Yes; she was "disillusioned" now, and she had brought back from

Brussels a heart which could never be quite so light, a spirit which

could never again soar so buoyantly, as in those earlier years when

the tree of knowledge was still untasted, and the mystery of life

still unrevealed. This stay in Belgium was, as I have said, the

turning-point in Charlotte Brontë's career, and its true history and

meaning is to be found, not in her "Life" and letters, but in

"Villette," the master-work of her mind, and the revelation of the

most vivid passages in her own heart's history. "I said I disliked

Lucy Snowe," is a remark which Mrs. Gaskell innocently repeats in her

memoir of Charlotte Brontë. One need not be surprised at it. Lucy

Snowe was never meant to be liked--by everybody; but none the less is

Lucy Snowe the truest picture we possess of the real Charlotte Brontë;

whilst not a few of the fortunes which befell this strange heroine are

literal transcripts from the life of her creator. One little incident

in "Villette"--Lucy's impulsive visit to a Roman Catholic

confessor--is taken direct from Charlotte's own experience. During one

of the long lonely holidays in the foreign school, when her mind was

restless and disturbed, her heart heavy, her nerves jarred and

jangled, she fled from the great empty schoolrooms to seek peace in

the street; and she found, not peace perhaps, but sympathy at least,

in the counsels of a priest, seated at the Confessional in a church

into which she wandered, who took pity on the little heretic, and

soothed her troubled spirit without attempting to enmesh it in the

folds of Romanism. It was from experiences such as these, with a

chastened heart and a nature tamed down, though by no means broken,

that she returned to familiar Haworth, to face "the rough realities of

the world."

Rough, indeed, those realities were in her case. Her brother, once the

hope of the family, had now become its burden and its curse; and from

that moment he was to be the prodigal for whom no fatted calf would

ever be killed. Her father was fast losing his eyesight; she and her

sisters were getting on in life, and "something must be done."

Charlotte had returned home, but her heart was still in Brussels, and

the wings of her spirit began to beat impatiently against the cage in

which she found herself imprisoned. It was only the old story. She had

gone out into the world, had tasted strange joys, and drunk deep of

waters the very bitterness of which seemed to endear them to her.

Returning to Haworth she went back a new woman, with tastes and hopes

which it was hard to reconcile with the monotony of life in the

parsonage which had once satisfied her completely.

"If I _could_ leave home I should not be at Haworth," she says soon

after her return. "I know life is passing away, and I am doing nothing,

earning nothing; a very bitter knowledge it is at moments, but I see no

way out of the mist." And then, almost for the first time in her life,

something like a cry of despair goes up from her lips: "Probably, when

I am free to leave home, I shall neither be able to find place nor

employment. Perhaps, too, I shall be quite past the prime of life, my

faculties will be wasted, 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."

But this outburst of personal feeling was exceptional, and was uttered

in one ear only. Within the walls of her home Charlotte again became

the house-mother, busying herself with homely cares, and ever watching

for some opportunity of carrying her plan of school-keeping into

execution. Nor did she allow either the troubles at home, or that

weight at her own heart which she bore in secrecy, to render her

spirit morbid and melancholy. Not a few who have read Mrs. Gaskell's

work labour under the belief that this was the effect that Charlotte

Brontë's trials had upon her. As a matter of fact, however, she was

far too strong, brave, cheerful--one had almost said manly--to give

way to any such selfish repinings. She never was one of those sickly

souls who go about "glooming over the woes of existence, and how

unworthy God's universe is to have so distinguished a resident." Even

when her own sorrows were deepest, and her lot seemed hardest, she

found a lively pleasure in discussing the characters and lots of

others, and expended as much pains and time in analysing the inner

lives of her friends as our sham Byrons are wont to expend upon the

study of their own feelings and emotions. Indeed, of that self-pity

which is so common a characteristic of the young, no trace is to be

found in her correspondence. Let the following letter, hitherto

unpublished, written at the very time when the household clouds were

blackest, speak for her freedom from morbid self-consciousness, as

well as for her hearty interest in the well-being of those around her:

You are a very good girl indeed to send me such a long and

interesting letter. In all that account of the young lady and

gentleman in the railway carriage I recognise your faculty for

observation, which is a rarer gift than you imagine. You ought to

be thankful for it. I never yet met with an individual devoid of

observation whose conversation was interesting, nor with one

possessed of that power in whose society I could not manage to

pass a pleasant hour. I was amused with your allusions to

individuals at ----. I have little doubt of the truth of the

report you mention about Mr. Z---- paying assiduous attention to

----. Whether it will ever come to a match is another thing.

_Money_ would decide that point, as it does most others of a

similar nature. You are perfectly right in saying that Mr. Z----

is more influenced by opinion than he himself suspects. I saw his

lordship in a new light last time I was at ----. Sometimes I could

scarcely believe my ears when I heard the stress he laid on

wealth, appearance, family, and all those advantages which are the

idols of the world. His conversation on marriage (and he talked

much about it) differed in no degree from that of any hackneyed

fortune-hunter, except that with his own peculiar and native

audacity he avowed views and principles which more timid

individuals conceal. Of course I raised no argument against

anything he said. I listened, and laughed inwardly to think how

indignant I should have been eight years since if anyone had

accused Z---- of being a worshipper of Mammon and of Interest.

Indeed, I still believe that the Z---- of ten years ago is not the

Z---- of to-day. The world, with its hardness and selfishness, has

utterly changed him. He thinks himself grown wiser than the

wisest. In a worldly sense he is wise. His feelings have gone

through a process of petrifaction which will prevent them from

ever warring against his interest; but Ichabod! all glory of

principle, and much elevation of character are gone! I learnt

another thing. Fear the smooth side of Z----'s tongue more than

the rough side. He has the art of paying peppery little

compliments, which he seems to bring out with a sort of

difficulty, as if he were not used to that kind of thing, and did

it rather against his will than otherwise. These compliments you

feel disposed to value on account of their seeming rarity. Fudge!

They are at any one's disposal, and are confessedly hollow

blarney.

Still more significant, however, is the following letter, showing so

kindly and careful an interest in the welfare of the friend to whom it

is addressed, even whilst it bears the bitter tidings of a great

household sorrow:

July 31, 1845.

I was glad to get your little packet. It was quite a treasure of

interest to me. I think the intelligence about G---- is cheering.

