wishes to 
 
l84 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 Charlotte's manner 
 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 Biontes 
 therein, made upon an intelligent English girl of sixteen. I will 
 make a quotation from " Mary's " letter referring to this time : — 
 
 " The first part of her time at Brussels was not uninteresting. She 
 spoke of new people and characters, and foreign ways of the pupils 
 and teachers. She knew the hopes and prospects of the teachers, 
 and mentioned one who was very anxious to marry, ' she was getting 
 so old.' She used to get her father or brother (I forget which) to be the 
 bearer of letters to different single men, who she thought might be 
 persuaded to do her the favour, saying that her only resource was to 
 become a sister of charity if her present employment failed, and that 
 she hated the idea. Charlotte naturally looked with curiosity to 
 people of her own condition. This woman almost frightened her. 
 ' She declares there is nothing she can turn to, and laughs at the idea 
 of delicacy, — and she is only ten years older than I am ! ' I did not 
 see the connection till she said, ' Well, Polly, I should hate being a 
 sister of charity; I suppose that would shock some people, but I 
 should.' I thought she would have as much feeling as a nurse as most 
 people, and more than some. She said she did not know how people 
 could bear the constant pressure of misery, and never to change 
 except to a new form of it. It would be impossible to keep one's 
 natural feelings. I promised her a better destiny than to go begging 
 any one to marry her, or to lose her natural feelings as a sister of charity. 
 She said, ' My youth is leaving me ; I can never do better than I have 
 done, and I have done nothing yet' At such times she seemed to 
 think that most human beings were destined by the pressure of worldly 
 interests to lose one faculty and feeling after another ' till they went 
 dead altogether. I hope I shall be put in my grave as soon as I'm 
 dead ; I don't want to walk about so.' Here we always differed. 
 I thought the degradation of nature she feared was a consequence of 
 poverty, and that she should give her attention to earning money. 
 
EXTRACT FROM "MARY'S" LETTER. 185 
 
 Sometimes she admitted this, but could find no means of earning money^ 
 At others she seemed afraid of letting her thoughts dwell on the 
 subject, saying it brought on the worst palsy of all. Indeed, in her 
 position, nothing less than entire constant absorption in petty money 
 matters could have scraped together a provision. 
 
 " Of course artists and authors stood high with Charlotte, and the 
 best thing after their works would have been their company. She 
 used very inconsistently to rail at money and money-getting, and then 
 wish she was able to visit all the large towns in Europe, see all the 
 sights and know all the celebrities. This was her notion of literary 
 fame, — a passport to the society of clever people. . . . When she had 
 become acquainted with the people and ways at Brussels her life be- 
 came monotonous, and she fell into the same hopeless state as at 
 
 Miss W 's, though in a less degree. I wrote to her, urging her 
 
 to go home or elsewhere ; she had got what she wanted (French), 
 and there was at least noveltj in a new place, if no improvement ; 
 that if she sank into deeper gloom she would soon not have energy 
 to go, and she was too far from home for her friends to hear of her 
 
 condition and order her home as they had done from Miss W 's. 
 
 She wrote that I had done her a great service, that she should certainly 
 follow my advice, and was much obliged to me. I have often won- 
 dered at this letter. Though she patiently tolerated advice, she could 
 always quietly put it aside, and do as she thought fit. More than 
 once afterwards she mentioned the ' service ' I had done her. She 
 sent me 10/. to New Zealand, on hearing some exaggerated accounts 
 of my circumstances, and told me she hoped it would come in 
 seasonably ; it was a debt she owed me ' for the service I had done 
 her.' I should think 10/. was a quarter of her income. The 'service' 
 was mentioned as an apology, but kindness was the real motive." 
 
 The first break in this life of regular duties and employments 
 came heavily and sadly. Martha — pretty, winning, mischievous, 
 tricksome Martha — ^was taken ill suddenly at the Chateau de Koekel- 
 berg. Her sister tended her with devoted 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 Koekelberg the next morning — unconscious that 
 
i86 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 sister; watching, nursing, cherishing her so tenderly, so un- 
 weariedly. She appears calm and serious now ; no bursts of violent 
 emotion ; no exaggeration of distress. I have seen Martha's grave — • 
 the place where her ashes lie in a foreign country." 
 
 Who that has read Shirley does not remember the few lines — 
 perhaps half a page — of sad recollection ? — 
 
 " He has no idea that little Jessie will die young, she is so gay, 
 and chattering, and arch — original even now ; passionate when 
 provoked, but most affectionate if caressed ; by turns gentle and 
 , rattling ; exacting, yet generous ; fearless .... yet reliant on any 
 who will help her. Jessie, 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 hke these are not unfamiliar to you, 
 nor are these dim garlands of everlasting flowers. Here is the place : 
 green sod and a grey marble head-stone — Jessie sleeps below. She 
 lived through 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 Rose 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 Jessie a grave. 
 
 ****** 
 
 " But, Jessie, 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 hmries sobbing 
 over hills of sullen outline, colourless with twiUght and mist. Rain 
 has beat all day on that church tower " (Haworth) : " it rises dark 
 from the stony enclosure of its graveyard : the nettles^ the long grass, 
 and the tombs all drip with wet. This evening reminds me too forcibly 
 
DEATH OF MISS BRAN WELL. 187 
 
 of another evening some years ago ; a liowling, 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 foreign dwelUngi They were merry and social, but they 
 each knew that a gap, never to be filled, had been made in their 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 Jessie lay cold, coffined, 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 that her aunt. Miss Branwell, 
 was ailing — was very ill. Emily 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 Hdger, 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 arrangement had been made for speed. They sailed from 
 Antwerp ; they travelled night and day, and got home on a Tuesday 
 morning. The funeral and all was over, and Mr. Bronte and Anne 
 were sitting together, in quiet grief for the 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 be- 
 queathed 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 reUsh of meetiog again, after the longest separation they had 
 
1 88 LIFE Of CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 realised. Of course they did not now look forward to settling 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. Aime's plans 
 for the inten'al were fixed. Emily quickly decided to be the daughter 
 to remain at home. About Charlotte there was much deliberation 
 and some discussion. 
 
 Even in all the haste of their sudden departure from Brussels, 
 M. Hdger had found time to write a letter of sympathy to Mr. Bronte 
 on the loss which he had just sustained ; a letter containing such a 
 graceful appreciation of the daughters' characters, under the form of, 
 a tribute of respect to their father, that I should have been tempted 
 to copy it, even had there not also been a proposal made in it 
 r^pecting Charlotte, which deserves a place in the record of her life : — 
 
 " Au Rh'krend Monsieur Bronte, Pasteur EvangUique, &=€. ofc. 
 
 " Samedi, 5 C". 
 
 " Monsieur, 
 
 "Un ^vfenement bien triste decide mesdemoiselles vos filles 
 \ retourner brusquement en Angleterre. Ce depart, qui nous afflige 
 beaucoup, a cependant ma complete approbation ; il est bien naturel 
 qu'elles cherchent \ vous consoler de ce que le ciel vient de vous 
 oter, en se serrant autour de vous, pour mieux vous faire apprdcier 
 ce que le ciel vous a donnd et ce qu'il vous laisse encore. J'espfere 
 que vous me parddnnerez. Monsieur, de profiter de cette circonstance 
 pour vous faire parvenir Texpression de mon respect; je n'ai pas 
 I'honneur de vous connaitre personnellement, et cependant j'dprouve 
 pour votre personne un sentiment de sincere vdndration: car en 
 jugeant un pfere de famille par ses enfants on ne risque pas de se 
 tromper; et sous ce rapport I'^ducation et les sentiments que nous 
 avons trouvds dans mesdemoiselles vos filles n'ont pu que nous 
 donner une trbs-haute id^e de votre mdrite et de votre caractfere. Vous 
 
LETTER OF M. HEGER TO MR. BRONTE. 189 
 
 alpprendrez sans doute avec plaisir que vos enfants ont fait du progrfes 
 trfes-remarquable dans toutes les branches de Tenseignement, et que 
 ces progrfes sont entiferement dfl h. leur amour pour le travail et k leur 
 pdrsdverance ; nous n'avons eu que bien peu k faire avec de pareilles 
 dbves ; leur avancement est votre ceuvre bien plus que la notre ; nous 
 n'avons pas eu k leur apprendre le prix du temps et de riostruction, 
 elles avaient appris tout cela dans la maison patemelle, et nous 
 n'avons eii, pour notre part, que le faible m^rite de diriger leurs efforts 
 et de foumir un aliment convenable k la louable activity que vos fiUes 
 ont -puisnes dans- votre exemple et dans vos legons. Puissent les 
 dloges m^ritdes que nous donnons k vos enfants vous ^tre de quelque 
 consolation dans le malheur que vous afilige ;' c'est Ik notre espoir en 
 vous dcrivant, et ce sera, pour Mesdemoiselles Charlotte et Emily, 
 une douce et belle recompense de leurs travaux. 
 
 " En perdant nos deux chferes dfeves, nous ne devons pas vous 
 cacher que nous ^prouvons k la fois et du chagrin et de I'inquidtude ; 
 nous sommes affligds parce que cette brusque separation vient briser 
 I'affection presque patemelle que nous leur avons voude, et notre 
 peine s'augmente k la vue de tant de travaux interrompus, de tant 
 de choses bien commencdes, et qui ne demandent que quelque temps 
 encore pour Stre menses k bonne fin. Dans un an, chacune de vos 
 demoiselles eiit it6 entiferement prdmunie contre les ^ventualitds de 
 I'avenir ; chacune d' elles acqu^rait k 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 ddjk 
 elle avait elle-mtoe de petites ^Ibves ; elle perdait done k la fois un 
 reste d'ignorance et un reste plus genant encore de timiditd ; Mile 
 Charlotte commengait k donner des legons en frangais, et d'acqudrir 
 cette assurance, cet aplomb si ndcessaire dans I'enseignement; encore 
 un an tout au plus et I'oeuvre dtait achevde et bein achevde. Alors 
 nous aurions pu, si cela vous eflt convenu, offrir k mesdemoiselles vos 
 lilies, ou du quoins k I'une des deux, une position qui dit 6t6 dans ses 
 goflts, et qui lui e<it donnd cette douce inddpendance si difficile k 
 trouver pour une jeune personne. Ce n'est pas, croyez-le bien, 
 Monsieur, ce n'est pas ici pour nous une question d'intdret personnel, 
 c'est une question d'affection; vous me pardonnerez si nous vous 
 parlons de vos enfants, si nous nous occupons de leur avenir, comme 
 si elles faisaient partie de notre famille ; leurs qualitds personnelles. 
 
igo, LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 leur bon vouloir, leur zHe extreme sont les seules causes qui nous 
 poussent % nous hasarder de la sorte. Nous savons, Monsieur, que 
 vous peserez plus mflrement et plus sagement que nous la consequence 
 qu'aurait pour I'avenir una interruption complete dans les Etudes de 
 vos_ deux fiUes ; vous d&iderez ce qu'il faut faire, et vous nous par- 
 donnerez notre franchise, si vous daignez consid^rer que le motif qui 
 nous fait agir est une afTection bien d^sint^ress^e et qui s'affligerait 
 beaucoup de devoir ddjk se rdsigner k n'tee plus utile k vos chers 
 enfants. 
 
 "Agriez, je vous prie, Monsieur, I'expression respectueuse de mes 
 sentiments de haute consideration. 
 
 "C. HfGER." 
 
 There was so much truth, as well as so much kindness in this 
 letter — it was so obvious that a second year of instruction would be 
 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 inexpressibly. 
 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 trasted that he would some day be 
 their family pride. They blinded themselves to the magnitude of the 
 failings of which they were now and then -told, by persuading them- 
 selves 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, so completely, in 
 this short space of time, did she -fall back into the old household 
 ways; with more of household independence than she coidd ever 
 have had during her aunt's lifetime. Winter though it was, the sisters 
 took their accustomed 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. 
 
RETURN TO BRUSSELS. 191 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Towards the end of January, the time came for Charlotte to return 
 to Brussels. Her journey thither was rather disastrous. 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 have been near the place where the steamboats lay ; but 
 she appears to have been frightened by the idea of arriving at an hour 
 which, to Yorkshire notions, was so late and unseemly ; and taking a 
 cab, therefore, at the station, she drove straight to the London Bridge 
 Wharf, and desired a waterman 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 Vilktte, 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 standing up in the rocking boat, she asked to speak to some 
 one in authority on board the packet. He came, and her quiet 
 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 favourably that he allowed her to come on 
 board, and take possession of a berth. The next morning she sailed ;. 
 and at seven on Sunday evening she reached the Rue d'Isabelle once 
 more ; having only left Haworth on Friday morning at an early hour. 
 Her salary was 16/. a year ; out of which she had to pay for her 
 
192 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 English lessons in the classe, or school-room, 
 without the supervision of Madame or M. Hdger. 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 maimer 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 survdllante at all 
 hours ; and henceforward she was called Mademoiselle Charlotte by 
 M. Roger's orders. She continued her own studies, principally 
 attending to German, 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 allde ddfendue, 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 over- 
 loaded with occupation ; and besides teaching English, I have time 
 to improve myself in German. I ought to consider myself well off, 
 and to be 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 
 companionship, or friendship, or whatever they call it, I should do 
 very well. As I told you before, M. and Madame Hdger 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 daytime 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 Hdger 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 
 
HER SOLITUDE IN THE PENSIONNAT. 193 
 
 M. Hdger and his brother-in-law. They get on with wonderful 
 rapidity; especially the first. He already begins to speak English 
 very decently. If you could see and hear the efforts 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 vegetables, with a very little salt fish 
 for dinner ; and bread for supper. The Carnival was nothing but 
 .masking and mummery. M. Hdger took me and one of the pupils 
 into the town to see the masks. It was animating to see the immense 
 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 she leaves Bmxelles, I shall have 
 nowhere to go to. I have 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. H^ger is to me ; to lend 
 her books ; to converse with her sometimes, &c. 
 
 " Good-by. 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, before 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 Rue d^Isabelle, or so she thought. " Mary " was gone off on 
 h& own independent course ; Martha alone remained — still and quiet 
 for ever in the cemetery beyond the Porte de Louvain. The weather, 
 too, for the first few weeks after Charlotte's return had been piercingly 
 cold ; and her feeble constitution was always painfully.sensitive to an 
 inclement season. Mere bodily pain, however acute, she could 
 
 a 
 
194 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ajways put aside ; but too often ill-health assailed her in a part far 
 more to be dreaded. Her depression of spirits, when she was not 
 well, was pitiful in its extremity. She was aware that it was consti- 
 tutional, and eould reason about it ; but no reasoning prevented her 
 suffering mental agony, while the bodily cause remained in force. 
 
 The Hdgers have discovered, since the publication of Vi//eUe,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 been 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, 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." : — 
 
 "April, 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 j 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 i:o submit to ; there is 
 monotony and uniformity of hfe ; and, above all, there is a constant 
 sense of solitude in the midst of nurnj^ers. The Protestant, the 
 foreigner, is a solitary being, whether as teacher or pupil. I do not 
 say this by way of complaining of my own lot ; for though I acknow- 
 ledge that there are certain disadvantages in my present position, 
 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 thankful. There was an observation 
 
HER LETTERS FROM BRUSSELS. 195 
 
 in your last letter which excited, 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 epoux 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 Roger's. I must have some more 
 powerful motive than respect for my master and mistress, gratitude 
 for their kindness, &c., to induce me to refuse a salary of 50/. in 
 England, and accept one of 16/. 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 
 H^ger, and seldom indeed with him, — they would, perhaps, cease to 
 suppose that any such chimerical and groundless notion had in- 
 fluenced 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 con- 
 tempt, for women, who have neither fortune nor beauty, to make 
 marriage the principal object of their wishes and hopes, and the aim 
 of all their actions ; not to be able to convince themselves that they 
 are unattractive, and that they had better 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 : — 
 
 "May 29, 1843. 
 " I get on here from day to day in a Robinson-Crusoe-like sort of 
 way, very lonely, but that does not signify. In 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 wyote to her father : 
 
 "June 2nd, 1843. 
 
 " I was very glad to hear from home. I had begini 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 
 
196 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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, without her, would be very lonely." 
 
 I gave a devoir, written after she had been four months under M. 
 Hdger'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, 1843. 
 "SUR LA MORT DE NaPOL£oN. 
 
 " Napoleon naquit en Corse et mourut \ Ste. Hdlfene. Entre ces 
 deux lies rien qu'un vaste et brfllant ddsert et I'ocdan immense. II 
 naquit fils d'un simple gentilhomme, et mourut empereur, mais sans 
 couronne et dans les fers. Entre son berceau et sa tombe qu'y 
 a-t-il ? la carrifere d'un soldat parvenu, des champs de bataille, une 
 mer de sang, un trone, puis du sang encore, et des fers. Sa vie, c'est 
 Tare en del ; les deux points extremes touchant la terre, la comble 
 lumineuse mesure les cieux. Sur Napoldon au berceau une mfere 
 brillait : dans la maison patemelle il avait des frferes et des sceurs ; 
 plus tard dans son palais il eut une femme qui I'aimait. Mais sur son 
 lit de mort Napoldon est seul ; plus de mfere, ni de frfere, ni de soeur, 
 ni de femme, ni d'enfant ! ! D'autres ont dit et rediront ses exploits, 
 moi, je m'arrete k contempler I'abandonnement de sa demifere heure! 
 
 "II est Ik, exild et captif, enchaind sur un ecueil. Nouveau 
 Prom^thde, il subit le chatiment de son orgueil ! Promdthde avait 
 voulu etre Dieu et Crdateur ; il d^roba le feu du Ciel pour animer le 
 corps qu'il avait formd. Et lui, Buonaparte, il a voulu crder, non pas 
 un homme, mais un empire, et pour donner une existence, vme ame, 
 k soji oeuvre gigantesque, il n'a pas hesitd k arracher la vie \ des 
 nations entiferes. Jupiter indigne de I'impidtd de Promdthde, le riva 
 vivant k la cime du Caucase. Ainsi, pour punir I'ambition rapace de 
 Buonaparte, la Providence I'a enchaine, jusqu'k ce que la mort s'en 
 suivit, sur un roc Isold de I'Atlantique. Peut-etre Ik aussi a-t-il senti 
 
HER DEVOIR "SUR LA MORT DE NAPOLEON." 197 
 
 lui fouillant le flanc cet insatiable vautour dont parle la fable, peut- 
 etre a-t-il souifert aussi cette soif du coeur, cette faim de Time, qui 
 torturent I'exil^, loin de sa famille et de sa patrie. Mais parler ainsi 
 n'est-ce pas attribuer gratuitement k Napoleon une humaine feiblesse 
 qu'il n'^prouva jamais ? Quand done s'est-il laiss^ enchatoer par un 
 lien d'affection? Sans doiite d'autres conqudrants ont hesitd dans 
 leur carrifere de gloire, arretds par un obstacle d'amour ou d'amiti^ 
 retenus par la main d'une femme, rappelds par la voix d'un ami — lui, 
 jamais ! II n'eut pas besoin, comme Ulysse, de se lier au mat du 
 navire, ni de se boucher les oreilles avec de la cire ; il ne redoutait pas 
 le .chant des Sirfenes — il le dddaignait ; il se fit marbre et fer pour 
 exdcuter ses grands projets. Napoleon ne se regardait pas comme un 
 homme, mais comme Tincamation d'un peuple. II n'aimait pas ; il 
 ne considdrait ses amis et ses proches que comme des instruments 
 auxquels il tint, tant qu'ils furent utiles, et qu'il jeta de cotd quand ils 
 cessferent de I'^tre. Qu'on ne se permette done pas d'approcher du 
 sdpulcre du Corse avec sentiments de pitid, ou de souiller de larmes 
 la pierre qui couvre ses restes, son ime rdpudierait tout cela. On a 
 dit, je le sais, qu'elle fut cruelle la main qui le sdpara de sa femme et 
 de son enfant. Non, c'dtait une main qui, comme la sienne, ne 
 tremblait ni de passion ni de crainte, c'dtait la main d'un homme 
 froid, convaincu, qui avait su deviner Buonaparte; et voici ce qui 
 disait cet homme que la ddfaite n'a pu humilier, ni la victoire 
 enorgueiller. ' Marie-Louise n'est pas la femme de Napoldon ; c'est 
 la France que Napoldon a dpousde ; c'est la France qu'il aime, leur 
 union enfante la perte de I'Europe ; voilk 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 de droit de la victoire ! C'est fouler aux pieds le' 
 vaincu ! Que I'Angleterre se montre cldmente, qu'elle ouvre ses bras 
 pour recevoir comme hote son ennemi ddsarmd' L'Angleterre aurait 
 peut-etre. dcoutd ce conseil, car partout et toujours il y a des Smes 
 faibles et timordes bientot sdduites par la flatterie ou effraydes par le 
 reproche. 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 renommde ; impdndtrable devant les menaces, inaccessible 
 aux louanges, il se prdsenta devant le conseil de la nation, 'et levant 
 son front tranquille en haut, il osa dire : ' Que la trahison se taise ! 
 
198 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 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 victime sous le couteau du boucher. II faut en finir avec 
 Napoldon Buonaparte. Vous vous effrayez \ tort d'un mot si dur ! 
 Je n'ai pas de magnanimity, dit-on? Soit ! que m'importe ce qu'on 
 dit de moi? Je n'ai pas ici k me faire une reputation de hdros 
 magnanime, mais k gudrir, si la cure est possible, I'Europe qui se 
 meurt, ^puis^e de ressources et de sang, I'Europe dont vous ndgligez 
 les vrais intdrets, prdoccupds que vous 6tes d'une vaine renommde de 
 cldmence. Vous etes faibles ! Eh bien ! je viens vous aider. 
 Envoyez Buonaparte k Ste. Hdlfene ! n'hdsitez pas, ne cherchez pas 
 un autre endroit ; c'dst le seul convenable. Je vous le dis, j'ai 
 rdfldchi pour vous ; c'est Ik qti'il doit ^tre, et non pas ailleurs. 
 Quant k Napoldon, homme, soldat, je n'ai rien contre lui ; c'est un 
 lion royal, auprfes de qui vous n'Stes que des chacals. Mais Napoldon 
 Empereur, c'est autre chose, je I'extirperai du sol de I'Europe.' Et 
 celui qui parla ainsi toujours sut garder sa promesse, celle-lk comme 
 toutes les autres., Je I'ai dit, et je le rdpete, cet homme est I'egal de 
 Napoleon par le gdnie ; comme trempe de caractfere, comme droiture, 
 comme ddvation de pens^e et de but, il est d'une tout autre espfece. 
 Napoldon Buonaparte ^tait avide de renommde et de gloire ; Arthur 
 Wellesley ne se soucie ni de I'une ni de Tautre-; I'opinion publique, 
 la popularity, Aaient choses de grand valeur aux yeux de Napoldon ; 
 pour Wellington I'opinion publique est une rumeur, un rien que le 
 souffle de son inflexible volontd fait disparaitre comme une buUe de 
 savon. NapoMon 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'obsfede. Aussi ce peuple, qui adorait Buonaparte, s'irritait, 
 s'insurgeait contre la morgue de WelHngton ; parfois il lui tdmoigna 
 sa colore et sa haine par des grognements, par des hurlements de 
 betes fauves ; et alors, avec une impassibilite de sdnateur romain, le 
 moderne Coriolan toisait du regard I'^meute furieuse ; il croisait ses 
 bras nerveux sur sa large poitrine, et seul, debout sur son seuil, il 
 attendait, il bravait cette tempete populaire dont les flots venaient 
 mourir k quelques pas de lui : et quand la foule, honteuse de sa 
 rebellion, venait lecher les pieds du maitre, le hautain patricien 
 ms^prisait I'hommage d'aujourd'hui comme la haine d'hier, et dans les 
 
WELLINGTON AND BUONAPARTE. 199 
 
 rues de Londres, et devant son palais ducal d'Apsley, il repoussait 
 d'un genre plein de froid de'dain rincommode empressement du 
 peuple enthousiaste. Cette fiertd ndanmoins n'excluait pas en lui 
 una rare modestie ; partout il se soustrait k I'doge ; se d^robe au 
 pan^gyrique ; jamais il ne parle de ses exploits, et jamais il ne souffre 
 qu'un autre lui en parle en sa presence. Son caract^re ^gale en 
 grandeur et surpasse en v^ritd celui de tout autre heros ancien ou 
 modems. La gloire de Napoleon crut en une nuit, comme la vigne 
 ■de Jonas, et il suffit d'un jour pour la fl^trir ; la gloire de Wellington 
 €st comme les vieux chines qui ombragent le cMteau de ses pferes 
 sur les rives du Shannon ; le ch^ne croit lentement ; il lui faut du 
 temps pour pousser vers ie del ses branches noueuses, et pour 
 enfoncer dans le sol ces racines profondes qui s'enchevStrent dans les 
 fondements solides de la terre ; mais alors, I'arbre sdculaire, 
 indbranlable comme le roc oh il a sa base, brave et la faux du temps 
 €t reflFort des vents et des tempStes. II faudra peut-^tre un sifecle k 
 I'Angleterre pour qu'elle connaisse la valeur de son h&os. Dans un 
 sifecle, I'Europe entifere saura combien Wellington a des droits \ sa 
 reconnoissance." 
 
 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 respective merits of Wellington and 
 Buonaparte ! Although the title ' given to her devoir is, " On the 
 Death 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 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 surmounted 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 
 
20O LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 calm and supreme on the throne, but like a panting, torn, and 
 suffering victim. Her nerves and her spirits gave way. Her health 
 became much shaken. 
 
 "Brussels, August 1st, 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 
 again. Would that the 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 creeping over me. I cannot shake it off. Believe 
 me, very merrily, vivaciously, gaily, yours, 
 
 "C. B." 
 
 The grandes vacances began soon after the date of this letter, when 
 s"he 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 discovered 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. Whatever had been disagreeable, or 
 obnoxious, to her during the day, was presented when it was over 
 
DEPRESSION AND HOME SICKNESS. 201 
 
 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, wakeful misery ; precursors of many such in after years. 
 
 In the day-time, driven abroad' by loathing of her companion and 
 by the weak restlessness of fever, she tried to walk herself into such a 
 state of bodily fatigue as would induce 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 evening made her retrace her foot- 
 steps — 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 dTsabelle, and yet avoid it and its 
 occupant till as late an hour as she dared 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 
 recommenced. 
 
 She writes thus — 
 
 "October 13th, 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 acqaintances in the family of a Dr. 
 , but they, too, are gone now. They left in the latter part of 
 
202 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 August, and I am completely alone. I cannot count the Belgians 
 anything. It is a curious position to be so utterly solitary in the 
 midst of numbers. Sometimes 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 Hdger, and gave her notice. If it had depended 
 on her, I should certainly have soon been at liberty ; but M. Hdger, 
 having heard of what was in agitation, sent for me the day after, and 
 pronounced with vehemence his decision, that I should not leave. 
 I could not, at that time, have persevered in my intention without 
 exciting him to anger ; so I promised 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-looking and pretty-behaved young 
 man, apparently constructed without a backbone ; by which I don't 
 allude to his corporal 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 glaring, and I am stupefied with a bad cold and headache. 
 I have nothing to tell you. One day is like anpther in this place. I 
 know you, living in the country, can hardly believe it is possible life 
 <;an be monotonous in the centre of a brilliant capital like Brussels ; 
 but so it is. I feel it most on holidays, when all the girls and 
 teachers go out to visit, and it sometimes happens that I am left, 
 during several hours, quite alone, with four great desolate schoolrooms 
 at my disposition. I try to read, I try to write ; but in vain. I 
 then wander about from room to room, but the silence and loneliness 
 of all the house weighs down one's spirits hke lead. You will hardly 
 believe that Madame Hdger (good and kind as I have described her) 
 never comes near me on these occasions. I own, I was astonished 
 
ESTRANGEMENT FROM MADAME HEGER. 203 
 
 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 v/hat 
 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 England ? How kind and affectionate 
 that was ! is it not odd ? In the meantime, 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 inquire after me (if any one does). Write to me, dear, 
 whenever you can. You do a good deed when you send me a letter, 
 for you comfort a very desolate heart." 
 
 One of the reasons for the silent estrangement bet»?een Madame 
 H^ger 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 Hdger, on the opposite side, was not merely a 
 Roman Catholic, she was devote. Not of a warm or impulsive 
 temperament, she was naturally governed by her conscience, rather 
 than by her affections ; and her conscience was in the hands 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 Hdger's change of manner, this 
 may be given as one great reason why, about this time, Charlotte 
 was made painfiilly conscious of a silent estrangement between them ; 
 an estrangement of which, perhaps, the former was hardly aware. I 
 have before alluded to intelligence from home, calculated to distress 
 Charlotte exceedingly with fears respecting Branwell, v/hich I shall 
 speak of more at large when the realisation of her worst appre- 
 hensions came to afiect the daily life of herself and her sisters. I 
 
2P4 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 diligent fulfilment of p;-esent 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 hereto- 
 fore done for this assistance. 
 
 She wrote thus to Emily : — 
 
 "Dec. 1st, 1843. 
 
 " This is Sunday morning. They are at their idolatrous ' messe,' 
 and I am here, that is, in the Refectoire. 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 I 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 recollections 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 Rue 
 Royale in a carriage and six, surrounded by soldiers. She was 
 laughing and talking very gaily. She looked a little, stout, vivacious 
 lady, very plainly dressed, not much dignity or pretension 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 should be of no use there — a sort of 
 
ANXIETY TO RETURN HOME. 205 
 
 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. God bless the walls thereof! Safety, health, happiness, and 
 prosperity to you, papa, and Tabby. Amen. 
 
 " C. B." 
 
 Towards the end of this year (1843) various reasons conspired 
 with the causes of anxiety which have been mentioned, to make her 
 feel that her presence was absolutely and imperatively required at 
 home, while she had acquired all that she proposed to herself in 
 coming to Brussels the second time ; and was, moreover, no longer 
 regarded with the former kindliness of feeling by Madame Heger. 
 In consequence of this state of things, working down with sharp edge 
 into a sensitive 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 she 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 presentiment 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 impractic- 
 g,ble as her tears would seem to predicate ; nay, there was sqme talk 
 of one of Madame Roger's daughters being sent to her as a pupil, if 
 she fulfilled her intention 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 
 Athdn^e Royal 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 certificate is dated December 29th, 1843, and on the 2nd of 
 January, 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 j and every one seems to expect that I should imme- 
 
2o6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 diately commence a school. In truth, it is what I should wish to do. 
 I desire it above all things. I have sufficient money for the under- 
 taking, and I hope now sufficient qualifications to give me a fair 
 chance of success ; yet I 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, I will try to deny myself in this matter, and to 
 wait. 
 
 " I suffered much before I left Brussels. I think, however long I 
 live, I shall not forget what the parting with M. H^ger 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 cer- 
 tifying my abilities as a teacher, sealed with the seal of the Ath&de 
 Royal, 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 : something 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. It is, however, my duty to restrain this feeling 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 or strong, and the 
 short journey of fourteen miles seems to have fatigued her greatly. 
 
 Soon after she came back to Haworth, in a letter to one of the 
 
KINDNESS OF HER NATURE. 207 
 
 household in which she had been staying, there occurs this passage : — 
 " Our poor httle cat has been ill two days, and is just dead. It is 
 piteous to see even an animal lying lifeless. Emily 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 towards her. The 
 deep and exaggerated consciousness of her personal defects — the 
 constitutional absence of hope, which made her slow to trust in 
 human affection, and, consequently, slow to respond to any manifes- 
 tation 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 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 kennel and 
 wags his tail, and whines affectionately when somebody 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 disturb 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 
 nature 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 aily human creature ; all her love 
 
zo8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 was reserved for animals.'' The helplessness 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 her many traits in Shirley's 
 character 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 stem 
 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 account of what Emily had 
 done. The same tawny bull-dug (with his " strangled whistle "), 
 called " Tartar " in Shirley, 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 
 bmte, 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 comfortable beds, covered over with delicate 
 white counterpanes. But the cleanUness of the parsonage arrange- 
 ments was perfect ; and this habit of " Keeper's " was so objection- 
 able, 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 galJiering 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 set mouth, but dared not speak to inter- 
 fere ; no one dared when Emily's eyes glowed in that manner out of the 
 paleness 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 
 
EMILY AND HER DOG "KEEPER." 209 
 
 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 
 attention, 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 fetch stick or rod, for fear 
 of the strangling clutch at her throat — her bare clenched fist struck 
 against his red fierce eyes, 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 accus- 
 tomed lair, to have his swollen 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, un- 
 punished 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.'' 
 
LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 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 deter- 
 mination. 
 
 " 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 begim 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 asking 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 in- 
 formed 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 ; indeed, I derived quite an impulse 
 of encouragement from the warm assurance that if I had but applied 
 a Httle sooner they would certainly have sent me their daughter. I 
 own I had 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 enclosed the diploma 
 which M. H^ger 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 
 daresay she could recommend me other pupils. Unfortunately, she 
 
PLANS FOR COMMENCING A SCHOOL. 211 
 
 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 EngUsh education at 25/. 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 I 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 her children were already at school at Liver- 
 pool ; 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 one. I 
 tell them the retired situation is, in some points of view, an advan- 
 tage ; that were it in the midst of a large town I could not pretend 
 to take pupils on terms so moderate (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 large share of 
 time and pains to each pupil. Thank you for the 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 judg- 
 ment shall dictate. You will see that I have fixed the sum at 35/., 
 which I think is the just medium, considerftig advantages and disad- 
 vantages.'' 
 
 This was written in July ; August, September, and October passed 
 away, and no pupils were to be heard of 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, aind 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 
 
212 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 pupils to be had. We have no present intention, however, of break- 
 ing 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 month 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 our 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 aspect of the place would frighten 
 her, and she would probably take the dear girl back with her, in- 
 stanter. 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 heart, secret un- 
 acknowledged feelings of relief, that their plan had not succeeded. 
 Yes ! a dull sense of relief, that their cherished 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 society 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 merrj', 
 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-seated 
 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. 
 
 Branwell, I have mentioned, had obtained the situation of a private 
 tutor. Anne was also engaged as governess in the same family, and 
 was thus a miserable witness to her brother's deterioration of character 
 at this period. Of the causes of this deterioration I cannot speak ; 
 
SAD FOREBODINGS. 213 
 
 but the consequences were these. He went home for his hohdays 
 reluctantly, 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 him- 
 self of blackest guilt and treachery, without specifying what they 
 were ; and altogether evincing an irritability of disposition bordering 
 on insanity. 
 
 Charlotte and Emily suffered acutely from his mysterious beha- 
 viour. 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 that for some time they could 
 not conjecture that anything there made him so 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 future' career. He was no longer the family 
 pride ; an indistinct dread, caused partly by his own conduct, partly 
 by expressions of agonising suspicion in Anne's letters home, 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 Httle as possible. They could not help 
 
 but think, and mourn, and wonder. 
 
 "Feb. 20th, 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 fortimate 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 perceive 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 
 offered herself; and, instead of being sorry that this wish of»many 
 
214 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 years could not be realised, she had reason to be glad. Her poor 
 father, nearly sightless, depended upon her cares in his blind helpless- 
 ness ; 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 wayward conduct was enveloped. Somehow 
 and sometime, he would have to turn to his home as a hiding place 
 for shame ; such was the sad foreboding of his sisters. Then how 
 could she be cheerful, when she was losing her dear and noble 
 " 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 character 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'll be five years hence ! ' that I 
 stopped, ani 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 this account 
 
 of her days at Haworth : — 
 
 "March 24th, 1845. 
 
 " I can hardly tell you how time gets on at Haworth. There is 
 no event whatever to mark its progress. One day resembles another ; 
 and all have heavy, lifeless physiognomies. Sunday, baking-day, and 
 Saturday, are the only ones that have any distinctive mark. Mean- 
 
HER APPREHENSION OF BLINDNESS. ■2.1'i, 
 
 time, life wears away. I shall soon be thirty ; and I have done 
 nothing yet. Sometimes 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 j 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 messengers 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, only reminded him 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 drawing and writing in her younger days, her now habitual 
 sleeplessness 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. H^ger :— 
 
 "II n'y a rien que je Grains comme le ddsceuvrement, I'inertie, la 
 Mthar^e des facultds. Quand le corps est paresseux I'esprit souffre 
 cruellement ; je ne connaitrais pas cette Idthargie, si je pouvais dcrire. 
 Autrefois je passais des journ^es, des semaines, des mois entiers h. 
 dcrire, et pas tout-k-fait sans fruit, puisque Southey et Coleridge, deux 
 de nos meilleurs auteurs, a qui j'ai envoyd certains manuscrits, en ont 
 bien voulu tdmoigner leur approbation; mais k present, j'ai la vue 
 trop faible-; si j'dcrivais beaucoup je deviendrais aveugle. Cette 
 faiblesse de vue est pour moi une terrible privation ; sans cela, savez- 
 vous ceque je ferais. Monsieur? J'dcrirais un livre et je le dddierais 
 S, mon maitre de litt^rature, au seul maitre que j'ai jamais eu — 'k vous. 
 Monsieur ! Je vous ai dit souvent en frangais combien je vous 
 respecte, combien je suis redevable k votre bont^, k vos conseils. Je 
 
2i6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 voudrais le dire une fois en anglais. Ce'la ne se peut pas;il ne 
 
 faut pas y penser. La carrifere das lettres m'est fermde 
 
 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 idde me sourit, car le souvenir de vos bont^s ne 
 s'effacera jamais de ma memoire, et tant que ce souvenir durera, le 
 respect que vous m'avez inspire durera aussi. Agrdez, Monsieur," &c. 
 
 It is probable, that even her sisters and most intimate 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 employed herself principally in knitting. 
 
 "April 2nd, 1845. 
 " I 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 to which she has so long been seeking 
 admission. Sickness, hardship, danger are her fellow-travellers — her 
 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 comparison less sensitive to physical suffering. 
 . . . . Ten years ago, I should have laughed at your account of 
 the blunder 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 single, 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 hke marble or 
 clay — cold, expressionless, bloodless ; for every appearance of feeling. 
 
FAILURE OF MR. BRONTE'S EYESIGHT. 217 
 
 of joy, sorrow, friendliness, antipathy, admiration, disgust, are alike 
 
 construed 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 shewed too much animation some 
 
 pragmatical thing in breeches might take it into his pate to imagine 
 
 that you designed to dedicate your life to his inanity. Still, a 
 
 composed, decent, equable deportment is a capital treasure tp a 
 
 woman, and that you gossess. Write again soon, for I feel rather 
 
 fierce, and want stroking down." 
 
 "June 13th, 1845. 
 
 " As to the Mrs. , who, you say, is like me, I somehow 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-acquaintance 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 diminishes weekly ; and can it be 
 wondered at that, as he sees the most precious of his faculties leaving 
 him, his spirits sometimes sink ? It is so hard to feel that his few and 
 scanty pleasures must all soon go. He has now the greatest difficulty 
 in either reading or writing ; and then he dreads the state of depen- 
 dence 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 consolation can restore his sight, or atone 
 for the want of it. Still he is never peevish ; never impatient j only 
 anxious and dejected." 
 
 For the reason just given, Charlotte declined an invitation 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 I refused you coldly, did you ? It was a queer 
 
2i8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 sort of coldness, when I would have given my ears to 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 company 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 me 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 unexpectedly 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 began 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 retained her skill in 
 the language by the habit of which she thus speaks to M. Hdger : — 
 
 " Je crains beaucoup d'oublier le frangais — ^j'apprends tous les 
 jours une demie page de frangais par coeur, et j'ai grand plaisir k 
 apprendre cette legon. Veuillez presenter \ Madame I'assurance de 
 mon estime ; je crains que Maria- Louise et Claire ne m'aient ddjk 
 oubhde; mais je vous reverrai un jour; aussitot que j'aurais gagnd 
 assez d'argent pour aller \ Bruxelles, j'y irai." 
 
 And so her journey back to Haworth, after the rare pleasure of 
 
■SORE TRIALS. 219 
 
 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 reality, 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 immediately, and for ever, all commu- 
 nication with every member of the 'family. 
 
 Whatever may have been the nature and depth of Branwell's sins 
 — ^whatever may have been his temptation, whatever his guilt, — there 
 is no doubt of the suifering which his conduct entailed upon his poor 
 father and his innocent sisters. The hopes and plans they had 
 cherished long, and laboured hard to fulfil, were cruelly frustrated ; 
 henceforward their days were embittered and the natural rest of their 
 nights destroyed by his paroxysms of remorse. Let us read of the 
 misery caused to his poor sisters in Charlotte's own affecting words : — 
 
 " 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 look after him. He has written 
 to me this morning, expressing some sense of contrition .... 
 but as long as he remains at home, I scarce dare hope for peace in 
 the house. We must all, I fear, prepare for a season of distress and 
 disquietude. When I left you, I was strongly impressed with the 
 feeling that I was going back to sorrow.'' 
 
 "August, 1845. 
 
 " Things here at home are much as usual ; not very bright as it 
 
 regards Bianwell, though his health, and consequently his temper, 
 
 have been somewhat better this last day or two, because he is now 
 
 forced to abstain." 
 
 "August i8th, 1845. 
 
 " I have delayed writing, because I have no good news to com- 
 municate. My hopes ebb low indeed about Branwell. I sometimes 
 
220 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE -BRONTE. 
 
 fear he will never be fit for much. The late blow to his prospects 
 and feelings has quite made him reckless. It is only absolute want 
 oTf 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 employment, 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 com- 
 mittee) is given to another person. Branwell still remains at home; 
 and while he is \i^xt,you shall not come. I am more confirmed in that 
 resolution 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 Leeds ;. but I think our 
 school schemes are, for the present, at rest." 
 
 "Dec. 31st, 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.'' 
 
 In fact, all their latter days blighted with the presence of cruel, 
 shameful suffering — the premature deaths of two at least of the sisters, 
 — all the great possibilities of their earthly lives snapped short, — may 
 be dated from Midsummer, 1845. 
 
 For the last three years of Branwell's life, he took opium habitually, 
 by way of stunning conscience; he drank, moreover, 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 he was dismissed from 
 his tutorship. He took opium, because it 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 professed 
 himself too ill to go — and manage to cajole the village druggist out of 
 
A TIME OF TROUBLE. 221 
 
 a lump ; or, it might be, the carrier had unsuspiciously 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 father's room, and he would sometimes declare that either 
 he or his father should be dead before the morning. The trembling 
 sisters, sick with fright, would implore their father not to expose him- 
 self 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 per- 
 petual strain upon their nerves. In the mornings young Brontii 
 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." 
 
222 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 In the course of this sad autumn of 1845, a new interest camte 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 
 writing unique, as far as I know, in its pathos and its power — she 
 says ; — 
 
 " One day in the autumn of 1845, I accidentally lighted on a MS. 
 volume of verse, in my sister Emily's handwriting. Of coiu-se, 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, vigor- 
 ous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, 
 melancholy, and elevating. My sister Emily was not a person 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 publica- 
 tion. . . . Meantime, my younger sister quietly produced some of 
 her own compositions, intimating that since Emil/s had given 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. . . . We agreed to arrange a small selection of 
 our poems, and, if possible, get them printed. Averse to personal 
 publicity, we veiled our ciwn names under those of Currer, Ellis, and 
 
THE SISTERS' POEMS. 
 
 223 
 
 Acton Bell ; the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of con- 
 scientious scruple at assuming Christian names positively 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 ' feminine,' — we had a vague impression that authoresses 
 are liable to be looked on with prejudice ; we noticed how critics 
 sometimes 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 pre- 
 pared 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 applied. Being 
 greatly harassed by this obstacle, I ventured to apply to the Messrs. 
 Chambers, of Edinburgh, for a word of advice ; iAey may have for- 
 gotten the circumstance, but / 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 the correspondence. 
 
 There is an intelHgent man living in Haworth, who has given me 
 some interesting particulars relating to the sisters about this period. 
 He says : — 
 
 " I have known Miss Bronte, as Miss Bronte, a long time ; indeed, 
 ever since they came to Haworth in 18 19. 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. 
 [ 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 ten 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 al>vays short of that. I did so like them 
 
224 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 to come when I had anything for them ; they were so much different 
 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 feelingly ! . . . . 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 application 
 for the production of " Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell's Poems," were 
 Messrs. Aylott and Jones, Paternoster Row. Mr. Aylott has kindly 
 placed the letters which she wrote to them on the subject at my dis- 
 posal. The first is dated January 28th, 1846, and in it she inquires if 
 they will publish one volume octavo of poems j 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 31st she writes again : — 
 
 " Gentlemen, 
 
 " 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 printing. 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 cha- 
 racter; 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 immediately. 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." 
 
THE SISTERS' POEMS. 225 
 
 She writes again on February isth; and on the i6th she says: — 
 
 "The MS. will certainly form a thinner volume than I had 
 anticipated. I cannot name another model which I should Uke it 
 precisely to resemble, yet, I think, a duodecimo form, and a some- 
 what reduced, though still clear type, would be preferable. I only 
 stipulate for dear type, not too small, and good paper." 
 
 On February 21st she selects the "long primer type" for the 
 poems, and will remit 31/. \os. 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 negotiation should make herself ac- 
 quainted 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- 
 knowledge — no trusting to other people for decisions which she could 
 make for herself; and yet a generous and full confidence, not mis- 
 placed, in the thorough probity of Messrs. Aylott and Jones. The 
 caution in ascertaining the risk before embarking in the enterprise, 
 and the prompt payment of the money 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 any one, 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 W . 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 : — 
 
 "Jan. 30th, 1846. 
 
 " My dear Miss W , 
 
 " I HAVE not yet paid my visit to ; it is, indeed, more than 
 
 a year since I was there, but I frequently hear 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 
 
 Q 
 
226 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 should havd 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 con- 
 fess 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 niany 
 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 acting 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 still, and take the con- 
 sequences. 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 us occasionally by what appear to us unreasonable and head- 
 strong notions. 
 
 " You, my dear Miss W , know, full as well as I do, the value 
 
 of sisters' affection to each 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 Branwell; he never 
 thinks of seeking employment, and I begin to fear that he has rendered 
 himself incapable 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 destroyed in him. 
 You ask me if I do not think that men are strange beings ? I do, 
 indeed. I have often thought so ; and I think, too, that the mode of 
 bringing them up is strange : they are not suflSciently guarded from 
 temptation. Girls are protected as if they were something very frail 
 or silly 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 Broomsgrove, though, I daresay, there 
 
LETTER TO MISS W . 227 
 
 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 your- 
 self, because it proves that there really is such a thing as retributive 
 justice 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 women 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 
 forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession a well-regulated mind, 
 a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, and fortitude to support 
 inevitable pains, sympathy with the sufferings of others,, and willing- 
 ness to relieve want as far as her means extend." 
 
 During the time that the negotiation with Messrs. Aylott and Co. 
 was going on, Charlotte went to visit her old school-friend, with whom 
 she was in such habits of confidential 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 
 Magazines ; and in this idea she was confirmed when, on one of her 
 visits to Haworth, she saw Anne with a number of Chamber^ s Journal, 
 and a gentle smile of pleasure stealing over her placid face as she 
 read. 
 
 " What 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 ftiend Charlotte addressed the following ktters : — 
 
 " March 3rd, 1846. 
 
 "I reached home a little after two o'clock, all safe and right, 
 yesterday ; I found papa very well ; his sight mudi the same. Emily 
 and Anne were gone to Keighley to meet me : unfortunately, I had 
 
 *o 2 
 
328 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 my report of 
 Mr. C.'s opinion, and of old Mrs. E.'s experience ; but I could per- 
 ceive 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 in 
 "vain. I hear that he got a sovereign while I have been away, under 
 pretence of paying a pressing debt ; he went immediately and changed 
 it at a public-house, and has employed it as was to be expected. 
 
 concluded her account by saying he was a '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 31st, 1846. 
 