I have read the lines to Miss ----. They are expressive of the

affectionate feelings of his nature, and are poetical, insomuch as

they are true. Faults in expression, rhythm, metre, were of course

to be expected. All you say about Mr. ---- amused me much. Still,

I cannot put out of my mind one fear, viz. that you should think

too much about him. Faulty as he is, and as you know him to be, he

has still certain qualities which might create an interest in your

mind before you were aware. He has the art of impressing ladies by

something involuntary in his look and manner, exciting in them the

notion that he cares for them, while his words and actions are all

careless, inattentive, and quite uncompromising for himself. It is

only men who have seen much of life and of the world, and who are

become in a measure indifferent to female attractions, that

possess this art. So be on your guard. These are not pleasant or

flattering words, but they are the words of one who has known you

long enough to be indifferent about being temporarily disagreeable,

provided she can be permanently useful.

I got home very well. There was a gentleman in the railroad

carriage whom I recognised by his features immediately as a

foreigner and a Frenchman. So sure was I of it that I ventured to

say to him, "_Monsieur est français, n'est-ce pas_?" He gave a

start of surprise, and answered immediately in his own tongue. He

appeared still more astonished and even puzzled when, after a few

minutes' further conversation, I inquired if he had not passed the

greater part of his life in Germany. He said the surmise was

correct. I guessed it from his speaking French with the German

accent.

It was ten o'clock at night when I got home. I found Branwell ill.

He is so very often, owing to his own fault. I was not therefore

shocked at first. But when Anne informed me of the immediate cause

of his present illness I was very greatly shocked. He had last

Thursday received a note from Mr. ---- sternly dismissing him....

We have had sad work with him since. He thought of nothing but

stunning or drowning his distressed mind. No one in the house

could have rest, and at last we have been obliged to send him from

home for a week with someone to look after him. He has written to

me this morning, and expresses some sense of contrition for his

frantic folly. He promises amendment on his return, but so 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. I cannot now ask Miss ---- or anyone else.

The gloom in the household deepened; but Charlotte was still strong

enough and brave enough to meet the world, to retain her accustomed

interest in her friends, and to discuss as of yore the characters and

lives of those around her. Curious are the glimpses one gets of her

circle of acquaintances at this time. Little did many of those with

whom she was brought in contact think of the keen eyes which were

gazing out at them from under the prominent forehead of the parson's

daughter. Yet not the least interesting feature of her correspondence

is the evidence it affords that she was gradually gaining that

knowledge of character which was afterwards to be lavished upon her

books. A string of extracts from letters hitherto unpublished will

suffice to show how the current of her life and thoughts ran in those

days of domestic darkness, whilst the dawn of her fame was still

hidden in the blackest hour of the night:

I have just read M----'s letters. They are very interesting, and

show the original and vigorous cast of her mind. There is but one

thing I could wish otherwise in them, and that is a certain

tendency to flightiness. It is not safe, it is not wise; and will

often cause her to be misconstrued. Perhaps _flightiness_ is

not the right word; but it is a devil-may-care tone, which I do

not like when it proceeds from under a hat, and still less from

under a bonnet.

I return you Miss ----'s notes with thanks. I always like to read

them. They appear to me so true an index of an amiable mind, and

one not too conscious of its own worth. Beware of awakening in

her this consciousness by undue praise. It is a privilege of

simple-hearted, sensible, but not brilliant people that they can

_be_ and _do_ good without comparing their own thoughts and

actions too closely with those of other people, and thence drawing

strong food for self-appreciation. Talented people almost always

know full well the excellence that is in them.... You ask me if we

are more comfortable. I wish I could say anything favourable; but

how can we be more comfortable so long as Branwell stays at home

and degenerates instead of improving? It has been lately intimated

to him that he would be received again on the same railroad where

he was formerly stationed if he would behave more steadily, but he

refuses to make an effort. He will not work, and at home he is a

drain on every resource, an impediment to all happiness. But

there's no use in complaining.

I thank you again for your last letter, which I found as full or

fuller of interest than either of the preceding ones--it is just

written as I wish you to write to me--not a detail too much. A

correspondence of that sort is the next best thing to actual

conversation, though it must be allowed that between the two there

is a wide gulf still. I imagine your face, voice, presence very

plainly when I read your letters. Still imagination is not

reality, and when I return them to their envelope and put them by

in my desk I feel the difference sensibly enough. My curiosity is

a little piqued about that countess you mention. What is her name?

you have not yet given it. I cannot decide from what you say

whether she is really clever or only eccentric. The two sometimes

go together, but are often seen apart. I generally feel inclined

to fight very shy of eccentricity, and have no small horror of

being thought eccentric myself, by which observation I don't mean

to insinuate that I class myself under the head clever. God knows

a more consummate ass in sundry important points has seldom

browsed the green herb of His bounties than I. O Lord, Nell, I'm

in danger sometimes of falling into self-weariness. I used to say

and to think in former times that X---- would certainly be

married. I am not so sanguine on that point now. It will never

suit her to accept a husband she cannot love, or at least respect,

and it appears there are many chances against her meeting with

such a one under favourable circumstances; besides, from all I can

hear and see, money seems to be regarded as almost the Alpha and

Omega of requisites in a wife. Well, if she is destined to be an

old maid I don't think she will be a repining one. I think she

will find resources in her own mind and disposition which will

help her to get on. As to society, I don't understand much about

it, but from the few glimpses I have had of its machinery it seems

to me to be a very strange, complicated affair indeed, wherein

nature is turned upside down. Your well-bred people appear to me,

figuratively speaking, to walk on their heads, to see everything

the wrong way up--a lie is with them truth, truth a lie, eternal

and tedious botheration is their notion of happiness, sensible

pursuits their _ennui_. But this may be only the view ignorance

takes of what it cannot understand. I refrain from judging them,

therefore, but if I were called upon to _swop_--you know the word,

I suppose--to swop tastes and ideas and feelings with ----, for

instance, I should prefer walking into a good Yorkshire kitchen

fire and concluding the bargain at once by an act of voluntary

combustion.

I shall scribble you a short note about nothing, just to have a

pretext for screwing a letter out of you in return. I was sorry

you did not go to W----, firstly, because you lost the pleasure of

observation and enjoyment; and secondly, because I lost the

second-hand indulgence of hearing your account of what you had

seen. I laughed at the candour with which you give your reason for

wishing to be there. Thou hast an honest soul as ever animated

human carcase, and a clean one, for it is not ashamed of showing

its inmost recesses: only be careful with whom you are frank. Some

would not rightly appreciate the value of your frankness, and

never cast pearls before swine. You are quite right in wishing to

look well in the eyes of those whom you desire to please. It is

natural to desire to appear to advantage (_honest_ not _false_

advantage of course) before people we respect. Long may the power

and the inclination to do so be spared you; long may you look

young and handsome enough to dress in white; and long may you have

a right to feel the consciousness that you look agreeable. I know

you have too much judgment to let an over-dose of vanity spoil the

blessing and turn it into a misfortune. After all though, age will

come on, and it is well you have something better than a nice

face for friends to turn to when that is changed. I hope this

excessively cold weather has not harmed you or _yours_ much. It

has nipped me severely--taken away my appetite for a while, and

given me toothache; in short put me in the ailing condition in

which I have more than once had the honour of making myself such a

nuisance both at B---- and ----. The consequence is that at this

present speaking I look almost old enough to be your mother--gray,

sunk, and withered. To-day, however, it is milder, and I hope soon

to feel better; indeed, I am not _ill_ now, and my toothache is

quite subsided; but I experience a loss of strength and a

deficiency of spirit which would make me a sorry companion to you

or anyone else. I would not be on a visit now for a large sum of

money.

June, 1846.

I hope all the mournful contingencies of death are by this time

removed from ----, and that some little sense of relief is

beginning to be experienced by its wearied inmates. ---- suffered

greatly, I make no doubt; and I trust, and even believe, that his

long sufferings on earth will be taken as sufficient expiation for

his errors. One shudders for him, but it is his relations--his

mother and sisters--whom I truly and permanently pity.

July 10th, 1846.

DEAR ELLEN,--Who gravely asked you whether Miss Brontë was not

going to be married to ----? I scarcely need say that there never

was rumour more unfounded. It puzzles me to think how it could

possibly have originated. A cold, far-away sort of civility, are

the only terms on which I have ever been with Mr. ----. I could

by no means think of mentioning such a rumour to him, even as a

joke. It would make me the laughing-stock of himself and his

fellow-curates, for half a year to come. They regard me as an old

maid; and I regard them, one and all, as highly uninteresting,

narrow, and unattractive specimens of the "coarser sex."

VII.

AUTHORSHIP AND BEREAVEMENT.

The reader has seen that it was not the degradation of Branwell Brontë

which formed the turning-point in Charlotte's life. Mrs. Gaskell,

anxious to support her own conception of what _should have been_

Charlotte's feelings with regard to her brother's ruin, has scarcely

done justice either to herself or to her heroine. Thus she makes use

of a passage in one of the letters quoted in the foregoing chapter,

but in doing so omits what are perhaps the most characteristic words

in it. "He" (Branwell) "has written this morning expressing some sense

of contrition; ... but as long as he remains at home I scarce dare

hope for peace in the house." This is the form in which the passage

appears in the "Biography," whereas Charlotte had written of her

brother's having expressed "contrition for his frantic folly," and of

his having "promised amendment on his return." Mrs. Gaskell could not

bring herself to speak of such flagrant sins as those of which young

Brontë had been guilty under the name of "folly," nor could she

conceive that there was any possibility of amendment on the part of

one who had fallen so low in vice. Moreover, one of her objects was to

punish those who had shared the lad's misconduct, and to whom she

openly attributed not only his ruin but the premature deaths of his

sisters. Thus she felt compelled to take throughout her book a far

deeper and more tragic view of this miserable episode in the Brontë

story than Charlotte herself took. Having read all her letters written

at this period of her life to her two most confidential friends, I am

justified in saying that the impression produced on Charlotte by

Branwell's degrading fall was not so deep as that which was produced

on Mrs. Gaskell, who never saw young Brontë, by the mere recital of

the story. Yet Charlotte, though too brave, healthy, and reasonable in

all things to be utterly weighed down by the fact that her brother had

fallen a victim to loathsome vice, was far from being insensible to

the sadness and shamefulness of his condition. What she thought of it

she has herself told the world in the story of "The Professor" (p.

198):

Limited as had yet been my experience of life, I had once had the

opportunity of contemplating near at hand an example of the

results produced by a course of interesting and romantic domestic

treachery. No golden halo of fiction was about this example; I saw

it bare and real, and it was very loathsome. I saw a mind degraded

by the practice of mean subterfuge, by the habit of perfidious

deception, and a body depraved by the infectious influence of the

vice-polluted soul. I had suffered much from the forced and

prolonged view of this spectacle; those sufferings I did not now

regret, for their simple recollection acted as a most wholesome

antidote to temptation. They had inscribed on my reason the

conviction that unlawful pleasure, trenching on another's rights,

is delusive and envenomed pleasure--its hollowness disappoints at

the time, its poison cruelly tortures afterwards, its effects

deprave for ever.

Upon the gentle and sensitive mind of Anne Brontë the effect of

Branwell's fall was such as Mrs. Gaskell depicts. She was literally

broken down by the grief she suffered in seeing her brother's ruin;

but Charlotte and Emily were of stronger fibre than their sister, and

their predominant feeling, as expressed in their letters, is one of

sheer disgust at their brother's weakness, and of indignation against

all who had in any way assisted in his downfall. This may not be

consistent with the popular conception of Charlotte's character, but

it is strictly true.

We must then dismiss from our minds the notion that the brother's fate

exercised that paramount influence over the sisters' lives which seems

to be believed. Yet, as we have seen, there was a very strong though

hidden influence working in Charlotte during those years in which

their home was darkened by Branwell's presence. Her yearning for

Brussels and the life that now seemed like a vanished dream, continued

almost as strong as ever. At Haworth everything was dull, commonplace,

monotonous. The school-keeping scheme had failed; poverty and

obscurity seemed henceforth to be the appointed lot of all the

sisters. Even the source of intercourse with friends was almost

entirely cut off; for Charlotte could not bear the shame of exposing

the prodigal of the family to the gaze of strangers. It was at this

time, and in the mood described in the letters quoted in the preceding

chapter, that she took up her pen, and sought to escape from the

narrow and sordid cares which environed her by a flight into the

region of poetry. She had been accustomed from childhood to write

verses, few of which as yet had passed the limits of mediocrity. Now,

with all that heart-history through which she had passed at Brussels

weighing upon her, she began to write again, moved by a stronger

impulse, stirred by deeper thoughts than any she had known before. In

this secret exercise of her faculties she found relief and enjoyment;

her letters to her friend showed that her mind was regaining its tone,

and the dreary out-look from "the hills of Judæa" at Haworth began to

brighten. It was a great day in the lives of all the sisters when

Charlotte accidentally discovered that Emily also had dared to "commit

her soul to paper." The younger sister was keenly troubled when

Charlotte made the discovery, for her poems had been written in

absolute secrecy. But mutual confessions hastened her reconcilement.