 " Our poor old servant Tabby had a sort of fit, a fortnight 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 par- 
 sonage,) " 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 Record you sent I read 
 
 D'Aubignd's letter. It is clever, and in what he says about Catholicism 
 very good. The Evangelical Alliance part is not very practicable, yet 
 certainly it is more in accordance with the spirit of the Gospel to 
 preach unity among Christians than to inculcate mutual intolerance 
 
 and hatred. I am very glad I went to when I did, for the 
 
 changed weather has somewhat 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 is no change but for 
 the worse." 
 
 Meanwhile the printing of the volume of poems was quietly pro- 
 ceeding. After some consultation and deliberation, the sisters had 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE PUBLISHERS. 22q 
 
 determined to correct the proofs themselves. Up to March 28th the 
 publishers had addressed their correspondent as C. Bronte, Esq.; but 
 at this time some " little mistake occurred," and she desired Messrs. 
 Aylott and Co. in fuUire to direct to her rSal address, " Miss Bronte," 
 &c. She had, however, evidently left it to be implied that she was 
 not acting on her own behalf, but as agent for the real authors, since 
 in a note dated April 6th, she makes a proposal on behalf of " C, E., 
 and A. Bell," which is to the following effect : that they are preparing 
 for the press a work of fiction, consisting of three distinct and uncon- 
 nected tales, which may be published either together, as a work of 
 three volumes, of the ordinary novel size, or separately, 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 be disposed to undertake the work, after having, 
 of course, by a due inspection of the MS., ascertained that its con- 
 tents are such as to warrant an expectation of success. To this letter 
 of inquiry the publishers replied speedily, and the tenor of their 
 answer may be gathered from Charlotte's, dated April i ith : — 
 
 " 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 informa- 
 tion 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 pubhsher be most likely to accept the MS. ? Whether 
 offered as a work of three vols., or as tales which might be published 
 in numbers, or as contributions to a periodical ? 
 
 " What publishers would be most likely to receive favourably a 
 proposal of this nature ? 
 
 " Would it suffice to write to a pubhsher on the subject, or would 
 it be necessary to have recourse to a personal interview ? 
 
 " 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 
 
230 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 the truthfulness and probity of the firm of publishers with whom she 
 had to deal in this her first literary venture, were 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 be 
 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 in cloth. Have the goodness 
 to send copies and advertisements, as early as possible, to each of the 
 undermentioned periodicals : 
 
 " Colburris New Monthly Magazine. 
 
 " Bentley's Magazine. 
 
 " Hood's Magazine. 
 
 " jFerrold's Shilling Magazine. 
 
 " Blackwoods Magazine. 
 
 " The Edinburgh Review. 
 
 " Taifs Edinburgh Magazine. 
 
 " The Dubli7i University Magazine. 
 
 " Also to the Daily News and to the Britannia newspapers. 
 
 " If there are any other periodicals to which you have been in 
 the habit of sending copies of works, let them be supplied also 
 with copies. I think those I have mentioned will suffice for adver- 
 tising." 
 
 In compliance with this latter request, Messrs. Aylott suggest that 
 copies and advertisements of the work should be sent to the Athaimum, 
 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, esteeming the 
 success of a work dependent more on the notice it receives from 
 periodicals than on the quantity of advertisements. 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 periodicals in which such notices appear ; as other- 
 
REVIEW IN THE '• ATHEN^UM." 231 
 
 wise, since she has not the opportunity of Seeing periodicals regularly, 
 she may miss reading the critique. " Should the poems be remarked 
 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 pubhshed 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. 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 17th, Charlotte 
 writes : — 
 
 " Branwell declares that he neither can nor will do anything for 
 himself j 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 ElUs " 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 is placed midway between Ellis and Acton. But there is 
 little in the review to strain 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 opinions, or hints for the future guidance of their 
 talents. 
 
 I call particular attention to the following, letter of Charlotte's, 
 dated July loth, 1846. To whom it was written, matters not ; but 
 the wholesome sense of duty in it — the sense of the supremacy of 
 that duty which God, in placing us in famiKes, has laid out for us, 
 seems to deserve especial regard in these days : — 
 
232 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " I see you are in a dilemma, and one of a peculiar and difficult 
 nature. Two paths lie before you ; you conscientiously wish to 
 choose the right one, even though it be the most steep, strait, 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 present, every prospect of independency 
 for yourself, and putting up with daily inconvenience, 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 happiness, 
 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 hei", 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 
 myself." 
 
 The remainder of this letter is only interesting to the reader as it 
 conveys a peremptory disclaimer of the report that the writer was 
 engaged to be married to her father's curate — the very same gentleman 
 to whom, eight years afterwards, she was united ; and who, probably, 
 even now, although 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 behalf of 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH MESSRS. AYLOTT. 233 
 
 the Messrs. Bell" with Mr. Aylott. On July isth 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 anyt, or how many copies have yet been 
 sold?" 
 
 But few, I fear ; for, three days later, she wrote the following : — 
 
 " The Messrs. Bell desire me to thank you for your suggestion 
 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 inibrmation 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 autographs from a person who 
 professed to have read and admired their poems. I think I before 
 intimated, that the Messrs. Bell are desirous for the present of 
 remaining unknown, 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 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 publication. " 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 favour- 
 able criticism ; but I must retain it notwithstanding." 
 
234 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 During this summer of 1846, while her literary hopes were waning, 
 an anxiety- of another kind was increasing. Her father's eyesight 
 had become seriously impaired by the progress of the cataract which 
 was forming. He was nearly blind. He could grope his way about, 
 and recognise the figures of those he knew well, when they were 
 placed against a strong light ; but he could no longer see to read ; 
 and thus his eager appetite for knowledge and information of all 
 kinds was severely baulked. He continued to preach. I have heard 
 that he was led up into the pulpit, and that his sermons were never 
 so effective as when he stood there, a grey sightless old man, his 
 blind eyes looking out straight before him, while the words that came 
 from his lips had all the vigour and force of his best days. Another 
 fact has been mentioned to me, curious as showing the accurateness 
 of his sensation of time. His sermons had always lasted exactly 
 half an hour. With the clock right before him, and with his ready 
 flow of words, this had been no difficult matter so long as he could 
 see. But it was the same when he was blind j as the minute-hand 
 came to the point, marking the expiration of the thirty minutes, he 
 concluded his sermon. 
 
 Under his great sorrow he was always patient. As in times of 
 far greater affliction, he enforced a quiet endurance of his woe upon 
 himself. But so many interests were quenched by this blindness 
 that he was driven inwards, and must have dwelt much on what was 
 painful and distressing in regard to his only son. No wonder that 
 his spirits gave way, and were depressed. For some time before this 
 autumn, his daughters had been collecting all the information they 
 could respecting the probable success of operations for cataract 
 
AT MANCHESTER. 235 
 
 performed on a person of their father's age. About the end of July, 
 Emily and Charlotte had made a jojimey 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, Char- 
 lotte brought her father to him. He determined at once to undertake 
 the operation, and recommended them to comfortable lodgings kept 
 by an old servant of his. These were in one of numerous similar 
 streets of small monotonous-looking houses, in a suburb of the town. 
 From thence the following letter is dated, on August 21st, 1846 : — 
 
 " I just scribble a line to you to let you know where I am, in 
 
 order that you may write to me here, for it seems to me that a letter 
 
 from you would relieve me from the feeling of strangeness I have in 
 
 this big town. Papa and I came here on Wednesday ; we saw 
 
 Mr. Wilson, the oculist, the same day ; he pronounced papa's eyes 
 
 quite ready for an operation, and has fixed next Monday for the 
 
 performance of it. Think of us on that day ! We got into our 
 
 lodgings yesterday. I think we shall be cgmfortable ; at least, our 
 
 rooms are very good, but there is no mistress of the house (she is 
 
 very ill, and gone out into the country), and I am somewhat puzzled 
 
 in managing about provisions ; we board ourselves. I find myself 
 
 excessively ignorant. I can't tell what to order in. the way of meat. 
 
 For ourselves I could contrive, papa's diet is so very simple ; but 
 
 there will be a nurse coming in a day or two, and I am afraid of not 
 
 having things good enough for her. Papa requires nothing, you 
 
 know, but plain beef and mutton, tea and bread and butter ; but a 
 
 nurse will probably expect to live much better ; give me some hints, 
 
 ' if you can. Mr. Wilson says we shall have to stay here for a month 
 
 at least. -I wonder how Emily and Anne will get on at home with 
 
 Branwell. They, too, will have their troubles. What would I not 
 
 give to have'you here ! One is forced, step by step, to get experience 
 
 in the world ; but the learning is so disagreeable. One cheerful 
 
 feature in the business is that Mr. Wilson thinks most favourably of 
 
 the case." 
 
 "August 26th, 1846. 
 
 " The operation is over ; it took place yesterday. Mr. Wilson 
 
236 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 performed it; Wo other surgeons assisted. Mr. Wilson says he 
 considers it quite successful; but papa cannot yet see anything. 
 The affair lasted precisely a quarter of an hour; it was not the 
 simple operation of couching, Mr. C. described, but the more com- 
 plicated one of extracting the cataract. Mr. Wilson entirely dis- 
 approves of couching. Papa displayed extraordinary patience and 
 firmness ; ' the surgeons seemed surprised. I was in the room all the 
 time, as it was his wish that I should be there ; of course, I neither 
 spoke nor moved till the thing was done, and then I felt that the less 
 I said, either to papa or the surgeons, the better. Papa is now 
 confined to his bed in a dark room, and is not to be stirred for four 
 days ; he is to speak and be spoken to as little as possible. I am 
 greatly obliged to you for your letter, and your kind advice, which 
 gave me extreme satisfaction, because I found I had arranged most 
 things in accordance with it, and, as your theory coincides with my 
 practice, I feel assured the latter is right. I hope Mr. Wilson will 
 soon allow me to dispense with the nurse ; she is well enough, no 
 doubt, but somewhat too obsequious; and not, I should think, 
 ,to be much trusted ; yet I was obliged to trust her in some 
 things. . . . 
 
 " Greatly was I amused by your account of 's flirtations ; and 
 
 yet something saddened also. I think Nature intended him for 
 something better than to fritter away his time in making a set of 
 poor, unoccupied spinsters unhappy. The girls, unfortunately, are 
 forced to care for him, and such as him, because while their minds 
 are mostly unemployed, their sensations are all unworn, and, conse- 
 quently, fresh and green ; and he, on the contrary, has had his fill of 
 pleasure, and can with impunity make a mere pastime of other 
 people's torments. This is an unfair state of things ; the match is 
 not equal. I only wish I had the power to infuse into the souls of 
 the persecuted a little of the quiet strength of pride — of the supporting 
 consciousness of superiority (for they are superior to him because 
 purer) — of the fortifying resolve of firmness to bear the present, and 
 
 wait the end. Could all the virgin population of receive and 
 
 retain these sentiments, he would continually have to vail his crest 
 before them. Perhaps, luckily, their feelings are not so acute as one 
 would think, and the gentleman's shafts consequently don't wound so 
 deeply as he might desire. I hope it is so." 
 
"THE PROFESSOR." 237 
 
 A few days later, she writes thus : " Papa is still lying in bed, in 
 a dark room, with his eyes bandaged. No inflammation ensued, but 
 still it appears the greatest care, perfect quiet, and utter privation of 
 light are necessary to ensure a good result from the operation. He 
 is very patient, but, of course, depressed and weary. He was 
 allowed to -try his sight for the first time yesterday. He could see 
 dimly. Mr. Wilson seemed perfectly satisfied, and said all was 
 right. I have had bad nights from the toothache since I came to 
 Manchester." 
 
 All this time, notwithstanding the domestic anxieties which were 
 harassing them — ^notwithstanding the ill-success of their poems — the 
 three sisters were trying that other Uterary venture, to which Charlotte 
 made allusion in one of her letters to the Messrs. Aylott. Each of 
 them had written a prose tale, hoping that the three might be 
 published together. Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey are before 
 the world. The third. The Professor — Charlotte's contribution — 
 was published shortly after the appearance of the first edition of this 
 Memoir. ' The plot in itself is of no great interest ; but it is a poor 
 kind of interest that depends upon startling incidents rather than 
 upon dramatic development of character; and Charlotte Bronte 
 never excelled one or two sketches of portraits which she has given 
 in The Professor, nor, in grace of womanhood, ever surpassed one of 
 the female characters there described. By the time she wrote this 
 tale, her taste and judgment had revolted against the exaggerated 
 idealisms of her early girlhood, and she went to the extreme of reality, 
 closely depicting characters^ as they had shown themselves to her in 
 actual life : if there they were strong even to coarseness, — as was the 
 case with some that she had met with in flesh and blood existence, — 
 she " wrote them down an ass ; " if the scenery of such life as she 
 saw was for the most part wild and grotesque, instead of pleasant or 
 picituresque, she described it line for line. The grace of the one or 
 two scenes and characters, which are drawn rather from her own 
 imagination than from absolute fact, stahd 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 
 
238 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 pubUsher, on the very day when her 
 father was to submit to his operation. But she had the heart of 
 Robert Bruce within her, and failure upon failure daunted her no 
 more than him. Not only did The Professor return again to try his 
 chance among the London publishers, but she began, in this time of 
 care and depressing inquietude, — in those grey, weary, uniform streets, 
 where all faces, save that of her kind doctor, were strange and 
 untouched with sunlight to her, — there and then did the brave genius 
 begin Jane Eyre. Read what she herself says : — " Currer Bell's book 
 found acceptance nowhere, nor any acknowledgment of merit, so 
 that something like the chill of despair began to invade his heart" 
 And remember, it was not the heart of a person who, disappointed 
 in one hope, can turn with redoubled affection to the many certain 
 blessings that remain. Think of her home, and the black shadow of 
 remorse lying over one in it, till his very brain was mazed, and his 
 gifts and his life were lost ; — think of her father's sight hanging on a 
 thread ; — of her sister's delicate health, and dependence on her care ; 
 — and then admire, as it deserves to be admired, the steady courage 
 which could work away at Jafie Eyre, all the time " that the one- 
 volume tale was plodding its weary round in London." 
 
 Some of her surviving friends consider that an incident which she 
 
 heard, when at school at Miss W 's, was the germ of the story of 
 
 Jane Eyre. But of this nothing can be known, except by conjecture. 
 Those to whom she spoke upon the subject of her writings are dead 
 and silent ; and the reader may probably have noticed, that in the 
 correspondence from which I have quoted, there has been no allusion 
 whatever to the publication of her poems, nor is there the least hint 
 of the intention of the sisters to publish any tales. I remember, 
 however, many little particulars which Miss Bronte gave me, in 
 answer to my inquiries respecting her mode of composition, &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 h§r, in distinct vision. When this was the 
 
HOUSEKEEPING AT THE PARSONAGE. 239 
 
 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 Kfe itself. Yet notwithstanding this 
 " possession " (as it were), those who survive, of her daily and house- 
 hold companions, are clear in their testimony, that never was the 
 claim of any duty, never was the call of another for help, neglected 
 for an instant. It had become necessary to give Tabby — now nearly 
 eighty years of age — the assistance of a girl. Tabby relinquished 
 any of her work with jealous reluctance, and could not bear to be 
 reminded, though ever so deUcately, that the acuteness of her senses 
 was dulled by age. The other servant might not interfere with what 
 she chose to consider her exclusive work. Among other things, she 
 reserved to herself the right of peeling the potatoes for^ dinner ; but 
 as she was growing blind, she often left in those black specks, which 
 we in the North call the " eyes " of the potato. Miss Bronte was 
 too dainty a housekeeper to put up with this, yet she could not bear 
 to hurt the faithful old servant, by bidding the younger maiden go 
 over the potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby that her work was 
 less effectual than formerly. Accordingly she would steal into the 
 kitchen, and quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables, without Tabby's 
 being aware, and breaking off in the full flow of interest and inspir- 
 ation in her writing, carefully cut out the specks in the potatoes, and 
 noiselessly carry them back to their place. This Uttle proceeding 
 may show how orderly and fully she accomplished her duties, even 
 at those times when the " possession " was upon her. 
 
 Any one who has studied her writings, whether in print or in 
 her letters ; any one who has enjoyed the rare privilege of listening 
 to her talk, must have noticed her singular felicity in the choice of 
 words. She herself, in writing her books, was soHcitous on this 
 point. One set of words was the truthful mirror of her thoughts ; no 
 others, however apparently identical in meaning, would do. She had 
 that strong practical regard for the simple holy truth of expression, 
 which Mr. Trench has enforced as a duty too often neglected. She 
 would wait patiently, searching for the right term, until it presented 
 itself to her. It might be provincial, it might be derived from the 
 Latin ; so that it accurately represented her idea, she did not mind 
 whence it came j but this care makes her style present the finish of a 
 
24-0 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 piece of mosaic. Each component part, however small, has been 
 dropped into the right place. She never wrote down a sentence 
 until she clearly understood what she wanted to say, had deliberately 
 chosen the words, and arranged them in their right order. Hence it 
 comes that, in the scraps of paper covered with her pencil-writing 
 which I have seen, there will occasionally be a sentence scored put, 
 but seldom, if ever, a word or an expression. She wrote on these 
 bits of paper in a minute hand, holding each against a piece of 
 board, such as is uSed in binding books, for a desk. This plan was 
 necessary for one so short-sighted as she was ; and, besides, it enabled 
 her to use pencil and paper, as she sat near the fire in the twilight 
 hours, or if (as was too often the case) she was wakeful for hours in 
 the night. Her finished manuscripts were copied from these pencil 
 scraps, in clear, legible, delicate-traced writing, almost as easy to read 
 as print. 
 
 The sisters retained the old habit, which was begim in their 
 aunt's lifetime, of putting away their work at nine o'clock, and com- 
 mencing their study, pacing up and down the sitting-room. At this 
 time, they talked over the stories they were engaged upon, and 
 described their plots. Once or twice a week, each read to the others 
 what she had written, and heard what they had to say about it 
 Charlotte told me, that the remarks made had seldom any effect in 
 inducing her to alter her work, so possessed was she with the feeling 
 that she had described reality ; but the readings were of great and 
 stirring interest to all, taking them out of the gnawing pressure of 
 daily-recurring cares, and setting them in a free place. It was on one 
 of these occasions that Charlotte determined to make her heroine 
 plain small, and unattractive, in defiance of the accepted canon. 
 
 The writer of the' beautiful obituary article on " the death of 
 Currer Bell," most likely, learnt from herself what is there stated, and 
 which I will take the liberty of quoting, about "Jane Eyre." 
 
 " She once told her sisters that they were wrong — even morally 
 wrong — in making their heroines beautiful as a matter of course. 
 They replied that it was impossible to make a heroine interesting on 
 any other tenns. Her answer was, ' I will prove to you that you are 
 wrong ; I will show you a heroine as plain and as small as myself, 
 who shall be as interesting as any of yours. Hence " Jane Eyre," 
 said she, in telling the anecdote : ' but she is not myself, any further 
 
RETURN HOME. 241 
 
 than that' As the work went on, the interest deepened to the 
 writer. When she came to * Thofnfield ' 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 expedition 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 comfortably while she was 
 away than Charlotte had dared to hope, and she expresses herself 
 thankful for the good insured and the evil spared during her absence. 
 
 Soon after this some proposal, of which I have not been able to 
 gain a clear account, was again mooted for Miss Bronte's opening a 
 school at some place distant from Haworth. It elicited the following 
 fragment of a characteristic reply : — 
 
 " Leave home ! — I shall neither be able to find place nor employ- 
 ment ; perhaps, too, I shall be quite past the prime of life, my 
 faculties will be rusted, and my few acquirements in a great measure 
 forgotten. These ideas sting me keenly sometimes ; but, whenever I 
 consult my conscience, it affirms that I am doing right in staying at 
 home, and bitter are its upbraidings when I yield to an eager desire 
 for release. I could hardly expect success if I were to err against 
 such warnings. I should like to hear from you again soon. Bring 
 
 to the point, and make him give you a clear, not a vague, 
 
 account of what pupils he really could promise ; people often think 
 they can do great things in that way till they have tried ; but getting 
 pupils is unlike getting any other sort of goods." 
 
 Whatever might be the nature and extent of this negotiation, the 
 end of it was that Charlotte adhered to the decision of her conscience, 
 which bade her remain at home, as long as her presence could cheer 
 or comfort those who were in distress, or had the slightest influence 
 
242 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 over him who was the cause of it. The next extract gives us a glimpse 
 into the cares of that home. It is from a letter dated December , 
 
 iSth :— 
 
 " I hope you are not frozen up : the cold here is dreadful. I do 
 not remember such a series of North-Pole days. England might 
 really have taken a sUde up into the Arctic Zone; the sky looks like 
 ice ; the earth is frozen ; the wind is as keen as a two-edged blade. 
 We have all had severe colds and coughs in consequence of the 
 weather. Poor Anne has suffered greatly from asthma, but is now, 
 we are glad to say, rather better. She had two nights last week when 
 her cough and difficulty of breathing were painful indeed to hear and 
 witness, and must have been most distressing to suffer ; she bore it, as 
 she bears all affliction, without one complaint, only sighing now and 
 then when nearly worn out. She has an extraordinary heroism of 
 endurance. I admire, but I certainly could not imitate her." . . . 
 "You say I am to 'tell you plenty.' What would you have me say? 
 Nothing hapj)ens 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 does for us to 
 witness, you will scarcely thank me for adverting to it It was merely the 
 arrival of a sheriff's officer on a visit to B., inviting him either to pay 
 his debts or take a trip to York. Of course his debts had to be paid. 
 It is not agreeable to lose money, time after time, in this way ; but 
 where is the use of dwelling on such subjects ? It wiU make him no 
 better." 
 
 " December 28tli. 
 
 " 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 re- 
 mark 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 
 
THE CLOSE OF 1846. 243 
 
 acquaintance. I can understand and sympathise with this. 1 remem- 
 ber 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 daresay, I should spit fire and explode sometimes if we 
 lived together continually ; and you, too, would get angry, and then 
 we should get reconciled and jog on as before. Do you ever get dis- 
 satisfied 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 demonstrative and vehement. I 
 almost long for some of the uniform serenity you described in Mrs. 
 's disposition ; or, at least, I would fain have her power of self- 
 control and concealment ; but I would not take her artificial habits 
 and ideas along with her composure. After all I should prefer being 
 as I am. . . . You do right not to be annoyed at any maxims of 
 conventionality you meet with. Regard all new ways in the light of 
 fresh experience for you : if you see any honey, gather it." . . . 
 " I don't, after all, consider that we ought to despise everything we 
 see in the world, merely because it is not what we are accustomed to. 
 I suspect, on the contrary, that there are not unfrequently substantial 
 reasons underneath for customs that appear to us absurd ; and if I 
 were ever again to find myself amongst strangers, I should be soli- 
 citous to examine before I condemned. Indiscriminating irony and 
 fault-finding are just sumfhishness, and that is all. Anne is now much 
 better, but papa has been for near a fortnight far from well with the 
 influenzaj he has at times a most distressing cough, and his spirits are 
 much depressed." 
 
 So ended the year 1846. 
 
 R2 
 
244 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The next year opened with a spell of cold dreary weather, which told 
 severely on a constitution already tried by anxiety and care. Miss 
 Bronte describes herself as having utterly lost her appetite, and as 
 looking " grey, old, worn, and sunk," from her sufferings during the in- 
 clement season. The cold brought on severe toothache; toothache was 
 the cause of a succession of restless miserable nights; and long wake- 
 fulness told acutely upon her nerves, making them feel with redoubled 
 sensitiveness all the harass of her oppressive life. Yet she would not 
 allow herself to lay her bad health to the charge of an uneasy mind ; 
 " for after all," said she at this time, " I have many, many things to 
 be thankful for.'' But the real state of things may be gathered from 
 the following extracts from her letters : — 
 
 " March ist. 
 
 " Even at the risk of appearing very exacting, I can't help saying 
 that I should like a letter as long as your last, every time you write. 
 Short notes give one the feeling of a very small piece of a very good 
 thing to eat, — they set the appetite on edge, and don't satisfy it, — a 
 letter leaves you more contented ; and yet, after all, I am very glad 
 to get notes ; so don't think, when you are pinched for time and 
 materials, that it is useless to write a few lines ; be assured, a few 
 lines are very acceptable as far as they go ; and though I like long 
 letters, I would by no means have you to make a task of writing 
 them. ... I really should like you to come to Haworth, before I 
 
 again go to B . And it is natural and right that I should have 
 
 this wish. To keep friendship in proper order, the balance of good 
 offices must be preserved, other^vise a disquieting and anxious feeling 
 creeps in, and destroys mutual comfort. In summer and in fine 
 
FAMILY TRIALS. 245 
 
 weather, your visit here might be much better managed than in 
 wmter. We could go out more, be more independent of the house and 
 of our room. Branwell has been conducting himself very badly lately. 
 I expect, from the extravagance of his behaviour, and from mysterious 
 hints he drops (for he never will speak out plainly), that we shall be 
 hearing news of fresh debts contracted by him soon. My health is 
 better : I lay the blame of its feebleness on the cold weather, more 
 than on an uneasy mind." 
 
 "March 24th, 1847. 
 
 " It is at Haworth, if all be well, that we must next see each other 
 again. I owe you a grudge for giving Miss W some very exag- 
 gerated account about my not being well, and setting her on to urge 
 my leaving home as quite a duty. I'll take care not to tell you next 
 time, when I think I am looking specially old and ugly ; as if people 
 could not have that privilege, without being supposed to be at the 
 last gasp ! I shall be thirty-one next birthday. My youth is gone 
 like a dream ; and very little use have I ever made of it. What have 
 I done these last thirty years ? Precious little." 
 
 The quiet, sad year stole on. The sisters were contemplating near 
 at hand, and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused 
 and faculties abused in the person of that brother, once their fond 
 darling and dearest pride- They had to cheer the poor old father, in 
 whose heart all trials sank the deeper, because of the silent stoicism 
 of his endurance. They had to watch over his health, of which, 
 whatever was its state, he seldom complained. They had to save, 
 as much as they could, the precious remnants of his sight. They 
 had to order the frugal household with increased care, so as to supply 
 wants and expenditure utterly foreign to their self-denying natures. 
 Though they shrank from over-much 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, jFane Eyre was making pro- 
 gress. The Professor was passing slowly, and heavily from publisher 
 
246 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 dur- 
 ing these same summer months, was the hope that the friend to 
 whom so many of Charlotte's letters are addressed, and who was her 
 chosen companion, whenever circumstances permitted them to be 
 together, as well as a favourite with Eniily 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, having got to the end of a 
 considerable sum of money which he became possessed of in the 
 spring, and therefore under the wholesome restriction of poverty. 
 But Charlotte warns her friend that she must expect to find a change 
 in his appearance, and that he is broken in mind ; and ends her note 
 of entreating invitation by saying, "I pray for fine weather, -that we 
 may get out while you stay.'' 
 
 At length the day was fixed. 
 
 " Friday will suit us very well. I do trust nothing wiU now arise 
 to prevent your coming. I shall be anxious about the. Weather on 
 that day; if it rains, I shall cry. Don't expect ine to 'tiieet you j 
 where would be the good of it? I neither like to meet tior tt) be met. 
 Unless, indeed, you had a box or a basket for me to carry ; then 
 there would be some sense in it. Come in black, blue, pink, white, 
 or scarlet, as you like. Come shabby or smart ; neither the colour 
 
 nor the condition signifies ; provided only the dress contain E , 
 
 all will be right." 
 
 But there come the first of a series of disappointments to be borne. 
 One feels how sharp it must have been to have wrung out the follow- 
 ing words :■ — 
 
 "May 20th. > 
 
 "Your letter of yesterday did indeed give me a cruel chill of dis- 
 appointment. I cannot blime 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 tfie place 
 
 till you have been to Haworth. My respects to all and sundry. 
 
REJECTION OF "THE PROFESSOR." 247 
 
 accompanied with a large amount of wormwood and gall, from the 
 effusion of which you and your mother are alone excepted. — C. B. 
 
 " You are quite at liberty to tell what I think, if you judge proper. 
 Though it is true I may be somewhat unjust, for I am deeply annoyed. 
 I thought I had arranged your visit tolerably comfortable for you this 
 time. I may find it more difficult on another occasion." 
 
 I must give one sentence from a letter written about this time, as 
 it shows distinctly the clear strong sense of the writer : — 
 
 " I was amused by what she says respecting her wish that, when 
 she marries, her husband will, at least, have a will of his own, even 
 should he be a tyrant. Tell her, when she forms that aspiration 
 again, she must make it conditional : if her husband has a strong 
 will he must also have strong sense, a kind heart, and a thoroughly 
 correct notion of justice ; because a man with a weak brain and a 
 strong will, is merely an intractable brute ; you can have no hold of 
 him ; you can never lead him right. A tyrajit under any circum- 
 stances is a curse.'' 
 
 Meanwhile, The Professor had met with many refusals from differ- 
 ent publishers ; some, I have reason to believe, not over-courteously 
 worded in writing to an unknown author, and none alleging any dis- 
 tinct reasons for its rejection. Courtesy is always due ; but it is, per- 
 haps, hardly to be expected that, in the press of business in a great 
 publishing house, they should find time to explain why they decline 
 particular works. Yet, though one course of action is not to be 
 wondered at, the opposite may fall upon a grieved and disappointed 
 mind with all the graciousness of dew j and I can well sympathise 
 with the published account which " Currer Bell " gives, of the feelings , 
 experienced on reading Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co.'s letter contain- 
 ing the rejection of The Professor. 
 
 " As a forlorn hope, we tried one pubUshing house more. Ere 
 long, in a much shorter space than that on which experience had 
 taught him to calculate, there came a letter, which he opened in the 
 dreary anticipation of finding two hard, hopeless lines, intimating that 
 ' Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. were not disposed to pubhsh the MS.,' 
 and, instead, he took out of the envelope a letter of two pages. He 
 read it trembling. It declined, indeed, to publish that tale for busi- 
 
248 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ness reasons, but it discussed its merits and demerits so courteously, 
 so considerately, in a spirit so rational, with a discrimination so en- 
 lightened, that this very refusal cheered the author better than a vul- 
 garly-expressed acceptance would have done. It was added, that a 
 work in three volumes would meet with careful attention." 
 
 Mr. Smith has told me a little circumstance connected with the 
 reception of this manuscript, which seems to me indicative of no 
 ordinary character. It came (accompanied by the note given below) 
 in a brown paper parcel, to 65, Comhill. Besides the address to 
 Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., there were on it those of other publishers 
 to whom the tale had been sent, not obliterated, but simply scored 
 through, so that Mr. 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 isth, 1847. 
 
 "Gentlemen, — I beg to submit to your consideration the accom- 
 panying manuscript. I should be glad to learn whether it be such as 
 you approve, and would undertake to publish at as early a period as 
 possible. Address Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss Bronte, 
 Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire.'' 
 
 Some time elapsed before an answer was returned. 
 
 A little circumstance may be mentioned here, though it belongs to 
 a somewhat earlier period, as showing Miss 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 apologize for it. 
 
 " To Messrs. Smith and Elder. 
 
 "August 2nd, 1847. 
 " Gentlemen, — About three weeks since, I sent for your considera- 
 tion a MS. entitled ' The Professor, a tale by Currer Bell." I should 
 be glad to know whether it reached your hands safely, and likewise to 
 
CORRESPONDENCE WITH HER PUBUSHERS. 249 
 
 learn, at your earliest convenience, whether it be such as you can 
 undertake to publish. — I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 "CuRRER Bell. 
 " I enclose a directed cover for your reply." 
 
 This time her note met with a prompt answer ; for, four days later, 
 she writes (in reply to the letter which she afterwards characterized iu 
 the Preface to the second edition of Wuthering Heights, as containinjj 
 a refusal so delicate, reasonable, and courteous, as to be more cheer- 
 ing than some acceptances) : 
 
 " Your objection to the want of varied interest in the tale is, I am 
 aware, not without grounds ; yet it appears to me that it might be 
 published without serious risk, if its appearance were speedily followed 
 up by another work from the same pen, of a more striking and excit- 
 ing character. The first work might 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 completed, to which I 
 have endeavoured to impart a more vivid interest than belongs to The 
 Professor. In about a month I hope to finish it, so that if a pubhsher 
 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. The;/ 
 were out on the moors for the greater part of the day, basking in the 
 golden sunshine, which was bringing on an unusual plenteousness of 
 harvest, for which, somewhat later, Charlotte expressed her earnest 
 desire that there should be a thanksgiving service in all the churches, 
 August was the season of glory for the neighbourhood of Haworth. 
 Even the smoke, lying in the valley between that village and Keighley-, 
 took beauty from the radiant colours on the moors above, the ricK 
 purple of the heather bloom calling out an harmonious contrast in tbt, 
 tawny golden light that, in the full heat of summer evenings, comef 
 stealing everywhere through the dun atrnospliere of the hollows. And 
 up on the moors, turning away from all habitations of men, the royai 
 
2S0 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ground on which they stood would expand into long swells of amethyst- 
 tinted hills, meltinig away into aerial tints ; and the fresh and fragrant 
 scent of the heather, and the " murmur of innumerable bees," would 
 lend a poignancy to the relish with which they welcomed their friend 
 to their owii true home on the wild and open hills. 
 
 There, too, they could escape from the Shadow in the house 
 below. 
 
 Throughout this time — during all these confidences — not a word 
 was uttered to their friend of the three tales in London ; two accepted 
 and in the press — one trembling in the balance of a publisher's judg- 
 ment ; nor did she hear of that other story, " nearly completed," lying 
 in manuscript in the grey old parsonage down below. She might have 
 her suspicions that they all wrote with an intention of publication 
 some time ; but she knew the bounds which they set to themselves m 
 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 beir\g- spoken to, he did not speak on the subject, and conse- 
 quently his ideas were vague and imcertain, only just prophetic enough • 
 tokeep him from being actually stunned when, later on, he heard of 
 the success of J^ane Eyre; to the progress of which we must now 
 return. 
 
 " To Messrs. Smith and Elder, 
 
 " August 24tli. 
 
 " I now send you per rail a MS. entitled J^ane Eyre, a novel in 
 three volumes, by Currer Bell. I find I cannot prepay the carriage of 
 the parcel, as money for that purpose is not received at the small 
 station-house where it is left. If, when you acknowledge the receipt 
 of the MS., you would have the goodness to mention the amount 
 charged on delivery, I will immediately transmit it in postage-stamps. 
 It is better in future to address Mr. Currer Bell, under cover to Miss 
 Bronte, Haworth, Bradford, Yorkshire, as there is a risk of letters 
 otherwise directed not reaching me at present To save trouble, I 
 enclose an envelope." 
 
 ^ane Eyre was accepted, and printed and published by October 
 i6th. 
 
"JANE eyre:' 251 
 
 While it was in the press, Miss Bronte went to pay a short visit to 
 
 her friend at B . The proofs were forwarded to her there, and 
 
 she occasionally sat at the same table with her friend, correcting 
 them ; but they did not exchange a word on the subject. 
 
 Immediately on her return to the parsonage, she wrote : — 
 
 "September. 
 
 " I had a very wet, windy walk home from Keighley ; but my 
 fatigue quite disappeared when I reached home and found all well. 
 Thank God for it. 
 
 " My boxes came safe this morning. I have distributed the pre- 
 sents. Papa says I am to remember him most kindly to you. The 
 screen will be very useful, and he thanks you for it. Tabby was 
 charmed with her cap. She said, ' She never thought o' naught o' t' 
 sort as Miss sending her aught, and, she is sure, she can never thank 
 her enough for it.' I was infuriated on finding a jar in my trunk. At 
 first I hoped it was empty, but when I found it heavy and replete, I 
 
 could have hurled it all the way back to B . However, the 
 
 inscription A. B. softened me much. It was at once kind and villan- 
 ous in you to send it. You ought first to be tenderly kissed, and then 
 afterwards as tenderly whipped. Emily is just now on the floor of 
 the bedroom where I am writing, looking at her apples. She smiled 
 when I gave the collar to her as your present, with an expression at 
 once well-pleased and slightly surprised. All send their love. — ^Yours, 
 in a mixture of anger and love." 
 
 When the manuscript of yane 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 power- 
 fully struck by the character of the tale, that he reported his impres- 
 sion 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 
 
252 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 had been bestowed upon it, he found that they had not exceeded the 
 truth. 
 
 On its publication, copies were presented to a few private literary 
 friends. Their discernment had been rightly reckoned upon. They 
 were of considerable standing in the world of letters ; and one and 
 all returned expressions of high praise along with their thanks for the 
 book. Among them was the great writer of fiction for whom Miss 
 Bronte felt so strong an admiration ; he immediately appreciated, and, 
 in a characteristic note to the publishers, acknowledged its extraor- 
 dinary merits. 
 
 The Reviews were more tardy, or more cautious. The Athmeeum 
 and the Spectator gave short notices, containing qualified admissions 
 of the power of the author. The Literary Gazette was uncertain as 
 to whether it was safe to praise an unknown author. The Daily News 
 declined accepting the copy which had been sent, on the score of a 
 rule "never to review novels; " but a little later on, there appeared a 
 notice of the Bachelor of the Alba?iy in that paper ; and Messrs. Smith, 
 Elder & Co.' again forwarded a copy of J^ane Eyre to the Editor, 
 with a request for a notice. This time the work was accepted; but I 
 am not aware what was the character of the article upon it. 
 
 The Examiner came forward to the rescue, as far as the opinions 
 of professional critics were concerned. The literary articles in that 
 paper were always remarkable for their genial and generous apprecia- 
 tion of merit ; nor was the notice of yaiie Eyre an exception ; it was 
 full of hearty, yet delicate and discriminating praise. Otherwise, the 
 press in general did little to promote the sale of the novel ; the 
 demand for it among librarians had begun before the appearance of 
 the review in the Examifier; 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 explain themselves : — 
 
"JANE EYRE." 253 
 
 "Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co. 
 
 "Oct. 19th, 1847. 
 
 " Gentlemen, — ^The six copies of yane Eyre reached me this morn- 
 ing. You have given the work every advantage which good paper, 
 clear type, and a seemly outside can supply ; — if it fails, the fault will 
 lie with the author — ^you are exempt. 
 
 " I now await the judgment of the press and the public. I am, 
 Gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 "C. Bell." 
 
 " Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. 
 
 "Oct. 26th, 1847. 
 
 " Gentlemen, — I have received the newspapers. They speak quite 
 as favourably of jFane 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 Athenceum 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 sup- 
 pose there is every reason to be satisfied. 
 
 "Meantime a brisk sale would be effectual support under the 
 hauteur of lofty critics. — I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 " Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co. 
 
 "Nov. 13th, 1847. 
 
 " Gentlemen, — I have to acknowledge the receipt of yours of the 
 nth inst, and to thank you for the information it communicates. 
 The notice from the People's Journal also duly reached me, and this 
 morning I received the Spectator. The critique in the Spectator gives 
 that view of the book which will naturally be taken by a certain class 
 of minds ; I shall expect it to be followed by other notices of a 
 similar nature. The way to detraction has been pointed out, and will 
 probably be pursued. Most future notices will, in all likelihood have 
 a reflection of the Spectator in them. I fear this turn of opinion will 
 not improve the demand for the book — but time will show. If Jane 
 
254 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Eyre has any solid worth in it, it ought to weather a gust of unfavour- 
 able wind. — I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfiilly, 
 
 "C. Bell." 
 
 " Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. 
 
 "Nov. 30, 1847. 
 "Gentlemen, — I have received the Economist, but not the 
 Examiner; from some cause that paper has missed, as the Spectator 
 did on a former occasion; I am glad, however, to learn through 
 your letter, that its notice oijane Eyre was favourable, and also that 
 the prospects of the work appear to improve. 
 
 " I am obliged to you for the information respecting Wuthering 
 Heights. — I am, Gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 " To Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. 
 
 "Dec. 1st, 1847. 
 
 " Gentlemen, — The Examiner reached me to-day : it had been 
 mis-sent 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 commu- 
 nications ; if directed simply to Miss Bronte they will be more likely 
 to reach their destination safely. Currer Bell is not known in the 
 district, and I have no wish that he should become known. The 
 notice in the Examiner gratified me very much ; it appears to be 
 from the pen of an able man who has understood what he undertakes 
 to criticise : of course, approbation from such a quarter is encourag- 
 ing to an author, and I trust it will prove beneficial to the work. — I 
 am. Gentlemen, yours respectfully, 
 
 "C.Bell. 
 
 " I received likewise seven other notices from provincial papers 
 enclosed in an envelope. I thank you very sincerely for so punc- 
 tually sending me all the various criticisms on fane Eyre." 
 
 " To Messrs. Smith, Elder and Co. 
 
 "Dec. loth, 1847. 
 " Gentlemen, — I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter 
 enclosing a bank post bill, for which I thank you. Having already 
 
SUCCESS OF "JANE EYRE." 255 
 
 expressed my sense of your kind and upright conduct, I can now 
 only say that I trust you will always have reason to be as well content 
 with me as I am with you. If the result of any future exertions I 
 may be able to make should prove agreeable and advantageous to 
 you, I shall be well satisfied ; and it would be a serious source of 
 regret to me if I thought you ever had reason to repent being my 
 publishers. 
 
 " You need not apologize. Gentlemen, for having written to me 
 so seldom ; of course I am always glad to hear from you, but I am 
 truly glad to hear from Mr. Williams likewise ; he was my first 
 favourable critic ; he first gave me encouragement to persevere as 
 an author, consequently I naturally respect him and feel grateful to 
 him. 
 
 " Excuse the informality of my letter, and believe me, Gentlemen, 
 yours respectfully, 
 
 " CuRRER Bell." 
 
 There is little record remaining of the manner in which the first 
 news of its wonderful success reached and afiected the one heart of 
 the three sisters. I once asked Charlotte — ^we were talking about 
 the description of Lowood School, and she was saying that • she was 
 not sure whether she should have written it, if she had been aware 
 how instantaneously it would have been identified with Cowan Bridge 
 — whether the popularity to which the novel attained had taken her 
 by surprise. She hesitated a little, and then said : " I believed that 
 what had impressed me so forcibly when I wrote it, must make a 
 strong impression on any one who read it. I was not surprised at 
 those who x^zAJane Eyre being deeply interested in it ; but I hardly 
 expected that a book by an unknown author could find readers.'' 
 
 The sisters had kept the knowledge of their literary ventures from 
 their father, fearing to increase their own anxieties and disappoint- 
 ment by witnessing his ; for he took an acute interest in all that befell 
 his children, and his own tendency had been towards literature in the 
 days when he was young and hopeful. It was true he did not much 
 manifest his feelings in words ; he would have thought that he was 
 prepared for disappointment as the lot of man, and that he could 
 have met it with stoicism ; but words are poor and tardy interpreters 
 of feelings to those who love one another, and his daughters knew 
 
2S6 LIFE OF. CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 communica- 
 tions 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 in- 
 quiring from the parson where one Currer Bell could be Uving, to 
 which Mr. Bronte replied that there was no such person in the 
 parish. This must have been the misadventiure 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 J^ane Eyre, her sisters urged Charlotte to tell their father of its 
 publication. She accordingly went into his study one afternoon after 
 his early dinner, carrying with her a copy of the book, and two or 
 three reviews, taking care to include a notice adverse to it. 
 
 She informed me that something like the following conversation 
 took place between her and him. (I wrote down her words the day 
 after I heard them ; and I am pretty sure they are quite accurate.) 
 
 " Papa, I've been writing a book." 
 
 " Have you, my dear ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and I want you to read it." 
 
 " I am afraid it will try my eyes too much." 
 
 " But it is not in manuscript ; it is printed." 
 
 " My dear ! you've never thought of the expense it will be ! It 
 will be almost sure to be a loss, for how can you get a book sold ? 
 No one knows you or your name." 
 
 " But, papa, I don't think it will be a loss ; no more will you, if 
 you will just let me read you a review or two, and tell you more 
 about it." 
 
 So she sat down and read some of the reviews to her father ; and 
 then, giving him the copy of J^ane Eyre that she intended for him, 
 she left him to read it. When he came in to tea, he said, " Girls, do 
 you know Charlotte has been writing a book, and it is much better 
 than likely?" 
 
 But while the existence of Currer Bell, the author, was like a 
 
RECEPTION OF "JANE EYRE." 257 
 
 piece of a dream to the quiet inhabitants of Haworth Parsonage, 
 who went on with their uniform household Hfe, 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 pub- 
 lishers of jFane j£yre 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 acquaint- 
 ances, and turned away in disappointment. No one they knew had 
 genius enough to be the author. Every little incident mentioned in the 
 book was turned this way and" that, to answer, if possible, the much- 
 vexed question of sex. All in vain. People were content to relax 
 their exertions to satisfy their curiosity, and simply to sit down and 
 greatly admire. 
 
 I am not going to write an analysis of a book with which every one 
 who reads this biography is sure to be acquainted ; much less a 
 criticism upon a wor^, which the great flood of pubUc 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 periodi- 
 cals, 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 appeared amongst us. Conjecture as to the authorship 
 ran about like wild-fire. People in London, smooth and polished as^ 
 the Athenians of old, and like them " spending their time in nothing- 
 else, but either to tell or to hear some new thing," were astonished 
 and delighted to find that a fresh sensation, a new pleasure, was in 
 reserve for them in the uprising of an author, capable of depicting- 
 with accurate and Titanic power the strong, self-reliant, racy, and 
 individual characters which were not, after all, extinct species, but 
 lingered still in existence in the North. They thought that there 
 was some exaggeration mixed with the peculiar force of delineation. 
 Those nearer to the spot, where the scene of the story was appa- 
 rently laid, were sure, from the very truth and accuracy of the -writing, 
 that the writer was no Southron ; for though " dark, and cold, and 
 
 s 
 
2S8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 rugged is the North,'' the old strength of the Scandinavian races yet 
 abides there, and glowed out in every character depicted in Jane 
 Eyre. Farther than this, curiosity, both honourable and dishonour- 
 able, 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 Wil- 
 Uam Makepeace Thackeray as an individual man — of his life, age, 
 fortunes, or circumstances — than she did of those of Mr. Michael 
 Angelo Titmarsh. The one had placed his name as author upon the 
 title-page of Vanity Fair, the other had not. She was thankful for 
 the opportunity of expressing her high admiration of a writer, whom, 
 as she says, she regarded " as the social regenerator of his day — as 
 the very master of that working corps who would restore to rectitude 
 the warped state of things. . . . His wit is bright, his humour 
 attractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious genius, that 
 the mere lambent sheet-lightning, playing under the edge of the 
 summer cloud, does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb." 
 
 Anne 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 jFane Eyre gave such indications of 
 success, Charlotte began to plan schemes of future pleasure — perhaps 
 relaxation from care, would be the more correct expression — ^for their 
 darling younger sister, the " little one " of the household. But, 
 although TVnne was cheered for a time by Charlotte's success, the 
 fact was, that neither her spirits nor her bodily strength were such as 
 to incline her to much active exertion, and she led far too sedentary 
 a life, continually stooping either over her book, or work, or at her 
 desk. " It is with difficulty," writes her sister, " that we can prevail 
 upon her to take a walk, or induce her to converse. I look forward 
 to next summer with the confident intention that she shall, if possible, 
 make at least a brief sojourn at the sea-side." In this same letter is 
 a sentence, telling how dearly home, even with its present terrible 
 drawback, lay at the roots of her heart ; but it is too much blended 
 with reference to the affairs of others to bear quotation. 
 