Charlotte produced her own poems, and then Anne also, blushing as was

her wont, poured some hidden treasures of the same kind into the

eldest sister's lap. So it came to pass that in 1846, unknown to their

nearest friends, they presented to the world--at their own cost and

risk, poor souls!--that thin volume of poetry "by Currer, Ellis, and

Acton Bell," now almost forgotten, the merits of which few readers

have recognised and few critics proclaimed.

Strong, calm, sincere, most of these poems are; not the spasmodic or

frothy outpourings of Byron-stricken girls; not even mere echoes,

however skilful, of the grand music of the masters. When we dip into

the pages of the book, we see that these women write because they

feel. They write because they have something to say; they write not

for the world, but for themselves, each sister wrapping her own secret

within her own soul. Strangely enough, it is not Charlotte who carries

off the palm in these poems. Verse seems to have been too narrow for

the limits of her genius; she could not soar as she desired to do

within the self-imposed restraints of rhythm, rhyme, and metre. Here

and there, it is true, we come upon lines which flash upon us with the

brilliant light of genius; but, upon the whole, we need not wonder

that Currer Bell achieved no reputation as a poet. Nor is Anne to be

counted among great singers. Sweet, indeed her verses are, radiant

with the tenderness, resignation, and gentle humility which were the

prominent features of her character. One or two of her little poems

are now included in popular collections of hymns used in Yorkshire

churches; but, as a rule, her compositions lack the vigorous life

which belongs to those of her sisters. It is Emily who takes the first

place in this volume. Some of her poems have a lyrical beauty which

haunts the mind ever after it has become acquainted with them; others

have a passionate emphasis, a depth of meaning, an intensity and

gravity which are startling when we know who the singer is, and which

furnish a key to many passages in "Wuthering Heights" which the world

shudders at and hastily passes by. Such lines as these ought to make

the name of Emily Brontë far more familiar than it is to the students

of our modern English literature:

Death! that struck when I was most confiding

In my certain faith of joy to be--

Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing

From the fresh root of Eternity!

Leaves upon Time's branch were growing brightly,

Full of sap and full of silver dew;

Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;

Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew.

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;

Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride;

But within its parent's kindly bosom

Flowed for ever Life's restoring tide.

Little mourned I for the parted gladness,

For the vacant nest and silent song--

Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness,

Whispering, "Winter will not linger long!"

And behold! with tenfold increase blessing,

Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray;

Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,

Lavished glory on that second May!

High it rose--no winged grief could sweep it;

Sin was scared to distance by its shine;

Love, and its own life, had power to keep it

From all wrong--from every blight but thine,

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish;

Evening's gentle air may still restore--

No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish--

Time, for me, must never blossom more!

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish

Where that perished sapling used to be;

Thus at least its mouldering corpse will nourish

That from which it sprung--Eternity.

The little book was a failure. This first flight ended only in

discomfiture; and Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell were once more left to

face the realities of life in Haworth parsonage, uncheered by literary

success. This was in the summer and autumn of 1846; about which time

they were compelled to think of cares which came even nearer home than

the failure of their volume of poems. Their father's eyesight was now

almost gone, and all their thoughts were centred upon the operation

which was to restore it. It was to Manchester that Mr. Brontë was

taken by his daughters to undergo this operation. Many of the letters

which were written by Charlotte at this period have already been

published; but the two which I now quote are new, and they serve to

show what were the narrow cares and anxieties which nipped the sisters

at this eventful crisis in their lives:

September 22nd, 1846.

DEAR ELLEN,--I have nothing new to tell you, except that papa

continues to do well, though the process of recovery appears to me

very tedious. I daresay it will yet be many weeks before his sight

is completely restored; yet every time Mr. Wilson comes, he

expresses his satisfaction at the perfect success of the operation,

and assures me papa will, ere long, be able both to read and write.

He is still a prisoner in his darkened room, into which, however,

a little more light is admitted than formerly. The nurse goes

to-day--her departure will certainly be a relief, though she is, I

daresay, not the worst of her class.

September 29th, 1846.

DEAR ELLEN,--When I wrote to you last, our return was uncertain

indeed, but Mr. Wilson was called away to Scotland; his absence set

us at liberty. I hastened our departure, and now we are at home.

Papa is daily gaining strength. He cannot yet exercise his sight

much, but it improves, and I have no doubt will continue to do so.

I feel truly thankful for the good insured and the evil exempted

during our absence. What you say about ---- grieves me much, and

surprises me too. I know well the malaria of ----, it is an

abominable smell of gas. I was sick from it ten times a day while I

stayed there. That they should hesitate to leave from scruples

about furnishing new houses, provokes and amazes me. Is not the

furniture they have very decent? The inconsistency of human beings

passes belief. I wonder what their sister would say to them, if

they told her that tale? She sits on a wooden stool without a back,

in a log-house without a carpet, and neither is degraded nor thinks

herself degraded by such poor accommodation.

[Illustration: HAWORTH PARSONAGE AND GRAVEYARD.]

It was about the time when this journey to Manchester was first

projected, and very shortly after they had become convinced that their

poems were a failure, that the sisters embarked upon another and more

important literary venture. The pen once taken up could not be laid

down. By poetry they had only lost money; but the idea had occurred to

them that by prose-writing money was to be made. At any rate, in

telling the stories of imaginary people, in opening their hearts

freely upon all those subjects on which they had thought deeply in

their secluded lives, they would find relief from the solitude of

Haworth. Each of the three accordingly began to write a novel. The

stories were commenced simultaneously, after a long consultation, in

which the outlines of the plots, and even the names of the different

characters, were settled. How one must wish that some record of that

strange literary council had been preserved! Charlotte, in after life,

spoke always tenderly, lovingly, almost reverentially, of the days in

which she and her well-beloved sisters were engaged in settling the

plan and style of their respective romances. That time seemed sacred

to her, and though she learnt to smile at the illusions under which

the work was begun, and could see clearly enough the errors and

crudities of thought and method which all three displayed, she never

allowed any one in her presence to question the genius of Emily and

Anne, or to ridicule the prosaic and business-like fashion in which

the novel-writing was undertaken by the three sisters. Returning to

the old customs of their childhood, they sat round the table of their

sitting-room in the parsonage, each busy with her pen. No trace of

their occupation at this time is to be found in their letters; and on

the rare occasions on which the father or the brother came into their

room, nothing was said as to the work that was going on. The

novel-writing, like the writing and publishing of the poems, was still

kept profoundly secret. "There is no gentleman of the name in this

parish," said Mr. Brontë to the village postman, when the latter

ventured to ask who the Mr. Currer Bell could be for whom letters came

so frequently from London. But every night the three sisters, as they

paced the barely-furnished room, or strained their eyes across the

tombstones, to the spot where the weather-stained church-tower rose

from a bank of nettles, told each other what the work of the day had

been, and criticised each other's labours with the freedom of that

perfect love which casts out all fear of misconception. And here I may

interpolate two letters written whilst the novel-writing was in

progress, which are in some respects not altogether insignificant:

DEAR NELL,--Your last letter both amused and edified me

exceedingly. I could not but laugh at your account of the fall in

B----, yet I should by no means have liked to have made a third

party in that exhibition. I have endured one fall in your company,

and undergone one of your ill-timed laughs, and don't wish to

repeat my experience. Allow me to compliment you on the skill with

which you can seem to give an explanation, without enlightening one

one whit on the question asked. I know no more about Miss R.'s

superstition now, than I did before. What is the superstition?--about

a dead body? And what is the inference drawn? Do you remember my

telling you--or did I ever tell you--about that wretched and most

criminal Mr. J. S.? After running an infamous career of vice, both

in England and France, abandoning his wife to disease and total

destitution in Manchester, with two children and without a

farthing, in a strange lodging-house? Yesterday evening Martha

came upstairs to say that a woman--"rather lady-like," as she

said--wished to speak to me in the kitchen. I went down. There

stood Mrs. S., pale and worn, but still interesting-looking, and

cleanly and neatly dressed, as was her little girl who was with

her. I kissed her heartily. I could almost have cried to see her,

for I had pitied her with my whole soul when I heard of her

undeserved sufferings, agonies, and physical degradation. She took

tea with us, stayed about two hours, and frankly entered into the

narrative of her appalling distresses. Her constitution has

triumphed over her illness; and her excellent sense, her activity,

and perseverance have enabled her to regain a decent position in

society, and to procure a respectable maintenance for herself and

her children. She keeps a lodging-house in a very eligible part of

the suburbs of ---- (which I know), and is doing very well. She

does not know where Mr. S. is, and of course can never more endure

to see him. She is now staying a few days at E----, with the ----s,

who I believe have been all along very kind to her, and the

circumstance is greatly to their credit.

I wish to know whether about Whitsuntide would suit you for coming

to Haworth. We often have fine weather just then. At least I

remember last year it was very beautiful at that season. Winter

seems to have returned with severity on us at present, consequently

we are all in the full enjoyment of a cold. Much blowing of noses

is heard, and much making of gruel goes on in the house. How are

you all?

May 12th, 1847.

DEAR ELLEN,--We shall all be glad to see you on the Thursday or

Friday of next week, whichever day will suit you best. About what

time will you be likely to get here, and how will you come--by

coach to Keighley, or by a gig all the way to Haworth? There must

be no impediments now. I could not do with them; I want very much

to see you. I hope you will be decently comfortable while you stay.

Branwell is quieter now, and for a good reason. He has got to the

end of a considerable sum of money, of which he became possessed in

the spring, and consequently is obliged to restrict himself in some

degree. You must expect to find him weaker in mind, and the

complete rake in appearance. I have no apprehension of his being at

all uncivil to you, on the contrary he will be as smooth as oil.

I pray for fine weather, that we may be able to get out while you

stay. Good-bye for the present. Prepare for much dulness and

monotony. Give my love to all at B----.

Is it needful to tell how the three stories--"The Professor,"

"Wuthering Heights," and "Agnes Grey"--are sent forth at last from the

little station at Keighley, to fare as best they may in that unknown

London which is still an ideal city to the sisters, peopled not with

ordinary human beings, but with creatures of some strangely-different

order? Can any one be ignorant of the weary months which passed whilst

"The Professor" was going from hand to hand, and the stories written

by Emily and Anne were waiting in a publisher's desk until they could

be given to the world on the publisher's own terms? Charlotte had

failed, but the brave heart was not to be baffled. No sooner had the

last page of "The Professor" been finished than the first page of

"Jane Eyre" was begun. The whole of that wondrous story passed through

the author's busy brain whilst the life around her was clad in these

sombre hues, and disappointment, affliction, and gloomy forebodings

were her daily companions. The decisive rejection of her first tale by

Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co. had been accompanied by some kindly

words of advice; so it is to that firm that she now entrusts the

completed manuscript of "Jane Eyre." The result has already been told.

On August 24, 1847, the story is sent from Leeds to London; and before

the year is out, all England is ringing with the praises of the novel

and its author.

Need I defend the sisters from the charge sometimes brought against

them that they were unfaithful to their friends in not taking them

into their confidence? Surely not. They had pledged themselves to each

other that the secret should be sternly guarded as something sacred,

kept even from those of their own household. They were not working for

fame; for again and again they give proof that personal fame is the

last thing to which they aspire. But they had found their true

vocation; the call to work was irresistible; they had obeyed it, and

all that they sought now was to leave their work to speak for itself,

dissevered absolutely from the humble personality of the authors.

In a letter from Anne Brontë, written in January, 1848, at which time

the literary quidnuncs both of England and America were eagerly

discussing contradictory theories as to the authorship of "Jane Eyre,"

and of the two other stories which had appeared from the pens of Ellis

and Acton Bell, I find the following passage: "I have no news to tell

you, for we have been nowhere, seen no one, and done nothing (to

_speak_ of) since you were here, and yet we contrive to be busy

from morning till night." The gentle and scrupulously conscientious

girl, whilst hiding the secret from her friend, cannot violate the

truth even by a hairbreadth. The italics are her own. Nothing _that

can be spoken of_ has been done. The friend had her own suspicions.