 Any author of a successful novel is liable to an inroad of letters 
 from unknown readers, containing commendation — sometimes of so 
 fulsome and indiscriminating a character as to remind the recipient of 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 259 
 
 Dr. Johnson's famous speech to one who offered presumptuous and 
 injudicious praise — sometimes saying merely a few words, which have 
 power to stir the heart " as with the sound of a trumpet," and in the 
 high humility they excite, to call forth strong resolutions to make all 
 future efforts worthy of such praise ; and occasionally containing that 
 true appreciation of both merits and demerits, together with the 
 sources of each, which forms the very criticism and help for which 
 an inexperienced writer thirsts. Of each of these kinds of communi- 
 cation 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 proper value. Among other letters of hers, some to Mr. G. H. 
 Lewes have been kindly placed by him at my service ; and as I know 
 Miss Bronte highly prized his letters of encouragement and advice, I 
 shall give extracts from her replies, as their dates occur, because they 
 will indicate the kind of criticism she valued, and also because 
 throughout, in anger as in agreement and harmony, they show her 
 character, unblinded by any self-flattery, full of clear-sighted modesty 
 as to what she really did well, and what she failed in, grateful for 
 friendly interest, and only sore and irritable when the question of sex 
 in authorship was, as she thought, roughly or unfairly treated. As to 
 the rest, the letters speak for themselves, to those who know how to 
 listen, far better than I can interprgt their meaning into my poorer 
 and weaker words. Mr. Lewes has politely sent me the following 
 explanation of that letter of his, to which the succeeding one of Miss 
 Bronte is a reply : — 
 
 " When yam Eyre first appeared, the publishers courteously sent 
 me a copy. The enthusiasm with which I read it, made me go down 
 to Mr. Parker, and propose to write a review of it for Preiser's Maga- 
 zine. He would not consent to an unknown novel — for the papers 
 had not yet declared themselves-^receiving such importance, but 
 thought it might make one on 'Recent Novels : English and French' 
 — which appeared in Fraser, 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." 
 
26o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " To G. H. Lewes, Esq. 
 
 " November 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 siQcerely both for its cheering commendation and 
 valuable advice. 
 
 " You warn me to beware of melodraina, and you exhort me to 
 adhere to the real. When I first began to write, so impressed was I 
 with the truth of the principles you advocate, that I determined to 
 take Nature and Truth as my sole guides, and to follow in their very 
 footprints ; I restrained imagination, eschewed romance, repressed 
 excitement ; overbright colouring, too, I avoided, and sought to 
 produce something which should be soft, grave, and true. 
 
 " My work (a tale in one volume) being completed, I offered it 
 to a publisher. He said it was original, faithful to nature, but he did 
 not feel warranted in accepting it ; such a work would not sell. I 
 tried six publishers in succession ; they aU told me it was deficient in 
 ' startling incident ' and ' thrilling excitement,' that it would never 
 suit the circulating libraries, and as it was on those libraries the 
 success of works of fiction mainly depended, they could not under- 
 take to publish what would be overlooked there. 
 
 " Jane Eyre was rather objected to at first, on the same grounds, 
 but finally found acceptance. 
 
 " I mention this to you,, not with a view of pleading exemption 
 from censure, but in order to direct your attention to the root of 
 certain literary evils. If, in your forthcoming article in Eraser, you 
 would bestow a few words of enlightenment on the public who 
 support the circulating libraries, you might, with your powers, do 
 some good. 
 
 " You advise me, too, not to "stray far firom the ground of ex- 
 perience, as I become weak when I enter the region of fiction ; and 
 you say, ' real experience is perennially interesting, and to all men.' 
 
 " I feel that this also is true ; but, dear sir, is not the real expe- 
 rience of each individual very limited? And, if a writer dwells 
 upon that solely or principally, is he not in danger of repeating him- 
 self, and also of becoming an egotist ? Then, too, imagination is 
 a strong, restless faculty, which claims to be heard and exercised: 
 
CORRESPONDENCE. 261 
 
 are we to be quite deaf to her cry, and insensate to her struggles ? 
 When she shows us bright pictures, are we never to look at them, 
 and try to reproduce them ? And when she is eloquent, and speaks 
 rapidly and urgently in our ear, are we not to write to her dicta- 
 tion? 
 
 " I shall anxiously search the next number of Fraser for your 
 opinions on these points. — Believe me, dear sir, yours gratefully, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 But while gratified by appreciation as an author, she was cautious 
 as to the person from whom she received it ; for much of the value 
 of the praise depended on the sincerity and capabiUty of the person 
 rendering it. Accordingly, she applied to Mr. Williams (a gentleman 
 connected with her publishers' firm) for information as to who and 
 what Mr. Lewes was. Her reply, after she had learnt something of 
 the character of her future critic, and while awaiting his criticism, mu§t 
 not be omitted. Besides the reference to him, it contains some 
 amusing allusions to the perplexity which began to be excited re- 
 specting the " identity of the brothers Bell," and some notice of the 
 conduct of another publisher towards her sister, which I refrain 
 from characterizing, because I understand that truth is considered a 
 libel in speaking of such people : 
 
 " To W. S. Williams, Esq. 
 
 "Nov. 10th, 1847. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I have received the Britannia and the Sun, but not 
 the Spectator, which I rather regret, as censure, though not pleasant, 
 is often wholesome. 
 
 "Thank you for your information regarding Mr. Lewes. I am 
 glad to hear that he is a clever and sincere man : such being the case, 
 I can await his critical sentence with fortitude ; even if it goes against 
 me, I shall not murmur ; ability and honesty have a right to con- 
 demn, where they think condemnation is deserved. From what you 
 say, however, I trust rather to obtain at least a modified approval. 
 
 " Your account of the various surmises respecting the identity of 
 the brothers Bell, amused me much; were the enigma solved, it 
 would probably be found not worth the trouble of solution ; but I will 
 
262 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 let it alone ; it suits ourselves to remain quiet, and certainly injures no 
 one else. 
 
 "The reviewer who noticed the little book of poems, in the Dublin 
 Magazine, conjectured that the soi-disant three personages were in 
 reality but one, who, endowed with an unduly prominent organ of 
 self-esteem, and consequently impressed with a somewhat weighty 
 notion of his own merits, thought them too vast to be concentrated iii 
 a single individual, and accordingly divided himself into three, out of 
 consideration, I suppose, for the nerves of the much-to-be-astounded 
 public ! This was an ingenious thought in the reviewer, — very 
 original and striking, but not accurate. We are three. 
 
 " A prose work, by EUis and Acton, will soon appear ; it should 
 Jiave 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. oi/ane Eyre in your hands. Mr. , 
 
 however, does not do business like Messrs. Smith and Elder ; a dif- 
 ferent spirit seems to preside at Street to that which guides the 
 
 helm at 65, Comhill My relations have suffered from 
 
 exhausting delay and procrastination, while I have to acknowledge 
 the benefits of a management at once business-like and gentleman- 
 like, energetic and considerate. 
 
 " I should like to know if Mr. often acts as he has done to 
 
 my relations, or whether this is an exceptional instance of his method. 
 Do you know, and can you tell me anything about him ? You must 
 excuse me for going to the point at once, when I want to learn any- 
 thing : if my questions are impertinent, you are, of course, at liberty 
 to decline answering them. — I am, yours respectfully, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 « To G. H. Lewes, Esq. 
 
 "Nov. 22nd, 1847. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I have now read Ranthorpe. I could not get it till a 
 day or two_ago ; but I have got it and read it at last ; and in reading 
 Ranthorpe, I have read a new book, — not a reprint — ^not a reflection 
 of any other book, but a new book. 
 
 " I did not know such books were written now. It is very different 
 lo any of the popular works of fiction ; it fills the mind with fresh 
 
"WUTHERING HEIGHTS" AND "AGNES GREY." 263 
 
 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 y^ane Eyre now with other 
 sentiments than I entertained before the perusal of Rantfwrpe. 
 
 " You were a stranger to me. I did not particularly respect you. 
 I did not feel that your praise or blame would have any special weight. 
 I knew little of your right to condemn or approve. Now I am in- 
 formed on these points. 
 
 " You will be severe ; your last letter taught me as much. Well ! 
 I shall try to extract good out of your severity : and besides, though 
 I am now sure you are a just, discriminating man, yet, being mortal, 
 you must be fallible; and if any part of your censure galls me too 
 keenly to the quick — gives me deadly pain — I shall for the present 
 disbelieve it, and put it quite aside, till such time as I feel able to 
 receive it without torture. — I am, dear sir, yours very respectfully, 
 
 " C. Bell." 
 
 In December, 1847, Wuthering Heights 3.nA Agues Grey appeared. 
 The first-named of these stories has revolted many readers by the 
 power with which wicked and exceptional characters are depicted. 
 Others, again, have felt the attraction of remarkable genius, even when 
 displayed on grim and terrible criminals. Miss 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 was not naturally gregarious ; circum- 
 stances favoured and fostered her tendency to seclusion ; except to go 
 to church, or to take a walk on the hills, she rarely crossed the threshold 
 of home. Though her feeling for the people round her was benevo- 
 lent, intercourse with them she never sought, nor, with very few 
 exceptions, ever experienced; and yet she knew them, knew their 
 ways, their language, 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 had 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 vicinsCge, the 
 
264 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 memory is sometimes compelled to receive the impress. Her imagi- 
 nation, which was a spirit more sombre than sunny — more powerful 
 than sportive — found in such traits material whence it wrought 
 creations like Heathcliff, like Eamshaw, like Catherine. Having 
 formed these beings, she did not know what she had done. If the audi- 
 tor of her work, when read in manuscript, shuddered under the grinding 
 influence of natures so relentless and implacable — of spirits so lost 
 and fallen ; if it was complained that the mere hearing of certain vivid 
 and fearful scenes banished sleep by night, and disturbed mental 
 peace by day, Ellis Bell would wonder what was meant, and suspect 
 the complainant of affectation. Had she but lived, her mind would 
 of itself have grown like a strong tree— loftier, straighter, wider- 
 spreading — and its matured fruits would have attained a mellower 
 ripeness and sunnier bloom ; but on that mind time and experience 
 alone could work ; to the influence of other intellects it 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 justice. The immature, but 
 very real powers revealed in Wuthering Heights were scarcely recog- 
 nised ; 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 yane Eyre.'' . . 
 " Unjust and grievous error ! We laughed at it at first, but I deeply 
 lament it now." 
 
 Henceforward Charlotte Bronte's existence becomes divided 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 opposing each other; not impossible, but 
 difficult to be reconciled. When a man becomes an author, it is 
 probably merely a change of employment to him. He takes a portion 
 of that time which has hitherto been devoted to some other study or 
 pursuit ; he gives up something of the legal or medical profession, in 
 which he has hitherto endeavoured to serve others, or relinquishes 
 part of the trade or business by which he has been striving to gain a 
 livelihood ; and another merchant, or lawyer, or doctor, steps into his 
 vacant place, and probably does as well as he. But no other can 
 take up the quiet regular duties of the daughter, the wife, or the 
 
DOMESTIC DISTRESS. 26J 
 
 mother, as well as she whom God has appointed to fill that particular 
 place : a woman's principal work is hardly left to her own choice ; nor 
 can she drop the domestic charges devolving on her as an individual, 
 for the exercise of the most splendid talents that were ever bestowed. 
 And yet she must not shrink from the extra responsibiHty 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 
 a humble and faithful spirit must she labour to do what is not impos- 
 sible, or God would not have set her to do it. 
 
 I put into words what Charlotte Bronte put into actions. 
 
 The year 1848 opened with sad domestic distress. It is necessary, 
 however painful, to remind the reader constantly of what was always 
 present to the hearts of father and sisters at this time. It is well that 
 the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and gloomy views of life 
 presented by the Brontes in their tales, should know how such words 
 were wrung out of them by the living recollection of the long agony 
 they suffered. It is well, too, that they who have objected to the 
 representation of coarseness, and shrank from it with repugnance, as 
 if such conceptions arose out of the writers, should learn, that, not 
 from the 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, 
 obe3dng the stem 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 wonderful 
 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, nth, 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 Uttle peace ; he is always sick ; has two or three 
 
266 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 times fallen down in fits ; what will be the ultimate end, God knows. 
 But who is without their drawback, their scourge, their skeleton 
 behind the curtain? It remains only to do one's best, and endure 
 with patience what God sends." 
 
 I suppose that she had read Mr. Lewes's review on " Recent 
 Novels," when it appeared in the December of the last year, but I 
 find no allusion to it till she writes to him on January 12th, 1848 : — 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I thank you, then, sincerely for your generous review : 
 and it is with the sense of double content I express my gratitude, 
 because I am now sure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive. 
 You were not severe on "yane Eyre; you were very lenient. I am 
 glad you told me my faults plainly in private, for in your public notice 
 you touch on them so lightly, I should perhaps have passed them 
 over, thus indicated, with too little reflection. 
 
 " I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I 
 undertake new works ; my stock of materials is not abundant, but 
 Very slender ; and, besides, neither my experience, my acquirements, 
 nor my powers, are sufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a 
 frequent writer. I tell you this, because your article in Fraser left in 
 me an uneasy impression that you were disposed to think better of 
 the author of J^ane Eyre than that individual deserved ; and I would 
 rather you had a correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though 
 I should never see you. 
 
 " If I ever do write another book, I think I will have nothing of 
 what you call ' melodrama ; ' I think so, but I am not sure. I thi7ik, 
 too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out of Miss 
 Austen's ' mild eyes,' ' to finish more and be more subdued ; ' but 
 neither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or, at least, 
 when they write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them, 
 which becomes their master — ^which will have its own way — putting 
 out of view all behests but its own, dictating certain words, and 
 insisting on their being used, whether vehement or measured in their 
 nature ; new-moulding characters, giving unthought-of turns to inci- 
 dents, 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 ? 
 
MISS AUSTEN. _ 267 
 
 " I am glad that another work of yours will soon appear; most 
 cunous 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 J^ones, 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 common-place face ; a carefully-fenced, 
 highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers ; biit 
 no glance of a bright vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh 
 air, no blue hUl, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with 
 her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. 
 These observations will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk. 
 
 " Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though 
 I never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even 
 Consuelo, which is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to 
 me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she 
 has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot fiilly 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 question fiivolous, do not trouble yourself to reply. — 
 
 I am, yours respectfully, 
 
 "C. Bell." 
 
 ''To G. H. Lewes, Esq. 
 
 "Jan. 1 8th, 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. 
 
268 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 "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 regu- 
 lation. . . . 
 
 " What a strange lecture comes next in your letter ! You say I 
 must familiarise my mind with the fact that 'Miss Austen is not a 
 poetess, has no "sentiment"' (you scornfully enclose the word in 
 inverted commas), ' no eloquence, none of the ravishing enthusiasm 
 of poetry,' — and then you add, I must ' learn to acknowledge her as 
 one of the greatest artists, of the greatest painters of human character, 
 and one of the writers with the nicest sense of means to an end that 
 ever lived.' 
 
 " The last point only will I ever acknowledge. 
 
 " Can there be a great artist without poetry? 
 
 " What I call — what I will bend to, as a great artist, then — cannot 
 be destitute of the divine gift. But hj poetry, I am sure, you under- 
 stand 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 GodUke. 
 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 eUxir. 
 
 " If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for 
 his kind, he would delight to exterminate ; as it is, I believe, he 
 wishes only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without 
 ' sentiment,' without poetry, maybe is sensible, real (more real than 
 true), but she cannot be great. 
 
 " I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I 
 not questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass 
 over me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that 
 will be, as I have no access to a circulating library), dihgehtly 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 
 
MR. G. H. LEWES. 269 
 
 the criticism contained in it is, from that circumstance, so interesting 
 (whether we agree with it or not), that I have determined to do so, 
 though I thereby displace the chronological order of the letters, in 
 order to complete this portion of a correspondence which is very- 
 valuable, as showing the purely intellectual side of her character : — 
 
 " To W. S. Williams, Esq. 
 
 "April 26th, 1848. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I have now read Rose, Blanche, and Violet, and I 
 will tell you, as well as I can, what I think of it. Whether it is an 
 improvement on Ranthorpe I do not know, for I liked Ranthorpe 
 much ; but, at any rate, it contains more of a good thing. I find in it 
 the same power, but more fully developed. 
 
 " The author's character is seen in every page, which makes the 
 book interesting — far more interesting than any story could do ; but 
 it is what the writer himself says that attracts, far more than what he 
 puts into the mouths of his characters. G. H. Lewes is, to my per- 
 ception, decidedly the most original character in the book. . . . 
 The didactic passages seem tome the best — far the best — in the work; 
 very acute, very profound, are some of the views there given, and 
 very clearly they are offered to the reader. He is a just thinker; he 
 is a sagacious observer; there is wisdom in his theory, and, I doubt 
 not, energy in his practice. But why, then, are you often provoked 
 with' him while you read ? How does he manage, while teaching, to 
 make his hearer feel as if his business was, not quietly to receive the 
 doctrines propounded, but to combat them ? You acknowledge that 
 he offers you gems of pure truth ; why do you keep perpetually 
 scrutinismg them for flaws ? 
 
 " Mr. Lewes, I divine, with all his talents and honesty, must have 
 some faults of manner ; there must be a touch too much of dogmatism; 
 a dash extra of confidence in him, sometimes. This you think while 
 you are reading'the book ; but when you have closed it and laid it 
 down, and sat a few minutes collecting your thoughts, and settling 
 your impressions, you find the idea or feeling predominant in your 
 mind to be pleasure at the fuller acquaintance you have made with a 
 fine mind and a true heart, with high abilities and manly principles. 
 I hope he will not be long ere he publishes another book. His 
 
270 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 emotional scenes are somewhat too uniformly vehement : would not 
 a more subdued style of treatment often have produced a more 
 masterly effect ? Now and then Mr. Lewes takes a French pen into 
 his hand, wherein he differs from Mr. Thackeray, who always uses an 
 EngUsh quill. However, the French pen does not far mislead Mr. 
 Lewes; he wields it with British muscles. All honour to him for the 
 excellent general tendency of his book ! 
 
 " He gives no charming picture of London literary society, and 
 especially the female part of it ; but all coteries, whether they be 
 literary, scientific, political, or religious, must, it seems to me, have a 
 tendency to change truth into affectation. When people belong to a 
 clique, they must, I suppose, in some measure, write, talk, think, and 
 live for that clique ; a harassing and narrowing necessity. I trust 
 the press and the public show themselves disposed to give the book 
 the reception it merits ; and that is a very cordial one, far beyond 
 . anything due to a Bulwer or Disraeli production.'' 
 
 Let us return from Currer Bell to Charlotte Bronte. The winter 
 in Hawbrth had been a sickly season. Influenza had prevailed 
 amongst the villagers, and where there was a real need for the 
 presence of the clergyman's daughters, they were never found 
 wanting, although they were shy of bestowing mere social visits on 
 the parishioners. They had themselves suffered from the epidemic ; 
 Anne severely, as in her case it had been attended with cough 
 and fever enough to make her elder sisters very anxious about her. 
 
 There is no doubt that the proximity of the crowded churchyard 
 rendered the parsonage unhealthy, and occasioned much illness to its 
 inmates. Mr. Bronte represented the unsanitary state of Haworth 
 pretty forcibly to the Board of Health ; and, after the requisite visits 
 from their officers, obtained a recommendation that all future inter- 
 ments in the churchyard should be forbidden, a new graveyard 
 opened on the hill-side, and means set on foot for obtaining a water- 
 supply to each house, instead of the weary, hard-worked housewives 
 having to carry every bucketful, from a distance of several hundred 
 yards, up a steep street. But he was baffled by the ratepayers ; as, 
 in many a similar instance, quantity carried it against quality, numbers 
 against intelligence. And thus we find that illness often assumed a 
 low typhoid form in Haworth, and fevers of various kinds visited the 
 place with sad frequency. 
 
ILLUSIONS OF YOUTH. i^i 
 
 In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was dethroned. The quick 
 succession of events at that time called forth the following expression 
 of Miss Bronte's thoughts on the subject, in a letter addressed to 
 Miss W , 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 pulse 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 romance is quite gone 
 from life — the veil fallen from truth, and that I see both in naked 
 reality — yet certainly, many things are not what they were ten years 
 ago : and amongst the rest, ' the pomp and circumstance of war ' 
 have quite lost in my eyes their fictitious glitter. I have still no 
 doiibt that the shock of moral earthquakes wakens a vivid sense of 
 life, both in nations and individuals ; that the fear of dangers on a 
 broad national scale diverts men's minds momentarily from brooding 
 over small private perils, and for the time gives them something like 
 largeness of views ; but as Kttle doubt have I, that convulsive 
 revolutions put back the world in all that is good, check civilization, 
 bring the dregs of society to its surface ; in short, it appears to me, 
 that insurrections and battles are the acute diseases of nations, and 
 that their tendency is to exhaust, by their violence, the vital energies 
 of the countries where they occur. That England may be spared 
 the spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the Continent, 
 and threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray. With the French and 
 Irish I have no sympathy. With the Germans and Italians I think 
 the case is different ; as different as the love of freedom is from the 
 
 lust for licence." 
 
 * 
 
 Her birthday came round. She wrote to the friend whose birth- 
 day was within a week of hers ; wrote the accustomed letter : but 
 reading it with our knowledge of what she had done, we perceive 
 the difference between her thoughts and what they were a year or 
 two ago, when she said, " I have done nothing." There must have 
 
272 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 been a modest consciousness of having " done something " present 
 in her mind, as she wrote this year : — 
 
 " I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone — gone — and will never 
 
 come back : can't help it It seems to me, that sorrow 
 
 must come sometime to everybody, and those who scarcely taste it 
 in their youth, often have a more brimming and bitter cup to drain in 
 after-life ; whereas, those who exhaust the dregs early, who drink the 
 lees before the wine, may reasonably hope for more palatable draughts 
 to succeed." 
 
 The authorship of Jane Eyre was as yet a close secret in the 
 Bronte family ; not even this friend, who was all but a sister, knew 
 more about it than the rest of the world. She might conjecture, it is 
 true, both from her knowledge of previous habits, and from the 
 Suspicious fact of the proofs having been corrected at B — — , that 
 some literary project was afoot ; but she knew nothing, and wisely 
 said nothing, until she heard a report from others, that Charlotte 
 Bronte was an author — had published a novel ! Then she wrote to 
 her, and received the two following letters ; confirmatory enough, as 
 it seems to me now, in their very vehemence and agitation of intended 
 denial, of the truth of the report : — 
 
 "April 28th, 1848. 
 
 "Write another letter, and explain that last note of yours dis- 
 tinctly. If your allusions are to myself, which I suppose they, are, 
 understand. this — I have given no one a right to gossip about me, 
 and am not to be judged by frivolous conjectures, emanating from 
 any quarter whatever. Let me know what you heard, and from 
 whom you heard it." 
 
 "May 3rd, 1848. 
 
 " All I can say to you about a certain matter is this : the report 
 — if report there be — and if the lady, who seems to have been rather 
 mystified, had not dreamt what she fancied had been told to her — ^must 
 have had its origin in some absurd misunderstanding. I have given 
 no one a right either to affirm or to hint, in the most distant manner, 
 that I was ' pubUshing ' — (humbug !) Whoever has said it — ^if any 
 one has, which I doubt — is no friend of mine. Though twenty 
 books were ascribed to me, I should own none. I scout the idea 
 
REP UDIA TION OF A UTHORSHIP. 273 
 
 Utterly. Whoever, after I have distinctly rejected the charge, urges 
 it upon me, will do an unkind and an ill-bred thing. The most 
 profound obscurity is infinitely preferable to vulgar notoriety ; and 
 that notoriety I neither seek nor will have. If then, any B — an, or 
 G — an, should presume to bore you on the subject, — to ask you 
 what ' novel ' Miss Bronte has been ' publishing,' you can just say, with 
 the distinct firmness of which you are perfect mistress when you 
 choose, that you are authorised by Miss Bronte to say, that she 
 repels and disowns every accusation of the kind. You may add, if 
 you please, that if any one has her confidence, you believe you have, 
 and she has made no drivelling confessions to you on the subject. I 
 am at a loss to conjecture from what source this rumour has come ; 
 and, I fear, it has far from a friendly origin. I am not certain, 
 however, and I should be very glad if I could gain certainty. Should 
 you hear anything more, please let me know. Your offer of Simeon's 
 Life is a very kind one, and I thank you for it I daresay 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 faithfiiUy, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 The reason 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 pubKcation of the sisters' novels, 
 under assumed names, were increasing upon them. Many critics . 
 insisted on believing that all the fictions pubhshed 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 Wildf ell 'Hall. It is little known ; the subject — the deterioration 
 of a character, whose profligacy and ruin took their rise in habits of 
 intemperance, so slight as to be only considered " good-fellowship " 
 — ^was painfully discordant to one who would fain have sheltered 
 herself from all but peaceful and religious ideas. " She had " (says 
 her sister of that gentle " little one "), " in the course of her life, 
 
 T 
 
274 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 been called on to contemplate near at hand, and for a long time, the 
 terrible effects of talents misused and faculties abused ; hers was 
 naturally a sensitive, reserved, and dejected nature ; what she saw 
 sunk very deeply into her mind ; it did her harm. She brooded 
 over it till she believed it to be a duty to reproduce every detail (of 
 course, with fictitious characters, incidents, and situations), as a 
 warning to others. She hated her work, but would pursue it. When 
 reasoned with on the subject, she regarded such reasonings as a 
 temptation to self-indulgence. She must be honest ; she must not 
 varnish, soften, or conceal. This well-meant resolution brought on 
 her misconstruction, and some abuse, which she bore, as it was her 
 custom to bear whatever was unpleasant, with mild, steady patience. 
 She was a very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of 
 religious melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief, blame- 
 less life." 
 
 In the June of this year. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall was 
 sufficiently near its completion to be submitted to the person who 
 had previously published for Ellis and Acton Bell. 
 
 In consequence of his mode of doing business, considerable 
 annoyance was occasioned both to Miss Bronte and to them. The 
 circumstances, as detailed in a letter of hers to a friend in- New 
 Zealand, were these : — One morning, at the beginning of July, a 
 communication was received at the parsonage from Messrs. Smith, 
 Elder & Co. which disturbed its quiet inmates not a little, as, though 
 the matter brought under their notice was merely referred to as one 
 which affected their literary reputation, they conceived it to have a 
 bearing likewise upon their character. Jane Eyre had had a great 
 run in America, and a publisher there had consequentiy bid high for 
 early sheets of the next work by " Currer Bell." These Messrs. 
 Smith, Elder & Co. 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 ElUs Bell's 
 publisher having assured this American house that, to the best of his 
 belief, Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Tenant of Wildfell 
 Hall (which he pronounced superior to either of the other two) were 
 all written by the same author. 
 
JOURNEY TO LONDON. 275 
 
 Though Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. 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 them- 
 selves perfectly straight. With rapid decision, they resolved that 
 Charlotte and Anne should start for London that very day, in order 
 to prove their separate identity to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co., and 
 demand from the credulous publisher his reasons for a "belief" so 
 directly at variance with an assurance which had several times been 
 given to him. Having arrived at this determination, they made their 
 preparations with resolute promptness. There were many household 
 duties to be performed that day ; but they were all got through. The 
 two sisters each packed up a change of dress in a small box, which 
 they sent down to Keighley by an opportune cart ; and after early 
 tea, they set off to walk thither — no doubt in some excitement ; for 
 independently of the cause of their going to London, it was Anne's 
 first visit there, A great thunderstorm overtook them on their way 
 that summer evening to the station ; but they had no time to seek 
 shelter. They only just caught the train at Keighley, arrived at 
 Leeds, and were whirled up by the night train to London. 
 
 About eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, they arrived at the 
 Chapter Coffee-house, Paternoster Row — a strange place, but they 
 did not well know where else to go. They refreshed themselves by 
 washing, and had some breakfast. Then they sat still for a few 
 minutes, to consider what next should be done. 
 
 When they had been discussing their project in the quiet of 
 Haworth Parsonage the day before, and planning the mode of setting 
 about the business on which they were going to London, they had 
 resolved to take a cab, if they should find it desirable, from their inn 
 to Comhill ; but, amidst the bustle and " queer state of inward 
 excitement" in which they found themselves, as they sat and 
 considered their position on the Saturday morning, they quite forgot 
 even the possibility of hiring a conveyance ; aild when they set 
 forth, they became so dismayed by the crowded streets, and the 
 impeded crossings, that they stood still repeatedly, in complete 
 despair of making progress, and were nearly an hour in walking 
 the half-mile they had to go. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Williams 
 knew that they were coming ; they were entirely unknown to the" 
 publishers of Jane Eyre, who were not, in fact, aware whether the 
 
 T2 
 
276 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " Bells " were men or women, but had always written to them as to 
 men. 
 
 On reaching Mr. Smith's, Charlotte put his own letter into his 
 hands ; the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at 
 Haworth Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. " Where did you 
 get this ? " said he, — as if he could not believe that the two young 
 ladies dressed in black, of slight figures and diminutive stature, 
 looking pleased yet agitated, could be the embodied Currer and 
 Acton Bell, for whom curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain. 
 An explanation ensued, and Mr. Smith at once began to form plans 
 for their amusement and pleasure during their stay in London. He 
 urged them to meet a few literary friends at his house ; and this was 
 a strong temptation to Charlotte, as amongst them were one or two 
 of the writers whom she particularly wished to see ; but her resolution 
 to remain unknown induced her firmly to put it aside. 
 
 The sisters were equally persevering in declining Mr. Smith's 
 invitations to stay at his house. They refused to leave their quarters, 
 saying they were not prepared for a long stay. 
 
 When they returned back to their inn, poor Charlotte paid for 
 the excitement of the interview, which had wound up the agitation 
 and hurry of the last twenty-four hours, by a racking headache and 
 harassing sickness. Towards evening, as she rather expected some 
 of the ladies of Mr. Smith's family to call, she prepared herself for 
 the chance by taking a strong dose of sal volatile, which roused her 
 a little, but still, as she says, she was " in grievous bodily case," 
 when their visitors were announced, in full evening costume. The 
 sisters had not understood that it had been settled that they were to 
 go to the Opera, and .therefore were not ready. Moreover, they had 
 no fine elegant dresses either with them, or in the world. But Miss 
 Bronte resolved to raise no objections in the acceptance of kindness. 
 So, in spite of headache and weariness, they made haste to dress 
 themselves in their plain high-made country garments. 
 
 Charlotte says, in an account which she gives to her friend of 
 this visit to London, describing the entrance of her party into the 
 Opera-house : — 
 
 " Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us, as we stood by the 
 box-dpor, which was not yet opened, with a slight, graceful super- 
 
CURRER AND ACTON BELL IN LONDON. 277 
 
 ciliousness, quite warranted by the circumstances. Still I felt 
 pleasurably excited in spite of headache, sickness, and conscious 
 clownishness ; and I saw Anne was calm and gentle, which she 
 always is. The performance was Rossini's ' Barber of Seville,' — very 
 brilliant, though I fancy there are things I should like better. We 
 got home after one o'clock. We had never been in bed the night 
 before ; had been in constant excitement for twenty-four hours ; you 
 naay 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 veiy 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 excitenient 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 or did j yet 
 so open and fair in dealing with a subject, or contending with an 
 opponent, that instead of rousing resentment, she merely convinced 
 her hearers of her earnest zeal for the truth and right. 
 
 Not the least singular part of their proceedings was the place, at 
 which the sisters had chosen to stay. 
 
2/8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Paternoster Row was for many years sacred to publishers. It is 
 a narrow flagged street, lying under the shadow of St. Paul's. The dull 
 warehouses on each side are mostly occupied at present by wholesale 
 booksellers; if they be pubUshers' 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 run- 
 ning across them; the walls were wainscoted breast high; the 
 staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much space in the 
 centre of the house. This, then, was the Chapter Coffee-house, which, 
 a century ago, was the resort of all the booksellers and publishers ; 
 and where the literary hacks, the critics, and even the wits, used to 
 go in search of ideas or employment. This was the place about which 
 Chatterton wrote, in those delusive letters he sent to his mother at 
 Bristol, while he was starving in London. " I am quite famihar at 
 the Chapter Coffee-house, and know all the geniuses there.'' Here 
 he heard of chances of employment ; here his letters were to be left. 
 
 Years later, it became the tavern frequented by university men 
 and country clergymen, who were up in London for a few days, and, 
 having no private friends or access into society, were glad to learn what 
 was going on in the world of letters, from the conversation which 
 they were sure to hear in the coffee-room. In Mr. Bronte's few and 
 brief visits to town, during his residence at Cambridge, and the 
 period of his curacy in Essex, he had stayed at this house ; hither he 
 had brought his daughters, when he was convoying them to Brussels ; 
 and here they came now, from very ignorance where else to go. It 
 was a place solely frequented by men ; I believe there was but one 
 female servant in the house. Few people slept there ; some of the 
 stated meetings of the Trade were held in it, as they had been for 
 more than a century ; and, occasionally, country booksellers, with 
 now and then a clergyman, resorted to it ; but it was a strange desolate 
 place for the Miss Brontes to have gone to, from its purely business 
 and masculine aspect. The old "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. 
 
CURRER AND ACTON BELL IN LONDON. 279 
 
 where the meetings of the Trade were held. The high narrow windows 
 looked into the , gloomy Row; the sisters, chnging 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 Coflfee-house, to ac- 
 cepting the invitation which Mr. Smith and his mother urged upon 
 them ; and, in after years, Charlotte says : — 
 
 " Since those days, I have seen the West End, the parks, the fine 
 squares ; but I love the City far better. The City seems so much 
 more in earnest ; its business, its rush, its roar, are such serious things, 
 sights, and sounds. The City is getting its living — the West End but 
 enjoying its pleasure. At the West End you may be amused ; but in 
 the City you are deeply excited." — ( Villette, p. 46.) 
 
 Their wish had been to hear Dr. Croly on the Sunday morning, 
 and Mr. WiUiams escorted them to St. Stephen's, Walbrook ; but they 
 were disappointed, as Dr. Croly did not preach. Mr. WiUiams also 
 took them (as Miss Bronte has mentioned) to drink tea at his house. 
 On the way thither, they had to pass through Kensington Gardens, 
 and Miss Bronte was much " struck with the beauty of the scene, the 
 fresh verdure of the turf, and the soft rich masses of foliage." From 
 remarks on the different character of the landscape in the South to what 
 it was in the North, she was led to speak of the softness and varied 
 intonation of the voices of those with whom she conversed in London, 
 which seem to have made a strong impression on both sisters. All 
 this time those who came in contact with the " Miss Browns " (another 
 pseudonym, also begining with B), seem only to have regarded them 
 as shy and reserved little countrywomen, with not much to say. Mr. 
 Williams tells me that on the night when he accompanied the party 
 to the Opera, as Charlotte ascended the flight of stairs leading from 
 the grand entrance up to the lobby of the first tier of boxes, she was 
 so much struck with the architectural effect of the splendid decorations 
 
28o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 of that vestibule and saloon, that involuntarily she slightly pressed 
 his arm and whispered, " You know I am not accustomed to this sort 
 of thing." Indeed, it must have formed a vivid contrast to what they 
 were doing and seeing an hour or two earlier the night before, when 
 they were tradging along, with beating hearts and high-strung courage, 
 oh the road between Haworth and Keighley, hardly thinking of the 
 thunderstorm that beat about their heads, for the thoughts which 
 filled them of how they would go straight away to London, and prove 
 that they were really two people, and not one 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 this time is of a 
 different character to anything telling of enjoyment : — 
 
 "July 28th. 
 
 " Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems 
 much shattered. Papa, and sometimes all of us, have sad nights 
 with him. He sleeps most of the day, and consequently wiU lie 
 awake at night. But has not every house its trial ? " 
 
 While her most intimate friends were yet in ignorance of the fact 
 of her authorship oijane Eyre, she received a letter from one of them, 
 making inquiries about Casterton School. It is but right to give her 
 answer, written on August 28th, 1848 : — 
 
 " Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I wiU. 
 write without further delay. It often happens that when we linger 
 at first in answering a friend's letter, obstacles occur to retard us to 
 an inexcusably late period. In my last, I forgot to answer a question 
 which you asked me, and was sorry afterwards for the omission. I 
 will begin, therefore, by replpng to it, though I fear what information 
 
 I can give will come a little late. You said Mrs. had some 
 
 thoughts of sending to school, and wished to know whether the 
 
 Clergy Daughters' School at Casterton was an eligible place. My 
 personal knowledge of that institution is very much out of date, being 
 derived froin the experience of twenty years ago. The establishment 
 was at that time in its infancy, and a sad rickety infancy it was. 
 

 ., V. 
 
 « I i 
 1 / 
 
 1 "li'iiil 
 
 
 1 1? 
 
 •^ 1 JOS 199 '9 
 
 
 11 ) ( I I 
 
 
 .f VA-Ti 
 
DEATH OF BRANWELL BRONTE. 281 , 
 
 Typhus fever decimated the school periodically ; • and fconsumption 
 and scrofula, in every variety of form, bad air and water, bad and 
 insufficient diet can generate, preyed on the ill-fated pupils. It would 
 
 not then have been a fit place for any of Mrs. 's children ; but I 
 
 understand it is very much altered for the better since those days. 
 The school is removed from Cowan's Bridge (a situation- as unhealthy 
 as it was picturesque — low, damp, beautiful with wood and water,) 
 to Casterton. The accommodations, the diet, the discipUne, 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 selection; it was added, that they 
 were also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on leaving Casterton. 
 . . . The oldest family in Haworth failed lately, and have quitted 
 the neighbourhood where their fathers resided before them for, it is 
 said, thirteen generations. . . . Papa, I am most thankful to say, 
 continues in very good health, considering his age ; his sight, too, 
 rather, I think, improves than deteriorates. My sisters likewise are 
 pretty well." 
 
 But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed household, 
 and gathering blackness every hour. 
 
 On October the 9th, she thus writes : — 
 
 " The past three weeks have been a dark interval in our humble 
 home. Branwell's constitution had been failing fast all the summer; 
 but still neither the doctors nor himself thought him so near his end 
 as he was. He was entirely confined to his bed but for one single 
 day, and was in the village two days before his death. He died, 
 after twenty minutes' struggle, on Sunday morning, September 24th., 
 He was perfectly conscious till the last agony came on. His mind 
 had undergone the peculiar change which frequently precedes death, 
 two days previously; the calm of better feelings filled it; a return of 
 natural affection marked his last moments. He is in God's hands 
 now; and the All-Powerful is likewise the All-Merciful. A deep 
 
 ' Mr. W. W. Cams Wilson wishes me to mention that this statement is a 
 mistake. He says they have only had typhus fever twice in the school (either at 
 Cowan Bridge or at Casterton) since its institution in 1823. 
 
282 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 conviction that he rests at last — ^rests well after his brief, erring, 
 suffering, feverish life — fills and quiets my mind now. The final 
 separation, the spectacle of his pale corpse, gave me more acute, 
 bitter pain than I could have imagined. Till the last hour comes, 
 we never know how much we can forgive, pity, regret a near relative. 
 All his vices were and are nothing now. We remember only his 
 woes. Papa was acutely distressed at first, but, on the whole, has 
 borne the event well. Emily and Anne are pretty well, though Anne 
 is always delicate, and Emily has a cold and cough at present. It 
 was my fate to sink at the crisis, when I should have collected my 
 strength. Headache and sickness came on first on the Sunday ; I 
 could not regain my appetite. Then internal pain attacked me. I 
 became at once much reduced. It was impossible to touch a morsel. 
 At last, bilious fever declared itself I was confined to bed a week, 
 — a dreary week. But, thank God ! health seems now returning. I 
 can sit up all day, and take moderate nourishment. The doctor said, 
 at first, I should be very slow in recovering, but I seemed to get on 
 faster than he anticipated. I am truly much better." 
 
 I have heard, from one who attended Branwell in his last illness, 
 that he resolved on standing up to die. He had repeatedly said, that 
 as long as there was life there was strength of will to do what it chose; 
 and when the last agony began, he insisted on assuming the position 
 just mentioned. 
 
 " October 29th, 1848. 
 
 " I think I have now nearly got over the effects of my late illness, 
 and am almost restored to my normal condition of health. I some- 
 times 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 oiu: 
 reach. I feel much more uneasy about my sister than myself just 
 now. Emily's cold and cough are very obstinate. I fear she has 
 pain in her chest, and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing, 
 when she has moved at all quickly. She looks very thin and pale. 
 Her reserved nature occasions me great uneasiness of mind. It is 
 useless to question her; you get no answers. It is still more useless 
 to recommend remedies; they are never adopted. Nor can I shut 
 my eyes to Anne's great deUcacy of constitution. The late sad 
 event has, I feel, made me more apprehensive than common. I 
 
IMPENDING SORROWS. 283 
 
 cannot help feeling much depressed sometimes. I try to leave all in 
 God's hands ; to trust in His goodness ; but faith and resignation are 
 difficult to practise under some circumstances. The weather has 
 been most unfavourable for invalids of late ; sudden changes of tem- 
 peratiure and cold penetrating winds have been frequent here. 
 Should the atmosphere become more settled, perhaps a favourable 
 effect might be produced on the general health, and these harassing 
 colds and coughs be removed. Papa has not quite escaped, but he 
 has so far stood it better than any of us. You must not mention my 
 
 going to this winter. I could not, and would not, leave home , 
 
 on any account. Miss has been for some years out of health 
 
 now. These thiags make on& feel, as well as know, that this world is 
 not our abiding-place. We should not knit human ties too close, or 
 clasp human affections too fondly. They must leave us, or we must 
 leave them, one day. God restore health and strength to all who 
 need it ! " 
 
 I go on now with het own affecting words in the biographical 
 notice of her sisters : 
 
 ' But a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape 
 which to anticipate is dread ; to look back on, grief. In the very heat, 
 and burden of the day, the labourers failed over their work. My 
 
 sister Emily first declined Never in all her life had she 
 
 lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. 
 
 She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us Day by 
 
 day, when I saw with what a front she met suffering, I looked on her 
 with an anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it; 
 but, indeed, I have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger 
 than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone. The awful 
 point was, that, while full of ruth for others, on herself she had no 
 pity ; the spirit was inexorable to the flesh ; from the trembling hand, 
 the unnerved limbs, the fading eyes, the same service was exacted as 
 they had rendered in health. To stand by and witness this, and not 
 dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can render." 
 
 In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday succeeding 
 Branwell's death. She made no complaint ; she would not endure 
 questioning ; she rejected s)ntnpathy and help. Many a time did 
 
284 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Charlotte and Anne drop their sewing, or cease from their writing, to 
 listen with wrung hearts to the failing step, the laboured breathing, 
 the frequent pauses, with which their sister climbed the short stair- 
 case ; yet they dared not notice what they observed, with pangs of 
 suffering even deeper than hers. They dared not notice it in words, 
 far less by the caressing assistance of a helping arm or hand. They 
 sat still and silent. 
 
 "Nov. 23rd, 1848. 
 
 "I told you Emily was Ul, in my last letter. She has not 
 rallied yet. She is very ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your 
 impression would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, 
 pallid aspect I have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues ; 
 the breathing after the least exertion is a rapid pant ; and these 
 symptoms are accompanied by pains in the chest and side. Her 
 pulse, the only time she allowed it 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 has been for some 
 weeks, exquisitely painful. God only knows how all this is to terminate. 
 More than once, I have been forced boldly to regard the terrible event 
 of her loss as possible, and even probable. But nature shrinks from 
 such thoughts. I think Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart 
 in the world." 
 
 When a doctor had been sent for, and was in the very house, 
 Emily refused to see him. Her sisters could only describe to him 
 what symptoms they had observed \ and the medicines which he sent 
 she would not take, denying that she was ill. 
 
 "Dec. loth, 1848. 
 
 " I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now 
 interests me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I 
 hardly know what to think myself Hope and fear fluctuate daily. 
 The pain in her side and chest is better ; the cough, the' shortness of 
 breath, the extreme emaciation continue. I have endured, however, 
 such tortures of uncertainty on this subject that, at length, I could 
 endure it no longer ; and as her repugnance to see a medical man 
 continues immutable, — as she declares no 'poisoning doctor' shall 
 
ILLNESS AND DEATH OF EMILY BRONTE. 285 
 
 come near her, — I have written, unknown to her, to an eminent 
 physician in London, giving as minute a statement of her case and 
 symptoms as I could draw up, and requesting an opinion. I expect 
 an answer in a day or two. I am thankful to say, that my own 
 health at present is very tolerable. It is well such is the case ; for 
 Anne, with the best will in the world to be useful, is really too delicate 
 to do or bear much. She, too, at present, has frequent pains in the 
 side. Papa is also pretty well, though Emily's state renders him very 
 anxious. 
 
 " The s (Anne Bronte's former pupils) were here about a 
 
 week ago. They are attractive and stylish-looking girls. They 
 seemed overjoyed to see Anne : when I went into the room they were 
 clinging round her like two children — she, meantime, looking perfectly 
 quiet and passive. . . I. and H. took it into their heads to come 
 here. I think it probable offence was taken on that occasion, — from 
 what cause I know not ; and as, if such be the case, the grudge must 
 rest upon purely imaginary grounds, — and since, besides, I have other 
 things to think about, my mind rarely dwells upon the subject. If 
 Emily were but well, I feel as if I should not care who neglected, 
 misunderstood, or abused me. I would rather you were not of the 
 number either. The crab-cheese arrived safely. Emily has just 
 reminded me to thank you for it : it looks very nice. I wish she were 
 well enough to eat it." 
 
 But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Bronte's 
 shiver at recalling the pang she felt when, after having searched in 
 the little hollows and sheltered crevices of the moors for a lingering 
 spray of heather — just one spray, however withered — to take in to 
 Emily, she saw that the ilower was not recognised by the dim and 
 indifferent eyes. Yet, to the last, Emily adhered tenaciously to her 
 habits of independence. She would suffer no one to assist her. Any 
 effort to do so roused the old stem spirit. One Tuesday morning, in 
 December, she arose and dressed herself as usual, making many a 
 pause, but doing everything for herself, and even endeavouring to 
 take up her employment of sewing: the servants looked on, and knew 
 what the catching, rattling breath, and the glazing of the eye too 
 surely foretold ; but she kept at her work ; and Charlotte and Anne, 
 though full of unspeakable dread, had still the faintest spark of hope. 
 
286 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 On that morning Charlotte wrote thus — probably in the very presence 
 of her djdng 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 daUy weaker. The phy- 
 sician's opinion was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent 
 some medicine, which she would not take. Moments so dark as 
 these I have never known. I pray for God's ' support to us all. 
 Hitherto He has granted it.'' 
 
 The morning drew on to noon. Ermly was worse : she could 
 only whisper in gasps. Now, when it was too late, she said to 
 Charlotte, "If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now." 
 About two o'clock she died. 
 
 "Dec. 2lst, 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 after- 
 wards, she was in eternity. Yes ; there is no Emily in time or on 
 earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly 
 imder the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why 
 should we be otherwise ? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over ; 
 the spectacle of the pains of death is gone by ; the funeral day is past 
 We feel she is at peace. No need now to tremble for the hard frost 
 and the keen wind. Emily does not feel them. She died in a time 
 of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime. But it is God's 
 will, and the place where she is gone is better than that she has left 
 
 " God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, through such 
 agony as I had not conceived. I jiow look at Anne, and wish she 
 were well and strong ; but she is neither ; nor is papa. Could you 
 now come to us for a few days ? I would not ask you to stay long. 
 Write and tell me if you could come next week, and by what train. 
 I would try to send a gig for you to Keighley. You will, I trust, find 
 us tranquil. Try to come. I never so much needed the consolation 
 of a friend's presence. Pleasure, of course, there would be none for 
 you in the visit, except what your kind heart would teach you to find 
 in doing good to. others." 
 
A FAITHFUL MOURNER. 287 
 
 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. 
 