Staying in a southern house for the winter, the new novel about which

everybody was talking was produced, fresh from town. One of the guests

was deputed to read it aloud, and before she had proceeded far

Charlotte Brontë's schoolfellow had pierced the secret of the

authorship. Three months before, Charlotte had been spending a few

days at Miss N----'s house, and had openly corrected the proof-sheets

of the story in the presence of her hostess; but she had given the

latter no encouragement to speak to her on the subject, and nothing

had been said. Now, however, in the surprise of the moment, Miss N----

told the company that this must have been written by Miss Brontë; and

astute friends at once advised her not to mention the fact that she

knew the author of "Jane Eyre" to any one, as her acquaintance with

such a person would be regarded as a reflection on her own character!

When Charlotte was challenged by her friend, she uttered stormy

denials in general terms, which carried a complete confirmation of the

truth; and when, in the spring of 1848, Miss N---- visited Haworth,

full confession was made, and the poems brought forth and shown to

her, in addition to the stories.

Those who read Charlotte Brontë's letters will see that even before

this avowal of her flight in authorship there is a distinct change in

their tone. Not that she is less affectionate towards her early

friend, or that she shows the smallest abatement of her interest in

the fortunes of her old companions. On the contrary, it would almost

seem as though the great event, which had altered the current of her

life, had only served to bind her more closely than before to those

whom she had known and loved in her obscurity. But there is a

perceptible growth of power and independence in her mode of handling

the topics, often trivial enough in themselves, which arise in any

prolonged correspondence, which shows how much her mind had grown, how

greatly her views had been enlarged, by the intellectual labours

through which she had passed. The following was the last letter

written by her to her schoolfellow whilst the authorship of "Jane

Eyre" was still a secret, and it will, I think, bear out what I have

said:

April 25th, 1848.

I was not at all surprised at the contents of your note. Indeed,

what part of it was new to us? V---- has his good and bad side,

like most others. There is his own original nature, and there are

the alterations the world has made in him. Meantime, why do B----

and G---- trouble themselves with matching him? Let him, in God's

name, court half the country-side and marry the other half, if

such procedure seem good in his eyes, and let him do it all in

quietness. He has his own botherations, no doubt; it does not seem

to be such very easy work getting married, even for a man, since

it is necessary to make up to so many ladies. More tranquil are

those who have settled their bargain with celibacy. I like Q----'s

letters more and more. Her goodness is indeed better than mere

talent. I fancy she will never be married, but the amiability of

her character will give her comfort. To be sure, one has only her

letters to judge from, and letters often deceive; but hers seem so

artless and unaffected. Still, were I in your place I should feel

uneasy in the midst of this correspondence. Does a doubt of mutual

satisfaction in case you should one day meet never torment you?...

Anne says it pleases her to think that you have kept her little

drawing. She would rather have done it for you than for a

stranger.

Very quietly and sedately did "Currer Bell" take her sudden change of

fortune. She corresponded freely with her publishers, and with the

critics who had written to her concerning her book; she told her father

the secret of her authorship, and exhibited to him the draft which was

the substantial recompense of her labours; but in her letters to her

friend no difference of tone is to be detected. Success was very sweet

to her, as we know; but she bore her honours meekly, betraying nothing

of the gratified ambition which must have filled her soul. She had not

even revealed her identity to the publisher till, by an accident, she

became aware of the rumour that the writer had satirised Mr. Thackeray

under the character of Rochester, and had even obtruded on the sorrows

of his private life. Shocked at this supposition, she went to London by

the night train, accompanied by Anne, and having breakfasted at the

station, walked to the establishment in Cornhill, where she had much

difficulty in penetrating to the head of the house, having stated that

he would not know her by her name. At last he came into the shop,

saying, with some annoyance: "Young woman, what can you want with me?"

"Sir, we have come up from Yorkshire. I wish to speak to you privately.

I wrote 'Jane Eyre.'" "_You_ wrote 'Jane Eyre!'" cried the delighted

publisher; and taking them into his office, insisted on their coming to

the house of his mother, who would take every care of them. Charlotte

related afterwards the strange contrast between the desolate waiting at

the station in the early morning, and their loneliness in the crowd of

the great city, and finding themselves in the evening seated among the

brilliant company at the Opera House, listening to the performance of

Jenny Lind.

But her thoughts were soon turned from her literary triumphs. Branwell,

who had been so long the dark shadow in their "humble home," was taken

from them without any lengthened preliminary warning. Sharing to the

full the eccentricity of the family, he resolved to die as nobody else

had ever died before; and when the last agony came on he rose to his

feet, as though proudly defying death itself to do its worst, and

expired standing. In the following letter, hitherto unpublished, to one

of her friends--not to her old schoolfellow--Charlotte thus speaks of

the last act in the tragedy of her brother's life:

Haworth, October 14th, 1848.

The event to which you allude came upon us indeed with startling

suddenness, and was a severe shock to us all. My poor brother has

long had a shaken constitution, and during the summer his appetite

had been diminished and he had seemed weaker; but neither we, nor

himself, nor any medical man who was consulted on his case,

thought it one of immediate danger: he was out of doors two days

before his death, and was only confined to bed one single day. I

thank you for your kind sympathy. Many, under the circumstances,

would think our loss rather a relief than otherwise; in truth, we

must acknowledge, in all humility and gratitude, that God has

greatly tempered judgment with mercy; but yet, as you doubtless

know from experience, the last earthly separation cannot take

place between near relations without the keenest pangs on the part

of the survivors. Every wrong and sin is forgotten then; pity and

grief share the heart and the memory between them. Yet we are not

without comfort in our affliction. A most propitious change marked

the few last days of poor Branwell's life; his demeanour, his

language, his sentiments, were all singularly altered and

softened, and this change could not be owing to the fear of death,

for within half an hour of his decease he seemed unconscious of

danger. In God's hands we leave him! He sees not as man sees.

Papa, I am thankful to say, has borne the event pretty well. His

distress was great at first. To lose an only son is no ordinary

trial. But his physical strength has not hitherto failed him, and

he has now in a great measure recovered his mental composure; my

dear sisters are pretty well also. Unfortunately illness attacked

me at the crisis, when strength was most needed; I bore up for a

day or two, hoping to be better, but got worse; fever, sickness,

total loss of appetite and internal pain were the symptoms. The

doctor pronounced it to be bilious fever--but I think it must have

been in a mitigated form; it yielded to medicine and care in a few

days; I was only confined to my bed a week, and am, I trust,

nearly well now. I felt it a grievous thing to be incapacitated

from action and effort at a time when action and effort were most

called for. The past month seems an overclouded period in my life.

Alas! the brave woman who felt it to be "a grievous thing" that she

could not bear her full share of the family burden, little knew how

terribly that burden was to be increased, how much heavier and blacker

were the clouds which awaited her than any through which she had yet

passed. The storm which even then was gathering upon her path was one

which no sunshine of fame or prosperity could dissipate. The one to

whom Charlotte's heart had always clung most fondly, the sister who

had been nearest to her in age and nearest to her in affection, Emily,

the brilliant but ill-fated child of genius, began to fade. "She had

never," says Charlotte, speaking in the solitude of her fame,

"lingered over any task in her life, and she did not linger now." Yet

the quick decline of Emily Brontë is one of the saddest of all the sad

features of the story. I have spoken of her reserve. So intense was it

that when dying she refused to admit even to her own sisters that she

was ill. They saw her fading before their eyes; they knew that the

grave was yawning at her feet; and yet they dared not offer her any

attention such as an invalid needed, and such as they were longing to

bestow upon her. It was the cruellest torture of Charlotte's life.

During the brief period of Emily's illness, her sister writes as

follows to her friend:

I mentioned your coming to Emily as a mere suggestion, with the

faint hope that the prospect might cheer her, as she really

esteems you perhaps more than any other person out of this house.

I found, however, it would not do; any, the slightest excitement

or putting out of the way, is not to be thought of, and indeed I

do not think the journey in this unsettled weather, with the walk

from Keighley and back, at all advisable for yourself. Yet I

should have liked to see you, and so would Anne. Emily continues

much the same: yesterday I thought her a little better, but to-day

she is not so well. I hope still, for I _must_ hope; she is as dear

to me as life. If I let the faintness of despair reach my heart I

shall become worthless. The attack was, I believe, in the first

place, inflammation of the lungs; it ought to have been met

promptly in time; but she would take no care, use no means, she

is too intractable. I _our_ wish I knew her state and feelings

more clearly. The fever is not so high as it was, but the pain in

the side, the cough, the emaciation are there still.

The days went by in the parsonage, slowly, solemnly, each bringing

some fresh burden of sorrow to the broken hearts of Charlotte and

Anne. Emily's resolute spirit was unbending to the last. Day after day

she refused to own that she was ill, refused to take rest or medicine

or stimulants; compelled her trembling hands to labour as of old. And

so came the bitter morning in December, the story of which has been

told by Mrs. Gaskell with simple pathos, when she "arose and dressed

herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for

herself," even going on with her sewing as at any time during the

years past; until suddenly she laid the unfinished work aside,

whispered faintly to her sister: "If you send for a doctor I will see

him now," and in two hours passed quietly away.

The broken father, supported on either side by his surviving

daughters, followed Emily to her grave in the old church. There was

one other mourner--the fierce old dog whom she had loved better almost

than any human being.

Yes--says Charlotte, writing to her friend--there is no Emily in

time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor wasted mortal

frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at

present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her

suffer is over. 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.

It was in the very month of December, 1848, when Charlotte passed

through this fierce ordeal, and wrote these tender words of love and

resignation, that the _Quarterly Review_ denounced her as an improper

woman, who "for some sufficient reason" had forfeited the society of

her sex!

Terrible was the storm of death which in three short months swept off

two of the little household at Haworth; but it had not even yet

exhausted all its fury. Scarcely had Emily been laid in the grave than

Anne, the youngest and gentlest of the three sisters, began to fade.

Very slowly did she droop. The winter passed away, and the spring came

with a glimmer of hope; but the following unpublished letter, written

on the 16th of May, shows with what fears Charlotte set forth on that

visit to Scarborough which her sister insisted upon undertaking as a

last resource:

Next Wednesday is the day fixed for our departure; Ellen

accompanies us at her own kind and friendly wish. I would not

refuse her society, but dared not urge her to go, for I have

little hope that the excursion will be one of pleasure or benefit

to those engaged in it. Anne is extremely weak. She herself has a

fixed impression that the sea-air will give her a chance of

regaining strength. That chance therefore she must have. Having

resolved to try the experiment, misgivings are useless, and yet

when I look at her misgivings will rise. She is more emaciated

than Emily was at the very last, her breath scarcely serves her to

mount the stairs, however slowly. She sleeps very little at night,

and often passes most of the forenoon in a semi-lethargic state.

Still she is up all day, and even goes out a little when it is

fine. Fresh air usually acts as a temporary stimulus, but its

reviving power diminishes.

I am indebted to the faithful friend and companion to whom allusion is

made above, for the following account of the sad journey to

Scarborough, and of its tragic end:

On our way to Scarborough we stopped at York, and after a rest at

the George Hotel, and partaking of dinner, which she enjoyed, Anne

went out in a bath-chair, and made purchases, along with

Charlotte, of bonnets and dresses, besides visiting the minister.

The morning after her arrival at Scarborough, she insisted on

going to the baths, and would be left there with only the

attendant in charge. She walked back alone to her lodgings, but

fell exhausted as she reached the garden-gate. She never named

this, but it was discovered afterwards. The same day she had a

drive in a donkey carriage, and talked with the boy-driver on

kindness to animals. On Sunday she wanted again to be left alone,

and for us to go to church. Finding we would not leave her, she

begged that she might go out, and we walked down towards the

saloon, she resting half way, and sending us on with the excuse

that she wanted us to see the place, this being _our_ first

visit, though not hers. In the evening, after again asking us to

go to church, she sat by the sitting-room window, enjoying a very

glorious sunset. Next morning (the day she died) she rose by seven

o'clock and dressed herself, refusing all assistance. She was the

first of the little party to be ready to go downstairs; but when

she reached the head of the stairs, she felt fearful of

descending. Charlotte went to her and discovered this. I fancying

there was some difficulty, left my room to see what it was, when

Anne smilingly told me she felt afraid of the steps downward. I

immediately said: "Let me try to carry you;" she looked pleased,

but feared for me. Charlotte was angry at the idea, and greatly

distressed, I could see, at this new evidence of Anne's weakness.