288 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 An article on Vanity Fair and yane Eyre had appeared in the 
 Quarterly Review of December, 1848. Some weeks after, Miss Bronte 
 wrote to her publishers, asking why it had not been sent to her ; and 
 conjecturing that it was unfavourable, she repeated her previous 
 request, that whatever was done with the laudatory, all critiques 
 adverse to the novel might be forwarded to her without fail. The 
 Quarterly Review was accordingly sent. I am not aware that Miss 
 Bronte took any greater notice of the article than to place a few 
 sentences out of it in the mouth of a hard and vulgar woman in 
 Shirley, where they are so much in character, that few have recognised 
 them as a quotation. The time when the article was read was good 
 for Miss Bronte, she was numbed to all petty annoyances by the 
 grand severity of Death. Otherwise she might have felt more keenly 
 than they deserved the criticisms which, while striving to be severe, 
 failed in logic, owing to the misuse of prepositions ; and have smarted 
 under conjectures as to the authorship of jFane Eyre, which, intended 
 to be acute, were merely flippant. But flippancy takes a graver name 
 when directed against an author by an anonymous writer. We call 
 it then cowardly insolence. 
 
 Every one has a right to form his own conclusion respecting the 
 merits and demerits of a book. I complain not of the judgment 
 which the reviewer passes on 'jFane Eyre. Opinions as to its tendency 
 varied then as they do now. While I write, I receive a letter from a 
 clergyman in America in which he says : " We have in our sacred of 
 sacreds a special shelf, highly adorned, as a place we delight to 
 honour, of novels which we recognise as having had a good influence 
 on character, our character. Foremost is Jane Eyre." 
 
 Nor do I deny the existence of a diametrically opposite judgment. 
 And so (as I trouble not myself about the reviewer's style of compo- 
 
THE QUARTERLY REVIEW ON "JANE EYRE." 289' 
 
 sition) I leave his criticisms regarding the merits of the work on one 
 side. But when — forgetting the chivalrous spirit of the good and 
 noble Southey, who said : " In reviewing anonymous works myself, 
 when I have known the authors I have never mentioned them, taking 
 it for granted they had sufficient reasons for avoiding the publicity " 
 —the Quarterly reviewer goes on into gossiping conjectures as to who 
 Currer Bell really is, and pretends to decide on what the writer may 
 be from the book, I protest with my whole soul against such want of 
 Christian charity. Not even the desire to write a "smart article," 
 which shall be talked about in London, when- the faint mask of the 
 anon3Tnous 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 unspoken Northerns, un- 
 skilled in the euphuisms which assist the polite world to skim over the 
 mention of vice ? Has he striven through long weeping years to find 
 excuses for the lapse of an only brother ; and through daily contact 
 with a poor lost profligate, been compelled into a certain familiarity 
 with the vices that his soul abhors ? Has he, through trials, close fol- 
 lowing in dread march through his household, sweeping the hearthstone 
 bare of life and love, still striven hard for strength to say, " It is the 
 Lord ! let him do what seemeth to him good " — and sometimes striven 
 in vain, until the kindly light returned? If through all these dark 
 waters the scornful reviewer have passed clear, refined, free from stain, 
 — with a soul that has never in all its agonies cried " Lama sabach- 
 thani," — still, even then let him pray with the Publican rather than 
 judge with the Pharisee. 
 
 "Jan. loth, 1849. 
 
 " Anne had a very tolerable day yesterday, and a pretty quiet 
 night last night, though she did not sleep much. Mr. Wheel- 
 house 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 
 
 u 
 
290 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 intervals very low j- then I look where you counsel me to look, beyond 
 earthly tempests and sorrows. I seem to get strength, if not consola- 
 tion. It will not do to anticipate. I feel that hourly. In the night 
 I awake, and long for morning: then my heart is wrung. Papa 
 continues much the same ; he was very faint when he came down to 
 
 breakfast Dear E , your friendship is some comfort 
 
 to me. I am thankful for it. I see few lights through the darkness 
 of the present time ; but amongst them the constancy of a kind heart 
 attached to me is one of the most cheering and serene." 
 
 "Jan. isth, 1849. 
 
 "I can scarcely say that Anne is worse, nor can I say she is 
 better. She varies often in the course of a day, yet each day is passed 
 pretty much the same. The morning is usually the best time ; the 
 afternoon and the evening the most feverish. Her cough is the most 
 troublesome at night, but it is rarely violent. The pain in her arm 
 still disturbs her. She takes the cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron 
 regularly ; she finds them both nauseous, but especially the oil. Her 
 appetite is small indeed. Do not fear that I shall relax in my care of 
 her. She is too precious not to be cherished with all the fostering 
 strength I have. Papa, I am thankful to say, has been a good deal 
 better this last day or two. 
 
 "As to your queries about myself, I can only say, that if I 
 continue as I am I shall do very well. I have not yet got rid of the 
 pains in my chest and back. They oddly return with every change 
 of weather ; and are still sometimes accompanied with a little sore- 
 ness 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 ncniK 
 
 " I avoid looking forward or backwsird, 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 perfomi 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 Ues in her grave, and 
 
 another, not at my side, but in a separate and sick bed. However, 
 
 God is over all." 
 
 "Jan. 22nd, 1849. 
 
 "Anne really did seem to be a little better during some mild days 
 
ILLNESS OF ANNE BRONTE. 291 
 
 last week, but to-day she looks very pale and languid again. She 
 perseveres with the cod-liver oil, but still finds it very nauseous. 
 
 "She is truly obliged to you for the soles for her shoes, and finds 
 them extremely comfortable. I am to commission you to get her 
 
 just such a respirator as Mrs. had. She would not object to 
 
 give a higher price, if you thought it better. If it is not too much 
 trouble, you may likewise get me a pair of soles ; you can send them 
 and the respirator when you send the box. You must put down the 
 price of all, and we will pay you in a Post-office order. Wuthering 
 
 Heights was given to you. I have sent neither letter nor 
 
 -parcel. I had nothing but dreary news to write, so preferred that 
 
 others should tell her. I have not written to either. I cannot 
 
 write, except when I am quite obliged." 
 
 "Feb. nth, 1849. 
 
 "We received the box and its contents quite safely to-day. 
 The penwipers are very pretty, aiid we are very much obliged to you 
 for them. I hope the respirator will be useful to Anne, in case she 
 should ever be well enoiigh to go out again. She continues very 
 much in the same state — I trust not greatly worse, though she is 
 becoming very thin. I fear it would be only self-delusion to fancy 
 her better. What effect the advancing season may have on her, I 
 know not ; perhaps the return of really warm weather may give 
 nature a happy stimulus. I. tremble at the thought of any change to 
 cold wind or frost. Would that March were well over ! Her mind 
 seems generally serene, and her sufferings hitherto are nothing like 
 Emily's. The thought of what may be to come grows more familiar 
 to my mind ; but it is a sad, dreary guest." 
 
 " March i6th, 1849. 
 
 " We have found the past week a somewhat trying one ; it Jias 
 not been cold, but still there have been changes of temperature 
 whose effect Anne has felt unfavourably. She is not, I trust, 
 seriously worsfe, 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 some- 
 what depressed ; at times I certainly am. It was almost easier to 
 bear up when the trial was at its crisis than now. The feeling of 
 Emily's loss does not diminish as time wears on ; it often makes 
 
292 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 itself most acutely recognised. It brings too an inexpressible sorrow 
 with it ; and then the future is dark. Yet I am well aware it will not 
 do either to complain or sink, and I strive to do neither. Strength, 
 I hope and trust, will yet be given in proportion to the burden ; but 
 the pain of my position is not one likely to lessen with habit. Its 
 solitude and isolation are oppressive circumstances, yet I do not wish 
 for any friends to stay with me ; I could not do with any one — ^not 
 even you — to share the sadness of the house; it would rack me 
 intolerably. Meantime, judgment is still blent with mercy. Aime's 
 sufferings still continue mild. It is my nature, when left alone, to 
 struggle on with a certain perseverance, and I believe God wUl 
 help me." 
 
 Anne had been delicate all her life ; a fact which perhaps made 
 her father and sister less aware than they would otherwise have been, 
 of the true nature of those fatal first symptoms. Yet they seem to 
 have lost but little time before they sent for the first advice that could 
 be procured. She was examined with the stethoscope, and the 
 dreadful fact was announced that her lungs were affected, and that 
 tubercular consumption had already made considerable progress. A 
 system of treatment was prescribed, which was afterwards ratified by 
 the opinion of Dr. Forbes. 
 
 For a short time they hoped that the disease was arrested. 
 Charlotte — herself ill with a complaint that severely tried her spirits 
 — was the ever-watchful nurse of this youngest, last sister. One 
 comfort was that Anne was the patientest, gentlest invalid that could 
 be. Still, there were hours, days, weeks of inexpressible anguish to 
 be borne ; under the pressure of which Charlotte could only pray : 
 and pray she did, right earnestly. Thus she writes on March 24th : — 
 
 "Anne's decUne is gradual and fluctuating; but its nature is not 
 doubtful. ... In spirit she is resigned : at heart she is, I believe, 
 
 a true Christian May God support her and all of us 
 
 through the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the last hour, 
 when the struggle which separates soul from body must be gone 
 through ! We saw Emily torn from the midst of us when our hearts 
 
 clung to her with intense attachment She was scarce 
 
 buried when Anne's health failed These things would 
 
A TIME OF DARKNESS. 293 
 
 be too miich, if reason, unsupported by religion, were condemned to 
 bear them alone. I have cause to be most thankful for the strength 
 that has hitherto been vouchsafed both to my father and to myself. 
 God, I think, is specially merciful to old age ; and, for my own part, 
 trials, which in perspective would have seemed to me quite intoler- 
 able, when they actually came I endured without prostration. Yet I 
 must confess that, in the time which has elapsed since Emily's death, 
 there have been moments of solitary, deep, inert affliction, far harder 
 to bear than those which immediately followed our loss. The crisis 
 of bereavement has an acute pang which goads to exertion ; the 
 desolate after-feeling sometimes paralyses. I have learnt that we are 
 not to find solace in our own strength ; we must seek it in God's 
 omnipotence. Fortitude is good ; but fortitude itself must be shaken 
 under us, to teach us how weak we are ! " 
 
 All through this illness of Anne's, Charlotte had the comfort of 
 being able to talk to her about her state ; a comfort rendered inex- 
 pressibly great by the contrast which it presented to the recollection 
 of Emily's rejection of all sympathy. If a proposal for Anne's 
 benefit was made, Charlotte could speak to her about it, and the 
 nursing and dying sister could consult with each other as to its 
 desirability. I have seen but one of Anne's letters ; it is the only 
 time we seem to be brought into direct personal contact with this 
 gentle, patient girl. In order to give the requisite preliminary 
 
 explanation, I must state that the family of friends to which E 
 
 belonged, proposed that Anne should come to them ; in order to try 
 what change of air and diet, and the company of kindly people 
 could do towards restoring her to health. In answer to this proposal, 
 Charlotte writes : — 
 
 " March 24th. 
 
 " I read your kind note to Anne, and she wishes me to thank you 
 sincerely for your friendly proposal. She feels, of course, that it 
 would not do to take advantage of it, by quartering an invalid upon 
 
 the inhabitants of ; but she intimates there is another way in 
 
 which you might serve her, perhaps with some benefit to yourself as 
 well as to Jier. Should it, in a month or two hence, be deemed 
 advisable that she should go either to the sea-side, or to some inland 
 watering-place — and should Papa be disinclined to move, and I 
 
294 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 consequently obliged to remain at home — she asks, could you be her 
 companion ? Of course I need not add that in the event of such an 
 arrangement being made, you would be put to no expense. This, dear 
 E., is Anne's proposal ; I make it to comply with her wish ; but for 
 my own part, I must add that I see serious objections to your 
 accepting it — objections I cannot name to her. She continues to 
 vary; is sometimes worse, and sometimes better, as the weather 
 changes ; but, on the whole, I. fear she loses strength. Papa says 
 her state is most precarious ; she may be spared for some time, or a 
 sudden alteration might remove her before we are aware. Were such 
 an alteration to take place while she was far from home, and alone 
 with you, it would be terrible. The idea of it distresses me inex- 
 pressibly, and I tremble whenever she alludes to the project of a 
 journey. In short, I wish we could gain time, and see how she gets 
 on. If she leaves home, it certainly should not be in the capricious 
 month of May, which is proverbially trying to the weak. June 
 would be a safer month. If we could reach June, I should have 
 good hopes of her getting through the summer. Write such an 
 answer to this note as I can show Anne. You can write any addi- 
 tional remarks to me on a separate piece of paper. Do not consider 
 yourself as confined to discussing only our sad affairs. I am inter- 
 ested in all«that interests you." 
 
 From Amie Bronte. 
 
 " AprU 5th, 1849. 
 
 " My dear Miss , — I thank you greatly for your kind letter, 
 
 and your ready compliance with my proposal, as far as the wi/l 
 can go at least. I see, however, that your friends are unwilling that 
 you should vmdertake the responsibility of accompanying me under 
 present circumstances. But I do not think there would be any great 
 responsibility in the matter. I know, and everybody knows, that you 
 would be as kind and helpful as any one could possibly be, and I 
 hope I should not be very troublesome. It would be as a companion, 
 not as a nurse, that I should wish for your company ; otherwise I 
 should not venture to ask it. As for your kind and often-repeated 
 
 invitation to , pray give my sincere thanks to your mother and 
 
 sisters, but tell them I could not think of inflicting my presence upon 
 them as I now am. It is very kind of them to make so light of the 
 
LETTER FROM ANNE BRONTE. 295 
 
 trouble, but still there must be more or less, and certainly no pleasure, 
 from the society of a silent invalid stranger. I hope, however, that 
 Charlotte will by some means make it possible to accompany me after 
 all. She is certainly very delicate, and greatly needs a change of air 
 and scene to renovate her constitution. And then your going with 
 me before the end of May is apparently out of the question, unless 
 you are disappointed in your visitors ; but I should be reluctant to 
 wait till then, if the weather would at all permit an earUer departure. 
 You say May is a trying month, and so say others. The earlier part 
 is often cold enough, I acknowledge, but, according to my experience, 
 we are almost certain of some fine warm days in the latter half, when 
 the laburnums and lilacs 'are in blooin ; whereas June is often cold, 
 and July generally wet. Biit 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 con- 
 sumptive cases, if the remedy were taken in time ; but the reason why 
 there are so many disappointments is, that it is generally deferred till 
 it is too late. Now I would not commit this error ; and to say the 
 truth, though I suffer much less from pain and fever than I did when 
 you were with us, I am decidedly weaker, and very much thinner. 
 My cough still troubles me a good deal, especially in the night, and 
 what seems worse than all, I am subject to great shortness of breath 
 on going up-stairs or any slight exertion. Under these circumstances, 
 I think there is no time to be lost. I have no horror of death : if I 
 thought it inevitable, I think I could quietly resign myself to the 
 
 prospect, in the hope that you, dear Miss , would give as much 
 
 of your company as you possibly could to Charlotte, and be a sister 
 to her in my stead. But I wish it would please God to spare me, not 
 only for Papa's and Charlotte's sa,kes, but because I long to do some 
 good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my 
 head for future practice — humble and limited indeed — ^but still I 
 should not, like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have 
 lived to so little purpose. But God's will be done. Remember me 
 respectfully to your mother and sisters, and believe me, dear Miss 
 
 , yours most affectionately, 
 
 "Anne Bronte." 
 
 It must have been about this time that Anne composed her last 
 
296 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 verses, before "the desk was dosed, and the pen laid aside for 
 ever : " — 
 
 I hoped, that with the brave and strong, 
 My portioned tasit might lie ; 
 
 To toil amid the busy throng, 
 With purpose pure and high. 
 
 But God has fixed another part, 
 And He has fixed it well : 
 
 I said so with my bleeding heart, 
 When first the anguish fell. 
 
 Thou, God, hast taken our delight, 
 
 Our treasured hope away : 
 Thou bidst 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-tost, — 
 
 Can I but turn to Thee : 
 
 V. 
 
 With secret labour to sustain 
 In humble patience-every blow ; 
 
 To gather fortitude from pain, 
 And hope and holiness from woe. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Thus let me serve Thee from my heart, 
 Whate'er may be my written fate ; 
 
 Whether thus early to depart. 
 Or yet awhile to wait. 
 
 VII. 
 
 If Thou shouldst bring me back to life, 
 
 More humbled I should be ; 
 More wise — ^more strengthened for tlie strife, 
 
 More apt to lean on Thee. 
 
HER ANXIETY FOR HER SISTER. 297 
 
 Should death be standing at the gate, 
 
 Thus should I keep my vow ; 
 But, Lord, whatever be my fate. 
 
 Oh ! let me serve Thee now ! 
 
 I take Charlotte's own words as the best record of her thoughts 
 and feelings during all this terrible time : — 
 
 "April 1 2th. 
 
 " I read Anne's letter to you ; it was touching enough, as you 
 say. If there were no hope beyond this world — no eternity — no life 
 to come — Emily's fate, and that which threatens Anne, would be 
 heart-breaking. I cannot forget Emily's death-day ; it becomes a 
 more fixed, a darker, a more frequently recurring idea in my mind 
 than ever. It was very terrible. She was torn, conscioiis, panting, 
 reluctant, though resolute, out of a happy life. But it will not do to 
 dwell on these things. 
 
 " 1 am glad your friends object to your going with Anne ; it 
 would never do. To speak truth, even if your mother and sisters had 
 consented, I never could. It is not that there is any laborious 
 attention to pay her ; she requires, and will accept, but little nursing ; 
 but there would be hazard, and anxiety of mind, beyond what you 
 ought to be subject to. If, a month or six weeks hence, she con- 
 tinues to wish for a change as much as she does now, I shall (D.V.) 
 go with her myself. It will certainly be my paramount duty ; other 
 cares must be made subservient to that. I have consulted Mr. 
 
 T : he does not object, and recommends Scarborough, which 
 
 was Anne's own choice. I trust affairs may be so ordered, that you 
 may be able to be with us at least part of the time. . . . Whether 
 in lodgings or not, I should wish to be boarded. Providing oneself 
 is, I think, an insupportable nuisance. I don't like keeping 
 provisions in a cupboard, locking-up, being pillaged, and all that. It 
 is a petty, weiring annoyance." 
 
 The progress of Anne's illness was slower than that of Emily's 
 had been ; and she was too unselfish to refuse trying means, from 
 which, if she herself had little hope of benefit, her friends might here- 
 after derive a mournful satisfaction. 
 
298 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " I began to flatter myself .she was getting strength. But the 
 change to frost has told upon her ; she suffers more of late. Still, 
 her illness has none of the fearful rapid symptoms which appalled in 
 Emily's case. Could she only get over the spring, I hope 
 summer may do much for her, and then early removal to a warmer 
 locality for the winter might, at least, prolong her life. Could we 
 only reckon upon another year, I should be thankful ; but can we do 
 this for the healthy ? A few days ago I wrote to have Dr. Forbes' 
 opinion. . . . He warned us against entertaining sanguine hopes 
 of recovery. The cod-liver oil he considers a peculiarly efficacious 
 "medicine. He, too, disapproved of change of residence for the 
 present. There is some feeble consolation in thinking we are doing 
 the very best that can be done. The agony of forced, total neglect, 
 is not now felt, as during Emily's illness. Never may we be doomed 
 to feel such agony again. It was terrible. I have felt much less of 
 the disagreeable pains in my chest lately, and much less also of 
 the soreness and hoarseness. I tried an application of hot vinegar, 
 which seemed to do good." 
 
 " May 1st. 
 "I was glad to hear that when we go to Scarborough, you will be 
 at liberty to go with us, but the journey and its consequences still 
 continue a source of great anxiety to me ; I must try to put it off t«vo 
 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 tiie last few days, that 
 I have not known what to think. . . . She may rally again, and be 
 much better, but there must be some improvement before I can feel 
 justified in taking her away from home. Yet to delay is painful ; for, as 
 is always the case, I believe, under her' circumstances, she seems 
 herself not half conscious of the necessity for such delay. She wonders, 
 I believe, why I don't talk more about the journey : it grieves me to 
 think she may even be hurt by my seeming tardiness. She is very 
 much emaciated — ^farmore 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 
 
PREPARES FOR A JOURNEY TO SCARBOROUGH. 299 
 
 than walk. . . . Papa continues pretty -well ; — I hope I shall be 
 enabled to bear up. So far, I have reasoi} for thankfulness to God." 
 
 May had come, and brought the milder weather longed for ; but 
 Anne was worse for the very change. A little later on, it became 
 colder, and she rallied, and poor Charlotte began to hope that, if May 
 were once over, she might last for a long time. Miss Bronte wrote 
 to engage the lodgings at Scarborough — a place which Anne had 
 formerly visited with the family to whoni she was governess. They 
 took a good-sized sitting-room, and an airy double-bedded room (both 
 commanding a sea- view), in one of the best situations of the town. 
 Money was as nothing in comparison with life ; besides, Anne had a 
 small legacy left to her by her godmother, and they felt that she could 
 not better employ this than in obtaining what might prolong life, if 
 not restore health. On May i6th, 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 kindness. I wish my judgment sanctioned the 
 step of going to Scarborough, more fully than it does. You ask how 
 I have arranged about leaving Papa. I could make no special 
 arrangement. He wishes me to go with Anne, and would not hear of 
 
 Mr. N 's coming, or anything of that kind ; so I do what I believe 
 
 is for the best, and leave the result to Providence." 
 
 They planned to rest and spend a night at York ; and at Anne's 
 desire, arranged to make some purchases there. Charlotte ends the 
 letter to her friend, in which she tells her all this, with — 
 
 "May 23rd. 
 " I wish it seemed less like a dreary mockery in us to talk of 
 buying bonnets, &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 ex- 
 periment of the sea-air will be tried. Will it do her good ? I cannot 
 
300 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 tell ; I can only wish. Oh ! if it would please God to strengthen and 
 revive Anne, how happy we might be together : His will, however, 
 be done ! " 
 
 The two sisters left Haworth on Thursday, May 24th. They were 
 to have done so the day before, and had made an appointment with 
 their friend to meet them at the Leeds station, in order that they 
 might all proceed together. But on Wednesday morning Anne was 
 so ill, that it was impossible for the sisters to set out ; yet they had 
 no means of letting their friend know of this, and she consequently 
 arrived at the Leeds station at the time specified. There she sat waiting 
 for several hours. It struck her as strange at the time — and it almost 
 seems ominous to her fancy now — that twice over, from two separate 
 arrivals on the line by which she was expecting her friends, coffins 
 were carried forth, and placed in hearses which were in waiting for 
 their dead, as she was waiting for one in four days to become so. 
 
 The next day she could bear suspense no longer, and set out for 
 Haworth, reaching there just in time to carry the feeble, fainting 
 invalid into the chaise which was waiting 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 darUng yearned for the change to Scarborough, go she 
 should, however Charlotte's heart might be wrung by impending fear. 
 The lady who accompanied them, Charlotte's beloved friend of more 
 than twenty years, has kindly written out for me the following account 
 of the journey — and of the end : — 
 
 "She left her home May 24th, 1849 — died May 28th. Her life 
 was calm, quiet, spiritual ; such was her end. Through the trials and 
 fatigues of the journey, she evinced the pious courage and fortitude 
 »f a martyr. Dependence and helplessness were ever with her a far 
 sorer trial thali 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. 
 
LAST DAYS OF ANNE BRONTE. 301 
 
 " By her request we went to the Minster, and to her it was an 
 overpowering pleasure; 'not for its own imposing and impressive 
 grandeur only, but because it brought to her susceptible nature a vital 
 and overwhelming sense of omnipotence. She said, while gazing at 
 the structure, ' If finite power can do this, what is the . . . ? ' and 
 here emotion stayed her speech, and she was hastened to a less 
 exciting scene. 
 
 " Her weakness of body was great, but her gratitude for every 
 mercy was greater. After such an exertion as walking to her bed- 
 room, she would clasp her hands and raise her eyes in silent thanks, 
 and she did this not to the exclusion of wonted prayer, for that too 
 was performed on bended knee, ere she accepted the rest of her 
 couch. 
 
 " On the 25th we arrived at Scarborough ; our dear invalid having, 
 during the journey, directed our attention to every prospect worthy 
 of notice. 
 
 " On the 26th she drove on the sands for an hour ; and lest the 
 poor donkey should be urged by its driver to a greater speed than her 
 tender heart thought right, she took the reins, and drove herself. 
 When joined by her friend, she was charging the tJoy-master of the 
 donkey to treat the poor animal well. She was ever fond of dumb 
 things, and would give up her own comfort for them. 
 
 " On Sunday, the 27th, she wished to go to church, and her eye 
 brightened with the thought of once more worshipping her God 
 amongst her fellow-creatures. We thought it prudent to dissuade her 
 from the attempt, though it was evident her heart was longing to join 
 in the public act of devotion and praise. 
 
 " She walked a Uttle 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 gHttered like burnished 
 gold ; the Httie 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 windo.w, to enjoy the scene with. 
 
302 LIFE- OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 VIS. Her face became illumined almost as much as the glorious scene 
 she gazed upon. Little was said, far 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 return- 
 ing to her place near the fire, she conversed with her sister upon the 
 propriety of returning to their home. She did not wish it for her 
 own sake, she said ; she was fearing others might suffer more if her 
 decease occurred where she was. She probably thought the task of 
 accompanying her lifeless remains on a long journey was more than 
 her sister could bear— more than the bereaved father could bear, 
 were she borne home another and a third tenant of the family-vault 
 in the short space of nine months. 
 
 " The night was passed without any apparent accession of illness. 
 She rose at seven 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 
 II A.M. She then spoke of feehng a change. 'She believed she had not 
 long to live. Could she reach home alive, if we prepared imme- 
 diately 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 reluctandy admitted 
 that the angel of death was already arrived, and that life was ebbing fast. 
 She thanked him for his truthfulness, and he departed to come again 
 very soon. She still occupied her easy-chair, looking so serene, so 
 reliant : there was no opening for grief as yet, though all knew the 
 separation was at hand. She clasped her hands, and reverently invoked 
 a blessing from on high ; first upon her sister, then upon her friend, 
 to whom she said, ' Be a sister in my stead. Give Charlotte as much 
 of your company as you can.' She then thanked each for her kind- 
 ness and attention. 
 
 " Ere long the restlessness of approaching death appeared, and she 
 was borne to the sofa ; on being asked if she were easier, she looked 
 gratefully at her questioner, and said, ' It is not you who can give me 
 
DEATH OF ANNE BRONTE. 303 
 
 ease, but soon all will be well,' through the merits of our Redeemer.' 
 Shortly after this, seeing that her sister could hardly restrain her grief, 
 she said, i 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 aifection, 
 however, had another channel, and there it turned in thought, in care, 
 and in tenderness. There was bereavement, but there was not 
 solitude ; — s)Tnpathy was at hand, and it was accepted. With calm- 
 ness came the consideration of the removal of the dear remains to their 
 home resting-place. This melancholy task, however, was never per- 
 formed ; for the afflicted sister decided to lay the flower in the place 
 where it had fallen. She believed that to do so would accord with 
 the wishes of the departed. She had no preference for place. She 
 thought not of the grave, for that is but the body's gaol, but of all 
 that is beyond it. 
 
 " Her remains rest, 
 
 Where the south sun warms the now dear sod, 
 
 Where the ocean billows lave and strike the steep and turf-covered rock.'' 
 
 Anne died on the Monday. On the Tuesday Charlotte wrote to 
 her father ; but knowing that his presence was required for some 
 annual Church solemnity at Haworth, she informed him that she had 
 made all ilecessary arrangements for the interment, and that the 
 funeral would take place so soon, that he could hardly arrive in time 
 for it. The surgeon who had visited Anne on the day of her death, 
 offered his attendance, but it was respectfully declined. 
 
 " A lady from the same neighbourhood as E was staying in 
 
 Scarborough at this time ; she, too, kindly offered sympathy and 
 assistance ; and when that solitary pair of mourners (the sister and the 
 
304 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 friend) arrived at the church, this lady was there, in unobtrusive 
 presence, not the less kind because unobtrusive." 
 
 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. 
 
 The younger servant, Martha Brown, who has been occasionally 
 alluded to in these memoirs, who was with Miss Bronte in her last 
 days, and who still remains the faithful servant at Haworth Parsonage, 
 has recently sent me a few letters which she received from her dearly- 
 loved mistress: one of them I will insert here, as it refers to this 
 time : — ■ 
 
 "June Sth, 1849. 
 
 "Dear Martha, 
 
 " I WAS very much pleased with your note, and glad to leam 
 that all at home are getting on pretty well. It will still be a week or ten 
 days before I return, and you must not tire yourself too much with 
 the cleaning. 
 
 " My sister Anne's death could not be otherwise than a great 
 trouble to me, though I have known for many weeks that she could not 
 get better. She died very calmly and gently : she was quite sensible 
 to the last. About three minutes before she died she said she was very 
 happy, and believed she was passing out of earth into heaven. It 
 was not her custom to talk much about religion ; but she was very 
 good, and I am certain she is now in a far better place than any this 
 world contains. 
 
 " I mean to send one of the boxes home this week, as I have more 
 luggage than is convenient to carry about. Give my best love to 
 Tabby. 
 
 " I am, dear Martha, 
 
 " Your sincere friend, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 "July, 1849. 
 
 , " I intended to have written a line to you to-day, if I had not 
 received yours. We did indeed part suddenly ; it made my heart 
 ache that we were severed without the time to exchange a word ; and 
 
RETURN TO THE HOUSE OF MOURNING. 305 
 
 yet perhaps it was better. I got here a little before eight o'clock. 
 All was clean and bright, waiting for me. Papa and the servants 
 were well ; and all received me with an affection which should have 
 consoled. The dogs seemed in strange ecstasy. I am certain they 
 regarded me as the harbinger of others. The dumb creatures thought 
 that, as I was returned, those who had been so long absent were not 
 far behind. 
 
 " I left Papa soon, and went into the dining-room ; I shut the 
 door — I tried to be glad that I was come home. I have always been 
 glad before — except once — even then I was cheered. But this time 
 joy was not to be the sensation. I felt that the house was all silent — ■ 
 the rooms were all empty. I remembered where the three were laid 
 — ^in what narrow dark dwellings — ^never more to reappear on earth. 
 So the sense of desolation and bitterness took possession of me. 
 The agony that was to be undergone, and was not to be avoided, came 
 on. I underwent it, and passed a dreary evening and night, and 
 a mournful morrow ; to-day I am better. 
 
 " I do not know how life will pass, but I certainly do feel con- 
 fidence in Him who has upheld me hitherto. Solitude may be 
 cheered, and made endurable beyond what I can believe. The great 
 trial is when evening closes and night approaches. At that hour, we 
 used to assemble in the dining-room — we used to talk. Now I sit by 
 myself — necessarily 1^ am silent. I cannot help thinking of their last 
 days, remembering their sufferings, and what they said and did, and 
 how they looked in mortal affliction. Perhaps all this will become 
 less poignant in time. 
 
 " Let me thank you once more, dear E , for your kindness to 
 
 me, which! do not mean to forget. How did you think all looking 
 at your home ? Papa thought me a little stronger ; he said my eyes 
 were not so sunken." 
 
 "July 14th, 1849. 
 
 " I do not much like giving an account of myself. I like better 
 to go out of myself, and talk of something more cheerful. My cold, 
 wherever I got it, whether at Easton or elsewhere, is not vanished 
 yet. It began in my head, then I had a sore throat, and then a sore 
 chest, with a cough, but only a -trifling cough, which I still have at 
 times. The pain between my shoulders likewise amazed me much. 
 
 X 
 
3o6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Say nothing about it, for I confess I am too much disposed to be 
 nervous. This nervousness is a horrid phantom. I dare commu- 
 nicate no ailment to Papa ; his anxiety harasses me inexpressibly. 
 
 " My life is what I expected it to be. Sometimes when I wake 
 in the morning, and know that Solitude, Remembrance, and Longing 
 are to be almost my sole companions all day through — that at night 
 I shall go to bed with them, that they will long keep me sleepless — 
 that next morning I shall wake to them again, — sometimes, Nell, 
 I have a heavy heart of it. But crushed I am not, yet ; nor robbed 
 of elasticity, nor of hope, nor quite of endeavour. I have some 
 strength to fight the battle of life. I am aware, and can acknowledge, 
 I have many comforts, many mercies. Still I can get on. But I do 
 hope and pray, that never may you, or any one I love, be placed 
 as I am. To sit in a lonely room — the clock ticking loud through 
 a still house — and have open before the mind's eye the record of the 
 last year, with its shocks, sufferings, losses— is a trial. 
 
 " I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear me with 
 moderation — that you will not take alarm or think me in any way 
 worse off than I am." 
 
THE CHARACTERS IN "SHIRLEY." 307 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 The tale of Shirley had been begun soon after the publication of 
 yane Eyre. If the reader will refer to the account I have given of 
 Miss Bronte's school-days at Roe Head, Jie will there see how every 
 place surrounding that house was connected with the Luddite riots, 
 and will learn how stories and anecdotes of that time were rife 
 among the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages;' how Miss 
 
 W herself, and the elder relations of most of her schoolfellows, 
 
 must have known the actors in those grim disturbances. What 
 Charlotte had heard there as a girl came up in her mind when, as a 
 woman, she sought a subject for her next work '; and she sent to 
 Leeds for a file of the Mercuries of 1812, '13, and '14, in order to 
 tmderstand the spirit of those eyentful times. She was anxious to 
 write of things she had known and seen ; and among the number 
 was the West Yorkshire character, for which any tale laid among the 
 Luddites would afford full scope. In Shirley she took the idea of 
 most of her characters from life, although the incidents and situatipns 
 were, of course, fictitious. She thought that if these last were purely 
 imaginary, she might draw from the real without detection ; but in 
 this she was mistaken : her studies were too closely accurate. This 
 occasionally led her into difficulties. People recognised themselves, 
 or were recognised by others, in her graphic descriptions of their 
 personal appearance, and modes of action and turns of thought, 
 though they were placed in new positions, and figured away in scenes 
 far different to those in which their actual hfe had been passed. 
 Miss Bronte was struck by the force or pecuharity of the character of 
 some one whom she knew ; she studied it, and analysed , it with 
 subtle power ; and having traced it to its germ, she took that germ 
 as the nucleus of an imaginary character, and worked outwards; — 
 
3o8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 thus reversing the process of analysation, and. unconsciously repro- 
 ducing the same external development. The " three curates " were 
 real living men, haunting Haworth and the neighbouring district ; 
 and so obtuse in perception that, after the first burst of anger at 
 having their ways and habits chronicled was over, they rather enjoyed 
 the joke of calUng each other by the names she had given them. 
 "Mrs. Pryor" was well known to many, who loved the original 
 dearly. The whole family of the Yorkes were, I have been assured, 
 almost daguerreotypes. Indeed, Miss Bronte told me that, before 
 publication, she had sent those parts of the novel in which these 
 remarkable persons are introduced, to one of the sons; and his 
 reply, after reading it, was simply that " she had not drawn them 
 strong enough." From those 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 representation 
 of Emily. I mention this because all that I, a stranger, have been 
 able to learn about her has not tended to give either me, or my 
 readers, a pleasant impression of her. But we must remember how 
 little we are acquainted with her, compared to that sister, who, out of 
 her more intimate knowledge, says that she "was genuinely good, 
 and truly great," and who tried to depict her character in " Shirley 
 Keeldar," as what Ernily 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 double responsibility. 
 She tried to make her novel like a piece of actual life, — feeling sure 
 that if she but represented the product of personal experience and 
 observation truly, good would come out of it in the long run. She 
 carefully studied the different reviews and criticisms that had appeared 
 on Jane Eyre, in hopes of extracting precepts and advice from which 
 to profit. 
 
 Down into the very midst of her writing came the bolts of death. 
 She had nearly finished the second volume of her tale when Branwell 
 
''THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH." 309 
 
 died — after him Emily — after her Anne ; the pen, laid down when 
 there were three sisters living and loving, was taken up when one 
 alone remained. Well might she call the first chapter that she wrote 
 after this, " The Valley of the Shadow of Death." 
 
 I knew in part what the unknown author of Shii-ley must have 
 suffered, when I read those pathetic words which occur at the end of 
 this and the beginning of the succeeding chapter : — 
 
 " Till break of day, she wrestled with God in earnest prayer. 
 
 "Not always do those who dare such divine conflict prevail. 
 Night after night the sweat of agony may burst dark on the forehead ; 
 the supplicant may cry for mercy with that soundless voice the soul 
 utters when its appeal is to the Invisible. 'Spare my beloved,' it 
 may implore. ' Heal my life's life. Rend not from me what long 
 affection entwines with my whole nature. God of Heaven — bend — 
 hear — be clement ! ' And after this cry and strife, the sun may rise 
 and see him worsted. That opening morn, which used to salute him 
 with the whisper of zephyrs, the carol of skylarks, may breathe, as 
 its first accents, from the dear lips which colour and heat have 
 quitted, — ' Oh ! I have had a suffering night. This morning I am 
 worse. I have tried to rise. I cannot. Dreams I am unused to 
 have troubled me.' 
 
 " Then the watcher approaches the patient's pillow, and sees a 
 new and strange moulding of the familiar features, feels at once that 
 the insufferable moment draws nigh, knows that it is God's will his 
 idol should be broken, and bends his head, and subdues his soul to 
 the sentence he cannot ^vert, 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 uncon- 
 querable tears sweeps away, the oath — preceded her waking. No 
 space of deaf apathy followed. The first words spoken were not 
 those of one becoming estranged from this world, and already per- 
 mitted to stray at times into realms foreign to the living.'' 
 
 She went on with her work steadily. But it was dreary to write 
 without any one to listen to the progress of her tale — to find fault or 
 to sympathise — while pacing the length of the parlour in the evenings, 
 as in the days that were no more. Three sisters had done this — then 
 two, the other sister dropping off from the walk — and now one was 
 left desolate, to listen for echoing steps that never came, and to 
 
310 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 hear the wind sobbing at the windows, with an almost articulate 
 sound. 
 
 But she wrote on, struggling against her own feelings of illness ; 
 " continually recurring feelings of slight cold ; slight soreness in the 
 throat and chest, of which, do what I will," she' writes, " I cannot 
 get rid." 
 
 In August there arose a new cause for anxiety, happily but 
 temporary : — 
 
 "Aug. 23rd, 1849. 
 
 " Papa has not been well at all lately. He has had another 
 attack of bronchitis. I felt very uneasy about him for some days — 
 more wretched indeed than I care to tell you. After what has 
 happened, one trembles at any appearance of sickness ; and when 
 anything ails Papa, I feel too keenly that he is the last — the only 
 near and dear relative I have in the world. Yesterday and 
 to-day he has seemed much better, for which I am truly thank- 
 ful 
 
 " From what you say of Mr. , I think I should like him very 
 
 much. wants shaking to be put out about his appearance. 
 
 What does it matter whether her husband dines in a dress-coat or a 
 market-coat, provided there be worth and honesty, and a clean shirt, 
 underneath ? " 
 
 "Sept. 10th, 1849. 
 
 " My piece of work is at last finished, . and despatched to its 
 destination. You must now tell me when there is a chance of your 
 being able to come here. I fear it will now be difficult to arrange, 
 as it' is so near the marriage-day. Note well, it would spoil all my 
 pleasure, if you put yourself or any one else to inconvenience to 
 come to Haworth. But when it is convenient, I shall be truly glad to 
 see you. . . . Papa, I am thankful to say, is better, though not 
 strong. He is often troubled with a sensation of nausea. My cold 
 is very much less troublesome, I am sometimes quite free from it. 
 A few days since, I had a severe bilious attack, the consequence of 
 sitting too closely to my writing ; but it is gone now. It is the first 
 from which I have suffered since my return from the sea-side. I had 
 them every month before." 
 
THE CHARACTERS IN "SHIRLEY:' 311 
 
 "Sept. 13th, 1849. . 
 
 " If duty and the well-being of others require that you should 
 stay at home, I cannot permit myself to complain ; still, I am very, 
 very sorry that circumstances will not permit us to meet just now. 
 
 I would without hesitation come to , if Papa were stronger ; but 
 
 uncertain as are both his health and spirits, I could not possibly 
 prevail on myself to leave him now. Let us ' hope that when we do 
 see each other, our meeting will be all the more pleasurable for 
 
 being delayed. Dear E , you certainly have a heavy burden laid 
 
 on your shoulders, but such burdens, if well borne, benefit the 
 character ; only we must take the greatest, closest, most watchful care 
 not to grow proud of our strength, in case we should be enabled to 
 bear up under the trial. That pride, indeed, would be 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. 2ist, 1849. 
 " My dear Sir, — I am obliged to you for preserving my secret, 
 being at least as anxious as ever {more anxious I cannot well be) to 
 keep quiet. You asked me in one of your letters lately, whether I 
 thought I should escape identification in Yorkshire. I am so little 
 known, that I think I shall. Besides, the book is far less founded 
 on the Real, than perhaps appears. It would be difficult to explain 
 to you how little actual experience I have had of life, how few 
 persons I have known, and how very few have known me. 
 
 "As an instance how the characters have been managed, take 
 that of Mr. Helstone. If this character had an original, it was in 
 the person of a clergyman who died some years since at the advanced 
 age of eighty. I never saw him except once — at the consecration of 
 a church — ^when I was a child of ten years old. I was then struck 
 with his appearance, and stem, martial air. At a subsequent period, 
 I heard him talked about in the neighbourhood where he had 
 resided : some mentioned him with enthusiasm — others with de- 
 testation. I listened to various anecdotes, balanced evidence 
 against evidence, and drew an inference. The original of Mr. Hall 
 I have seen ; he knows me slightly ; but he would as soon think 
 
312 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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. Margaret Hall called Ja7ie Eyre a ' wicked 
 book,' on the authority of the Quarterly ; an expression which, 
 coming from her, I will here confess, struck somewhat deep. It 
 opened my eyes to the harm the Quarterly had done. Margaret 
 , would not have called it ' wicked,' if she had not been told so. 
 
 " No matter — whether known or unknown — misjudged, or the 
 contrary — I am resolved not to write otherwise. I shall bend as my 
 powers tend. The two human beings who understood me, and 
 whom I understood, are gone : I have some that love me yet, and 
 whom I love, without expecting, or having a right to expect, that 
 they shall perfectly understand me. I am satisfied ; but I must have 
 my own way in the matter of writing. The loss of what we possess 
 nearest and dearest to us in this world, produces an effect upon the 
 character : we search out what we have y£t left that can support, 
 and, when found, we cling to it with a hold of new-strung tenacity. 
 The faculty of imagination hfted me when I was sinking, three 
 months ago,; its active exercise has kept my head above water since; 
 its results cheer me now, for I' feel they have enabled me to give 
 pleasure to others. I am thankful to God, who gave me the faculty; 
 and it is for me a part of my religion to defend this gift, and to profit 
 by its possession.— Yours sincerely, 
 
 " Charlotte 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 t" 
 
LOSS ON RAILWAY SHARES. . 313 
 
 But there was one day when the strung nerves gave way — when, 
 as she says, " I fairly broke down for ten minutes ; sat and cried like 
 a fool. Tabby could neither stand nor walk. Papa had just been 
 declaring that Martha was in imminent danger. I was myself 
 depressed with headache and sickness. That day I hardly knew 
 what to do, or where to turn. Thank God ! Martha is now con- 
 ■ valescent : 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 heeded bracing, and accordingly sent her a shower-bath 
 ■ — a thing for which she had Ibng been wishing. The receipt of it 
 was acknowledged as follows : — 
 
 "Sept. 28th, 1849. 
 
 " . . . . Martha is now almost well, and Tabby much better. 
 A huge monster package, from ' Nelson, Leeds,' came yesterday. 
 You want chastising roundly and soundly. Such are the thanks you 
 
 get for all your trouble Whenever you come to Haworth, 
 
 you shall certainly have a thorough drenching in your own shower- 
 bath. I have not yet unpacked the wretch. — Yours, as you deserve, 
 
 " C. B." 
 
 There was misfortune of another kind impending over her. There 
 were some railway shares, which, so early as 1846, she had told Miss 
 
 W she wished to sell, but had kept because she could not 
 
 persuade her sisters to look upon the affair as she did, and so 
 preferred running the risk of loss, to hurting Emily's feelings by 
 acting in opposition to her opinion. The depreciation of these same 
 shares was now verifying Charlotte's soundness of judgment. They 
 were in the York and North-Midland Company, which was one of 
 Mr. Hudson's pet lines, and had the full benefit of his peculiar system 
 of management. She applied to her friend and publisher, Mr. Smith, 
 for information on the subject ; and the following letter is in answer 
 to his reply : — ■ 
 
 "Oct. 4th, 18(49. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I must not thaiik you for, but acknowledge the 
 receipt of your letter. The business is certainly very bad j worse 
 
314 • LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 than I thought, and much worse than my father has any idea of. In 
 fact, the littie railway property I possessed, according to original 
 prices, formed already a small competency for me, with my views 
 and habits. Now, scarcely any portion of it can, with security, be 
 calculated upon. I must open this view of the case to my father by 
 degrees; and, meanwhile, wait patiently till I see how affairs are 
 
 likely to turn However the matter may terminate, I 
 
 ought perhaps to be rather thankful than dissatisfied. When I look 
 at my own case, and compare it with that of thousands besides, I 
 scarcely see room for a murmur. Many, very many, are by the late 
 strange railway system deprived almost of their daily bread. Such 
 then as have only lost provision laid up for the future, should take 
 care how they complain. The thought that Shirley has given 
 pleasure at Comhill, yields me much quiet comfort No doubt, 
 however, you are, as I am, prepared for critical severity ; but I have 
 good hopes that the vessel is sufficiently sound of construction to 
 weather a gale or two, and to make a prosperous voyage for you in 
 the end." 
 
 Towards the close of October in this year, she went to pay a 
 visit to her friend ; but her enjoyment in the holiday, which she had 
 so long promised herself when her work was completed, was deadened 
 by a continual feeling of ill-health ; either the change of air or the 
 foggy weather produced constant irritation at the chest. Moreover, 
 she was anxious about the impression which her second work would 
 produce on the public mind. For obvious reasons, an author is 
 more susceptible to opinions pronounced on the book which follows 
 a great success, than he has ever been before. Whatever be the 
 value of fame, he has it in his possession, and is not willing to have 
 it dimmed or lost. 
 
 Shirley was published on October 26th. 
 
 When it came out, but before reading it, Mr. Lewes wrote to tell 
 her of his intention of reviewing it in the Edinburgh. Her corre- 
 spondence with him had ceased for some time : much had occurred 
 since. 
 
 " To G. H. Lewes, Esq. 
 
 "Nov. 1st, 1849. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — It is about a year and a half since you wrote to 
 me ; but it seems a longer^iperiod, because since then it has been my 
 
LETTER TO MR. LEWES ON " SHIRLEY." 315 
 
 lot to pass some black milestones in the joumey of life. Since then 
 there have been intervals when I have ceased to care about literature 
 and critics and fame ; when I have lost sight of whatever was 
 prominent in my thoughts at the first publication of yane Eyre \ but 
 now I want these things to come back vividly, if possible : conse- 
 quently, 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 as true as the Bible, nor is it exceptionable. 
 Come what will, I cannot, when I write, think always of myself and 
 of what is elegant and charming in feminity ; it is not on those 
 terms, or with such ideas, I ever took pen in hand : and if it is only 
 on such terms my writing will be tolerated, I shall pass away from 
 the public and trouble it no more. Out of obscurity I came, to 
 obscurity I can easily return. Standing afar off, I now watch to see 
 what will become of Shirley. My expectations are very low, and 
 my anticipations somewhat sad and bitter ; still, I earnestly conjure 
 you to say honestly what you think ; flattery would be worse than 
 vain ; there is no consolation in flattery. As for condemnation I 
 cannot, on reflection, see why I should much fear it ; there is no 
 one but myself to suffer therefrom, and both happiness and suffering 
 in this life soon pass away. Wishing you all success in your Scottish 
 expedition, — I am, dear sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 "C. Bell." 
 
 Miss Bronte, as we have seen, had been as anxious as ever to 
 preserve her incognito in Shirley. She even fancied that there were 
 fewer traces of a female pen in it than in Jane Eyre ; and thus, 
 when the earliest reviews were published, and asserted that the 
 mysterious writer must be a woman, she was much disappointed. 
 She especially disliked the lowering of the standard by which to 
 judge a work of fiction, if it proceeded from a feminine pen ; and 
 praise mingled with pseudo-gallant allusions to her sex, mortified her 
 far more than actual blame. 
 
 But the secret, so jealously preserved, was oozing out at last. 
 
3i6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 The publication of Shirley seemed to fix the conviction that the 
 writer was an inhabitant of the district where the story was laid. 
 And a clever Haworth man, who had somewhat risen in the world, 
 and gone to settle in Liverpool, read the novel, and was struck with 
 some of the names of places mentioned, and knew the dialect in 
 which parts of it were written. He became convinced that it was 
 the production of some one in Haworth. But he could not imagine 
 who in that village could have written such a work except Miss 
 Bronte. Proud of his conjecture, he divulged the suspicion (which 
 was almost certainty) in the columns of a Liverpool paper ; thus the 
 heart of the mystery came slowly creeping out ; and a visit to 
 London, which Miss Bronte paid towards the end of the year 1849, 
 made it distinctly known. She had been all along on most happy 
 terms with her publishers ; and their kindness had beguiled some of 
 those weary, solitary hours which had so often occurred of late, by 
 sending for her perusal boxes of books more suited to her tastes than 
 any she could procure from the circulating library at Keighley. She 
 often writes such sentences as the following, in her letters to 
 Comhill :— 
 
 " I was indeed very much interested in the books you sent. 
 Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe, Guesses at Truth, Friends in 
 Cowtcil, and the little work on English social life, pleased me par- 
 ticularly, and the last not least. We sometimes take a partiality to 
 books as to characters, not on account of any brilliant intellect or 
 striking peculiarity they boast, but for the sake of something good, 
 delicate, and genuine. I thought that small book the production of 
 a lady, and an amiable, sensible woman, and I liked it. You must 
 not think of selecting any more works for me yet ; my stock is still 
 far from exhausted. 
 
 "I accept your offer respecting the Atfientzum; 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. i6th, 1849. 
 
 " You are not to suppose any of the characters in Shirley intended 
 as literal portraits. It would not suit the rules of art, nor of my own 
 
THE REVIEWS ON "SHIRLEY." 317 
 
 feelings, to write in that style. We only suffer reality to suggest, 
 never to dictate. The heroines are abstractions, and the heroes also. 
 Quahties 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 represent ? I send you a 
 couple of reviews ; the one is in the Examiner, written by Albany 
 Fonblanque, who is called the most brilliant political writer of the 
 day, a man whose dictum is much thought of in London. The 
 other, in the Standard of Freedotn, is written by William Howitt, 
 a Quaker !....! should be pretty well, if it were not for 
 headaches and indigestion. My chest has been better lately.'' 
 
 In consequence of this long-protracted state of languor, head- 
 ache, and sickness, to which the slightest exposure to cold added 
 sensations of hoarseness and soreness at the chest, she determined to 
 take the evil in time, as much for her father's sake as for her own, 
 and to go up to London and consult some physician there. It was 
 not her first intention to visit anywhere ; but the friendly urgency of 
 her publishers prevailed, and it was decided that she was to become 
 the guest of Mr. Smith. Before she went, she wrote two characteristic 
 letters about Sliirley, from which I shall take a few extracts : — 
 
 " Shirley makes her way. The reviews shower in fast. . . . 
 The best critique which has yet appeared is in the Revue des Deux 
 Mondes, a sort of European cosmopolitan periodical, whose head- 
 quarters are at Paris. Comparatively few reviewers, even in their 
 praise, evince a just comprehension of the author's meaning. Eugfene 
 Forbade, the reviewer in question, follows Currer Bell through every 
 winding, discerns every point, discriminates every shade, proves 
 himself master of the subject, and lord of the aim. With that man 
 I would shake hands, if I saw him. I would" say, ' You know me, 
 Monsieur ; l' 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 
 Forgade, a Fonblanque, and a Thackeray, my ambition has had its 
 
3i8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ration ; it is fed ; it lies down for the present satisfied ; my faculties 
 have wrought a day's task, and earned a day's wages. I am no 
 teacher ; to look on me in that light is to mistake me. To teach is 
 not my vocation. What I am, it is useless to say. Those whom it 
 concerns feel and find it out. To all others I wish only to be an 
 
 obscure, steady-going, private character. To you, dear E , I 
 
 wish to be a sincere friend. Give me your faithful regard ; I willingly 
 dispense with admiration." 
 
 " Nov. 26tli. 
 
 " 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 reviews are superb ; and were 
 I dissatisfied with them, I should be a conceited ape. Nothing 
 higher is ever said, from perfectly disinterested motives, of any living 
 authors. If all be well, I go to London this week ; Wednesday, I 
 think. The dressmaker has done my small matters pretty well, but 
 I wish you could have looked them over, and given a dictum. I 
 insisted on the dresses being made quite plainly." 
 
 At the end of November she went up to the " big Babylon,'' and 
 was immediately plunged into what appeared to her a whirl ; for 
 changes, and scenes, and stimulus which would have been a trifle to 
 others, were much to her. As was always the case with strangers, 
 she was a little afraid at first of the family into which she was now 
 received, fancying that the ladies looked on her with a mixture of 
 respect and alarm ; but in a few days, if this state of feeling ever 
 existed, her simple, shy, quiet manners, her dainty personal and 
 household ways, had quite done away with it, and she says that she 
 thinks they begin to like her, and that she likes them much, for 
 "kindness is a potent heart- winner." She had stipulated that she 
 should not be expected to see many people. The recluse life she 
 had led was the cause of a nervous shrinking from meeting any 
 fresh face, which lasted all her life long. Still, she longed to have 
 an idea of the personal appearance and manners of some of those 
 whose writings or letters had interested her. Mr. Thackeray was 
 accordingly invited to meet her, but it so happened that she had 
 been out for the greater part of the morning, and, in consequence, 
 
HER FIRST MEETING WITH MR. THACKERAY. 319 
 
 missed the luncheon hour at her friend's house. This brought on a 
 severe and depressing headache in one accustomed to the early, 
 regular hours of a Yorkshire parsonage ; besides, the excitement of 
 meeting, hearing, and sitting next a man to whom she looked up 
 with such admiration as she did to the author of Vanity Fair, was of 
 itself overpowering to her frail nerves. She writes about this dinner 
 as follows : — 
 
 "Dec. loth, 1849. 
 
 "As to being happy, I am under scenes and circumstances of 
 excitement ; but I suffer acute pain sometimes — ^mental pain, I mean. 
 At the moment Mr. Thackeray presented himself, I was thoroughly 
 faint from inanition, having eaten nothing since a very slight breakfast, 
 and it was then seven o'clock in the evening. Excitement and exhaus- 
 tion 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 ear- 
 nest, and that she had (she believed) completely misunderstood an 
 inquiry of his, made on the gentlemen's coming into the drawing- 
 room. Heaskedher"if she had perceived the scent of their cigars;"to 
 which she replied Uterally, discovering in a minute afterwards, by the 
 smile on several faces, that he was alluding to a passage in Jane Eyre. 
 Her hosts took pleasure in showing her the sights of London. On one 
 of the days which had been set apart for some of these pleasant 
 excursions, a severe review of Shirley was published in the Times. 
 She had heard that her book would be noticed by it, and guessed 
 that there was some particular reason for the care with which her 
 hosts mislaid it on that particular morning. She told them that she 
 was aware why she might not see. the paper. Mrs. Smith at once 
 admitted that her conjecture was right, and said that they had wished 
 her to go to the day's engagement before reading it. But she quietly 
 persisted in her request to be allowed to have the paper. Mrs. Smith 
 took her work, and tried not to observe the countenance, which the 
 other tried to hide between the large sheets ; but she could not help 
 becoming aware of tears stealing down the face and dropping on the 
 lap. The first remark Miss Bronte made was to express her fear lest 
 so severe a notice should check the sale of the book, and injuriously 
 
320 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 Tinted article. She acquiesced in the recogni- 
 tion of herself as the authoress of yane Eyre, because she perceived 
 that there were some advantages to be derived from dropping her 
 pseudon}'m. One result was an acquaintance with Miss Martineau. 
 She had sent her the novel just published, with a curious note, in 
 which Currer Bell offered a copy of Shirley to Miss Martineau, as an 
 acknowledgment of the gratification he had received from her works. 
 From Deerbrook he had derived a new and keen pleasure, and ex- 
 perienced 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 in the neighbourhood 
 of Mr. Smith's residence ; and when, a week or two afterwards. Miss 
 Bronte found how near she was to her correspondent, she wrote, in 
 the name of Currer Bell, to propose a visit to her. Six o'clock, on a 
 certain Sunday afternoon (Dec. loth), was the time appointed. Miss 
 Martineau's friends had invited the unknown Currer Bell to their 
 early tea; they were ignorant whether the name was that of a man or 
 a woman ; and had had various conjectures as to sex, age, and 
 appearance. Miss Martineau had, indeed, expressed her private 
 opinion pretty distinctly by beginning her reply, to the professedly 
 masculine note referred to above, with " Dear Madam ; " but she had 
 addressed it to " Currer Bell, Esq.'' At every ring the eyes of the 
 party turned towards the door. Some stranger (a gentleman, I think,) 
 came in ; for an instant they fancied he was Currer Bell, and indeed 
 an Esq.; he stayed some time — went away. Another ring: "Miss 
 Bronte " was announced ; and in came a young-looking lady, almost 
 child-like in stature, " in a deep mourning dress, neat as a Quaker's, 
 with her beautiful hair smooth and brown, her fine eyes blazing with 
 meaning, and her sensible face indicating a habit of self-control.'' 
 She came, — ^hesitated one moment at finding four or five people 
 assembled, — then went straight to Miss Martineau with intuitive 
 recognition, and with the freemasonry of good feeling and gentle 
 breeding, she soon became as one of the family seated round the tea- 
 
RETURN TO HAWORTH. 321 
 
 table ; and, before she left, she told them, in a simple, touching 
 manner, of her sorrow and isolation, and a foundation was laid for 
 her intimacy with Miss Martineau. 
 
 After some discussion on the subject, and a stipulation that she 
 should not be specially introduced to any one, some gentlemen were 
 'invited by Mr. Smith to meet her at dinner the evening before she 
 left town. Her natural place would have been at the bottom of the 
 table by her host ; and the places of those who were to be her neigh- 
 bours 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." 
 
 Respecting this particular dinner-party she thus wrote to the 
 Brussels schoolfellow of former days, whose friendship had been re- 
 newed during her present visit to London : — 
 
 "The evening after I left you passed better than I expected. 
 Thanks to my substantial lunch and cheering cup of coffee, I was 
 able to wait the eight-o'clock dinner with complete resignation, and 
 to endure its length quite courageously, nor was I too much exhausted 
 to converse ; and of this I was glad, for otherwise I know my kind 
 host and hostess would ha^e been much disappointed. There were 
 only seven gentlemen at dinner besides Mr. Smith, but of these five 
 were ferities — men more dreaded in the world of letters than you can 
 conceive. I did not know how much their presence and conversa- 
 tion had excited me till they were gone, and the reaction commenced. 
 When I had retired 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 slumber. So 
 utterly worn out was I when I got to Derby, that I was again obliged 
 
 to stay there all night." 
 
 " Dec. 17th. 
 
 " Here I am at Haworth once more. I feel as if I had come out 
 
 of an exciting whirl. Not that the hurry and stimulus would have 
 
322 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 seemed much to one accustomed to society and change, but to me 
 they were very marked. My strength and spirits too often proved 
 quite insufficient to the demand on their exertions. I used to bear 
 up as long as I possibly could, for, when I flagged, I could see Mr. 
 Smith became disturbed ; he always thought that something had been 
 said or done to annoy 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 powers im- 
 press 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 believed 
 they desired more to admire and more to blame. I felt sufficiently at 
 my ease with all but Thackeray ; with him I was fearfully stupid." 
 
 She returned to her quiet home, and her noiseless daily duties. I 
 was anxious to know from her friend " Mary," if, in the letters which 
 Charlotte wrote to her, she had ever spoken with much pleasure of 
 the fame which she had earned. To this and some similar inquiries 
 Mary answers : — 
 
 "She thought literary fame a better introduction than any other, 
 and this was what she wanted it for. When at last she got it, she 
 lamented that it was of no use. ' Her solitary life had disqualified 
 her for society. She had become unready, nervous, excitable, and 
 either incapable of speech, or talked vapidly.' She wrote me this 
 concerning her late visits to London. Her fame, when it came, 
 seemed to make no difference to her. She was just as solitary, and 
 her life as deficient in interest as before. ' For swarms of people I 
 don't care,' she wrote ; and then implied that she had had glimpses of 
 a pleasanter life, but she had come back to her work at home. She 
 never criticised her books to me, farther than to express utter weari- 
 ness of them, and the labour they had given her. 
 
 Her father had quite enough of the spirit of hero-worship in him 
 to make him take a vivid pleasure in the accounts of what she had 
 
SIGHTS OF LONDON. 323 
 
 heard and whom she had seen. It was on the occasion of one of her 
 visits to London that he had desired her to obtain a sight of Prince 
 Albert's armoury, if possible. I am not aware whether she managed 
 to do this ; but she went to one or two of the great national armouries 
 in order that she might describe the stem steel harness and glittering 
 swords to her father, whose imagination was forcibly struck by the 
 idea of such things ; and often afterwards, when his spirits flagged 
 and the languor of old age for a time got the better of his indomitable 
 nature, she would again strike on the measure wild, and speak about 
 the armies of strange weapons she had seen in London, till he resumed 
 his interest in the old subject, and was his own keen, warlike; intelli- 
 gent self again. 
 
324 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Her life at Haworth was so unvaried that the postman's call was th^ 
 event of her day. Yet she dreaded the great temptation of centrinj 
 all her thoughts upon this one time, and losing her interest in thi 
 smaller hopes and emplo3rments of the remaining hours. Thus shi 
 conscientiously denied herself the pleasure of writing letters too fre 
 quently, because the answers (when she received them) took thi 
 flavour out of the rest of her life ; or her disappointment, when th( 
 replies did not arrive, lessened her energy for her home duties. 
 
 The winter of this year in the north was hard and cold ; it affectec 
 Miss Bronte's health less than usual, however, probably because th( 
 change, and medical advice she had taken in London, had done he 
 good ; probably, also, because her friend had come to pay her a visit 
 and enforced that attention to bodily symptoms which Miss Bronti 
 was too apt to neglect, from a fear of becoming nervous herself abou 
 her own state, and thus infecting her father. But she could scarce!) 
 help feeling much depressed in spirits as the anniversary of her sista 
 Emily's death came round ; all the recollections connected with il 
 were painful, yet there were no outward events to call off her atten- 
 tion, and prevent them from pressing hard upon her. At this time, as 
 at many others, I find her alluding in her letters to the solace which 
 she found in the books sent her from Comhill : — 
 
 "What, I sometimes ask, could I do without them? I hav« 
 recourse to them as to friends ; they shorten and cheer many an hou] 
 that would be too long and too desolate otherwise ; even when mj 
 tired sight will not permit me to continue reading, it is pleasant tc 
 see them on the shelf, or on the table. I am still very rich, for mj 
 
ENTHUSIASM IN YORKSHIRE. 325 
 
 stock is far from exhausted. Some other friends have sent me books 
 lately. The perusal of Harriet Martineau's Eastern Life has afforded 
 me great pleasure ; and I have found a deep and interesting subject 
 of study in Newman's work on the 'Soul.' Have you read this work? 
 It is daring, — it may be mistaken, — ^but it is pure and elevated. 
 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 her- 
 self to the ostrich hiding its head in the sand ; and says that she still 
 buries hers in the heath of Haworth moors ; but "the concealment is 
 but self-delusion." 
 
 Indeed it was. Far and wide in the West Riding had spread the 
 intelligence that Currer Bell was no other than a daughter of the 
 venerable clergyman of Haworth ; the village itself caught up the 
 excitement. 
 
 " Mr. , having finished '^ane Eyre, is now crymg out for the 
 
 ' other book ; ' he is to have it next week. . . . Mr. has 
 
 finished Shirley ; he is delighted with it. John 's wife seriously 
 
 thought him gone wrong in the head, as she heard him giving 
 vent to roars of laughter as he sat alone, clapping and stamping on 
 the floor. He would read all the scenes about the curates aloud to 
 papa." ..." Martha came in yesterday, puffing and blowing, 
 and much excited. ' I've heard sich news ! ' she began. ' What 
 about ? ' ' Please, ma'am, you've been and written two books — the 
 grandest books that ever was seen. My father has heard it at Halifax, ' 
 
 and Mr. G T and Mr. G and Mr. M at Bradford ; 
 
 and they are going to have a meeting at the Mechanics' Institute, and 
 to settle about ordering them.' ' Hold your tongue, Martha, and be 
 
 off.' I fell into a cold sweat, yane Eyre will be read by J 
 
 B , by Mis. T , and B . Heaven help, keep, and deliver 
 
 me ! " . ... . " The Haworth people have been making great 
 fools of themselves about Shirley ; they have taken it in aq enthusi- 
 astic 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 
 
326 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 was to be fined a shilling per diem for longer detention. It would be 
 mere nonsense 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 
 beyond Burnley " to see her, as she went quietly and unconsciously 
 into church ; and the sexton " gained many a half-crown " for pointing 
 her out. 
 
 But there were drawbacks to this hearty and kindly appreciation, 
 which was so much more valuable than fame. The January number 
 of the Edinburgh Review had contained the article on Shirley, of 
 which her correspondent, Mr. Lewes, was the writer. I have said 
 that Miss Bronte was especially anxious to be criticised as a writer ; 
 without relation to her sex as a woman. Whether right or wrong, her 
 feeling was strong on this point. Now although' this review of Shirley. 
 is not disrespectful towards women, yet the headings of the first two 
 pages ran thus : " Mental Equality of the Sexes ? " " Female Litera- 
 ture ; " and through the whole article the fact of the author's sex is 
 never forgotten. 
 
 A few days after the review appeared, Mr. Lewes received the 
 following note,- — rather in the style of Anne Countess of Pembroke, 
 Dorset, and Montgomery : — 
 
 " To G. H. Lewes, Esq. 
 
 " I can be on my guard against my enemies, but God deliver me 
 from friends. 
 
 "CujiRER 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 and frankness of 
 a review which certainly was dictated by real admiration and real 
 
MR. LEWES' S CRITIQUE ON "SHIRLEY." 327 
 
 friendship -. even under its objections the friend's voice could be 
 heard." 
 
 The following letter is her reply : — 
 
 " To G. IT. Lewes, Esq. 
 
 "Jan. igth, 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 some- 
 times severe ; not because its praise was stinted (for, indeed, I think 
 you give me quite as much praise as I deserve), but because after I 
 had said earnestly that I wished critics would judge me as an author, 
 not as a woman, you so roughly — I even thought so cruelly — handled 
 the question of sex. I daresay you meant no harm, and perhaps you 
 will not now be able to understand why I was so grieved at what you 
 will probably deem such a trifle ; but grieved I was, and indignant 
 too. 
 
 "There was a passage or two which you did quite wrong to 
 write. 
 
 " However, I will not bear malice against you for it ; I know what 
 your nature is : it is not a bad or unkind one, though you would often 
 jar terribly on some feelings with whose recoil and quiver you could 
 not' possibly sympathise. I imagine you are both enthusiastic and 
 implacable, as you are at once sagacious and careless ; you know much 
 and discover much, but you are in such a hurry to tell it all you never 
 give yourself time to think how your reckless eloquence may affect 
 others ; and, what is more, if you knew how it did affect them, you 
 would not much care. 
 
 " However, I shake hands with you : you have excellent points ; 
 you can be generous. I still feel angry, and think I do well to be 
 angry ; but it is the anger one experiences for rough play rather than 
 for foul play. — I am yours, with a certain respect, and more chagrin," 
 
 " CuRRER Bell." 
 
 As Mr. Lewes says, "the tone of this letter is cavalier." But I 
 thank him for having allowed me to pubhsh what is so characteristic 
 of one phase of Miss Bronte's mind. Her health, too, was suffeiing 
 at this time. " I don't know what heaviness of spirit has beset me 
 of late " (she writes, in pathetic words, wrung out of the sadness of 
 
328 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. < 
 
 Tier heart), " made my faculties dull, made rest weariness, and occupa- 
 tion burdensome. 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, obtru- 
 sive, as other feelings were languid. I attribute this state of things 
 partly to the weather. Quicksilver invariably falls low in storms, and 
 high winds, and I have ere this been warned of approaching disturb- 
 ance 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 expectation till the post 
 hour comes, and when, day after day, it brings nothing, I get low. 
 This is a stupid, disgraceful, unmeaning state of things. I feel bitterly 
 vexed at my own dependence and folly ; but it is so bad for the mind 
 to be quite alone, and to have none with whom to talk over little 
 crosses and disappointments, and to laugh them away. If I could 
 write, I daresay I should be better, but I cannot write a line. How- 
 ever (by God's help), I will contend against this folly. 
 
 " I had a letter the other day from . Some things in it 
 
 nettled me, especially an unnecessarily earnest assurance that, in 
 .spite of all I had done in the writing line, I still retained a place 
 in her esteem. My answer took strong and high ground at once. I 
 said I had been' troubled by no doubts on the subject : that I neither 
 did her nor myself the injustice to suppose there was anything in 
 what I had written to 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 strange now to peruse, for the first time, the records of 
 a mind whence my own sprang ; and most strange, and at once sad 
 and sweet, to find that mind of a truly fine, pure, and elevated order. 
 They were written to papa before they were rnarried. 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 
 
' d:epression of spirits. 329 
 
 certain most mournful recollections,— the last days, the sufferings, the 
 remembered words — most sorrowful to me, of those who, Faith 
 assures me, are now happy. At evening and bedtime, 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 gUmpse 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 constitu- 
 tion, tried by much anxiety and sorrow in early life, and now left to 
 face her life alone ! Owing to Mr. Brsnte'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, ques- 
 tioning himself sadly as to where all his former strength of body had 
 gone to. His strength of will was the same as ever. That which he 
 resolved to do he did, at whatever cost of weariness ; but his daughter 
 was all the more anxious from seeing him so regardless of himself 
 and his health. 
 
330 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 The hours of retiring for the night had always been early in the 
 parsonage ; now family prayers were at eight o'clock ; directly after 
 which Mr. Bronte and old Tabby went to bed, and Martha was not 
 long in following. But Charlotte could not liave 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 sew, and could only weep in solitude over the dead that were not 
 No one on earth can even imagine what those hours were to her. 
 All the grim superstitions of the North had been implanted in her 
 during her childhood by the servants who believed in them. They 
 recurred to her now — with no shrinking from the spirits of the Dead, 
 but with such an intense longing once more to stand face to face 
 with the souls of her sisters, as no one but she could have felt. It 
 seemed as if the very strength of her yearning should have com- 
 pelled 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 conversing with her 
 once objected, in my presence, to that part oi Jane Eyre in which she 
 hears Rochester's voice crying out to her in a great crisis of her life, 
 he being many, many miles distant at the time. I do not know what 
 incident was in Miss Bronte's recollection when she replied, in a low 
 voice, drawing in her breath, " But it is a true thing ; it really hap- 
 pened." 
 
 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 
 
VISIT TO GAWTHORPE HALL. 331 
 
 word in that uninhabited district, they were neighbours, if they so 
 willed it. Accordingly, Sir James and his wife drove over one morn- 
 ing, at the beginning of March, to call upon Miss Bronte and her 
 father. Before taking leave, they pressed her to visit them at 
 Gawthorpe Hall, their residence on the borders of East Lancashire. • 
 After some hesitation, and at the urgency of haj: father, who was 
 extremely anxious to procure for her any. change of scene and society 
 that was offered, she consented to go. On the whole, she enjoyed 
 her visit very much, in spite of her shyness, and the difficulty she 
 always experienced in meeting the advances of those strangers whose 
 kindness she did not feel herself in a position 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-panelled drawing-room, while they suited 
 him, did not too much oppress and exhaust me. The house, too, is 
 much to my taste ; near three centuries old, grey, stately, and pic- 
 turesque. 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 ia London 
 during the season. This, which would be a great enjoyment to some 
 people, is a perfect terror to me. I should highly prize the advan- 
 tages 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 1 6th, 1850. 
 
 " I return Mr. H 's note, after reading it carefully. I tried 
 
 very hard to understand all he says about art; but, to speak 
 truth, my efforts were crowned with incomplete success. There is a 
 certain jargon in use amongst critics on this point, through which it 
 is physically and morally impossible to me to see daylight. One 
 thing, howevSr, I see plainly enough, and that is, Mr. Currer Bell, 
 needs improvement, and ought to strive after it ; and this (D.V.) he 
 honestly intends to do — taking his time, however, and following as 
 his guides Nature and Truth. If these lead to what the critics call 
 art, it is all very well \ but if not, that grand desideratum has no 
 chance of being run after or caught. The puzzle is, that while the 
 
332 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 
 spmething very similar, has been the observation made to me lately, 
 whilst I have been from home, by members of some of the ancient 
 East Lancashire families, whose mansions lie on the hilly border-, 
 land between the two counties. 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 daresay, 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 so well. The parcel of books will come, I doubt not, at such 
 time as it shall suit the good pleasure of the railway officials to send 
 it on,— or rather to yield it up to the repeated and humble solicita- 
 tions 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 Comhill 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. 
 
WELCOME BOaKS. 333 
 
 looked on so eagerly. " I miss familiar voices, commenting mirth- 
 fully and pleasantly; the room seems very still — very empty; 
 but yet there is consolation in remembering that Papa will take 
 pleasure in some of the books. Happiness quite unshared can 
 scarcely be called happiness ; it has no taste." She goes on to make 
 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 comparatively flat. I would much rather not know. 
 
 " Amongst the especially welcome works are Southey's Life, the 
 Women of France, Hazlitt's Essays, Emerson's Representative Meti; 
 but it seems invidious to particularise when all are good. ... I 
 took up a second small book, Scott's Suggestions on Female Educa- 
 tion ; that, too, I read, and with unalloyed pleasure. It is very 
 good ; justly thought, and clearly and felicitously expressed. The 
 girls of this generation have great advantages ; it seems to me that 
 they receive much encouragement in the acquisition of knowledge, 
 and the cultivation of their minds ; in these days, women may be 
 thoughtful and well read, without being universally stigrnatized as 
 ' Blues ' and ' Pedants.' Men begin to approve and aid, instead of 
 ridiculing or checking them in their eiforts to be wise. I must say 
 that, for my own part, whenever I have been so happy as to share 
 the conversation of a really intellectual man, my feeling has been, 
 not that the little I knew was accounted a superfluity and imperti- 
 nence, but that I did not know enough to satisfy just expectation. 
 I have always to explain, ' In me you must not look for great attain- 
 ments : what seems to you the result of reading and study is chiefly 
 spontaneous and intuitive.' . . . Against the teaching of some 
 (even clever) men, one instinctively revolts. They may possess, 
 attainments, they may boast varied knowledge of life and of the 
 world ; but if of the finer perceptions, of the more delicate phases of 
 feeling, they be destitute and incapable, of what avail, is the rest? 
 Believe me, while hints well worth consideration may come from 
 unprete^jiding sources, from minds not highly cultured, but naturally 
 fine and deUcate, from hearts kindly, feeling, and unenvious, learned 
 
334 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 dictums delivered with pomp and sound may be perfectly empty, 
 stupid, and contemptible. No man ever yet 'by aid of Greek 
 climbed Parnassus,' or taught others to climb it . . . 
 
 " I enclose for your perusal a scrap of paper which came into my 
 hands without the knowledge of the writer. He is a poor working 
 man of this 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 document is a sort of record of his feelings, after 
 the perusal of 'yaiie Eyre; it is artless and earnest ; genuine and 
 generous. You must return it to me, for I value it more than testi- 
 monies from higher sources. He said, ' Miss Bronte, if she knew he 
 had written it, would scorn him ; ' but, indeed, Miss Bronte does not 
 scorn him ; she only grieves that a mind of which this is the emana- 
 tion, should be kept crashed by the leaden hand of poverty — ^by the 
 trials of uncertain health, and the claims of a large family. 
 
 " As to the Times, as you say, the acrimony of its critique has 
 proved, in some measure, its own antidote ; to have been more effec- 
 tive, it should have been juster. I think it has had little weight up 
 here in the North : it may be that anno3dng 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 nianifestations of even enthusiastic approbation. I deem it 
 unwise to dwell much on these matters ; but for once I must permit 
 myself to remark, that the generous pride many of the Yorkshire 
 people have taken in the matter has been such as to awake and claim 
 my gratitude — especially since it has afforded a source of reviving 
 pleasure to my father in his old age. The very curates, poor fejlows ! 
 show no resentment : each characteristically finds solace for his own 
 wounds in crowing over his brethren. Mr. Donne was, at first, a 
 little disturbed ; for a week or two he was in disquietude, but he is 
 now soothed down ; only yesterday I had the pleasure of making 
 him a comfortable cup of tea, and seeing him sip it with revived 
 complacency. It is a curious fact that, since he read Shirley, he has 
 come to the house oftener than ever, and been remarkably meek and 
 assiduous to please. Some people's natures are veritable enigmas : I 
 quite expected to have had one good scene at least with him ; but as 
 yet nothing of the sort has occurred." 
 
UNHEALTHY CONDITION OF HAWORTH. 335 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 During the earlier months of this spring, Haworth was extremely 
 unhealthy. The weather was damp, low fever was prevalent, and the 
 household at the parsonage suffered along with its neighbours. 
 Charlotte says, " I have felt it (the fever) in frequent thirst and in- 
 frequent 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 physi- 
 cian'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 bitterness, 
 and the frame its own poverty, and the mind its own struggles. 
 Papa is eager and restless for me to go ; the idea of a refusal quite 
 hurts him." 
 
 But the sensations of illness in the family increased ; the symptoms 
 were probably aggravated, if not caused, by the immediate vicinity of 
 the church-yard, "paved with rain-blackened tombstones." 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 morning, a symptom 
 which I have remarked before in his aggravated attacks of bronchitis ; 
 
336 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 unless he should get much better, 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 complai^jjed 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 accordingly 
 begged Sir James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth to return to London 
 without me. It was arranged that we were to stay at several of their 
 friends' and relatives' houses on the way ; a week or more would have 
 been taken up on the journey. I cannot say that I regret having 
 missed this ordeal ; I would as lief have walked among red-hot 
 ploughshares ; but I do regret one great treat, which I shall now 
 miss. Next Wednesday is the anniversary dinner of the Royal 
 Literary Fund Society, held in Freemasons' Hall. Octavian Blewitt, 
 the secretary, offered me a ticket for the ladies' gallery. I should 
 have seen all the great literati and artists gathered in the hall below, 
 and heard them speak ; Thackeray and Dickens are always present 
 among the rest. This cannot now be. I don't think all London can 
 afford another sight to me so interesting." 
 
 It became requisite, however, before long, that she should go to 
 London on business ; and as Sir James Kay Shuttleworth was 
 detained in the country by indisposition, she accepted Mrs. Smith's 
 invitation to stay quietly 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 Athenaum myself 
 this time, and not to have to send them by post, but it turns out 
 otherwise ; my journey to London is again postponed, and this time 
 indefinitely. Sir James Kay Shuttleworth's state of health is the 
 cause — a cause, I fear, not likely to be soon removed. . . . Once 
 
THE MOORS. 337 
 
 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 quarrel- 
 some, nor vulgarising, nor unimproving. 
 
 " One of the pleasures I had promised myself consisted in asking 
 you several questions about the Leader, which is really, in its way, an 
 interesting paper. I wanted, amongst other things, to ask you the 
 real names of some of the contributors, and also what Lewes writes 
 besides his 'Apprenticeship of Life.' I always think the articlte 
 headed ' Literature ' is his. Some of the communications in the 
 ' Open Council ' department are odd productions ; but it seems to me 
 very fair and right to admit them. Is not the system of the paper 
 altogether a novel one? I do not remember seeing anything 
 precisely like it before. 
 
 " I have just received yours of this morning ; thank you for the 
 enclosed note. The longings for liberty and leisure which May 
 sunshine waken in you, stir my sympathy. I am afraid Comhill is 
 little better than a prison for its inmates on warm spring or summer 
 days. It is a pity to think of you all toiling at your desks in such 
 genial weather as this. For my part, I am free to walk on the moors ; 
 but when I go out there alone, everything reminds me of the times 
 when others were with me, and then the moors seem a wilderness, 
 featureless, solitary, maddening. 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 prospepts 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 melancholy complacency, but I think these 
 have not watched them through lingering sickness, nor witnessed 
 their last moments : it is these reminiscences that stand by your 
 bedside at night, and rise at your pillow in the morning. At the 
 end of all, however, exists the Great Hope. Eternal Life is theirs 
 now." 
 
338 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 She had to write many letters, about this time, to authors who 
 sent her their books, and strangers who expressed their admiration 
 of her own. The following was in reply to one of the latter class, atid 
 was addressed to a young man at Cambridge : — 
 
 " May 23rd, 1850. 
 
 " Apologies are indeed unnecessary for a ' reality of feeling, for a 
 genuine unaffected impulse of the spirit,' such as prompted you to 
 write the letter which I now briefly acknowledge. 
 
 " Certainly it is ' something to me ' that what I write should be 
 acceptable to the feeling heart and refined intellect ; undoubtedly it 
 is much to me that my creations (such as they are) should find 
 harbourage, appreciation, indulgence, at any fiiendly hand, or firom 
 any generous mind. You are very welcome to take Jane, Caroline, 
 and Shirley for your sisters, and I trust they will often speak to their 
 adopted brother when he is solitary, and soothe him when he is sad. 
 If they cannot make themselves at home in a thoughtful, sympathetic 
 mind, and diflfuse through its twilight a cheering, domestic glow, it is 
 their fault ; they are not, in that case, so amiable, so benignant, not 
 so real as they ought to be. If they can, and can find household 
 altars in human hearts, they will fulfil the best design of their creation, 
 in therein maintaining a genial flame, which shall warm but not. 
 scorch, light but not dazzle. 
 
 " What does it matter that part of your pleasure in such beings 
 bas its source in the poetry of your own youth rather than any magic 
 ■of theirs ? What that perhaps, ten years hence, you may smile to 
 remember your present recollections, and view under another light 
 both ' Currer Bell ' and his writings ? To me this consideration does 
 not detract from the value of what you now feel. Youth has its 
 romance, and maturity its wisdom, as morning and spring have their 
 freshness, noon and summer their power, night and winter their 
 repose. Each attribute is good in its own season. Your letter gave 
 me pleasure, and I thank you for it. 
 
 "CuRRER Bell." 
 
 Miss Bronte went up to town at the beginning of June, and much 
 enjoyed her stay there ; seeing very few persons, according to the 
 
INTERVIEW WITH THACKERAY. 339 
 
 agreement she made before she went ; and hmiting her visit to a 
 fortnight, dreading the feverishness and exhaustion which were the 
 inevitable consequences of the slightest excitement upon her 
 susceptible frame. 
 
 "June 1 2th. 
 
 " Since I wrote to you last, I have not had many moments to 
 myself, excdjjt such as it was absolutely necessary to give to rest. On 
 the whole, however, I have thus far got on very well, suffering much 
 less from exhaustion than I did last time. 
 
 " Of course I cannot give you in a letter a regular chronicle 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 Royal (he is a real grand old man), a visit to the House of 
 Commons (which I hope to describe to you some day when I see 
 you), and last, not least, an interview with Mr. Thackeray. He made 
 a morning call, and sat above two hours. Mr. Smith only was in the 
 room the whole tinie. He described . it afterwards as a ' queer 
 scene,' and I suppose it was. The giant sate before me ; I was 
 moved to speak to him of some of his shortcomings (literary of 
 course) ; one by one the faults came into my head, and one by one I 
 brought them out, and sought some explanation or defence. He did 
 defend himself, like a great Turk and heathen ; that is to say, the 
 excuses were often worse than the crime itself The matter ended 
 in decent amity ; if all be well, I am to dine at his house 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 monients, the 
 expression : jvhatever Lewes says, I believe I cannot hate him. 
 Another likeness I have seen, too, that touched me sorrowfully. 
 You remember my speaking of a Miss K., a young authoress, who 
 supported her mother by writing ? Hearing that she had a longing 
 to see me, I called on her yesterday. . . . She met me half- 
 frankly, half-trembhngly ; we sat down together, and when I had 
 talked with her five minutes, her face was no longer strange, but 
 
340 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 mournfully familiar. It was Martha* in every lineament I shall' try 
 to find a moment to see her again. ... I do not intend to stay 
 here, at the furthest, more than a week longer ; but at the end of 
 that time I cannot go home, for the house at Haworth is just now 
 unroofed ; repairs were become necessary." 
 
 That same day, June 12th, she wrote Martha the following letter. 
 I give these letters with particular pleasure, as they show her 
 pecuUarly womanly character ; and the care with which they have 
 been preserved, and the reverence with which they are looked upon, 
 serves to give the lie to Rochefoucauld's celebrated maxim. Charlotte 
 Bronte was a heroine to her servant Martha — and to those who knew 
 her best. 
 
 "London, June isth, 1850. 
 "Dear Martha, — 
 
 " I HAVE not forgotten my promise of writing to you, though a 
 multitude and variety of engagements have hitherto prevented me 
 from fulfilling it. 
 
 " It appears, from a letter I received from Papa this morning, that 
 you are now all in the bustle of unroofing ; and I look with much 
 anxiety on a somewhat clouded sky, hoping and trusting that it will 
 not rain till all is covered in. 
 
 " You and Martha Redman are to take care not to break your 
 backs with attempting to lift and carry heavy weights ; also you are 
 not foolishly to run into draughts, go out without caps or bonnets, or 
 otherwise take measures to make yourselves ill. I am rather curious 
 • to know how you have managed about a sleeping place for yourself 
 and Tabby. 
 
 "You must not expect that I should give you any particular 
 description of London, as that would take up a good deal of time, 
 and I have only a few minutes to spare. I shall merely say that it is 
 a Babylon of a place, and just now particularly gay and noisy, as this 
 is what is called the height of the London season, and all the fine 
 people are in town. I saw a good many Jords and ladies at the Opera 
 a few nights since, and, except for their elegant dresses, do not think 
 them either much better or much worse than other people. 
 
 " In answer to this, you may, when you have time, write me a few 
 
 ' The friend of her youth, who died at Brussels. 
 
VISIT TO SCOTLAND. 341 
 
 lines, in which you may say how Papa is, how you and Tabby are, 
 
 how the house is getting on, and how prospers. 
 
 " With kind regards to Tabby and Martha Redman, 
 "I am, dear Martha, 
 
 " Your sincere friend, 
 
 " C. Bronte." 
 
 She soon followed her letter to the friend to whom it was written ; 
 but her visit was a very short one, for, in accordance with a plan 
 made before leaving London, she went on to Edinburgh to join the 
 friends with whom she had been staying in town. She remained 
 only a few days in Scotland, and those were principally spent in 
 Edinburgh, with which she was delighted, calling London a " dreary 
 place" in comparison. 
 
 " My stay in Scotland " (she wrote some weeks later) " was short, 
 and what I saw was chiefly comprised in Edinburgh and the 
 neighbourhood, in Abbotsford, and in Melrose, for I was obliged to 
 relinquish my first intention of going from Glasgow to Oban, and 
 thence through a portion of the Highlands ; but though the time was 
 brief, and the view of objects limited, I found such a charm of 
 situation, association, and circumstance, that I think the enjoyment 
 experienced in that little space equalled in degree, and excelled in 
 kind, all which London yielded during a month's sojourn. 
 Edinburgh compared to London is like a vivid page of history 
 compared to a large dull treatise on political economy ; and as to 
 Melrose and Abbotsford, the very names possess music and magic." 
 
 And again, in a letter to a different correspondent, she 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 daguerreotype of the two days I spent in 
 Scotland. Those were two very pleasant days. I always liked 
 Scotland as an idea, but now, as a reality, I like it far better ; it 
 furnished me with some hours as happy almost as any I ever spent. 
 Do not fear, however, that I am going to bore you with description ; 
 you will, before now, have received a pithy and pleasant report of all 
 
342 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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, indeed, 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 poetiy, or as a great rumbling, rambling, heavy 
 epic compared to a lyric, brief, bright, dear, and vital as a flash of 
 lightning. You have nothing like Scott's monument, or, if you had 
 that, and all the glories of architecture assembled together, you have 
 nothing like Arthur's Seat, and, above all, you have not the Scotch 
 national character; and it is that grand character after all which gives 
 the land its true charm, its true greatness." 
 
 On her return from Scotland, she again spent a few days with her 
 fiiends, and then made her way to Haworth. 
 
 "July 15th. 
 
 " I got home very well, and full glad was I that no insuperable 
 obstacle had deferred my return one single day longer. Just at the 
 foot of Bridgehouse hill, I met John — staff in hand ; he fortunately 
 saw me in the cab, stopped, and informed me he was setting ofi" to 
 
 B , by Mr. Bronte's orders, to see how I was, for that he had 
 
 been quite miserable ever since he got Miss 's letter. I fovmd, 
 
 on my arrival, that Papa had worked himself up to a sad pitch of 
 nervous excitement and alarm, in which Martha and Tabby were 
 but too obviously joining him. . . . The house looks very clean, 
 and, I think, is not damp; there is, however,. still a great deal to do 
 in the way of settling and arranging, — enough to keep me disagreeably 
 busy for some time to come. I was truly thankful to find Papa 
 pretty well, but I fear he is just beginning to show symptoms of a 
 cold : my cold continues better. . . . An article in a newspaper I 
 found awaiting me on my arrival, amused me; it was a paper 
 published while I was in London. I enclose it to give you a laugh : 
 it professes to be written by an Author jealous of Authoresses. I do 
 not know who he is, but he must be one of those I met. . . . The 
 
THE DUKE'S PORTRAIT. 343 
 
 ' ugly men,' giving themselves ' Rochester airs,' is no bad hit ; some 
 of those alluded to will not like it." 
 
 While Miss Bronte was staying in London, she was induced to 
 sit for her portrait to Richmond. It is a crayon drawing ; in my 
 judgment an admirable likeness, though, of course, there is some 
 difference of opinion on the subject ; and, as usual, those best 
 acquainted with the original were least satisfied with the resemblance. 
 Mr. Bronte thought that it looked older than Charlotte did, and that 
 her features had not been flattered ; but he acknowledged that the 
 expression was wonderfully good and life-like. She sent the 
 following amusing 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 yoil for 
 performing such a work of supererogation, but now, when I see it 
 again, I cannot but acknowledge that, in so doing, you were 
 felicitously inspired. It is his very image, and, as Papa said when he 
 saw it, scarcely in the least like the ordinary portraits j not only the 
 expression, but even the form of the head, is different, and of a far 
 nobler character. I esteem it a treasure. The lady who left the 
 parcel for me was, it seems, Mrs. Gore. The parcel contained one of 
 her works, The Hamiltons, and a very civil and friendly note, in which 
 I find myself addressed as ' Dear Jane.' Papa seems much pleased 
 with the portrait, as do the few other persons who have seen it, with 
 one notable exception, viz. our old servant, who tenaciously 
 maintains that it is not like — that it is too old-looking ; but as she, 
 with equal tenacity, asserts that the Duke of Wellington's picture is a 
 portrait of the ' Master ' (meaning Papa), I am afraid not much weight 
 is to be ascribed to her opinion ; doubtless she confuses her 
 recollections of me as I was in childhood with present impressions. 
 Requesting always to be very kindly remembered to your mother and 
 sisters, I am yours very thanklessly (according to desire), 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 It may easily be conceived that two people living together 
 as Mr. Bronte and his daughter did, almost entirely dependent on 
 
344 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 each other for society, and loving each other deeply (although not 
 demonstratively) — that these two last members of a family would 
 have their moments of keen anxiety respecting each other's health. 
 There is not* one letter of hers which I have read, that does not 
 contain some mention of her father's state in- this respect. Either she 
 thanks God with simple earnestness that he is well, or some infirmities 
 of age beset him, and she mentions the fact, and then, winces away 
 from it, as from a sore that will not bear to be touched. He, in his 
 turn, noted every indisposition of his one remaining child, exagge- 
 rated 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 unpleasant ; but try 
 to chase every shadow of anxiety from your mind, and, unless the 
 . restraint be very disagreeable to you, permit me to add an earnest 
 request that you will broach the subject to me no more. It is the 
 undisguised and most harassing anxiety of others that has fixed in 
 my mind thoughts and expectations which must canker wherever they 
 take root ; against which every effort of religion or philosophy must at 
 times totally fail ; and subjugation to which is a cruel, terrible 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 nervous system is soon wrought on. I should wish to 
 keep it in rational strength and coolness ; but to do so I must deter- 
 minedly resist the kindly-meant, but too irksome expression of an 
 apprehension, for the realization or defeat of which I have no possible 
 power to be responsible. At present, I am pretty well. Thank God ! 
 Papa, I trust, is no worse, but he complains of weakness.'' 
 
AT THE BRIERY. 345 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Her father was always anxious to procure every change that was 
 possible for her, seeing,'as he did, the benefit which she derived from 
 it, however reluctant she might have been to leave her home and him 
 beforehand. This August she was invited to go for a week to the 
 neighbourhood of Bowness, where Sir James Kay Shuttleworth had 
 taken a house ; but she says, " I consented to go, with reluctance, 
 chiefly to please Papa, whom a refusfil 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 anticipation of another.'' 
 
 It was during this visit at the Briery — Lady Kay Shuttleworth 
 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 level 
 road to Low-wood; then a stoppage at a pretty house, and thep a 
 pretty drawihg-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 
 a good look at her. She is (as she calls herself) undevetoped, thin, and 
 more than half a head shorter than I am ; soft brown hair, not very 
 
346 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 dark; eyes (very good and expressive, looking straight and open at 
 you) of the same colour as her hair ; a large mouth ; the forehead 
 square, broad, and rather overhanging. She has a very sweet voice ; 
 rather hesitates in choosing her expressions, but when chosen they 
 seem without an effort, admirable, and just befitting the occasion ; 
 there is nothing overstrained, but perfectly simple. . . . After 
 breakfast, we four went out on the lake, and Miss Bronte agreed with 
 me in liking Mr. Newman's Soul, and in liking Modern Painters, and 
 the idea of the Seven Lamps; and she told me about Father Newman's 
 lectures at the Oratory, in a very quiet, concise, graphic way. . . . 
 
 She is more like Miss than any one in her ways — if you can 
 
 fancy Miss to have gone through suffering enough to have 
 
 taken out every spark of merriment, and to be shy and silent fi-om the 
 habit of extreme, intense solitude. Such a life as Miss Bronte's I 
 
 never heard of before. described her home to me as in a village 
 
 of greystone 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 West- 
 moreland scenery, as she had never been there before. We were 
 both included in an invitation to drink tea quietly at Fox How ; and 
 I then saw how severely her nerves were taxed by the effort of going 
 amongst strangers. We knew beforehand that the number of the 
 party would not exceed twelve ; but she suffered the whole day from 
 an acute headache brought on by apprehension of the evening. 
 
 " Briery 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 character of the prospect from Haworth was very different ; 
 that I had no idea what a companion the sky became to any one living 
 in solitude — more than any inanimate object on earth — more than the 
 moors themselves.'' 
 
 The following extracts convey some of her own impressions and 
 feelings respecting this visit : — 
 
HER VISIT TO THE LAKES. 347 
 
 " You said I should stay longer than a week in Westmoreland ; 
 you ought by this time to know me better. Is it my habit to keep 
 dawdling at a place long after the time I first fixed on for departing? 
 I have got home, and I am thankful to say Papa seems^to say the 
 least — ^no worse than when I left him, yet I wish he were stronger. 
 My visit passed off very well ; I am very glad I went. The scenery 
 is, of course, grand ; could I have wandered about amongst those 
 hills alone, I could have drunk in all their beauty ; even in a carriage 
 with company, it was very wfell. Sir James was all the while as 
 kind and friendly as he could be : he is in much better health. . . . 
 Miss Martineau was from home ; she always leaves her house at 
 Ambleside during the Lake season, to avoid the influx of visitors to 
 which she would otherwise be subject. 
 
 "If I could only have dropped unseen out of the carriage, and 
 gone away by myself in amongst those grand hills and sweet dales, 
 I should have drunk in the full power of this glorious scenery. In 
 
 company, this can hardly be. Sometimes, 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 Westmore- 
 land, there came an invitation to Harden Grange ; which,'of course, I 
 decHned. Two or three days after, a large party made their appear- 
 ance 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 before Papa had been wishing for some." 
 
 To these extracts I must add one other from a letter referring to 
 
 this time. It is addressed to Miss W , 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, 
 
348 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTR. 
 
 you will understand that it is no longer within my option to accept 
 your kind invitation. I wish I could have gone to you. I have 
 already had my excursion, and there is an end of it. Sir James Kay 
 Shuttleworth is residing near Windermere, at a house called the 
 ' Briery,' and it was there I was staying for a little time this August. 
 He very kindly showed me the neighbourhood, as it can be seen from 
 a carriage, and I discerned that the Lake country is a glorious region, 
 of which I had only seen the similitude in dreams, waking or sleeping. 
 Decidedly I find it does not agree with me to prosecute the search 
 of the picturesque in a carriage. A waggon, a 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 attention 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 those few I should like to know 
 well; if such knowledge brought proportionate regard, I could not 
 help concentrating my feelings ; dissipation, I think, appears synony- 
 mous with dilution. However, I have, as yet, scarcely been tried. 
 During the njpnth I spent in London in the spring, I kept very quiet, 
 having the fear of lionising before my eyes. I only went out once to 
 dinner ; and once was present at an evening-party ; and the only 
 visits I have paid have been to Sir James Kay Shuttleworth's and 
 my publisher's. From this system I should not like to depart ; as 
 far as I can see, indiscriminate visiting tends only to a waste of time 
 and a vulgarising of character. Besides, it would be wrong to leave 
 Papa often ; he is now in his seventy-fifth year, the infirmities of age 
 begin to creep upon him ; during the summer he has been much 
 harassed by chronic bronchitis, but I am thankful to say that he is 
 now somewhat better. I think my own health has derived benefit 
 from change and exercise. 
 
 " Somebody in D professes to have authority for saying that 
 
 ' when Miss Bronte was in London she neglected to attend Divine 
 service on the Sabbath, and in the week spent her time in going about 
 
HER FIRST LETTER TO THE AUTHOR. 349 
 
 to balls, theatres, and operas.' On the other hand, the London 
 quidnuncs make my seclusion a matter of wonder, and devise twenty 
 romantic fictions to account for it. Formerly I used to listen to 
 report with interest, and a certain credulity ; but I am now grown 
 deaf and sceptical ; experience has taught me how absolutely devoid 
 of foundation her stories may be." 
 
 I must now quote from the first letter I had the privilege of 
 receiving 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 be thankful 
 for, and, amongst the rest, that this morning I received a letter from 
 you, and that this evening I have the privilege of answering it. 
 
 " I do not know the Life of Sydney Taylor; whenever I have the 
 opportunity I will get it. The little French book you mention shall 
 also take its place on the list of books to be procured as soon as 
 possible. It treats a subject interesting to all women — perhaps, more 
 especially to single women ; though, indeed, mothers, like you, study 
 it for the sake of their daughters. The Westmitister Review is not a 
 periodical I see regularly, but some time since I got hold of a number 
 — for last January, I think — in which there was an article entitled 
 ' Woman's Mission ' (the phrase is hackneyed), containing a great 
 deal that seemed to me just and sensible. Men begin to regard the 
 position of woman in another light than they used to do ; and a few 
 men, whose sympathies are fine and whose sense of justice is strong, 
 think and speak of it with a candour that commands my admiration. 
 They say, however — ^and, to an extent, 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-ro'oted 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. 
 
3SO LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE, 
 
 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, but you are never, on any account, to 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 the 
 volume of Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell's poems ; and thus alludes to 
 them in the note that accompanied the parcel : — 
 
 " The little book of rhymes was sent by way of fvilfilling a rashly- 
 made promise ; and the promise was made to prevent you from 
 throwing away four shillings in an injudicious purchase. I do not like 
 my own share of the work, nor care that it should be read : Ellis 
 Bell's I think good and vigorous, and Acton's have the merit of truth 
 and simpUcity. Mine are chiefly juvenile productions ; the restless 
 effervescence of a mind that would not be still. In those days, the 
 sea too often ' wrought and was tempestuous,' and weed, sand, 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. sth : — 
 
 "The reappearance of the Athenceum is very acceptable, not 
 merely for its own sake, — though I esteem the opportimity of its 
 perusal a privilege, — ^but because, as a weekly token of the remem- 
 brance of friends, it cheers and gives pleasure. I only fear that 
 its regular transmission may become a task to you; in this case, 
 discontinue it at once. 
 
 " I did indeed enjoy my trip to Scotland, and yet I saw little of 
 the face of the country ; nothing of its grander or finer scenic features -; 
 
CRITICAL NOTICES. 351 
 
 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 regret, nor have I since regretted, the want 
 of wider space over which to diffiise the sense of enjoyment. There 
 was room and variety enough to be very happy, and ' enough,' the 
 proverb says, ' is as good as a feast.' The Queen, indeed, was right 
 to climb Arthur's Seat with her husband and children. I shaU. not 
 soon forget how I felt when, having reached its summit, we all sat 
 down and looked over the city — ^towards the sea and Leith, and the 
 Pentland Hills. No doubt you are proud of being a native of Scot- 
 land, — ^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 prematurely extinguished, it is not wise to speak 
 much. Whoever the author of this article may be, I remain his 
 debtor. 
 
 "Yet you see, even here, Shirley is disparaged in comparison 
 with yane 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 
 sufferings that were scarcely tolerable. 
 
 " You sent the tragedy of Galileo Galilei, by Samuel Brown, in 
 one of the Comhill parcels; it contained, I remember, passages of 
 very great beauty. Whenever you send any more books (but that 
 
3S2 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 must not be till I return what I now have) I should be glad if you 
 would include amongst them the Life of Dr. Arnold. Do you know 
 also the Life of Sydney Taylor ? I am not familiar even with the 
 name, but it has been recommended to me as a work meriting 
 perusal. Of course, when I name any book, it is always understood 
 that it should be quite convenient to sencj it" 
 
EDITING "WUTHERING HEIGHTS," ETC. 353 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 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 Heights, which, 
 however, I propose to place apart as a brief preface before the tale. 
 I am likewise compelling myself to read it over, for the first time of 
 opening the book since my sister's death. Its power fills me with 
 renewed admiration ; but yet I am oppressed : the reader is scarcely 
 ever permitted a taste of unalloyed pleasure ; every beam of sunshine 
 is poured down through black bars of threatening cloud ; every page 
 is surcharged with a sort of moral electricity ; and the writer was 
 unconscious of all 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 dialect 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 : 
 
 A A -^ . 
 
354 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " There is nothing wrong, and I am writing' you a line as you 
 desire, merely to say that I am busy just now. Mr. Smith wishes to 
 reprint some of Emily's and Anne'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 duty, I went on, and now can bear it better. 
 It is work, however, that I cannot do in the evening, for if I did, I 
 should have no sleep at night. Papa, I am thankful to say, is in 
 improved health, and so, I think, am I ; I trust you are the same. 
 
 " I have just received a kind letter from Miss Martineau. She 
 has got back to Ambleside, and had heard of my 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 one or two nights, I scarcely knew how to get on 
 till morning; and when morning came, I was still haunted with a 
 sense of sickening distress. I tell you these things, because it is 
 absolutely necessary to me to have some relief. You will forgive me, 
 and not trouble yourself, or imagine that I am one whit worse than I 
 say. It is quite a mental ailment, and I believe and hope is better 
 now. I think so, because I can speak about it, which I never can 
 when grief is at its worst. 
 
 " 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 
 companionship, the hopelessness of relief, were what I should dread 
 to feel again. 
 
HER INTERVIEW WITH MR. LEWES. 355 
 
 " Dear , when I think of you, it is with a compassion and 
 
 tenderness that scarcely cheer me. Mentally, I fear, you also are too 
 lonely and too little occupied. It seems our doom, for the present 
 at least. May God in his mercy help us to -bear it ! " 
 
 During her last visit to London, as mentioned in one of her 
 letters, she had made the acquaintance of her correspondent, Mr. 
 Lewes. That gentleman says : — 
 
 " Some months after " (the appearance of the review of Shirley 
 in the Edinburgh), " Currer Bell came to London, and I was invited 
 to meet her at your house. You may remember, she asked you not 
 to point me out to her, but allow her to discover me if she could. 
 She did recognise me almost as soon as I came into the room. You 
 tried me in the same way ; I was less sagacious. However, I sat by 
 her side a great part of the evening, and was greatly interested by 
 her conversation. On parting we shook hands, and she said, ' We 
 are friends now, are we not ? ' ' Were we not always, then ? ' I asked. 
 ' No ! not always,' she said, significantly : and that was the only 
 allusion she made to the offending article. I lent her some of 
 Balzac's and George Sand's novels to take with her into the country, 
 and the following letter was written when they were returned : " — 
 
 " I am sure you will have thought me very dilatory in returning 
 the books you so kindly lent me. The fact is, having some other 
 books to send, I retained yours to enclose them in the same parcel. 
 
 " Accept my thanks for some hours of pleasant reading. Balzac 
 was for me quite a new author ; and in making his acquaintance, 
 through the medium of Modeste Mignon and Illusions Perdues, you 
 cannot doubt I have felt some interest. At first I thought he was 
 going to be painfully minute, and fearfully tedious; one grew 
 impatient of his long parade of detail, his slow revelation of un- 
 important circumstances, as he assembled his personages on the 
 stage; but by-and-by I seemed to enter into the mystery of his 
 craft, and to discover, with delight, where his force lay : is it not in 
 the analysis of motive, and in a subtle perception of. the most 
 obscure and secret workings of the mind ? Still, admire Balzac as 
 we may, I think we do not like him ; we rather feel towards Jiim as 
 towards an ungenial acquaintance who is for ever holding up in 
 
3S5 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 strong light our defects; and who rarely draws forth cur better 
 qualities. 
 
 " Truly, I like George Sand better. 
 
 " Fantastic, fanatical, unpractical enthusiast as she often is — far 
 from truthful as are many of her views of life — ^misled, as she is apt 
 to be, by her feelings — George Sand has a better nature than M. de 
 Balzac : her brain is larger, her heart warmer than his. The Lettres 
 d'un Voyageur are full of the writer's self; and I never felt so 
 strongly, as in the perusal of this work, that most of her very faults 
 spring from the excess of her good qualities : it is this excess which 
 has often hurried her into difficulty, which has prepared for her 
 enduring regret. 
 
 " But I believe her mind is of that order which disastrous 
 experience teaches, without weakening or too much disheartening ; 
 and, in that case, the longer she lives the better she will grow. A 
 hopeful point in all her writings is the scarcity of false French 
 sentiment ; I wish I could say its absence ; but the weed flourishes 
 here 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 the letters from which I now 
 quote are devoted to critical and literary subjects. These were, 
 indeed, her principal interests at this time; the revision of her 
 sisters' works, and writing a short memoir of tljem, was the painful 
 employment of every day during the dreary autumn of 1850. 
 Wearied out by the vividness of her sorrowful recollections, she 
 sought relief in long walks on the moors. A friend of hers, who 
 wrote to me on the appearance of the eloquent article in the Daily 
 News upon the " Death of Currer Bell," gives an anecdote which 
 may well come in here : — 
 
 " They are mistaken in saying she was too weak to roam the hills 
 for the benefit of the air. I do not think any one, certainly not any 
 woman, in this locaUty, went so much on the moors as she did, when 
 the weather permitted. Indeed, she was so much in the habit of 
 doing so, that people who lived quite away on the edge of the 
 
A VISIT TO HAWORTH PARSONAGE. 357. 
 
 common, knew her perfectly well. I remember on one occasion an 
 old woman saw her at a littie 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 — what we call a stirk, yah know. Miss Bronte ; 
 will yah turn it this way if yah happen to see't, as yali're going back. 
 Miss Bronte ? Nah do, Miss Bronte.' " 
 
 It must have been about this time that a visit was paid to her by 
 some neighbours, who were introduced to her by a mutual friend. 
 This visit has been described in a letter from which I am permitted 
 to give extracts, which will show the impression made upon strangers 
 by the character of the country round Jier home, and other circum- 
 stances. " Though the weather was drizzly, we resolved t6 make 
 our long-planned 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 scenery — wild 
 and chill — with great masses of cloud glooming over the moors, and 
 here and there a ray of sunshine covertly stealing through, and 
 resting with a dim magical light upon some high bleak village ; or 
 darting down into some deep glen, lighting up the tall chimney, or 
 glistening on the windows and wet roof of the mill which Ues couching 
 in the bottom. The country got wilder and wilder as we approached 
 Haworth ; for the last four miles we were ascending a huge moor, at 
 the very top of which lies the dreary, black-Jooking 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 should have got 
 
 out and walked with W , if possible, but, having once begun the 
 
 ascent, to stop was out of the question. At the top was the inn 
 where we put up, close by the church ; and the clergyman's house, 
 we were told, was at the top of the churchyard. So through that we 
 went — a dreary, dreary place, literally /az/.?;/ with rain-blackened tomb-- 
 stones, and all on the slope ; for at Haworth there is on the highest 
 height a higher still, and Mr. Bronte's house stands considerably 
 above the church. There was the house before us, a small, oblong 
 stone house, with not a tree to screen it from the cutting wind ; but 
 how were we to get at it from the churchyard we could not see ! 
 
358 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 j and presently we found ourselves in the little bare 
 parlour. Presently the door opened, and in came a superannuated 
 mastiff, followed by an old gentleman very like Miss Bronte, who 
 shook hands with us, and then went to call his daughter. A long 
 interval, during which we coaxed the old dog, and looked at a 
 picture of Miss Bronte, by Richmond, the solitary ornament of the 
 room, looking strangely out of place on the bare walls, and at the 
 books on the little shelves, most of them evidently the gift of the 
 authors since Miss Bronte's celebrity. Presently she came in, and 
 welcomed usvery kindly, and took me upstairs to take off my bonnet, 
 and herself brought me water and towels. The uncarpeted stone 
 stairs and floors, the old drawers propped on wood, were all 
 scrupulously clean and neat. When we went into the parlour again, 
 we began talking very comfortably^ when the door opened and Mr. 
 Bronte looked in ; seeing his daughter there, I suppose he thought 
 it was all right, and he retreated to his study on the opposite side of 
 
 the passage; presently emerging again to bring W a country 
 
 newspaper. This was his last appearance till we went. Miss Bronte 
 spoke with the greatest warmth of Miss Martineau, and of the good 
 she had gained from her. Well ! we talked about various things ; 
 the character of the people — about her solitude, &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 curly-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 off, having obtained from her a promise to pay us a visit in 
 the spring ; and the old gentleman having issued once more from 
 his study to say good-by, we returned to the inn, and made the best 
 of our way homewards. 
 
 " Miss Bronte put me so in mind of her own ' Jane Eyre.' She 
 looked smaller than ever, and moved about so quietly, and noiselessly, 
 
n-vs-.-v'i '1' 
 
 •l 
 
 h 
 
 jdP^*^ 
 
 BEV. PATRICK: BBONTE 
 F^am a PItoiograph) 
 
KINDLY CRITICISM. 359 
 
 just like a little bird, as Rochester called her,, barring that all birds 
 are joyous, and that joy can never have entered that house since it 
 was first built ; and yet, perhaps, when that old man married,, and 
 took home his bride, and children's voices and feet were heard about 
 the house, even that desolate crowded grave-yard and biting blast 
 could not quench cheerfulness and hope. Now there is something 
 touching in the sight of that little creature entombed in such a place, 
 and moving about herself like a spirit, especially when you think that 
 the slight still frame encloses a force of strong fiery life, which 
 nothing has been able to freeze or extinguish.'' \- 
 
 In one of the preceding letters, Miss Bronte referred to an 
 article in the Palladium, which had rendered what she considered the , 
 due meed of merit to Wuthering Heights, her sister Emily's tale. 
 Her own works were praised, and praised with discrimination, and 
 she was grateful for this. But her warm heart was filled to the brim 
 with kindly feelings towards him who had done justice to the dead. 
 She anxiously sought out the name of the writer ; and having dis- 
 covered 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. 2Sth. 
 
 " The box of books came last night, and, as usual, I have only 
 gratefully to admire the selection made : yeffrefs Essays, Dr. 
 Arnold's Life, The Roman, 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 Words- 
 worth's Prelude, and Taylor's Philip Van Artevelde. I soothe my 
 conscience by saying that the two 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 fortrunkmakers. 
 
 "I have already had Macaulay's Essays, Sydney Smith's 
 
36o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 Hunfs Autobiography. However, I am now abundantly sup- 
 plied for a long time to come. I liked Hazlitfs Essays much. 
 
 " The autumn, as you say, has been very fine. I and solitude 
 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 impatience 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. Mean- 
 time, the Cornhill books now, as heretofore, are my best medicine, — 
 affording 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, unborrowed, unmimicked. You hear Tennyson, indeed, some- 
 times, and Byron sometimes, in some passages of the Roman; but 
 then again you have a new note, — ^nowhere clearer than in a certain 
 brief lyric, sung 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. 6th. 
 
 " I have just finished reading the Life of Dr. Arnold; but now 
 when I wish, according to your request, to express what I think of it, 
 I do not find the task very easy ; proper terms seem wanting. This is 
 not a character to be dismissed with a few laudatory words ; it is not 
 a 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 
 
HER CHARACTER OF DR. ARNOLD. 361, 
 
 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, stem, and p6sitive, those were his sole faults (if, indeed, 
 that can be called a fault which in no shape degrades the individual's 
 own character, but is only apt to oppress and overstrain the weaker 
 nature of his neighbours). Afterwards come his good qualities. About 
 these there is nothing dubious. Where can we find justice, firmness, 
 independence, earnestness, sincerity, fiiUer 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 possessipn 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 Hfe; 
 a happiness resulting chiefly, no doubt, from the right use to which 
 he put that health and strength which God had given him, but also 
 owing partly to a singular exemption from those deep and bitter griefs 
 which most human beings are called on to endure. His wife was 
 what he wished ; his children were healthy and promising ; his own 
 health was excellent ; his undertakings were crowned with success ; 
 even death was kind, — for however sharp the pains of his last hour, 
 they were but brief. God's blessing seems to have accompanied him 
 from the cradle to the grave. One feels thankful to know that it has 
 been permitted to any man to live such a life. 
 
 " When I was in Westmoreland last August, I spent an evening at 
 Fox How, where Mrs. Arnold and her daughters still reside. It" was 
 twilight as I drove to the place, and almost dark ere I reached it ; 
 still I could perceive that the situation was lovely. The house looked 
 like a nest half buried in flowers and creepers : and, dusk as it was, 
 I could y^«/ 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 monotonj of her life at 
 
362 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 this time. The dark, bleak season of the year brought back the long 
 evenings, which tried her severely : all the more so, because her weak 
 eyesight rendered her incapable of following any occupation but knit- 
 ting 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 Ambleside. She also pro- 
 po.seito come to Manchester and see me, on her way to Westmoreland. 
 But, unfortunately, I was from home, and not able therefore to receive 
 her. The friends with whom I was stajdng in the South of England 
 (hearing me express my regret that I could not accept her friendly 
 proposal, and aware of the sad state of health and spirits which made 
 sonie change necessary for her,) wrote to desire that she would come 
 and spend a week or two with me at their house. She acknowledged 
 this invitation in a letter to me, dated 
 
 "Dec. 13th, 1850. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Gaskell, — Miss 's kindness and yours is such 
 
 that I am placed in the dilemma of not knowing how adequately to 
 express my sense of it. This I know, however, very well — that if 
 I could go and be with you for a week or two in such a quiet 
 south-country house, and with such kind people as you describe, 
 I should like it much. I find the proposal marvellously to my 
 taste ; it is the pleasantest, gentlest, sweetest temptation possible ; 
 but delectable as it is, its soUcitations are by no means to be yielded 
 to without the sanction of reason, and therefore I desire for the 
 present to be silent, and to stand back till I have been to Miss 
 Martineau's, and returned home, and considered well whether it is a 
 scheme as right as agreeable. 
 
 " Meantime the mere thought does me good." 
 
 On the loth of December, the second edition of Wuthering 
 Heights was pubUshed. She sent a copy of it to Mr. Dobell, with the 
 following letter : — 
 
 " To Mr. Dobell. 
 
 "Haworth, near Keighley, Yorkshire, 
 "Dec. 8th, 1850. 
 
 " I offer this Httle book to my critic in the Palladium, and he must 
 believe it accompanied by a tribute of the sincerest gratitude ; not so 
 
HER Letter to mr. dobell. 363 
 
 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 per- 
 haps one kind word spoken for her awakens a deeper, tenderer 
 sentiment of thankfulness than eulogies heaped on my own head. As 
 you will see when you have read the biographical notice, my sister 
 cannot thank you herself; she is gone out of your sphere and mine, 
 and human blame and praise are nothing to her now. But to me, for 
 her sake, they are something still ; it revived me for many a day to 
 find that, dead as she was, the work of her genius had at last met with 
 worthy appreciation. 
 
 " Tell me, when you have read the introduction, whether any doubts 
 still linger in your mind respecting the authorship of Wuthering 
 Heights, Wildfell Hall, &c. Your mistrust did me some injustice ; it 
 proved a general conception of character such as I should be sorry to 
 call mine ; but these false ideas will naturally arise when we only judge 
 an author from his works. In fairness, I must also disclaim the flat- 
 tering side of the portrait. I am no ' young Penthesilea mediis in 
 millibus,' but a plain country parson's daughter. 
 
 " Once more I thank you, and that with a full heart. 
 
 " C. Bronte." 
 
364 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 Immediately after the republication of her sister's book she went to 
 Miss Martineaii'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 
 ef solitude grew extreme ; my recollection of my sisters intolerably 
 poignant. I am better now. I am at Miss Martineau's for a week. 
 Her house is very pleasant, both within and without ; arranged at all 
 points with admirable neatness and comfort. Her visitors enjoy the 
 most perfect liberty ; what she claims for herself she allows them. I 
 rise at my own hour, breakfast alone (she is up at five, takes a cold 
 bath and a walk by starlight, and has finished breakfast and got to her 
 work by seven o'clock)." [I must insert .a correction of this mistake 
 as to Miss Martineau's hours ; the fact being that Miss Martineau rose 
 at six, and went to work at half- past eight, breakfasting separately from 
 her visitor, — as she says in a letter with which she has favoured me, 
 " it was my practice to come and speak to C. B. when she sat down 
 to breakfast, and before I went to work."] " I pass the morning in the 
 tdrawing-room — she, in her study. At two o'clock we meet — ^work, 
 talk, and walk together, till five, her dinner hour, spend the evening 
 ogether, when she converses fluently and abundantly, and with the 
 most complete frankness. I go to my own room soon after ten, — she 
 sits up writing letters till twelve. She appears exhaustless in strength 
 
HER IMPRESSIONS OF MISS MARTINEAU. 365 
 
 and spirits, and indefatigable in the faculty of labour. She is a great 
 and 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. Arnold. Miss Martineau I relish 
 inexpressibly." 
 
 Miss Bronte paid the visit she here proposes to her friend, but 
 only remained two or three days. She then returned home, and 
 immediately began to suffer from her old enemy, sickly and depress- 
 ing 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 interests 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 intel- 
 lectual and physical ; and though I share few of her opinions, and 
 regard her as fallible on certain points of judgment, I must still award 
 her my sincerest esteem. The manner in which she combines the 
 highest mental culture with the nicest discharge of feminine duties 
 filled me with admiration ; while her affectionate kindness 
 earned my gratitude." "I think her good and noble qualities far 
 outweigh her defects. It is my habit to consider the individual apart 
 from his (or her) reputation, practice independent of theory, natural 
 disposition isolated from acquired opinions. Harriet Martineau's per- 
 son, practice, and character, inspire me with the truest affection and 
 respect." " You ask me whether Miss Martineau made me a convert 
 
366 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 to mesmerism ? Scarcely ; yet I heard miracles of its efficacy, and 
 could hardly discredit the whole of what was told me. I even under- 
 went a personal experiment ; and though the result was not absolutely 
 clear, it was inferred that in time I should prove an excellent subject. 
 The question of mesmerism will be discussed with little reserve, I 
 believe, in a forthcoming work of Miss Martineau's ; and I have some 
 painful anticipations of the manner in which other subjects, offering 
 less legitimate ground for speculation, will be handled." 
 
 Miss Martineau sends me the following account of the " personal 
 experiment " to which Miss Bronte refers : — " By the way, for the 
 mesmeric experiment on C. , B. I was not responsible. She was 
 strangely pertinacious about that, and I most reluctant to bring it 
 before her at all, we being alone, and I having no confidence in her 
 nerves. Day after day she urged me to mesmerise her. I always, 
 and quite truly, pleaded that I was too tired for success, for we had 
 no opportunity till the end of the day. At last, on Sunday evening 
 we returned from early tea somewhere ; I could not say I was tired, 
 and she insisted. I stopped the moment she called out that she was 
 under the influence, and I would not resume it." 
 
 Miss Martineau has kindly permitted me to make use of one or 
 two anecdotes which she remembers, and which refer to this period : — 
 
 "One trait may interest you. Her admiration of WeUington 
 brought it to my mind. One morning I brought her the first page of 
 the chapter on the Peninsular War in my Introductory History, and 
 said, ' Tell me if this will do for a beginning, &c.' I read the page or 
 two to her, as we stood before the fire, and she looked up at me and 
 stole her hand into mine, and to my amazement, the tears were run- 
 nincf down her cheeks. She said, ' Oh ! I do thank you ! Oh ! we are 
 of one mind ! Oh ! I thank you for this justice to the man.' I saw at 
 once there was a touch of idolatry in the case, but it was a charming 
 enthusiasm. . . . As to the lecture, about which you ask, C .B. 
 sat sideways to me. It was long, for I got interested, and forgot 
 the time. She kept her eyes on me the whole time, till her neck must 
 have ached desperately. She stole up to the httle platform on which 
 I was standing, while the people dispersed, and as the light shone 
 down into her eyes, repeated (in my very voice), 'Is my son dead?' 
 
HER IMPRESSIONS OF MISS MARTINEAU. 367 
 
 (Edward III.'s words at the windmill during the battle of Cregy.) 
 We came home in silence (a very little way). In the drawing-room, 
 the first thing I did was to light the lamp, , and the first flare showed 
 C. B. with large eyes, staring at me, and repeating, • Is my son 
 dead?'" 
 
 Letter from C. B. to Miss W. 
 
 "Your last letter evinced such a sincere and discriminating 
 admiration for Dr. Arnold, tha:t perhaps you will not be wholly unin- 
 terested in hearing that, during my late visit to Miss Martineau, I saw 
 much more of Fox How and its inmates, and daily admired, in the 
 widow and children of one of the greatest and best men of his time, 
 the possession of qualities the most estimable and endearing. Of my 
 kind hostess herself, I cannot speak in terms too high. Without being 
 able to share all her opinions, philosophical, political, or religious — 
 without adoptmg her theories, — I yet find a worth and greatness in 
 herself, and a consistency, benevolence, perseverance in her practice, 
 such as wins the sincerest esteem and affection. She is not a person 
 to be judged by her writings alone, but rather by her own deeds and 
 life, than which nothing can be more exemplary or nobler. She seems 
 to me the benefactress of Ambleside, yet takes no sort of credit to 
 herself for her active and indefatigable philanthropy. The government 
 of her household is admirably administered : all she does is well done, 
 from the writing of a history down to the quietest female occupation. 
 No sort of carelessness or neglect is allowed under her rule, and yet 
 she is not over-strict or 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 excellences." 
 
 "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 com- 
 bination 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, anda cold, slow-beating heart, lay under his marble outside. 
 
368 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 But he is a materialist : he serenely denies us our hope of immortality, 
 and quietly blots from man's future, Heaven and the Life to come. 
 That is why a savour of bitterness seasoned my feeling towards him. 
 "All you say of Mr. Thackeray is most graphic and characteristic. 
 He stirs in me both sorrow and anger. Why should he lead so harass- 
 ing a life ? Why should his 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 emplo)dng herself upon Villette; but she was 
 frequently unable to write, and was both grieved and angry with her- 
 self 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 little redbreasts come every morning to the 
 window for crumbs. One can lay no plans three or four months be- 
 forehand. Besides, I don't deserve to go to London : nobody merits 
 a change or a treat less. I secretly think, on the contrary, I ought to 
 be put in prison, and kept on bread and water in solitary confinement 
 — ^without even a letter from Comhill — till I had written a book. 
 One of two things would certainly result from such a mode of treat- 
 ment 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 con- 
 dition of intellect that would exempt me ever after from Uterary eflforts 
 and expectations." 
 
 Meanwhile, she was disturbed and distressed by the publication 
 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. nth, 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 impressiori this book has made on me, I will not now say 
 
MISS MARTINEAU'S "LETTERS," ETC. 369 
 
 much. It is the first exposition of avowed atheism and materialism I 
 have ever read ; the first unequivocal declaration of disbehef in the 
 existence of a God or a future life I have ever seen. In judging -of 
 such exposition and declaration, one would wish entirely to put aside 
 the sort of instinctive horror they awaken, and to consider them in an 
 impartial spirit and collected mood. This I find it difficult to do. The 
 strangest thing is that we are called on to rejoice over this hopeless 
 blank — to receive this bitter bereavement as great gain — to welcome 
 this unutterable desolation as a state of pleasant freedom. Who could 
 do this if he would ? Who would do it if he could ? 
 
 "Sincerely, for my own part, do I wish to find and know the 
 Truth ; but if this be Truth, well may she guard herself with mysteries, 
 and cover herself with a veil. If this be Truth, man or woman who 
 beholds her, can but curse the day he or she was born. I said, 
 however, I would not dwell on what / 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 pubUcation 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. 
 
 "Your remarks on Miss Martineau and her book pleaded me 
 greatly, from their tone and spirit. I have even taken the liberty of 
 transcribing for her benefit one or two phrases, because I know they 
 will cheer her ; she likes sympathy and appreciation (as all people do 
 who deserve them); and most fully do I agree with you in the dislike 
 you express of that hard contemptuous tone in which her work is 
 spoken of by many critics." 
 
 Before I return from the literary opinions of the author to the 
 domestic interests of the woman, I must copy out what she felt and 
 thought about TTie Stones of Venice: — 
 
370 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " The Stones of Venice seem nobly laid and chiselled. How 
 grandly the quarry of vast marbles is disclosed ! Mr. Ruskin seems 
 to me one of the few genuine writers, as distinguished from 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 Kke a consecrated Priest of the 
 Abstract arid Ideal. 
 
 " I shall bring with me The Stones of Venice; all the foundations 
 of marble and 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 Ruskin, 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 prevailed on her old friend and 
 school-fellow to come and stay with her for a few weeks in March. 
 She found great benefit from this companionship — both from the 
 congenial society itself, and from the self-restraint of thought imposed 
 by the necessity of entertaining her and looking after her comfort 
 On this occasion. Miss Bronte said, " It will not do to get into the 
 habit of running away from home, and thus temporarily evading 
 an oppression, instead of facing, wrestling with, and conquering it, 
 or being conquered by it." 
 
 I shall now make an extract from one of her letters, which is pur- 
 posely displaced as to time. I quote it because it relates to a third 
 offer of marriage which she had, and because I find that some are apt 
 to imagine, from the extraordinary power with which she represented 
 the passion of love in her novels, that she herself was easily sus- 
 ceptible 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 1 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 
 
PREPARING FOR A VISIT TO LONDON. 371 
 
 mixture of apprehension and anger, which nothing softens but his re- 
 treat, and a perfect subduing of his ' manner. I did not want to be 
 proud, nor intend to be proud, but I was forced to be so. Most 
 true it is, that we are overruled by One above us ; that in His hands 
 our very will is as clay in the hands of the potter." 
 
 I have now named all the oifers of marriage she ever received, 
 until that was made which she finally accepted. The .gentleman 
 referred to in this letter, retained so much regard for her as to be her 
 friend to the end of her life ; a circumstance to his credit and to hers. 
 
 Before her friend E took her departure, Mr. Bronte caught 
 
 cold, and continued for some weeks much out of health, with an 
 attack of bronchitis. His spirits, too, became much depressed ; and 
 all his daughter's 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 prospect, she did not intend to stay there long ; 
 and, as usual, she made an agreement with her friends, before finally 
 accepting their offered hospitality, that her sojourn at their house was 
 to be as quiet as ever, since any other way of proceeding disagreed 
 ■with her both mentally and physically. She never looked excited 
 except for a moment, when something in conversation called her 
 out ; but she often felt so, even about comparative trifles, and the 
 exhaustion of reaction was sure to follow. Under such circumstances, 
 she always became extremely thin and 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 becoming, yet remembering con- 
 sistency, both with* her general appearance and with her means, in 
 every selection she made. 
 
 "By-the-by I meant to ask you, when you went to Leeds, to do a 
 small errand for me, but fear your hands will be too flill of business. 
 It was merely this : in case you chanced to be in any shop where the 
 lace cloaks, both black and white, of which I spoke, were sold, to 
 
 B E2 
 
372 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ask their price" I suppose they would hardly like to send a few 
 to Haworth to be looked at ; indeed, if they cost very much, it would 
 be useless, but if they are reasonable and they would send them, 
 I should like to see them ; and also some chemisettes of small size 
 (the full woman's size don't fit me), both of simple style for every day 
 and good quality for best." . . . "It appears I could not rest ' 
 satisfied whfen I was well off. I told you I had taken one of the 
 black lace mantles, but when I came to try it with the black satin 
 dress, with which I should chiefly want to wear it, I found the effect 
 was far from good ; the beauty of the lace was lost, and it looked 
 
 somewhat brown and rusty ; I wrote to Mr. , requesting him to 
 
 change it for a white mantle of the same price ; he was extremely 
 courteous, and sent to London for one, which I have got this morning. 
 The price is less, being but^^i. i^r. od. ; it is pretty, neat, and light, 
 looks well on black ; and, upon reasoning the matter over, I came 
 to the philosophic conclusion, that it would be no shame for a person 
 of my means to wear a cheaper thing ; so I think I shall take it, 
 and if you 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 regret this, because papa says 
 he would have lent me a sovereign if he had known. I believe, if 
 you had been there, you would have forced me to get into debt. . . . 
 I really can no more come to B — ■ — before I go to London than I 
 can fly. I have quantities of sewing to do, as well as household 
 matters to arrange, before I leave, as they will clean, &c. in my 
 absence. Besides, I am grievously afflicted with the headache, which 
 I trust to change of air for relieving ; but meantime, as it proceeds 
 from the stomach, it makes me very thin and grey ; neither you nor 
 anybody else would fatten me up or put me into good condition for 
 
LETTER TO MR. DOBELL. 373 
 
 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- 
 by, in haste. 
 
 " Your poor mother is like Tabby, Martha, and papa ; all these 
 fancy I am somehow, by some mysterious process, to be married 
 in London, or to engage myself in matrimony. How I smile inter- 
 ■ nally ! 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 describing the 
 appearance of the heathery moors in late summer ; — 
 
 " To Sydney Dobell, Esq. 
 
 "May 24th, 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 Temptation, but the 
 stem Impossible holds me back. No ! I cannot go to Switzerland 
 this summer. 
 
 " Why did the editor of the Eclectic erase that most powerful and 
 pictorial passage ? He could not be insensible to its beauty : perhaps 
 he thought it profane. Poor man ! 
 
 " I know nothing of such an orchard-country as you describe. 
 I have never seen such a region. Our hills only confess the coming 
 of summer by growing green with young fern and moss, in secret 
 little hollows. Their bloom is reserved for autumn ; then they burn 
 with a kind of dark glow, differing, doubtless, from the blush of 
 garden blossoms. About the close of next month, I expect to go to 
 London, to pay a brief and quiet visit. I fear chance will not be so 
 propitious as to bring you to town while I am there ; otherwise, how 
 glad I should be if you would call. With kind regards to Mrs. 
 Dobell — Believe me, sincerely yours, 
 
 "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 Thackeray's second lecture, 
 
374 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 which was delivered on Thursday afternoon. This, as you may 
 suppose, was a genuine treat to me, and I was glad not to miss it, 
 It was given in WiUis's Rooms, where the Almack's 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 me 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 Udy; 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 are a sort of essays, characterized by 
 his own peculiar originalty and power, and deUveredwith a finished 
 taste and ease, which is felt, but cannot be described. Just before 
 the lecture began, somebody came behind me, leaned over and 
 said, ' Permit me, as a Yorkshireman, to introduce myself.' I turned 
 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. Monckto'n 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 liked the lecture better. On Saturday, 
 I saw the Exhibition at Somerset House ; about half-a-dozen of the 
 pictures are good and interesting, the rest of little worth. 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'Aubign^ 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 firom 
 well." 
 
 The lady who accompanied Miss Bronte to the lecture at Thacke- 
 
"CURRER BELL" AT WILLIS'S ROOMS. 375 
 
 ray's alluded to, says that, soon after they had taken their places, 
 she was aware that he was pointing out her companion to several of 
 his friends, but she hoped that Miss Bronte herself would not perceive 
 it. After some time, however, during which many heads had been 
 turned round, and many glasses put up, in order to look at the 
 author oijane Eyre, Miss Bronte said, " I am afraid Mr. Thackeray 
 has been playing me a trick;" but she soon became too much absorbed 
 in the lecture to notice the attention which was being paid to her, 
 except when it was directly offered, as in the case of Lord CarUsle 
 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 rne 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 dites-vous?' — 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 
 ndivetL 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 deficiency 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 avenue of eager and admiring faces. During 
 this passage through the "cream of society," Miss Bronte's hand 
 trembled to such a degree, that her companion feared lest she should 
 turn faint and be unable to proceed ; and she dared not express her 
 
376 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 account of this, her 
 longest visit to London, shall be told in her own words : — 
 
 " I sit down to write to you this morning in an inexpressibly flat 
 state ; having spent the whole of yesterday and the day before in a 
 gradually increasing headache, which grew at last rampant and violent, 
 ended with excessive sickness, and this morning I am quite weak 
 and washy. I hoped to leave my headaches behind me at Haworth ; 
 but it seems I brought them carefully packed in my trunk, and very 
 much have they been in my way since I came. . . . Since I wrote 
 last, I have seen various things worth describing ; Rachel, the great 
 French actress, amongst the number. But to-day I really have no 
 pith for the task. I can only wish you good-by 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 have been tempted 
 to murmur at Fate, which compels me to comparative silence and 
 solitude for eleven months in the year, and in the twelfth, while 
 offering social enjojnnent, takes away the vigour and cheerfiilness 
 which should turn it to account. But circumstances are ordered for 
 us, and we must submit." 
 
 " Your letter would have been answered yesterday, but I was al- 
 .ready gone out before post time, and was out all day. People are 
 very kind, and perhaps I shall be glad of what I have seen afterwards, 
 but it is often a little trying at the time. On Thursday, the Marquis 
 of Westminster asked me to a great party, to which I was to go with 
 
 Mrs. D , a beautiful, and, I think, a kind woman too; but this 
 
 I resolutely declined. On Friday I dined at the 's, and met 
 
 Mrs. D and Mr. Monckton Mihies. 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 aii incarnate home. She is not a 
 woman ; she is a snake ; she is the . On Sunday I went to the 
 
VISIT TO THE GREAT EXHIBITION. 377 
 
 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 intellectual treat. After breakfast, Sir David 
 Brewster came to take us to the Crystal Palace. I had rather dreaded 
 this, for Sir David is a man of profoundest science, and I feared it 
 would be impossible to understand his explanations of the mechanism, 
 &c. ; indeed, I hardly knew how to ask him questions. I was spared 
 all the trouble : without being questioned, he gave information in the 
 kindest and simplest manner. After two hours spent at the Exhi- 
 bition, and where, as you may suppose, I was very tired, we had to 
 go to Lord Westminster's and spend two hours more in looking at 
 the collection of pictures in his splendid gallery." 
 
 To another friend she writes : — 
 
 " may have told you that I have spent a month in London 
 
 this summer. When you come, you shall ask what questions you 
 like on that point, and I will answer to the best of my stammering 
 ability. Do not press me much on the subject of the ' Crystal Palace.' 
 I went there five times, and certainly saw some interesting things, and 
 the coup-d'ail is striking and bewildering 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 with her London 
 sight-seeing, that we did little but sit indoors, with open windows, 
 and talk. The only thing she made a point of exerting herself to 
 procure was a present for Tabby. It was to be a shawl, or, rather, a 
 
378 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 large handkerchief, such as she could pin across her neck and 
 shoulders, in the old-fashioned country manner. Miss Bronte took 
 great pains in seeking out one which she thought would please the old 
 woman. 
 
 On her arrival at home, she addressed the following letter to the 
 friend with whom she had been staying in London : — 
 
 " Haworth, July ist, 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 Man- 
 chester was a little hot and dusty, but otherwise pleasant enough. 
 The two stout gentlemen, who filled a portion of the carriage when I 
 got in, quitted it at Rugby, and two other ladies and myself had it to 
 ourselves the rest of the way. The visit to Mrs. GaskeU 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 the windows 
 open I can hear a bird or two singing on certain thorn-trees in the 
 garden. My father and the servants think me looking better than 
 when I left home, and I certainly feel better myself for the change. 
 You are too much like your son to render it advisable I should say 
 much about your kindness during my visit. However, one cannot 
 help (like Captain Cuttle) making a note of these matters. Papa 
 says I am to thank you in his name, and oflFer you his respects, which 
 I do accordingly. — ^With truest regards to all your circle, believe me 
 very sincerely yours, 
 
 " C. Bronte." 
 
 "July 8th, 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 obligations and individual duties, seem 
 to me also true and full of mental and moral vigour. .... The 
 International Copyright Meeting seems to have had but a barren 
 result, judging from the report in the Literary Gazette. I cannot see 
 that Sir E. Bulwer and the rest did anything ; nor can I well see what 
 it is in their power to do. The argument brought forward about the 
 damage accruing to American national literature from the present 
 piratical system, is a good and sound argument ; but I am afraid the 
 
A WORD OF COUNSEL. 379 
 
 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 competition in piracy, 
 would influence them more ; but I suppose, all established matters, 
 be they good or evil, are difiicult to change. About the ' Phreno- 
 logical Character' I must not say a word. Of your own accord, you 
 have found the safest point from which to view it : I will not say 
 ' look higher ! ' I think you see the matter as it is desirable we should 
 all see what relates to ourselves. If I had a right to whisper a word 
 of counsel, it should be merely this : whatever your present self may 
 be, resolve with all your strength of resolution, never to degenerate 
 thence. Be jealous of a shadow of falling off. Determine rather to 
 look above that standard, and to strive beyond it. Everybody appre- 
 ciates certain social properties, and likes his neighbour for possessing 
 them ; but perhaps few dwell upon a friend's capacity for the intel- 
 lectual, or care how this might expand if there were but facilities al- 
 lowed for cultivation, and space given for growth. It seems to me that, 
 even should such space and facilities be denied by stringent circum- 
 stances and a rigid fate, still it should do you good fully to know, and 
 tenaciously to remember, that you have such a capacity. When other 
 people overwhelm you with acquired knowledge, such as you have 
 not had opportunity, perhaps not application, to 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 bom with a 
 record of thought on the brain, or an instinct of sensation on the 
 heart. If I had never seen a printed volume. Nature would have 
 offered my perceptions a varying picture of a continuous narrative, 
 which, without' any other teacher than herself, would have schooled 
 me to knowledge, unsophisticated, but genuine. 
 
 " Before I received your last, I had made up my mind to tell you 
 that I should expect no letter for three months to come (intending 
 afterwards to extend this abstinence to six months, for I am jealous 
 of becomiug 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 arid then, 
 I cannot say ' never write,' without imposing on my real wishes a 
 falsehood which they reject, and doing to them a violence, to which 
 
38o LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 they entirely refuse |to submit. I can only observe that when it 
 pleases you to write, whether seriously or for a little amusement, your 
 notes, if they come to me, will come where they are welcome. Tell 
 
 I will try to cultivate good spirits, as assiduously as she cultivates 
 
 her geraniums." 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 381 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 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 dis- 
 played in it on the subject of friendship 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 2ist, 1851. 
 
 " .... I could not help wondering whether Comhill 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 contrary, because, 
 I think, I do not exaggerate my partialities ; I think I take faults 
 along with excellencies — ^blemishes together with beauties. And 
 besides, in the matter of friendship, I have observed that disappoint- 
 ment 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 
 sufficient scrupulousness of care from error in this direction, and can be 
 content, and even happy to give more affection 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 manage to get through life with consistency and con- 
 stancy, unembittered by that misanthropy which springs from revul- 
 sions of feeling. All this sounds a little metaphysical, but it is good 
 
382 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 sense if you consider it. The moral of it is, that if we would build on a 
 sure foundation in friendship, we must love our friends for thdr sakes 
 rather than for (7«r i;z£/«/ we must look at their 'truth to themselves, 
 fiiU 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 about your 
 parents must have been to you ; and how gratifying to find that the 
 reminiscence turned on none but pleasant facts and characteristics ! 
 Life must, indeed, be slow in that little deca)Tng hamlet amongst the 
 chalk hills. After all, depend upon it, it is better to be worn out with 
 work in a thronged community, than to perish of inaction in a stagnant 
 solitude : take this 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, aU 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. Gaskell, — I was too much pleased with yoiu letter, 
 when I got it at last, to feel disposed to mumiur now about the 
 delay. 
 
 " About a fortnight ago, I received a letter from Miss Martineau ; 
 also a long letter, and treating precisely the same subjects on which 
 yours dwelt, viz. the Exhibition and Thackeray's last lecture. It was 
 interesting mentally, to place the two documents side by 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 
 
LETTER TO THE AUTHOR. 383 
 
 lusciously sweet ; it pleases, without flattering the palate ; it sustains, 
 without forcing the strength. 
 
 "I very much agree with you in all. you say. 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 
 Meta's completely on this point. I have always thought it a fine site 
 (and sight also). The view from the summit of those steps has ever 
 struck me as grand and imposing — Nelson Column included : the 
 fountains I could dispense with. With respect, also, to the 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 impatient of that trite 
 twaddle about 'nothing-newness' — a jargon which simply proves, 
 in those who habitually use it, a coarse and feeble faculty of appre- 
 ciation ; an inability to discern the relative value of originality and 
 novelty; a lack of that refined perception which,- dispensing with the 
 stimulus of an ever-new subject, can derive sufficiency of pleasure 
 fi-om fireshness of treatment. To such critics, the prime of a summer 
 morning would bring no' delight; wholly occupied with railing at 
 their cook for not having provided a novel and piquant breakfast-dish, 
 they would remain insensible to such influences as lie in sunrise, dew, 
 and breeze : therein would be ' nothing new.' 
 
 " Is [it Mr. 's family experience which has influenced your 
 
 feeUngs about the Catholics ? I own, I cannot be sorry 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 Sainfs Tragedy. As a 'work of art,' it seems 
 to me far superior to either Alton Locke or Yeast. Faulty it may be, 
 crude and unequal, yet there are portions where some of the deep 
 chords of human nature are swept with a hand which is strong even 
 while it falters. We see throughout (I think) that Elizabeth has not, 
 and never 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 existence. This is good : this 
 
384 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 
 true 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 ramed 
 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 on, not 
 fully elicited ; truths that stir a peculiar pity — a compassion hot with 
 wrath, and bitter with pain. This is no poet's dream : we know that 
 such things have been done ; that minds have been thus subjected, 
 and lives thus laid waste. 
 
 "Remember me kindly and respectfully to Mr. Gaskell, and 
 though I have not seen Marianne, I must beg to include her in the 
 love I send the others. Could you manage to convey a small kiss to 
 that dear, but dangerous little person, JuUa? She surreptitiously 
 possessed herself of a minute fraction of my heart, which has been ■ 
 missing ever since I saw her. 
 
 " Believe me 
 
 " Sincerely and afiectionately 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 Juha to take and show 
 her the way to some room in the house, Miss Bronte shrank back : 
 " Do not bid her do anything for me," she said ; " it has been so 
 sweet hitherto to have her rendering her httle kindnesses spon- 
 taneously." 
 
 " 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 
 
WOMAN'S MISSION. 385 
 
 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-J)uzzled speculation." 
 
 The following is part of a long letter which I received from her, 
 dated September 20th, 185 1 : — 
 
 " Beautiful are those sentences out of James 
 
 Martineau's sermons ; some of them gems most pure and genuine j 
 ideas deeply conceived, finely expressed. I should like much to see 
 his review of his sister's book. Of all the articles respecting which 
 you question me, I have seen none, except that notable one in the 
 Westminster on the Emancipation of Women. But why are you and 
 I to think (perhaps I should rather say to feel) so exactly alike on 
 some points that there can be no discussion between us? Your 
 words on this paper express my thoughts. Well argued it is — clear, 
 logical — ^but vast is the hiatus of omission ; harsh the consequent 
 jar on every finer chord of the soul. What is this hiatus ? I think 
 I know ; and knowing, I will venture to say. I think the writer for- 
 gets there is such a thing as self-sacrificing love and disinterested de- 
 votion 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 succeed will succeed, or, at least, will have 
 a fair chance — the incapable will fall back into their right place. He 
 likewise disposes of the ' maternity ' question very neatly. .... 
 . . . . 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.' 
 
 ' Mr. J. S. Mill, in a letter upon this passage, says : " I am not the author of 
 the article. I may claim to be its Editor ; and I should be proud to be identified 
 with every thought, every sentiment, and every expression in it. The writer is a 
 woman, and the most warm-hearted woman, of the largest and most genial sym- 
 pathies, and the most forgetful of self in her generous zeal to do honour to others, 
 whom I have ever known." 
 
 C C 
 
386 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ". I send,, by this post Ruskin's Stones of Venice, and I hope you 
 and Meta wtll 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 mamma's nature 
 (modified) in her ; yet I think you will find she has as she grows up. 
 
 " Will it not be a great mistake, if Mr. Thackeray should deliver 
 his lectures at Manchester under such circumstances and conditions 
 as will exclude people like you and Mr. Gaskell from the number of 
 his audience. I thought his London plan too narrow. Charles 
 Dickens would not thus limit his sphere of action. 
 
 " You charge me to write about myself. What can I say on that 
 precious topic ? My health is pretty good. My spirits are not 
 always alike. Nothing happens to me. I hope and expect little in 
 this world, and am thankfiil that I do not despond and suffer 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 affectionately yours, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 Before the autumn was far advanced, the usual effects of her 
 solitary life, and of the unhealthy situation of Haworth Parsonage, 
 began to appear in the form of sick headaches, and miserable, 
 starting, wakeful nights. She does not dwell on this in her letters ; 
 but there is an absence of all cheerfulness of tone, and an occasional 
 sentence forced out of her, which imply far more than many words 
 could say. There was illness all through the Parsonage 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. 26th.' 
 « 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 
 
SOCIAL PROBLEMS. 387 
 
 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 lethargic sel- 
 fishness shaken up. If, on the other hand, we be contending with 
 the special grief — the intimate trial — the peculiar bitterness with 
 which God has seen fit to mingle our own cup of existence — it is 
 very good to know that our overcast lot is not singular ; it stills the 
 repining word and thought — it rouses the flagging strength, to have 
 it vividly set before us that there are countless afflictions in the 
 world, each perhaps rivalling — some surpassing — the private pain 
 over which we are too prone exclusively to sorrow. 
 
 " All those crowded emigrants had their troubles — their untoward 
 causes of banishment ; you, the looker-on, had ' your wishes and 
 regrets ' — ^your anxieties, alloying your home happiness and domestic 
 bUss ; and the parallel might be pursued further, and stiU it would be 
 true — still the same ; a thorn in the flesh for each ; some burden, 
 some conflict for all. 
 
 " How far this state of things is susceptible of amelioration from 
 changes in public institutions, — alterations in national habits, — ^may 
 and ought to be earnestly considered : but this is a problem not 
 easily solved. The evils, as you point them out, are great, real, and 
 most obvious ; the remedy is obscure and vague ; yet for such diffi- 
 culties 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 literature, — the rarest, the most precious claim 
 by which an author can be recommended. Are not your publishing 
 prospects for the coming season tolerably rich and satisfactory ? You 
 inquire after ' Currer Bell.' It seems to me that the absence of his 
 name from your list of announcements will leave no blank, and that 
 he may at least spare himself the disquietude of thinking he is wanted 
 when it is certainly not his lot to appear. 
 
 cc 2 
 
388 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " Perhaps Currer Bell has his secret moan about these matters ; 
 but if so, he will keep it to himself. It is an afifair 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, de- 
 clining 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 greatly better at 
 present than I did three weeks ago. For a month or six weeks 
 about the equinox (autumnal or vernal) is a period of the year which, 
 I have noticed, strangely tries me. Sometimes the strain falls on the 
 mental, sometimes on the physical part of me ; I am ill with neuralgic 
 headache, or I am ground to the dust with deep dejection of spirits 
 (not, however, such dejection but I can keep it to myself). That 
 weary time has, I think and trust, got over for this year. It was the 
 anniversary of my poor brother's death, and of my sister's 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 off, that cannot be. I have declined to go to Mrs. , 
 
 to Miss Martineau, and now I decline to go to you. But listen ! do 
 not think that I throw your kindness away ; or that it fails of doing 
 the good you desire. On the contrary, the feeling expressed in your 
 letter — ^proved by your 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.' Wliere do you find the foreigner who is 
 without some httle drawback of this description. It is a pity." 
 
 A visit from Miss W 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. 
 
HER VISIT TO LONDON. 389 
 
 But Miss W could not remain with her long ; and then again 
 
 the monotony of her life returned upon her in all its force ; the only 
 events of her days and weeks consisting in the small changes which 
 occasional letters brought. It must be remembered that her health was 
 often such as to prevent her stirring out of the house in inclement or 
 wintry weather. She was liable to sore throat, and depressing pain 
 at the chest, and difficulty of breathing, on the 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 sentence called out a wholesome sensation of 
 modest pleasure in Miss Bronte's mind ; and she says, " it did me 
 good." 
 
 I find, in a letter to a distant friend, written about this time, 
 a retrospect of her visit to London. It is too ample to be con- 
 sidered 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 traiisitory, but stood the tests of time and 
 afterthought. 
 
 " 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'Aubignd's, Melville's, and Maurice's 
 preaching, and the Crystal Palace. 
 
 "Mr. Thackeray's lectures you will have seen mentioned and 
 commented on in the papers ; they were very interesting. I could 
 not always coincide with the sentiments expressed, or the opinions 
 broached ; but I admired the gentlemanlike ease, the quiet humour, 
 the taste, the talent, the simplicity, and the originality of the lec- 
 turer. 
 
 " Rachel's acting transfixed me with wonder, enchained me with 
 interest, and thrilled me with horror. The tremendous force with 
 •v^hich she expresses the very worst passions in their strongest essence 
 forms an exhibition as exciting as the bull-fights of Spain and the 
 gladiatorial combats of old Rome, and (it seemed to me) not one 
 
39° LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 whit more moral than these poisoned stimulants to popular ferocity. 
 It is scarcely human nature that she shows you; it is something 
 wilder and worse ; the feelings and fury of a fiend. The great gift 
 of genius she undoubtedly has ; but, I fear, she rather abuses it than 
 'turns it to good account. 
 
 " With all the three preachers I was greatly pleased. Melville 
 seemed to me the most eloquent, Maurice the most in earnest ; had 
 I the choice, it is Maurice whose ministry I should frequent. 
 
 " On the Crystal Palace I need not comment. You must already 
 have heard too much of it. It struck me at the first with only a vague 
 sort of wonder and admiration ; but having one day the privilege of 
 going over it in company with an eminent countryman of yours, Sir 
 David Brewster, and hearing, in his fidendly Scotch accent, his lucid 
 explanation of many things that have 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 wUl. She tried to forget oppressive recol- 
 lections in writing. Her publishers were importunate for a new book 
 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, 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 has gone, and authors, you need not be told, are 
 always tenderly indulgent, even blindly partial, to their own. Even 
 if it should turn out reasonably well, still I regard it as ruin to the 
 prosperity of an ephemeral book like a novel to be much talked of 
 beforehand, as if it were something great. People are apt to conceive, 
 or at least to profess, exaggerated expectation, such as no perform- 
 
DEATH OF "KEEPER." 391 
 
 ance can realise ; then ensue disappointment and the due revenge, 
 detraction and failure. If when I write, I were to think of the critics 
 who, I know, are waiting for Currer Bell, ready ' to break all his 
 bones or ever he comes to the bottom of the den,' my hand would 
 fall paralysed on my desk. However, I can but do my best, and 
 then 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, sleeplessness, — all combined to pro- 
 duce miserable depression of spirits. A httle 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, falhng 
 into old age after her death. And now her surviving sister wrote : 
 " Poor old Keeper died last Monday morning, after being ill one 
 night ; he went gently to sleep ; we laid his old faithful head in the 
 garden. Flossy (the ' fat curly-haired 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 be put away, 
 which neither papa or I liked to think of." 
 
 When Miss Bronte wrote this, on December 8th, she was suffer- 
 ing from a bad cold, and pain in her side. Her illness increased, 
 and on December 17th, she — so patient, silent, and enduring of suf- 
 fering — so afraid of any unselfish taxing of others — had to call to her 
 friend E. 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 hopiflg to be better, but was at last obliged to have 
 recourse to a medical man. Sometimes I have felt very weak and 
 low, and long 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 
 
392 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 con- 
 tinuous depression of spirts 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 request." 
 
 Of course, her fiiend went ; and a certain amount of benefit was 
 derived firom her society, always so grateful to Miss Bronte. But the 
 evil was now too deep-rooted to be more than palUated for a time 
 by "the little cheerful society" for which she so touchingly besought 
 
 A relapse came on before long. She was very ill, and the 
 remedies employed took an vmusual effect on her peculiar sensitive- 
 ness of constitution. Mr. Bronte was miserably anxious about the 
 state of his only remaining child, for she was reduced to the last 
 degree of weakness, as she had been imable to swallow food for 
 above a week before. She rallied, and derived her sole sustenance 
 fi-om half a teacup of liquid, administered by teaspoonfuls, in the 
 course of the day. Yet she kept out of bed, for her father's sake, 
 and struggled in solitary patience through her worst hours. 
 
 ^^'hen she was recovering, her spirits needed support, and then 
 she yielded to her fiiend's entreaty that she would visit her. All the 
 time that Miss Bronte's iUness had lasted. Miss had been de- 
 sirous of coming to her; but she refused to avail herself of this kind- 
 ness, 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 appetite, 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. 
 
ILLNESS. 393 
 
 She benefited greatly by the kind attentions and cheerful society 
 of the family with -whoni she went • to stay. They did not care for 
 her in the least as " Currer Bell," but had known and loved her for 
 years as Charlotte Bronte. To them her invalid weakness was only 
 a fresh claim upon their tender regard for 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. 6th, 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 before I 
 could bring myself to have recourse to medical advice. I thought 
 my lungs were affected, and could feel no confidence in the power of 
 medicine. When, at last, however, a doctor was consulted, he de- 
 clared my lungs and chest sound, and ascribed all my sufferings to 
 derangement of the liver, on which organ it seems the inflammation 
 had fallen. This information was a great relief to my dear father, as 
 well as to myself; but I had subsequently rather sharp medical 
 discipline to undergo, and was much reduced. Though not yet well, 
 it is mth 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 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. 14th, 1852. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — It has been a great delight to me to read Mr. Thacke- 
 ray's work ; and I so seldom now express my sense of kindness that, 
 for onoe, you must permit me, without rebuke, to thank you for a 
 pleasure so rare and special. Yet I am not going to praise either 
 
394 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Mr. Thackeray or his book. I have read, enjoyed, been interested, 
 and, after all, feel full as much ire and sorrow as gratitude and 
 admiration. And still one can never lay down a book of his without 
 the last two feelings having their part, be the subject of 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 illus- 
 trations, the style, all seem to me so masterly in their exact keep- 
 ing, their harmonious consistency, their nice, natural truth, their pure 
 exemption from exaggeration. No second-rate 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 surgeon did not seem so fiercely pleased 
 with his work. Thackeray likes to dissect an ulcer or an aneurism ; 
 he has pleasure in putting his cruel knife or probe into quivering, 
 living flesh. Thackeray would not like all the world to be good ; 
 no 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 I noticed that, for my part, grieved 
 and exasperated me as I read ; but then, again, came passages so 
 true, so deeply thought, so tenderly felt, one could not help forgiving 
 
 and admiring. 
 
 ****** 
 
 But I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on the 
 political or religious intrigues of the times. Thackeray, in his heart, 
 does not value political or religious intrigues of any age or date. 
 He likes to show us human nature at home, as he himself daily 
 sees it ; his wonderful observant faculty likes to be in action. In 
 him this faculty is a sort of captain and leader ; and if ever any 
 passage in his writings lacks interest, it is when this 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 
 dose. ' Everything now depends on the second and third vglumes. 
 If in pith and interest, they fall short of the first, a true success cannot 
 
DEPRESSED SPIRITS. 395 
 
 ensue. If the continuation be an improvement upon the commence- 
 ment, if the steam 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, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 Miss Bronte's health continued such, that she could not apply 
 lierself to writing as she wished, for many weeks after the serious 
 ittack from which she had suffered. There was not very much to 
 cheer her in the few events that touched her interests during this 
 time. She heard in March of the death of a friend's relation in the 
 Colonies ; and we see something of what was the corroding dread at 
 ler heart : — 
 
 " The news of E 's death came to me last week in a letter 
 
 "rom M ; a long letter, which wrung my heart so, in its simple, 
 
 strong, truthful emotion, I have only ventured to read it once. It 
 ipped up half-scarred wounds with terrible force. The death-bed 
 vas just the same, — breath failing, &c. She fears she shall now, in 
 ler dreary solitude, become a ' stern, harsh, selfish woman.' This 
 ear struck home ; again and again have I felt it for myself, and 
 
 vhat is my position to M 's ? May God help her, as God only 
 
 ;an help ! " 
 
 Again and again, her friend urged her to leave home ; nor were 
 rarious invitations wanting to enable her to do this, when these con- 
 ititutional accesses of low spirits preyed too much upon her in her 
 lolitude. But she ,would not allow herself any such indulgence, 
 mless it became absolutely necessary from the state of her health, 
 jhe dreaded the perpetual recourse to such stimulants as change of 
 icene and society, because of the reaction that was sure to follow. 
 Vs far as she could see, her life was ordained to be lonely, and she 
 nust subdue her nature to her life, and, if possible, bring the two 
 
^96 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 into harmony. When she could employ herself in fiction, all was 
 comparatively well. The characters were her companions in the 
 quiet hours, which she spent utterly alone, unable often to stir out of 
 doors for many days together. The interests of the persons in her 
 novels supplied the lack of interest in her Hfe ; and Memory and 
 Imagination found their appropriate work, and ceased to prey upon 
 her vitals. But too frequently she could not write, could not see 
 her people, nor hear them speak ; a great mist of headache had 
 blotted them out ; they were 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 firiends 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 trusting strength, with poor 
 
 . 's vacillating dependence. When the latter was in her first burst 
 
 of happiness, I never remember the feeling finding vent in 
 expressions of gratitude to God. There was always a continued 
 claim upon your sympathy in the mistrust and doubt she felt of her 
 
 own bliss. M believes ; her faith is gratefiil and at peace : yet 
 
 while happy in herself, how thoughtfiil she is for others ! " 
 
 "Marcli 23rd, 1852. 
 
 " You say, dear E , that you often wish I would chat on 
 
 paper, as you do. How can I ? ^Miere are my materials ? Is my 
 
 life fatile in subjects of chat? What callers da I see ? What visits 
 
 do I pay? Xo, you must chat; and I must listen, and say 'Yes,' 
 
 and ' No,' and ' Thank you ! ' for five minutes' recreation. 
 
 * » " « * * * 
 
 '• I am amused at the interest you take in politics. Don't ex- 
 pect to rouse me ; to me, all Ministries and all Oppositions seem 
 K-> be pretty much alike. Disraeli T\'as factious as leader of the 
 Opposition ; Lord John Russell is going to be factious, now that he 
 has stepped into Disraeli's shoes. Lord Derby's ' Christian love and 
 spirit,' is worth fliree-halfpence farthing." 
 
LITERARY CRITICISM. 397 
 
 " To W. S. Williams, Esq. 
 
 " March 25th, 1852. 
 ■My DEAR Sir, — 
 
 "Mr. Smith intimated a short time since, that he had some 
 [loughts of publishing a reprint of Shirley. Having revised the work, 
 now enclose the errata. I have likewise sent off to-day, per rail, a 
 etum-box of Comhill books. 
 
 " I have lately read, with great pleasure. The Two Families. This 
 rork, it seems, should have reached me in January ; but owing to a 
 aistake, it was detained at the Dead Letter Office, and lay there 
 learly two months. I liked the commencement very much ; the 
 lose seemed to me scarcely equal to Rose Douglas. I thought the 
 uthoress committed a mistake in shifting the main interest from the 
 (vo personages on whom it first rests — viz., Ben Wilson and Mary — 
 other characters of quite inferior conception. Had she made Ben 
 nd Mary her hero and heroine, and continued the development of 
 heir fortunes and characters in the same truthful natural vein in 
 ^hich she commences it, an excellent, even an original book might 
 lave been the result. As for Lilias and Ronald, they are mere 
 omantic figments, with nothing of the genuine Scottish peasant about 
 hem ; they do not even speak the Caledonian dialect ; they palaver 
 ike a fine lady and gentleman. 
 
 " I ought long since to have acknowledged the gratification with 
 rhich I read Miss Kavanagh's Women of Christianity. Her charity 
 nd (on the whole) her impartiality are very beautiful. She touches, 
 adeed, with too gentle a hand the theme of Elizabeth of Hungary ; 
 nd, in her own mind, she evidently misconstrues the fact of 
 'rotestant chaiities seeming to be fewer than Catholic. She forgets, . 
 ir does not know, that Protestantism is a quieter creed than 
 lomanism ; as it does not clothe its priesthood in scarlet, so neither 
 iocs it set up its goctd women for saints, canonise their names, and 
 iroclaim their good works. In the records of man, their almsgiving 
 nil not perhaps be found registered, but Heaven has its account as 
 ?ell as earth. 
 
 " With kind regards to yourself and family, who, I trust, have all 
 afely weathered the rough winter lately past, as well as the east 
 
398 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 winds, which are still nipping our spring in Yorkshire, — I am, my 
 dear Sir, yours sincerely, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 "April 3rd, 1853. 
 "My dear Sir, — The box arrived quite safely, and I very 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 subject, character, and epoch give the tale 
 a certain attractiveness. There is also, I think, a graphic rendering 
 of situations, and a lively talent for describing whatever is visible and 
 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 dramatic accessories to give them their full 
 effect But I think one cannot with justice bestow higher praise than 
 this. To speak candidly, I felt, in reading the tale, a wondrous 
 hoUowness in the moral and sentiment ; a strange dilettante shallow- 
 ness 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 Enghsh fox-hunter 
 and the frivolous existence of the fine gentleman present extremes, 
 each in its way so repugnant, that one feels half-incliaed to smile 
 when called upon to sentimentalise over the lot of a youth forced to 
 pass from one to the other ; torn from the stables, to be ushered 
 perhaps into the 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 Penniddock's 
 weapon, he might possibly have broken his neck in a fox-hunt. The 
 character of Sir Thomas Warren is excellent ; consistent throughout. 
 That of Mr. Addison not bad, but sketchy, a mere outlme— wanting 
 colour and finish. The man's portrait is there, and his costume, and 
 fragmentary anecdotes of his life ; but 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, 
 
A. DREARY WINTER. 399 
 
 rettily dressed, gracefully appearing and disappearing, and reappear- 
 ig in a genteel comedy, assuming the proper sentiments of her part 
 ith all due tact and ndivetk, and — that is all. ■ , 
 
 - "Your description of the model man of business is true enough, 
 doubt not ; but we will not fear that society will ever be brought 
 uite to this standard ; human nature <- (bad as it is) has, after all, 
 lements that forbid it. , But the very tendency to such a con- 
 iimmation— the; marked tendency, I fear, of the day — ^produces, no 
 oubt, cruel suffering. Yet, when the evil of competition passes a 
 ertain limit, must it not in time work, its own cure ? I suppose it 
 all, but then through some convulsed crisis, shattering all around it 
 ike an earthquake. Meantime, for how many is life made a struggle, 
 njoyment and rest curtailed; labour terribly enhanced beyond 
 Imost what nature can bear ! I often think that this world would 
 )e the most terrible of enigmas, were it not for the firm belief that 
 here is a world to come, where conscientious effort and patient pain 
 idU meet their reward. — Believe me, my dear Sir, sincerely yours, 
 
 "C. Brontk." 
 
 A letter to her old Brussels schoolfellow gives a short retrospect 
 )f the dreary winter she had passed through : — 
 
 "Haworth, April 12th, 1852. 
 
 " . . . . I struggled through the winter, and the early part 01 
 he spring, often with great difficulty. My friend stayed with me a 
 ew days in the early part of January ; she could not be spared 
 onger. I was better during her visit, but had a relapse soon after 
 she left me, which reduced my strength very much. It cannot be 
 ienied that the solitude of my position fearfully aggravated its other 
 ivils. 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 
 Diily company. It was a time I shall never forget ; but God sent it, 
 md 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 
 
400 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 ailing with his spring attack of bronchitis. I earnestly trust it may 
 pass over in the comparatively 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 step, 
 and a day seldom passes that he does not express gratitude and 
 pleasure at the restoration of that inestimable privilege of vision whose 
 loss he once knew." 
 
 I had given Miss Bronte, in one of my letters, an outline of the 
 story on which I was then engaged, and in reply she says : — 
 
 " The sketch you give of your work (respecting which I am, of 
 course, dumb,) seems to me very noble ; and its purpose may be as 
 useful in practical result as it is high and just in theoretical 
 tendency. Such a book may restore hope and energy to many who 
 thought they had forfeited their right to both ; and open a clear 
 course for honourable effort to some who deemed that they and all 
 honour had parted company in this world. 
 
 " 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 stem priestess in these matters." 
 
 As the milder weather came on, her health improved, and her 
 power of writing increased. She set herself with redoubled vigoiu: to 
 the work before her ; and denied herself pleasure for the purpose of 
 steady labour. Hence she writes to her friend : — 
 
LETTER TO " E." 401 
 
 "May nth. 
 
 Dear E , I must adhere to my resolution of neither visiting 
 
 or being visited at present. Stay you quietly at B., till you go to S., 
 s I shall stay at Haworth ; as sincere a farewell can be taken with 
 le heart as with the lips, and perhaps less painful. I am glad the 
 'eatheris changed ; the return of the south-west wind suits me ; but 
 
 hope you have no cause to regret the departure of your favourite 
 ast wind. ... I read in a French book lately, a sentence to this 
 ffect, that ' marriage might be defined as the state of twofold selfish- 
 ess.' Let the single therefore take comfort. Thank you for Mary's 
 itter. She does seem most happy ; and I cannot tell you how much 
 lore real, lasting, and better-warranted her happiness seems than 
 
 ver 's did. I think so much of it is in herself, and her own 
 
 erene, pure, trusting, religious nature. 's always gives me the 
 
 lea of a vacillating, unsteady rapture, entirely dependent on circum- 
 tances with all their fluctuations. If Mary lives to be a mother, you 
 rill then see a greater difference. 
 
 " I wish you, dear E., all health and enjoyment in your visit ; and, 
 s far as one can judge at present, there seems a fair prospect of the ■ 
 fish being realised. 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 D D 
 
402 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The reader will remember that Anne Bronte had been interred in the 
 dmrchyard of the Old Chm-ch at Scarborough. Charlotte had left 
 directions for a tombstone to be placed over her ; but many a time 
 dtding the solitude of the past winter, her sad, anxious thoughts had 
 revisited the scene of that last great sorrow, and she had wondered 
 whether all decent services had been rendered to the memory of the 
 dead, until at last she -came to a silent resolution to go and see for 
 herself whether the stone and inscription were in a satisfactory state 
 of preservation. 
 
 "Cliffe House, FUey, June 6th, 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 die churchyard and stone. It 
 must be refeced and rdettered ; there are five errors. I gave the 
 necessai)- directions. That duty, then, is done ; long has it lain 
 hea\y on my mind ; and that was a pilgrimage I felt I could only 
 
 make alone 
 
 « I am in our old lodgings at Mrs. Smith's ; not, however, in the 
 same rooms, but in less expensive apartments. They seemed glad 
 to see me, remembered you and me very well, and, seemingly, with 
 surest good-wilL The daughter who used to wait on us is just 
 married. Filey" seems to me 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 7wt to feel 
 des(*ite and melancholy. How sorely my heart longs for you, I 
 
SCARBOROUGH REVISITED. 403 
 
 ;ed not say. I have bathed once ; it seemed to do me good. I 
 ay, perhaps, stay here a fortnight. There are as yet scarcely any 
 sitors. A Lady Wenlock is staying at the large house of which you 
 ed so vigilantly to observe the inmates. One day I set out with 
 tent to trudge to Filey Bridge, but was frightened back by two 
 iws. I mean to try again some morning. I left Papa well. I have 
 ;en a good deal troubled with headache, and with some pain in the 
 ie since I came here, but I feel that this has been owing to the 
 )ld wind, for very cold has it been till lately ; at present I fee 
 ;tter. Shall I send the papers to you as usual? Write again 
 rectly, and tell me this, and anything and everything else that 
 )mes into your mind. 
 
 " Believe me yours faithfully, 
 
 " C. Bronte." 
 
 " Filey, June i6th, 1852. 
 
 Dear. E , — Be quite easy about me. I really think I am 
 
 ;tter for my stay at Filey ; that I have derived more benefit from it 
 an I dared to anticipate. I believe, could I stay here two months, 
 id enjoy something like social cheerfulness as well as exercise and 
 )od air, my health would be quite renewed. This, however, cannot 
 )ssibly be : but I am''most thankful for the good received. I stay 
 ;re another week. 
 
 " I return 's letter. I am sorry for her : I believe she suffers ; 
 
 at I do not much like her style of expressing herself. . . . Grief 
 ; well as joy manifests itself in most different ways in different 
 5ople ; and I doubt not she is sincere and in earnest when she 
 Iks of her ' precious, sainted father ; ' but I " could wish she used 
 mpler language." 
 
 Soon after her return from Filey, she was alarmed by a very 
 rious and sharp attack of illness with which Mr. Bronte was seized, 
 bere was some fear, fpr a few days, that his sight was permanently 
 St, and his spirits sank painfully under this dread. 
 
 " This prostration of spirits," writes his daughter, " which a'ccom- 
 mies anything like a relapse, is almost the most difficult point to 
 
 anage. Dear E , you are tenderly kind in offering your 
 
 iciety ; but rest very tranquil where you are ; be fully assured that 
 
404 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 it is not now, nor under present circumstances, that I feel the lack 
 either of sodety or occupation ; my time is pretty well filled up, and 
 my dioag^ts appropriated. .... I cannot permit myself to 
 comment much on the chief contents of your last ; advice is • not 
 necessary : as fer as I can judge, you seem hitherto enabled to take 
 these trials in a good and wise spirit I can only pray that such 
 combined strength and resignation may be continued to you. Sub- 
 mission, comrage, exertion, when practicable — ^these seem to be the 
 ve£q[>ons with which we must fight life's long battle." 
 
 I suppoee that, duiing the very time when her thoughts were thus 
 tllj occnpied with anxie^ for her father, she received some letter 
 n-GCi ler publishers, maVing inquiry as to the progress of the work 
 wf-"rh di^ knew she had in hand, as I find the following letter to 
 Mr. w -"-?T^-- li paring reference to some of Messrs. Smith, Elder & 
 Col 5 cnpcsoi anangements : — 
 
 "■To W. S. JVilliams, Esq. 
 
 "July 28th, 1852. 
 
 ''Mt dear Sis. — Is it in contemplation to publish the new edition of 
 SMHn soon? WooM it not be better to defer it for a time? In 
 r±:"fraice to a part of rom- letter, permit me to express this wish, — 
 and I trzsr, in doing so, I shall not be regarded as stepping out of my 
 -Ciifon as an andior, and encroaching on the arrangements of 
 t^ggness, — mt-t tiiat no announcement of a new work by the author 
 of ^itte Eyre diall be made till the MS. of such work is actually in 
 nivpaWKher's hands. Periiaps we are none of us justified in speak- 
 ing verr decidedly where the fiiture is concerned ; but for some too 
 mach cantion in such calculations can scarcely be observed : amongst 
 this number I must dass 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 
 .rood physically; but as yet I have recovered neither elasticity of 
 ^imal spirits, nor flow of the power of composition. And if it were 
 
DEATH OF THE ''GREAT DUKE." 405 
 
 )therwise, the difference would be of no avail; my time and thoughts 
 ire at present- taken up with close attendance on my father, whose 
 lealth is just now in a very critical state, the heat of the weather 
 laving produced determination of blood to the head. 
 
 " I am yours sincerely, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
 Before the end of August, Mr. Bronte's convalescence became 
 luite established, and he was anxious to resume his duties for some 
 ime before his careful daughter would permit him. 
 
 On September the 14th, the " Great Duke " died. He had been, 
 is we have seen, her hero from childhood; but I find no further 
 eference to him at this time than what is given in the following 
 ;xtract from a letter to her friend : — 
 
 " I do hope and believe the changes you have been having this 
 iummer will do you permanent good, notwithstanding the pain with 
 vhich they have been too often mingled. Yet I feel glad that you 
 ire soon coming home ; and I really must not trust myself to say 
 low much I wish the time were come when, without let or hindrance, 
 : could once more welcome you to Haworth. But oh! I don't get 
 )n ; I feel fretted^ — incapable — sometimes very low. However, at 
 )resent, the subject must not be dwelt upon : it presses me too hardly, 
 learly, and painfully. Less than ever can I taste or know pleasure 
 in this work is wound up. And yet I often sit up in bed at night, 
 hinking of and wishing for you. Thank you for the Times; what it 
 laid on the mighty and mournful subject was weUszid. All at once 
 he whole nation seems to take a just view of that great character. 
 There was a review too of an American book, which I was glad to see. 
 iead [/nde Tom's Cabiri: probably, though, you have read it. 
 
 " Papa's health continues satisfactory, thank God ! As for me,, 
 ny wretched liver has been disordered again of late, but I hope 
 t is now going to be on better behaviour; it hinders me in working 
 —depresses both power and tone of feeling. I must expect this 
 ierangement from time to time." 
 
 Haworth was in an unhealthy state, as usual ; and both Miss 
 3ronte and Tabby suffered severely from the prevailing epidemics. 
 I'he former was long in shaking off the effects of this illness. In 
 
4o6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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, recollec- 
 tions of the past, and anticipations of the future. At last Mr. Bronte 
 expressed so strong a wish that her friend should be asked to visit 
 her, and she felt some little refreshment so absolutely necessary, that 
 on October the 9th she begged her to come to Haworth, 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 W on October 
 
 the 2ist ; — 
 
 " E has only been my companion one Httle week. I would 
 
 not have her any longer, for I am disgusted with myself and my 
 delays ; and consider it was a weak yielding to temptation in me to 
 send for her at all ; but, in truth, my spirits were getting 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 pleasure." 
 
 Miss ■ 's visit had done her much good. Pleasant com- 
 panionship during the day produced, for the time, the unusual blessing 
 of calm repose at night ; and, after her friend's departure, she was 
 well enough to " fall to business," and write away, almost incessantly, 
 at her story of Villette, now drawing to a conclusion. The following 
 letter to Mr. Smith seems to have accompanied the first part oi 
 the MS. :— 
 
 " Oct. 30th, 1852. 
 
 "My DEAR Sir, — You must notify honestly what you think ol 
 Villette when you have read it. I can hardly tell you how I hunger 
 
HER REMARKS ON "ESMOND." 407 
 
 to hear some opinion beside 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. jTane Eyre was not 
 written under such circumstances, nor were two-thirds of Shirley. 
 I got so miserable about it, I could bear no allusion to the book. It 
 is not finished yet ; but now I hope. As to the anonymous publi- 
 catiofl, 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'iorders, &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 incognito. I seem to dread the adver- 
 tisements — the large-lettered 'Currer Bell's New Novel,' or 'New 
 Work by the Author of J^ane Eyre.' These, however, I feel well 
 enough, are the transcendentalisms of a retired wretch ; so you must 
 speak frankly. ... I shall be glad to see Colonel Esmond. My 
 objection to the second volume lay here : I thought it contained 
 decidedly too much 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 sparkle^ 
 impetus, and interest. Of the first and second my judgment was, 
 that parts of them were admirable ; but there was the fault of con- 
 taining 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 Villeite 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; 
 
4o8 UFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 and voluntarily and sincerely vail my face before such a mighty sub- 
 ject 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 
 Villttte, and tell Mr. Williams to be unsparing : not that I am likely 
 to alter anything, but I want to know his impressions and yours." 
 
 " To G. Smith, Esq. 
 
 " Nov. 3rd. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — I feel very grateful for your letter ; it relieved me 
 much, for I was a good deal harassed by doubts as to how Villetfe 
 might appear in other eyes than my own. I feel in some degree 
 authorised to rely on your favourable impressions, because you are 
 quite right where you hint disapprobation. You have exactly hit two 
 points at least where I was conscious of defect ; — the discrepancy, 
 the want of perfect harmony, between Graham's boyhood and 
 manhood — the angular abruptness of his change of sentiment towards 
 Miss Fanshawe. You must remember, though, that in secret he had 
 for some time appreciated that young lady at a somewhat depressed 
 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 cannot be sus- 
 tained ; 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 development 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 
 
LETTERS ABOUT " VILLETTE." 409 
 
 much to forgive, much to 'put up with.' But I am not leniently 
 disposed towards Miss Jfrosf: from the beginning, I never meant to 
 appoint her lines in pleasant places. The conclusion of this third 
 volume is still a matter of some anxiety: I can but do my best, 
 however. It would speedily be finished, could I ward off certain 
 obnoxious headaches, which, whenever I get into the spirit of my 
 work, are apt to seize and prostrate me. . . . 
 
 " Colonel -Henry Esmond is just arrived. He looks very antique 
 and distinguished in his Queen Anne's garb ; the periwig, sword, lace, 
 and ruffles are very well represented by the old ' Spectator ' type." 
 
 In reference to a sentence towards the close of this letter, I may 
 mention what she told me ; that Mr. Bronte was anxious that her new 
 tale should end well, as he disliked novels which left a melancholy 
 impression upon the mind ; and he requested her to make her hero and 
 heroine (like the heroes and heroines in 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. 
 
 "To 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 Villetie. With many of your 
 strictures I concur. The third volume may, perhaps, do away with 
 some of the objections ; others still remain in force. I do not think 
 the interest culminates anywhere to the degree you would wish. 
 What climax there is does not come on till near the conclusion ; and 
 even then, I doubt whether the regular novel-reader will consider the 
 ' agony piled suflSciently high ' (as the Americans say), or the colours 
 dashed on to the canvas with the proper amount of daring. Still, I 
 fear, they must be satisfied with what is offered : my palette affords 
 no brighter tints ; were I to attempt to deepen the reds, or burnish 
 the yellows, I should but botch. 
 
410 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 " Unless I am mistaken, the emotion of the book will be found 
 to be kept throughout in tolerable subjection. As to the name of the 
 heroine, I can hardly express what subtlety of thought made me 
 decide upon giving her a cold name ; but, at first, I called her ' Lucy 
 Snowe' (spelt with an 'e'); which Snowe I afterwards changed to 
 ' Frost.' Subsequently, I rather regretted the change, and wished it 
 ' Snowe ' again. If not too late, I should like the alteration to be 
 made now throughout the MS. A coldnaxae she must- have ; partly, 
 perhaps, on the 'luais 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 consider that she is both 
 morbid and weak at times; her character sets up no pretensions 
 to unmixed strength, and anybody living her life would necessarily 
 become morbid. It was no impetus of healthy feeling which urged 
 her to the confessional, for instance; it was the semi-delLrium 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. Bronte. 
 
 " I trust the work will be seen in MS. by no one except Mr. Smith 
 and yourself." 
 
 "Nov. loth, 1852. 
 " My dear Sir, — I only wished the pubHcation of Shirley to be 
 delayed till Villettey/ss, nearly ready ; so that there can now be no objec- 
 tion to its being issued whenever you think fit. About putting the MS 
 into type, I can dnly 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 read] 
 in about three weeks. I leave it to you to decide whether it would b( 
 better to delay the printing that space of time, or to commence it ini 
 
THE THIRD VOLUME OF "ESMOND." 411 
 
 mediately. It would certainly be more satisfactory if you were to see the 
 third volume before printing the first and the second ; yet, if delay is 
 likely to prove injurious, I do not think it is indispensable. I have 
 read the third volume of Esmond. I found it both entertaining and 
 exciting to me ; it seems to possess an impetus and excitement beyond 
 the other two, — that movement and brilliancy its predecessors some- 
 times wanted, never fail here. In certain passages, I thought Thack- 
 eray used all his powers ; their grand, serious force yielded a profound 
 satisfaction. ' At last he puts forth his strength,' I could not help 
 saying to myself. No character in the book strikes me as more masterly 
 than that of Beatrix ; its conception is fresh, and its delineation vivid. 
 It is peculiar ; it has impressions of a new kind — new, at least, to me. 
 Beatrix is not, in herself, all bad. So much does she sometimes 
 reveal of what is good and great as to suggest this 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 become its greatest disgrace. At times, 
 what is good in her struggles against this terrible destiny, but the Fate 
 conquers. Beatrix cannot be an honest woman and a good man's 
 wife. She ' tries and she cannot.' Proud, beautiful, and sullied, she 
 was born what she becomes, a king's mistress. I know not whether 
 you have seen the notice in ihe. Leader; I read it just after concluding 
 the book. Can I be wrong in deeming it a notice tame, cold, and 
 insufficient? With all its professed friendliness, it produced on me a 
 most disheartening impression. Surely, another sort of justice than 
 this will be rendered to Esmond from other quarters. One acute 
 remark of the critic is to the effect that Blanche Amoiy and Beatrix 
 are identical — sketched from the same original ! To me they are 
 about as identical as a weasel 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, 
 
 " C. Bronte." 
 
 On a Saturday, a httle later in this month, Miss Bronte completed 
 Villetie, and sent it off to her pubhshers. " 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." 
 
412 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 As her labour was ended, she felt at liberty to allow herself a little 
 change. There were several friends anxious to see her and welcome 
 her to their homes : Miss Martineau, Mrs. Smith, and her own faithfiil 
 
 E . With the last, in the same letter as that in which she announced 
 
 the completion of Villette, she offered to spend a week. She began, 
 also, to consider whether it might not be well to avail herself of Mrs. 
 Smith's kind invitation, with a view to the convenience of being on 
 the spot to correct the proofs. 
 
 The following letter is given, not merely on account of her own 
 criticisms on Villette, but because it shows how she had learned to 
 magnify the meaning of trifles, as all do who live a 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 stajdng 
 says, that she immediately fancied there was some disappointment 
 about Villette, or that some word or act of hers had given offence ; 
 and had not the Sunday intervened, and so allowed time for Mr. 
 Smith's letter to make its appearance, she would certainly have crossed 
 it on her way to London. 
 
 "Dec. 6th, 1852. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — The receipts have reached me safely. I received 
 the first on Saturday, inclosed in a cover without a line, and had made 
 up my mind to take the train on Monday, and go up to London to 
 see what was the matter, and what had struck my publisher mute. 
 On Sunday morning your letter came, and you have thus been spared 
 the visitation of the unannounced and unsummoned apparition of 
 Currer Bell in Cornhill. Inexplicable delays should be avoided when 
 possible, for they are apt to urge those subjected to their harassment 
 to sudden and impulsive steps. 
 
 " I must pronounce you right again, in your complaint of the 
 transfer of interest in the third volume, from one set of characters to 
 another. It is not pleasant, and it will probably be found as unwel- 
 come to the reader as it was, in a sense, compulsory upon the writer. 
 The spirit of romance would have indicated another course, far more 
 flowery and inviting; it would have fashioned a paramount herg, kept 
 faithfully with him, and made him supremely worshipful ; he should 
 have been an idol, and not a mute, unresponding idol either ; but this 
 
« VILETTE." 413 
 
 would have been unlike real life — inconsistent with truth — at variance 
 with probability. I greatly apprehend, however, that the weakest 
 character in the book is the one I aimed at making the most beautiful ; 
 and, if this be the case, the fault lies in its wanting the germ of the 
 real — in its being purely imaginary. I felt that this character lacked 
 substance j I fear that the reader will feel the same. Union with it 
 resembles too much the fate of Ixion, who was mated with a cloud. 
 The childhood of Paulina, is, however, I think, pretty well imagined, 
 but her . . ." (the remainder of this interesting sentence is torn 
 off the letter). " A brief visit to London becomes thus more practic- 
 able, and if your mother will kindly write, when she has time, and 
 name a day after Christmas which will suit her, I shall have pleasure, 
 Papa's health permitting, in availing myself of her invitation. I wish 
 I could come in time to correct some at least of the proofs ; it would 
 save trouble." 
 
414 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The difficulty that presented itself most strongly to me, when I first 
 had the honour of being requested to write this biography, was how 
 I could show what a noble, true, and tender woman Charlotte Bronte 
 really was, without mingling up with her life too much of the personal 
 history of her nearest and most intimate friends. After much con- 
 sideration of this point, I came to the resolution of writing truly, if I 
 wrote at all ■; of withholding nothing, though some things, from their 
 very nature, could not be spoken of so fully as others. 
 
 One of the deepest interests of her life centres naturally rotmd 
 her marriage, and the preceding circumstances ; but more than all 
 other events (because of more recent date, and concerning another as 
 intimately as herself), it requires delicate handling on my part, lest I 
 intrude too roughly on what is most sacred to memory. Yet I have 
 two reasons, which seem to me good and valid ones, for giving some 
 particulars of the course of events which led to her few months of 
 wedded life — that short spell of exceeding happiness. The first is 
 my desire to call attention to the fact that Mr. NichoUs was one who 
 had seen her almost daily for years ; seen her as a daughter, a sister, 
 a mistress, and a friend. He was not a man to be attracted by any 
 kind of literary fame. I imagine that this, by itself, would rather 
 repel him when he saw it in the possession of a woman. He was a 
 grave, reserved, conscientious man, with a deep sense of religion, and 
 of his duties as one of its ministers. 
 
 In silence he had watched her, and loved her long. The love of 
 such a 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 begun to suspect — 
 
A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 415 
 
 that she was the object of any peculiar regard on his part, when, in 
 this very December, he came one evening to tea. After tea, she 
 returned from the study to her own sitting-room, as was her cus- 
 tom, leaving her father and his curate together. Presently she 
 lieard the study-door open, and expected to hear the succeeding 
 dash of the front door. Instead, came a tap ; and " like light- 
 ning 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 overcome, gave me a strange shock. I 
 could only entreat him to leave me then, and promise a reply on the 
 morrow. I asked if he had spoken to Papa. He said he dared not. 
 I think I half led, half put him 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 say thus much, and quote 
 thus fully from her letter about it. And now I pass to my second 
 reason for dwelling on a subject which may possibly be considered by 
 some, at first sight, of too private a nature for publication. When Mr. 
 NichoUs had left her, Charlotte went immediately to her father and 
 told him all. He always disapproved of marriages, and constantly 
 talked against them. But he more than disapproved at this time ; he 
 could not bear the idea of thi§ attachment of Mr. NichoUs 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. NichoUs should have a distinct refusal. Thus quietly 
 and modestly did she, on whom such hard judgments had been passed 
 by ignorant reviewers, receive this vehement, passionate declaration 
 of love — thus thoughtfully for her father, and unselfishly for herself, 
 put aside all consideration of how she should reply, excepting as he 
 wished ! * 
 
 The immediate result of Mr. NichoUs' declaration of attachment 
 wa^, tha the sent in his resignation of the curacy of Haworth ; and 
 that Miss Bronte held herself simply passive, as far as words and 
 actions went, while she suffered acute pain from the strong expressions 
 which her father used in speaking of Mr. NichoUs, and from the too 
 
41 6 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 evident distress and failure of health on the part of the latter. 
 Under these circumstances she, more gladly than ever, availed her- 
 self 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. 
 
 From thence I received the following letter. It is with a sad, proud 
 pleasure I copy her words of friendship now : 
 
 " London, Jan. 12th, 1853. 
 
 " It is with you the ball rests. I have not heard from you since I 
 wrote last ; but I thought I knew the reason of your silence, viz., 
 application to work — and therefore I accept it, not merely with resig- 
 nation, but with satisfaction. 
 
 " I am now in London, as the date above will show; staying very 
 quietly at my publisher's, and correcting proofs, &c. Before receiv- 
 ing yours, I had felt, and expressed to Mr. Smith, reluctance to come 
 in the way of RiUh; not that I think she would suffer from contact 
 with Vilktte — we know not but that the damage might be the odier 
 way ; but I have ever held comparisons to be odious, and would fain 
 that neither I nor my friends should be made subjects for the same. 
 Mr. Smith proposes, accordingly, to defer the publication of my book 
 till the 24th inst. ; he says that will give Ruth the start in the papers 
 daily and weekly, and also will leave free to her all the February 
 magazines. Should this delay appear to you insufficient, speak ! and 
 it shall be protracted. 
 
 "I daresay, arrange as we may, we shall not be able wholly 
 to prevent comparisions ; it is the nature of some critics to be 
 invidious ; but we need not care : we can set them at defiance ; they 
 shall noi 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. 
 
 " Vilktte 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 
 yane Eyre. 
 
 "I wish to see you, probably at least as much as you can wish to 
 
HER LAST VISIT TO LONDON. 417 
 
 see me, and therefore shall consider your invitation for March as an 
 engagement ; about the close of that month, then, I hope to pay you 
 a brief visit. With kindest remembrances to Mr. Gaskell and all your 
 precious circle, I am," &c. 
 
 This visit at Mrs. Smith's was passed more quietly than any pre- 
 vious one, and was consequently more in accordance with Miss 
 Bronte's tastes. She saw things rather than persons ; and being 
 allowed to have her own choice of sights, she selected the " real in 
 preference to the decorative side of life." She went over two prisons — 
 one ancient, the other modem — Newgate and Pentonville ; over two 
 hospitals, the Foundling and Bethlehem. She was also taken, at her 
 own request, to see several of the great City sights : the Bank, the 
 Exchange, 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 incap- 
 able of the immediate expression of her feelings, or of reasoning 
 upon her impressions while they were so vivid. If she had lived, 
 her deep heart would sooner or later have 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 kftow- 
 ledge 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 
 
 Keighley on her return, and the two proceeded to Haworth together. 
 
 " To Martha Brown. 
 
 " Gloucester Terrace, London, 
 "Jan. 28th, 1853. 
 
 "Dear Martha, — If all be well, I hope to come home next Wednes- 
 day. I have asked Miss to come with me. We shall reach 
 
 Haworth about half-past four o'clock in the afternoon, and I know I 
 can trust you to have things comfortable and in readiness. The table- 
 
 E E 
 
4i8 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 cloths had better be put on the dining-room tables ; you wUl have 
 something prepared that will do for supper — perhaps a nice piece of 
 cold boiled ham would be as well as anything, as it would come in 
 for breakfast in the morning. The weather has been very changeable 
 here in London. I have often wondered how you and Papa stood it at 
 home ; I felt the changes in some degree ; but not half so much as I 
 should have done at Haworth, and have only had one really bad day 
 of headache and sickness since I came. I hope you and Tabby have 
 agreed pretty well, and that you have got help in your work, whenever 
 you have wanted it. Remember me kindly to Tabby, and believe 
 me, dear Martha, your sincere friend, 
 
 « C. Bronte." 
 
 Villette — which, if less interesting as a mere story than J^aiie Eyre, 
 displays yet more of the extraordinary genius of the author — was 
 received with one burst of acclamation. Out of so small a circle of 
 characters, dwelling in so dull and monotonous an area as a " pension," 
 this wonderful tale was evolved ! 
 
 See how she receives the good tidings of her success ! — 
 
 "Feb. isth, 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 gratification. The longer I Hve, 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, perceptible in 
 the last few lines, arose from her great susceptibility to an opinion 
 she valued much — that of Miss Martineau, who, both in an article on 
 Villette in the Daily News, and in a private letter to Miss Bronte, 
 wounded her to the quick by expressions of censure which she believed 
 to be unjust and unfounded, but which, if correct and true, went 
 deeper than any merely artistic fault. An author may bring himself 
 to believe that he can bear blame with equanimity, from whatever 
 quarter it comes ; but its force is derived altogether from the character 
 
HER APPEAL TO MISS MARTINEAU. 419 
 
 of this. To the public, one reviewer may be the same impersonal 
 being as another; but an author has frequently a far deeper signifi- 
 cance to attach to opinions. They are the verdicts of those whom he 
 respects and admires, or the mere words of those for whose judgment 
 he cares not a jot. It is this knowledge of the individual worth of 
 the reviewer's opinion, which makes the censures of some sink so 
 deep and prey so heavily upon an author's heart. And thus, in pro- 
 portion to her true, firm regard for Miss Martineau, did Miss Bronte 
 suffer under what she considered her misjudgment, not merely of 
 writing, but of character. 
 
 She had long before asked Miss Martineau to tell her whether she 
 considered that any want of womanly delicacy or propriety was 
 betrayed in yane Eyre. And on receiving Miss Martineau's assur- 
 ance 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 faithfiil truth- 
 speaking. Miss Martineau fulfilled when Villette appeared. Miss Bronte 
 writhed under what she felt to be injustice.' 
 
 When Villette was on the point of publication, she wrote thus to 
 Miss Martineau : — 
 
 "Jan. 2ist, 1853. 
 " I know that you will give me your thoughts upon my book, as 
 firankly as if you spoke to some near relative whose good you preferred 
 
 ' It is but due to Miss Martineau to give some of the particulars of this mis- 
 understanding, as she has written them down for me. It appears that on Miss 
 Bronte's first interview with Miss Martineau in December, 1849, she had ex- 
 pressed pleasure at being able to consult a friend about certain strictures of the 
 reviewers, which she did not understand, and by which she had every desire to 
 profit. " She said that the reviews sometimes puzzled her, and that some imputed 
 to her what made her think she must be very unlike other people, or cause herself 
 to be misunderstood. She could not make it out at all, and wished that I could 
 explain it. I had not seen that sort of criticism then, I think, but I had heard 
 Jane Eyre calfed ' coarse.' I told her that love was treated with unusual breadth, 
 and that the kind of intercourse was uncommon, and unconunonly described, but 
 that I did not consider the book a coarse one, though I could not answer for it 
 that there were no traits which, on a second leisurely reading, I might not dislike 
 on that groimd. She begged me to give it that second reading, and I did on con- 
 dition that she would regard my criticisms as made through the eyes of her 
 reviewers." 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 to her gratification. I wince under the pain of condemnation, — ^like 
 any other weak structure of flesh and blood ; but I love, I honour, I 
 kneel to truth. Let her smite me on the one cheek, — good ! the 
 tears may spring to the eyes ; but courage ! there is the other side, 
 hit again, right sharply." 
 
 " This," as Miss Martineau observes, " was the genuine spirit of 
 the woman." 
 
 Miss Martineau, in reply to this adjuration, wrote a letter, part of 
 which ran as follows : — 
 
 " As for the other side of the question which you so desire to 
 know, I have but one thing to say ; but it is not a small one. I do 
 not like the love, either the kind or the degree of it : and its prevalence 
 in the book, and effect on the action of it, help to explain the passages 
 in the reviews which you consulted me about, and seem to afford 
 some foundation for the criticisms they offered." 
 
 Miss Martineau has also allowed me to make use of the passage 
 referring to the same fault, real or supposed, in her notice of Villette 
 in the Daily News : — 
 
 " All the female characters, in all their thoughts and lives, are full 
 of one thing, or are regarded by the reader in the light of that one 
 thought — ^love. It begins with the child of six years old, at the 
 opening — a charming picture — and it closes with it at the last page ; 
 and so dominant is this idea^so incessant is the writer's tendency to 
 describe the need of being loved — that the heroine, who tells her own 
 story, leaves the reader at last under the uncomfortable impression 
 of her having either entertained a double love, or allowed one to 
 supersede another without notification of the transition. It is not 
 thus" in real life. There are substantial, heartfelt interests for women 
 of all ages, and under ordinary circumstances, quite apart from love ; 
 there is an absence of introspection, an unconsciousness, a repose in 
 women's lives — unless under peculiarly unfortunate circumstances — 
 of which we find'no admission in this book; and to the absence of it 
 may be attributed some of the criticism which the book will meet 
 with from readers who are no prudes, but whose reason and taste will 
 reject the assumption that events and characters are to be regarded 
 
ALLEGED COARSENESS OF "JANE EYRE." 421 
 
 through the medium of one passion only. And here ends all 
 demur," &c. 
 
 This seems a fitting place to state how utterly unconscious she 
 was of what was, by some, esteemed coarse in her writings. One 
 day, during that visit at the Briery when I first met her, the conver- 
 sation turned upon the subject of women's writing fiction; and some 
 one remarked on the fact that, in certain instances, authoresses had 
 much outstepped the line which men felt to be proper in works of 
 this kind. Miss Bronte said she wondered how far this was a natural 
 consequence of allowing the imagination to work too constantly; Sir 
 James and Lady Kay Shuttleworth and I expressed our belief that 
 such violations of propriety were altogether unconscious on the part 
 of those to whom reference had been made. I remember her grave, 
 earnest way of saying, " I trust God will take from me whatever power 
 of invention or expression I may have, before He lets 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 J^ane 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 J^ane Eyre. 
 
 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 friendli- 
 ness and kindness — through whose family she had received many 
 pleasures — for whose intellect she had a great respect — ^but who 
 talked before her, if not to her, with as little reticence as Rochester 
 talked to Jane Eyre. Take this in connection with her poor brother's 
 sad life, and the out-spoken people among whom she lived, — remem- 
 ber her strong feeling of the duty of representing life as it really is, 
 not as it ought to be, — and then do her justice for all that she was, 
 
422 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 purif)ruig her; it hardly could 
 raise her. Again I cry, " If she had but lived !" 
 
 The misunderstanding with Miss Martineau on account of Villette 
 was the cause of bitter regret to Miss Bronte. Her woman's nature 
 had been touched, as she thought, with insulting misconception; and 
 she had dearly loved the person who had thus unconsciously wounded 
 her. It was but in the January just past that she had written as 
 follows, in reply to a friend, the tenor of whose letter we may guess 
 from this answer: — 
 
 " I read attentively all you s%y about Miss Martineau; the sin- 
 cerity and constancy of your solicitude touch me very much ; I should 
 grieve to neglect or oppose your advice, and yet I do not feel it would 
 be right to give Miss Martineau up entirely. There is in her nature 
 much that is very noble : hundreds have forsaken her,' more, I fear, 
 in the apprehension that their fair names may suffer, if seen in con- 
 nection 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 kindliness, and had seen how she 
 secretly suffers from abandonment, — you would be the last to give 
 her up; you would separate the sinner from the sin, and feel as if the 
 right lay rather in quietly adhering to her in her strait, while that 
 adherence is unfashionable and unpopular, than in turning on her 
 your back when the world sets the example. I believe she is one of 
 those whom opposition and desertion make obstinate in error ; while 
 patience and tolerance touch her deeply and keenly, and incline her 
 to ask of her own heart whether the course she has been pursuing may 
 not possibly be a faulty course." 
 
 ' In reference to this passage, Miss Martineau writes thus : — "There is the 
 unaccountable delusion that I was ' deserted ' oi^ account of the Atkinson Letters. 
 . . . Facts are best ; so I will only say that I am not aware of having lost 
 any friends whatever by that book, while I have gained a new world of sympathy." 
 
REMARKS ON MR. THACKERA VS PORTRAIT. 423 
 
 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 London, Miss 
 Bronte had seen Lawrence's portrait of Mr. Thackeray, and admired 
 it extremely. Her first words, after she had stood before it some time 
 in silence, were, "And there came up a Lion out of Judah !" The 
 likeness was by this time engra:ved, and Mr. Smith sent her a copy 
 of it. 
 
 " To G. Smith, Esq. 
 
 " Haworth, Feb. 26th, 1853. 
 " My dear Sir, — At a late hour yesterday evening, I had the honour 
 of receiving, at Haworth Parsonage, a distinguished guest, none other 
 than W. M. Thackeray, Esq. Mindful of the rites of hospitality, I 
 hung him up in state this morning. He looks superb in his beautiful, 
 tasteful gilded gibbet. For companion he has the Duke of Wellington 
 (do you remember giving me that picture ?), and for contrast and foil 
 Richmond's portrait of an unworthy individual who, in such society, 
 must be nameless. Thackeray looks away from the latter character 
 with a .grand scorn, edifying to witness. I wonder if the giver of 
 these gifts will ever see them on the walls where they now hang ; it 
 pleases me to fancy that one day he may. My father stood for a 
 quarter of an hour this morning examining the great man's picture. 
 The conclusion of his survey was, that he thought it a puzzling head; 
 if he had known nothing previously of the original's character, he 
 could not have read it in his features. I wonder at this. To me the 
 broad brow seems to express intellect Certain lines about the nose 
 and cheek betray the satirist and cynic ; the mouth indicates a child- 
 like simplici^ — perhaps even a degree of irresoluteness, inconsistency 
 ■ — ^weakness in short, but a weakness not unamiable. The engraving 
 seems to me very good. A certain not quite Christian expression — 
 ' not to put too fine a point upon it ' — an expression of sfite, most 
 vividly marked in the original, is here softened, and perhaps a little — 
 a very little — of the power has escaped in this ameliorating process. 
 Did it strike you thus ? " 
 
424 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Miss Bronte was in much better health during this winter of 
 1852-3, than she had been the year before. 
 
 " For my part " (she wrote to me in February), " I have thus far 
 borne the cold weather well. I have taken long walks on the crack- 
 ling snow, and felt the frosty air bracing. This winter has, for me, not 
 been like last winter. December, 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 uncheerfuUy. 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 recep- 
 tion thus far, have pleased and cheered him.'' 
 
 In March the quiet Parsonage had the honour of receiving a visit 
 from the then Bishop of Ripon. He remained one night with Mr. 
 Bronte. In the evening, some of the neighbouring clergy were invited 
 to meet him at tea and supper ; and during the latter meal, some of 
 the " curates " began merrily to upbraid Miss Bronte with " putting 
 them into a book ; " and she, shrinking from thus having her character 
 as authoress thrust upon her at her own table, and in the presence of 
 a stranger, pleasantly appealed to the Bishop as to whether it was 
 quite fair thus to drive her into a comer. His lordship, I have been 
 told, was agreeably impressed with the gentle, unassuming manners of 
 his hostess, and with the perfect propriety and consistency of the 
 arrangements in the modest household. So much for the Bishop's 
 recollection of his visit. Now we will turn to hers. 
 
 "March 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 competent to check encroach- 
 ments. His visit passed capitally well ; and at its close, as he was 
 going away, he expressed himself thoroughly gratified with all he had 
 seen. The Inspector has been also in the course of the past week; 
 so that I have had a somewhat busy time of it. If you could have 
 been at Haworth to share the pleasures of the company, without 
 having been inconvenienced by the little bustle of the preparation, I 
 should have been very glad. But the house was a good deal put out 
 of its way, as you may suppose ; all passed, however, orderly, quietly. 
 
REVIEWS OF " VILETTE." 423 
 
 and well. Martha waited very nicely, and I had a person to help her 
 in the kitchen. Papa kept up, too, fully as well as I expected, though 
 I doubt whether he could have borne another day of it. My penalty 
 came on in a strong headache as soon as the Bishop was gone ; how 
 thankful I was that it had patiently waited his departure! I continue 
 stupid to-day ; of course, it is the reaction consequent on several diys 
 of extra exertion and excitement. It is very well to talk of receiving 
 a Bishop without trouble, but you must prepare for him." 
 
 By this time some of the reviews had begun to find fault with 
 Vilktte. Miss Bronte made her old request : — 
 
 " To W. S. WUliams, Esq. 
 
 " My dear Sir, — Were a review to appear, inspired with treble their 
 animus,/ra>' 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 ^^satisfactory 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 dangerotis and disagreeable seems to me 
 cowardly. I long always to know what really is, and am only un- 
 nerved when kept in the dark. . . . 
 
 " As to the character of Lucy Snowe,' my intention from the first 
 was that she should not occupy the pedestal to which ' Jane Eyre ' 
 was raised by some injudicious admirers. She is where I meant her 
 to be, and where no charge of self-laudation can touch her. 
 , " The note you sent this morning from Lady Harriette St. Clair 
 is precisely to the same purport as Miss Muloch's request — an appli- 
 cation 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. Knighfly ' 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." 
 
426 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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, sta)Tng with us. 
 MiSs Bronte had expected to find us alone ; and although our friend 
 was gentle and sensible after Miss Bronte's own heart, yet her presence 
 was enough to create a nervous tremor. 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 unexpected sight of a strange face had afiected her. 
 
 It was now two or three years since I had witnessed a similar 
 effect produced on her, in anticipation of a quiet evening at Fox How; 
 and since then she had seen many and various people in London : 
 but the physical sensations produced by sh)mess were still the same ; 
 and on the following day she laboured under severe headache. I had 
 several opportunities of perceiving how this nervousness was ingrained 
 in her constitution, and how acutely she suffered in striving to over- 
 come it. One evening we had, among other guests, two sisters who 
 sang Scottish ballads exquisitely. Miss Bronte had been sitting quiet 
 and constrained till they, began " The Bonnie House of Airlie," but 
 the effect of that and " Carlisle Yetts," which followed, was as irre- 
 sistible 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 tr)Tng to 
 dwell on the sweet echoes in her memory rather than on the thought 
 of a third sister who would have to be faced if we went in. But it 
 was of no use ; and dreading lest this struggle with herself might bring 
 on one of her trying headaches, I entered at last and made the best 
 apology I could for her non-appearance. Much of this nervous dread 
 of encountering strangers I ascribed to the idea of her personal ugli- 
 ness, which had been strongly impressed upon her imagination 
 
HER NERVOUS SHYNESS. 427 
 
 eady in. life, and which she , exaggefated' tO: herself, in a remarkable 
 manner. ■ " I notice," said she, " that after a stranger has once looked 
 at my face, he is careful not to let his eyes wander to that part of the 
 room again ! " A more untrue idea never entered into any one's head. 
 Two gentlemen who saw her during this visit, without knowing at the 
 time who she was, were singularly attracted by her appearance ; and 
 this feeling of attraction towards a pleasant countenance, sweet voice, 
 and gentle timid manners, was so strong in one as to conquer a dislike 
 he had previously entertained to her works. 
 
 There was another circumstance that came to my knowledge at 
 this period which told secrets about the finely-strung frame. One 
 night I was on the point of relating some dismal ghost story, just 
 before bedtime. She shrank from hearing it, and confessed that she 
 was superstitious, and prone at all times to the involuntary recurrence 
 of any thoughts of ominous gloom which might have been suggested 
 to her. She said that on first coming to us, she had found a letter 
 on her dressing-table from a friend in Yorkshire, containing a story 
 which had impressed her vividly ever since; — that it mingled 
 with her dreams at night, and made her sleep restless and unre- 
 freshing. 
 
 One day we asked two gentlemen to meet her at dinner, expect- 
 ing that she and they would have a mutual pleasure in making each 
 other's acquaintance. To our disappointment, she drew back with 
 timid reserve from all their advances, replying to their questions and 
 remarks in the briefest manner possible ; till at last they, gave up 
 their efforts to draw her into conversation in despair, and talked to 
 each other and my husband on subjects of recent local interest. 
 Among these, Thackeray's lectures (which had lately been delivered 
 in Manchester) were spoken of, and that on Fielding especially dwelt 
 upon. One gentleman objected to it strongly as calculated to do 
 moral harm, and regretted that a man having so great an influence 
 over the tone of thought of the day, as Thackeray, should not more 
 carefully weigh his words. The other took the opposite view. He 
 said that Thackeray described men from the inside, as it were; 
 through his strong power of dramatic sympathy, he identified himself 
 with certain characters, felt their temptations, entered into their 
 pleasures, &c. This roused Miss Bronte, who threw herself warmly 
 into the discussion ; the ice of her reserve was broken, and fi:om that 
 
428 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 following 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 j 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 sim- 
 plicity, 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 
 vnrong 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 conse- 
 quences 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 destmction. Had I a brother yet living, I should 
 tremble to let him read Thackeray's lecture on Fielding. I should 
 hide it away from him. If, in spite of precaution, it should fall into 
 his hands, I should earnestly pray him not to be misled by the voice 
 of the charmer, let him charm never so wisely. Not that for a 
 moment I would have had Thackeray to abuse Fielding, or even 
 pharisaically to condemn his life ; but I do most deeply grieve that it 
 never entered into his heart sadly and nearly to feel the peril of such 
 a career, that he might have dedicated some of his great strength to 
 a potent warning against its adoption by any young man. I believe 
 
THACKERAY'S LECTURES. 429 
 
 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 daresay; but the subject. is serious, and one cannot 
 help feeling upon it earnestly." 
 
430 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 After her visit to Manchester, she had to return to a re-opening of the 
 painfiil circumstances of the previous winter, as the time drew near 
 for Mr. Nicholls' departure from Haworth. . A testimonial of respect 
 from the parishioners was presented, at a pubHc meeting, to one who 
 had faithfully served them for eight years : and he left the place, and 
 she saw no chance of hearing a word about him in the future, unless 
 it was some second-hand scrap of intelligence, dropped out accident- 
 ally by one of the neighbouring clergymen. 
 
 Early in June I received the following letter from Miss Bronte : — 
 
 "Haworth, June ist, 1853. 
 
 " June is come, and now I want to know if you can come, on 
 Thursday the 9th inst. 
 
 " Ever since I was at Manchester I have been anticipating your 
 visit. Not that I attempt to justify myself in asking you ; the place 
 has no attractions, as I told you, here in this house. Papa too takes 
 great interest in the matter. I only pray that the weather may be 
 fine, and that a cold, by which I am now stupefied, may be gone 
 before the 9th, so that I may have no let and hindrance in taking you 
 on to the moors — the sole, but, with one who loves nature as you do, 
 not despicable resource. 
 
 " When you take leave of the domestic circle and turn your back 
 on Plymouth Grove to come to Haworth, you must do it in the spirit 
 which might sustain you in case you were setting out on a brief trip 
 to the backwoods of America. Leaving behind your husband, chil- 
 dren, and civilization, you must come out to barbarism, loneliness, and 
 liberty. The change will perhaps do good, if not too prolonged. . . . 
 
INVITATION TO HAWORTH. 431 
 
 Please, when you write, to mention by what train you will come, and 
 at what hour you will arrive at Keighley ; for I must take measures to 
 have a conveyance waiting for you at the station, otherwise, as there 
 is no calj-stand, you might be inconvenienced and hindered." 
 
 In consequence of this invitation, I promised to pay her a visit on 
 my return from London, but, after the day was fixed, a;lettercame 
 from Mr. Bronte, saying that she was suffering from so severe an attack 
 of influenza, accompanied with such excruciating pain in the head, 
 that he must request me to defer my visit until she was better. While 
 sorry' for the cause, I did not regret that my going was delayed till the 
 season when the moors would be all glorious with the purple bloom of 
 the heather, and thus present a scene about which she had often 
 spoken to me. So we agreed that I should not come to her before 
 August or September. Meanwhile, I received a letter, from whiph I am 
 tempted to take an extract, as it shows both her conception of what 
 fictitious writing ought to be, and her always kindly interest in what 
 I was doing : 
 
 "July 9th, 1853. 
 
 " Thank you for yovu- letter ; it was as pleasant as a quiet chat, as 
 welcome as spring showers, as reviving as a friend's visit ; in short, it 
 was very like a page of Cranford. ... A thought strikes me. 
 Do you, who have so many fiiends, — so large a circle of acquaintance — 
 find it easy, when you sit down to write, to isolate yourself from all 
 those ties, and their sweet associations, so as to be your own woman, 
 uninfluenced or swayed by the consciousness of how your work may 
 afiect 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 /f<?/ 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 
 
432 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 littlf nature, 
 frank and of genuine promise. I often see her, as she appeared, 
 stepping supreme from the portico towards the carriage that evening we 
 went to see Twelfth Night. I believe in J.'s future ; I like what 
 speaks in her movements, and what is written upon her face." 
 
 The following letter was addressed to me soon after my return 
 from a short tour in Normandy : — 
 
 " I was glad to get your little note, glad to hear you were at home 
 again. Not that, practically, it makes much difference to me whether 
 you are in Normandy or Manchester : the shorter distance separates 
 perhaps as effectually as the longer, yet there is a mental comfort in 
 thinking that but thirty miles intervene. 
 
 " Come to Haworth as soon as you can : the heath is in bloom 
 now : I have waited and watched for its purple signal as the fore- 
 runner of your coming. It will not be quite faded before the i6th, 
 but after that it will soon grow sere. Be sure to mention the day and 
 hour of your arrival at Keighley. 
 
 " My father has passed the summer, not well, yet better than I 
 expected. His chief complaint is of weakness and depressed spirits ; 
 the prospect of your visit still affords him pleasure. I am surprised 
 to see how he looks forward to it. My own health has been much 
 better lately. 
 
 " I suppose that Meta is ere this returned to school again. This 
 summer's tour will no doubt furnish a lifelong remembrance of pleasure 
 to her and Marianne. Great would be the joy of the little ones at 
 seeing you all home again. 
 
 "I saw in the papers the death of Mr. S., of scarlet fever, at his 
 residence in Wales. Was it not there you left Flossy and Julia? This 
 thought recurred to me, with some chilling fears of what might 
 happen ; but I trust that all is safe now. How is poor Mrs. S. ? 
 
 "Remember me very, very kindly to Mr. Gaskell and the whole 
 circle. Write when you have time — come at the earliest day, and 
 believe me, yours very truthfully, 
 
 "C. Bronte." 
 
THE BIOGRAPHERS VISIT TO HA WORTH. 433 
 
 Towards the latter end of September I went to Haworth. At the 
 risk of repeating something which I have previously said, 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 York- 
 shire people call a ' bottom,' or ' bothara.' I left Keighley in a car 
 for Haworth, four 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 sexton'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 alDOve. The crowded graveyard 
 surrounds the house and small grass enclosure for drying clothes. 
 
 " I don't know that I ever saw a spot more exquisitely clean ; 
 the most dainty place for that I ever saw. To be sure, the life is 
 like clockwork. No one comes to the house ; nothing disturbs the 
 deep repose ; hardly a voice is heard ; you catch the ticking of 
 the clock in the kitchen, or the buzzing of a fly in the parlour, all 
 over the house. Miss Bronte sits alone in her parlour ; breakfasting 
 with her father in his study at nine o'clock. She helps in the house- 
 work ; for one of their servants. Tabby, is nearly ninety, and the 
 other only a girl. Then I accompanied her in her walks on the 
 sweeping moors : the heather-bloom had been blighted by a thunder- 
 
 F F 
 
434 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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. Bronte 
 has his dinner sent in to 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 re-furnished within the last few years, since Miss 
 Bronte's success has enabled her to have a little more money to 
 spend. Everything fits into, and is in harmony with, the idea of a 
 country parsonage, possessed by people of very moderate means. The 
 prevailing colour of the room is crimson, to make a warm setting 
 for the cold grey landscape without. There is her likeness by Rich- 
 mond, and an engraving from Lawrence's picture of Thackeray; 
 and two recesses, 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 seven- 
 teen, she wanted much to draw ; and she copied nimini-pimini 
 copper-plate engravings out of annuals (' stippling,' don't the artists 
 call it ?), every little point put in, till at the end of six months she had 
 produced an exquisitely faithful copy of the engraving. She wanted 
 to learn to express her ideas by drawing. After she had tried to 
 draw stories, and not succeeded, she took the better mode of 
 writing ; but in so small a hand, that it is almost impossible to 
 decipher what she wrote at this time. 
 
 " But now to return to our quiet hour of rest after dinner. I 
 soon observed that her habits of order were such that she could not 
 go on with the conversation, if a chair was out of its place ; every- 
 ,thing was arranged with delicate regularity. We talked over the old 
 times of her childhood; of her elder sister's (Maria's) death,— just 
 like that of Helen Burns in yane Eyre; of the desire (almost 
 amounting to illness) of expressing herself in some way, — ^writing or 
 drawing; of her weakened eyesight, which prevented her doing 
 anything for two years, from the age of seventeen to nineteen ; of 
 
VISIT TO HA WORTH. 435 
 
 her being a governess : of her going to Brussels; whereupon I said I 
 disliked Lucy Snowe, and we discussed M. Paul Emanuel; and I 
 
 told her of 's admiration of Shirley, which pleased her, for the 
 
 character of Shirley was meant for her sister Emily, about whom she 
 is never tired of talking, nor I of Ustening. Emily must have been 
 a remnant of the Titans, — great-granddaughter of the giants who 
 used to inhabit earth. One day. Miss Bronte brought down a rough, 
 common-lookmg 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 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, 
 1 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 dociUty 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 Ustened to everything I could tell him of the high admiration 
 I had at any time heard expressed for her works. He would ask for 
 certain speeches over and over again, as if he desired to impress 
 them on his memory. 
 
 F F 2 
 
436 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 the description 
 given of its effects in Villette was so exactly like what I had experienced, 
 — vivid and exaggerated presence of objects, of which the outlines 
 were indistinct, or lost in golden mist, &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 experience ; 
 she had thought intently on it for many and many a night before 
 falling to sleep — ^wondering what it was like, or how it would be— 
 till at length, sometimes after the progress of her story had been 
 arrested at this one point for weeks, she wakened up in the morning 
 ■with all clear before her, as if she had in reality gone through the 
 experience, and then could describe it, word for word, as it had 
 happened. I cannot account for this psychologically ; I only am 
 sure that it was so, because she said it. 
 
 She made many inquiries as to Mrs. Stowe's personal appearance ; 
 and it evidently harmonised well with some theory of hers, to hear 
 that the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin was small and slight. It was 
 another of her theories that no mixtures of blood produce such fine 
 characters, mentally and morally, as the Scottish and English. 
 
 I recollect, too, her saying how acutely she dreaded a charge of 
 plagiarism, when, after she had written fane Eyre, she read the thrill- 
 ing 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 E)T:e's character from that of" Francesca," the narrator of 
 Miss Bremer's story. For my own part, I cannot see the slightest 
 resemblance between the two characters, and so I told her ; but she 
 persisted in saying that Francesca was Jane Eyre married to a 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 an umbrella ; 
 in the, house of another we had taken shelter from a rough September 
 storm. In all these cottages her quiet presence was known. At 
 three miles from her home, the chair was dusted for her, with a kindly 
 " Sit ye down. Miss Bronte ; " and she knew what absent or ailing 
 
REMINISCENCES OF CONVERSATIONS. 437 
 
 members of the family, to inquire after. Her quiet, gentle words, few 
 though they might be, were evidently grateful to those 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 
 expectations, leaving hope to those of a different doom, and seek- 
 ing patience and resignation as the virtues they were to cultivate; 
 I took a different view : I thought that human lots were more 
 equal than she imagined ; that to some happiness and sorrow came 
 in strong patches of light and shadow (so to speak), while in the 
 lives of others they were pretty equally blended throughout. She 
 smiled, and shook her head, and said she was trying to school herself 
 against ever anticipating any pleasure ; that it was better to be brave 
 and submit faithfully ; there was some good reason, which we should 
 know in time, why sorrow and disappointment were to be the lot 
 of some on earth. It was better to acknowledge this, and 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 Scodand. 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 yet seen of it. But, at the first stage 
 after Carlisle, the litde yearling child was taken with a slight indis- 
 position ; the anxious parents fancied that strange diet had 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 renewing very 
 frequently the pleasure we had had in being together. We agreed 
 that when she wanted bustle, or when I wanted quiet, we were to let 
 each other know, and exchange visits as occasion required. 
 
438 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 I was aware that she had a great anxiety on her mind at this 
 time J and being acquainted with its nature, I could not but deeply 
 adrfiire the patient docility which she displayed in her conduct towards 
 her father. 
 
 Soon after I left Haworth, she went on a visit to Miss W , 
 
 who was then staying at Hornsea. The time passed quietly and 
 
 happily with this friend, whose society was endeared to her by every 
 
 year. 
 
 "To Miss W . 
 
 "Dec. I2th, 1853. 
 
 "I wonder how you are spending these long winter evenings. 
 Alone, probably, like me. The thought often crosses me, as I sit by 
 myself, how pleasant it would be if you lived within a walking dis- 
 tance, and I could go to you sometimes, or have you to come and 
 spend a day and night with me. Yes ; I did enjoy that week at 
 Hornsea, and I look forward to spring as the period when you will 
 fulfil your promise of coming to visit me. I fear you must be very 
 solitary at Hornsea. How hard to some people of the world it would 
 seem to live your life ! how utterly impossible to live it with a serene 
 spirit and an unsoured disposition ! It seems wonderful to me, 
 
 because you are not, like Mrs. , phlegmatic and impenetrable, 
 
 but received from nature feelings of the very finest edge. Such feel- 
 ings, 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 you as you are." 
 
 Of course, as I draw nearer to the years so recentiy 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 resolve. By degrees Mr. Bronte became reconciled to 
 the idea of his daughter's marriage. 
 
 There is one other letter, addressed to Mr. Dobell, which develops 
 the intellectual side of her character, before we lose all thought of 
 the authoress in the timid and conscientious woman about to become 
 a wife, and in the too short, almost perfect, happiness of her nine 
 months of wedded life. 
 
LETTER TO MR. DO BELL ON "BALDER:' 439 
 
 " Haworth, near Keighley, 
 
 "Feb. 3rd, 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 such that the time was past for answering them, and I laid 
 them finally aside. If you remember, you asked me to go to London ; 
 it was too late either to go or to decline. I was sure you had left 
 London. One circumstance you 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 looked at him, before cutting his 
 leaves, with singular pleasure. Remembering well his elder brother, 
 the potent ' Roman,' it was natural to give a cordial welcome to a 
 fresh scion of the same house and race. I have ^ead him. He 
 impresses 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 me 
 that his strength and beauty were not so much those of Joseph, the 
 pillar of Jacob's age, as of the ProdigalSon, 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 almost as often proves a source of depression 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 character ? It seems to me that those defects were 
 never thrown out in stronger lines. I did not and could not think you 
 meant to ofier him as your cherished ideal of the true, great poet 5 I 
 regard him as a vividly-coloured picture of inflated self-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. Do we not all know that true greatness is simple, self- 
 
440 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 lucu- 
 brations), 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 intent on finding the best way to accomplish what he 
 undertakes to think great things of himself — the instrument And if 
 God places seeming impediments in his way — if his duties sometimes 
 seem to hamper his powers — he feels keenly, 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 accord- 
 ing to your suggestion and my own impression. Equity demands that 
 you should be your own interpreter. Good-by for the present, and 
 believe me, 
 
 " Faithfully and gratefully, 
 
 "Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 "■'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 I was beginning to have some sad presages 
 as to the cause of your silence. Your letter happily does away with 
 all these ; it brings, on the whole, glad tidings both of your papa, 
 mamma, your sisters, and, last but not least, your dear respected 
 English self. 
 
 " My dear father has borne the severe winter very well, a circum- 
 stance 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 
 
HER ENGAGEMENT. 441 
 
 thankful I was, when, after that dreary and almost despairing interval 
 of utter darkness, some gleam of daylight became visible to him once 
 more. I had feared that paralysis had seized the optic nerve. A 
 sort of mist remained for a long time ; and, indeed, his vision is not 
 yet perfectly clear, but he can read, write, and walk about, and 
 he preaches twice every Sunday, the curate only reading the prayers. 
 You can well understand how earnestly I wsh and pray that sight 
 may be spared him to the end ; he so dreads the privation of blind- 
 ness. 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 com- 
 paratively young days, and to renew the excitement of the last 
 great European struggle. Of course my father's s5Tnpathies (and 
 mine too) are all with Justice and Europe against Tyranny and 
 Russia. 
 
 "Circumstanced as I have been, you will comprehend that I 
 have had neither the leisure nor the inclination to go from home 
 much during the past year. I spent a week with Mrs. Gaskell in 
 the spring, and a fortnight with some other friends more recently, 
 and that includes the whole of my visiting since I saw you last. My 
 life is, indeed, very uniform and retired — more so than is quite 
 healthful either for 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 season 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 
 
 W . 
 
 " Haworth, April 12th. 
 
 " My dear Miss W , — 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 
 
442 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 view very different to that which he once took ; and that after some 
 correspondence, and as the result of a visit Mr. NichoUs 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 father has 
 once admitted this new view of the case, he dwells on it very com- 
 placently. In all arrangements, his convenience and seclusion will 
 be scrupulously respected. Mr. NichoUs seems deeply to feel the 
 wish to comfort and sustain his declining years. I think from Mr. 
 Nicholls' character I may depend on this not being a mere transitory 
 impulsive feeling, but rather that it will be accepted steadily as a 
 duty, and discharged tenderly as an office of affection. The destiny 
 which Providence in His goodness and wisdom seems to offer me 
 will not, I am aware-, be generally regarded as brilliant, but I trust I 
 see in it some germs of real happiness. I trust the demands of both 
 feeling and duty will be in some measure reconciled by the step in , 
 contemplation. It is Mr. Nicholls' wish that the marriage should 
 take place this summer ; he urges the month of July, but that seems 
 very soon. 
 
 " Wlien you write to me, tell me how you are I have 
 
 now decidedly declined the visit to London ; the ensuing three 
 months will bring me abundance of occupation ; I could not afford 
 
 to throw away a month Papa has just got a letter from 
 
 the good and dear Bishop, which has touched and pleased us much ; 
 it expresses so cordial an approbation of Mr. Nicholls' return to 
 Haworth (respecting which he was consulted), and such kind gratifi- 
 cation at the domestic arrangements which are to ensue. It seems 
 his penetration discovered 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 distress and 
 perplexity of mind ; and yet she felt what most thoughtful women do, 
 who marry when the first flush of careless youth is over, that there 
 was a strange, half-sad feeling, in making announcements of an 
 engagement — for cares and fears came mingled inextricably with 
 
PREPARATIONS FOR HER MARRIAGE. 443 
 
 hopes. One great relief to her mind at this time was derived from 
 the conviction that her father took a positive pleasure in all the 
 thoughts about and preparations for her wedding. He was anxious 
 that things should be expedited, and was much interested in every 
 preliminary arrangement for the reception of Mr. Nicholls into the 
 Parsonage as his daughter's husband. This step was rendered 
 necessary by Mr. Bronte's great age, and failing sight, which made it 
 a paramount obligation on so dutiful a daughter as Charlotte, to 
 devote as much time and assistance as ever in attending to his wants. 
 Mr. Nicholls, too, hoped that he might be able to add some comfort 
 and pleasure by his ready 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 neighbourhood of Leeds, there to 
 make such purchases as were required for her marriage. Her pre- 
 parations, 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, con- 
 verting 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, I suppose, 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. Nicholls comes 
 to-morrow. I feel anxious about him ; more anxious on one point 
 than I dare quite express to myself It seems he has again been 
 suffering sharply from his rheumatic affection. I hear this not from 
 himself; but from another quarter. -He was ill while I was in 
 
444 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 Manchester and B . He uttered no complaint to me ; dropped 
 
 no hint on the subject. Alas ! he was hoping he had got the better 
 of it, and I know how this contradiction of his hopes will sadden 
 him. For unselfish reasons he did so earnestly wish this complaint 
 might not become chronic. I 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 1 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 unpleasantly, only to the full occupa- 
 tion of her time. She was too busy to unpack her wedding-dresses 
 for several days after they arrived from Halifax ; yet not too busy to 
 
 think of arrangements by which Miss W 's journey to be present 
 
 at the marriage could be facilitated. 
 
 " I write to Miss W to-day. Would it not be better, dear, if 
 
 you and she could arrange to come to Haworth on the same day, 
 arrive at Keighley by the same train ; then I c©uld 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 arrange- 
 ment to you first, and then, if you liked it, you could settle the time, 
 
 &c. with Miss W , 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 mascu- 
 line faults, he enters into my wishes about having the thing done 
 quietly, in a way that makes me grateful ; and if nobody interferes and 
 spoils his arrangements, he will manage it so that not a soul in 
 Haworth shall be aware of the day. He is so thoughful, too, about 
 
 ' the ladies,' — that is, you and Miss W . Anticipating, too, the 
 
 very arrangements 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 
 
THE MARRIAGE. 
 
 44S 
 
 meet them. Mr. and Mrs. Grant are asked to the breakfast, not to 
 the ceremony." 
 
 It was fixed that the marriage was to take place on the 29th of 
 June. Her two friends arrived at Haworth Parsonage the day before ; 
 and the long summer afternoon and evening were spent by Charlotte in 
 thoughtful arrangements for the morrow, and for her father's comfort 
 during her absence from home. When all was 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 ofiiciating 
 clergyman, the bride and bridegroom, the bridesmaid, and Miss 
 
 W 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 ox friend's hand," and that nothing is speci- 
 fied as to the sex of the " friend." So Miss W , ever kind in 
 
 emergency, volunteered to give her old pupil away. 
 
 The news of the wedding had slipt abroad before the little party 
 came out of church, and many old and humble friends were there, 
 seeing her look "like a snowdrop,'' as they say. Her dress was 
 white embroidered muslin, with a lace mantle, and white bonnet 
 trimmed with green leaves, which perhaps might suggest the resem- 
 blance to the pale wintry flower. 
 
 Mr. NichoUs and she went to visit his friends and relations in 
 Ireland ; and made a tour by Killamey, Glengariff, Tarbert, Tralee, 
 and Cork, seeing scenery, of which she says, " some parts exceeded 
 all I had ever imagined. ... I must say I like my new relations. 
 My dear husband, too, appears in a new light in his own country. 
 More than once I have had deep pleasure in hearing his praises 
 on all sides. Some of the old servants and followers of the family 
 tell me I am a most fortunate person ; for that I have got one of 
 
 the best gentlemen in the country I trust I feel 
 
 thankful to God for having enabled me to make what seems a 
 right choice ; and I pray to be enabled to repay as I ought the 
 affectionate devotion of a truthful, honourable man." 
 
 Henceforward the sacred doors of home are closed upon her 
 married life. We, her loving friends, standing outside, caught occa- 
 
446 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 sional glimpses of brightness, and pleasant peaceful murmurs of sound, 
 telling of the gladness within; and we looked at each other, and gently 
 said, " After a hard and long struggle — after many cares and many 
 bitter sorrows — she is tasting happiness now ! " We thought of the 
 slight astringencies of her character, and how they would turn to full 
 ripe sweetness in that calm sunshine of domestic peace. We re- 
 membered 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 happiness we, who listened, 
 heard : — 
 
 " I really seem to have had scarcely a spare moment since that 
 
 dim quiet June morning, when you, E , and myself all walked 
 
 down to Haworth Church. Not that I have been wearied or 
 oppressed ; but the fact is, my time is not my own now ; somebody 
 else wants a good portion of it, and says, ' We must do so and so.' 
 We do so and so, accordingly; and it generally seems the right thing. 
 . . . . We have had many callers from a distance, and latterly 
 some little occupation in the way of preparing for a small village en- 
 tertainment. Both Mr. NichoUs and myself wished much to make 
 some response for the hearty welcome and general good-will shown 
 by the parishioners on his return ; accordingly, 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 Schoolroom. 
 They seemed to enjoy it much, and it was very pleasant to see their 
 happiness. One of the villagers, in proposing my husband's health, 
 described him as a ' consistent Christian and a kind gentleman.' I own 
 the words touched me deeply, and I thought (as I \nQw you would 
 have thought had you been present) that to merit and win such a 
 character was better than to earn either wealth, or fame, or power. I 
 
 am disposed to echo that high but simple eulogium My 
 
 dear father was not well when we returned from Ireland. I am, how- 
 ever, 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, to- 
 gether with a certain solicitude for his happiness and health, seems, I 
 
WEDDED HAPPINESS, 447 
 
 scarcely know why, even stronger in me now than before I was married. 
 Papa has taken no duty since we returned ; and each time I see Mr. 
 NichoUs put on gown or surplice, I feel comforted to think that this 
 marriage has secured papa good aid in his old age." 
 
 " September 19th. 
 " Yes ! I am thankful to say my husband is in improved health 
 and spirits. It makes me content and grateful to hear him from time 
 to time avow his happiness in the brief, plain phrase of sincerity. My 
 own life is more occupied than it used to be : I have not so much 
 time for thinking : I am obliged to be more practical, for my dear 
 Arthur is a very practical, as well as a very punctual and methodical 
 man. Every morning he is in the National School by nine o'clock ; 
 he gives the children religious instruction till 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 hfe and active usefulness ; so 
 little inclined to the literary and contemplative. As to his continued 
 affection and kind attentions, it does not become me to say much of 
 them ; but they neither change 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 inter- 
 vene, 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 is better, and seems to gain 
 strength as the weather gets colder ; indeed, of late years his health 
 has always been better in winteT than in summer. We are all indeed 
 pretty well ; and, for my own part, it is long since I have known 
 such comparative, immunity from headache, &c., as during the last 
 
448 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 
 husband ; 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. NichoUs 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. 29th. 
 
 " 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 beautifiil ! It began to rain 
 while we were watching it, and we returned home under a streaming 
 sky. However, I enjoyed the walk inexpressibly, and would not 
 have missed the spectacle on any account." 
 
 She did not achieve this walk of seven or eight miles, in such 
 weather, with impunity. She began to shiver soon after her return 
 home, in spite of every precaution, and had a bad lingering sore 
 throat and cold, which 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 without 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. 
 
THE BH.0NTB1 WATERFALL 
 
HER LAST ILLNESS. 449 
 
 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. NichoUs 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. NichoUs' 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 
 flie very sight of food occasioned nausea. "A wren would have 
 starved on what she ate during those last six weeks," says one. 
 Tabby's health had suddenly and utterly given way, and she died in 
 this time of distress and anxiety respecting the last daughter of the 
 house she had served so long. Martha tenderly waited on her 
 mistress, and from time to time tried to cheer her with the thought of 
 the baby that was coming. " I daresay I shall be glad some time," 
 
 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 of my dreary bed. The news 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 . May God 
 
 comfort and help you ! 
 
 " C. B. NiCHOLLS." 
 
 The other— also in faint, faint pencil marks— was to her Brussels 
 
 schoolfellow : — 
 
 G G 
 
4SO LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 « 
 
 "Feb. isth. 
 
 " A few lines of acknowledgment your letter shall have, whether 
 
 well or ill. At present I am confined to my bed with illness, 
 
 and have been so for three weeks. Up to this period, since my 
 
 marriage, I have had excellent health. My husband and I live at 
 
 home with my father ; of course I could not leave him. He is 
 
 pretty well, better than last summer. No kinder, better husband 
 
 than mine, it seems to me, there can be in the world. I do not want 
 
 now for kind companionship in health, and the tenderest nursing in 
 
 sickness. Deeply I sympathise in all you tell me about Dr. W. and 
 
 yotir excellent mother's anxiety. I trust he will not risk another 
 
 operation. I cannot write more now ; for I am much reduced and 
 
 very weak. God bless you all. — Yours affectionately, 
 
 "C. B. NiCHOLLS." 
 
 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 swal- 
 lowed 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 ^o 
 happy." 
 
 Early on Saturday moriiing, March 3^1 st, 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 alone in the old 
 grey house. 
 
MOURNERS AT HER FUNERAL. 451 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 I HAVE always been much struck with a passage in Mr. Forster'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, solitary, wicked city, to whom he 
 had never forgotten to be kind and charitable." 
 
 This came into my mind when I heard of some of the circum- 
 stances 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 ia the grave to which she was soon to be borne, than 
 among the living. The two mourners, stunned with their great 
 grief, desired not the sympathy of strangers. One member out oi > 
 most of the families in the parish was bidden to the funeral ; and-if''^ 
 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. 
 
 Among those humble friends who passionately grieved over the 
 dead, was a village girl that had been betrayed some little time before, 
 but who had found a holy sister in Charlotte. She had sheltered her 
 with her help, Her counsel, her strengthening words ; had ministered 
 to her needs in her time of trial. Bitter, bitter was the grief of this 
 poor young woman, when she heard that her friend was sick unto 
 death, and deep is her mourning until this day. A blind girl, living 
 
452 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 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 the 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 " Mary " 
 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 difficulty than people have of stronger nerves 
 and better fortunes. All her life was but labour and pain; and she 
 never threw down the burden for the sake of present pleasure. I 
 don't know what use you can make of all I have said. I have written 
 it with the strong desire to obtain appreciation for her. Yet, what 
 does it matter ? She herself appealed to the world's judgment for her 
 use of some of the faculties she had, — not the best, — but still the 
 only ones she could turn to strangers' benefit. They heartily, greedily 
 enjoyed the fruits of her labours, and then found out she was much to 
 be blamed for possessing such faculties. Why ask for a judgment on 
 her from such a world ? " 
 
 But I turn from the critical, unsympathetic public, — ^inclined to 
 judge harshly because they have only seen superficially and not 
 thought deeply. - 1 appeal to that larger and more solemn public, 
 who know how to look with tender humility at faults and errors; how 
 to admire generously extraordinary genius, and how to reverence 
 with warm, fiill hearts all noble virtue. To that pubHc I commit the 
 memory of Charlotte Bronte.