Charlotte was at last persuaded to go to her room and leave us. I

then went a step or two below Anne, and begged her to put her arms

round my neck, and I said: "I will carry you like a baby." She

still feared, but on my promising to put her down if I could not

do it, she consented to trust herself to me. Strength seemed to be

given for the effort, but on reaching the foot of the stairs, poor

Anne's head fell like a leaden weight upon the top of mine. The

shock was terrible, for I felt it could only be death that was

coming. I just managed to bear her to the front of her easy-chair

and drop her into it, falling myself on my knees before her, very

miserable at the fact, and letting her fall at last, though it

was into her chair. She was shaken, but she put out her arms to

comfort me, and said: "You know it could not be helped, you did

your best." After this she sat at the breakfast-table and partook

of a basin of boiled milk prepared for her. As 11 A.M. approached,

she wondered if she could be conveyed home in time to die there. At

2 P.M. death had come, and left only her beautiful form in the

sweetest peace.

She rendered up her soul with that sweetness and resignation of

spirit which had adorned her throughout her brief life, even in

the last hour crying: "Take courage, Charlotte, take courage!" as

she bade farewell to the sister who was left.

Before me lie the few letters which remain of Emily and Anne.

There is little in them worth preserving. Both make reference to

the fact that Charlotte is the great correspondent of the family,

and that their brief and uninteresting epistles can have no charm

for one who is constantly receiving letters from her. Yet that

modest reserve which distinguished the greatest of the three is

plainly visible in what little remains of the correspondence of

the others. They had discovered before their death the real power

that lay within them; they had just experienced the joy which

comes from the exercise of this power; they had looked forward to

a future which should be sunny and prosperous, as no other part of

their lives of toil and patient endurance had been. Suddenly death

had confronted them, and they recognised the fact that they must

leave their work undone. Each faced the dread enemy in her own

way, but neither shrank even from that blow. Emily's proud spirit

refused to be conquered, and, as we have seen, up to the last

agony she carried herself as one sternly indifferent to the

weaknesses of the flesh, including that final weakness which must

conquer all of us in the end. Anne found consolation, pure and

deep, in her religious faith, and she died cheerfully in the firm

belief that she was but entering upon that fuller life which lay

beyond the grave. The one was defiant, the other resigned; but

courage and fortitude were shown by each in accordance with her

own special idiosyncrasy.

VIII.

"SHIRLEY."

Charlotte went back from Scarborough to Haworth alone. Her father met

her with unwonted demonstrations of affection, and she "tried to be

glad" that she was once more under the familiar roof. "But this time

joy was not to be the sensation." Yet the courage which had held her

sisters to the end supported her amid the pangs of loneliness and

bereavement. Even now there was no bitterness, no morbid gloom in the

heart which had suffered so keenly. Quietly but resolutely setting

aside her own sorrow, refusing all the invitations of her friend to

seek temporary relief in change of scene, she sat down to complete the

story which was intended to tell the world what the lost Emily had

seemed to be in the eyes of her fond sister. By herself, in the room

in which a short year ago three happy sisters had worked together,

within the walls which could never again echo with the old voices, or

walking on the moors, which would never more be trodden by the firm,

elastic step of Emily, she composed the brilliant story of

"Shirley"--the brightest and healthiest of her works. As she writes

she sometimes sends forth messages to those who love her, which tell

us of the spirit of the hero or the martyr burning within the frail

frame of the solitary woman. "Submission, courage, exertion when

practicable--these seem to be the weapons with which we must fight

life's long battle;" and that these are no mere words she proves with

all her accustomed honesty and sincerity, by acting up to them to the

very letter. But at times the burden presses upon her till it is

almost past endurance. Strangely enough, it is a comparative trifle,

as the world counts it, the illness of a servant, that occasions her

fiercest outburst of open grief:

You have to fight your way through labour and difficulty at home,

it appears, but I am truly glad now you did not come to Haworth.

As matters have turned out you would have found only discomfort

and gloom. Both Tabby and Martha are at this moment ill in bed.

Martha's illness has been most serious. She was seized with

internal inflammation ten days ago; Tabby's lame leg has broken

out, she cannot stand or walk. I have one of Martha's sisters to

help me, and her mother comes up sometimes. There was one day last

week when I fairly broke down for ten minutes, and sat down and

cried like a fool. Martha's illness was at its height; a cry from

Tabby had called me into the kitchen, and I had found her laid on

the floor, her head under the kitchen-grate. She had fallen from

her chair in attempting to rise. Papa had just been declaring that

Martha was in imminent danger; I was myself depressed with

headache and sickness that day; I hardly knew what to do or where

to turn. Thank God, Martha is now convalescent; Tabby, I trust,

will be better soon. Papa is pretty well. I have the satisfaction

of knowing that my publishers are delighted with what I sent

them--this supports me, but life is a battle. May we _all_ be

enabled to fight it well.

This letter is dated September 24, 1849, at which time "Shirley" is

written, and in the hands of her publishers. She has painted the

character of Emily in that of Shirley herself; and her friend Ellen is

shadowed forth to the world in the person of Caroline Helston. When

the book, with its vivid pictures of Yorkshire life at the beginning

of the century, and its masterly sketches of characters as real as

those which Shakespeare brings upon the stage, is published, there is

but one outcry of praise, even from the critics who were so eager to

condemn "Jane Eyre." Up to this point she had preserved her anonymity,

but now she is discovered, and her admirers in London persuade her at

last to visit them, and make acquaintance with her peers in the

Republic of Letters, the men and women whose names were household

words in Haworth Parsonage long before "Currer Bell" had made her

first modest appeal to the world.

[Illustration: THE "FIELD HEAD" OF SHIRLEY.]

A passage from one of the following letters, written during this first

sojourn in London, has already been published; but it will well bear

reprinting:

December, 1849.

I have just remembered that as you do not know my address you

cannot write to me till you get it. I came to this big Babylon

last Thursday, and have been in what seems to me a sort of whirl

ever since; for changes, scenes, and stimulus, which would be a

trifle to others, are much to me. I found when I mentioned to Mr.

---- my plan of going to Dr. ----'s it would not do at all. He

would have been seriously hurt: he made his mother write to me,

and thus I was persuaded to make my principal stay at his house.

So far I have found no reason to regret this decision. Mrs. ----

received me at first like one who has had the strictest orders to

be scrupulously attentive. I had fire in my bedroom evening and

morning, two wax candles, &c., and Mrs. ---- and her daughters

seemed to look on me with a mixture of respect and alarm. But all

this is changed; that is to say, the attention and politeness

continue as great as ever, but the alarm and estrangement are

quite gone; she treats me as if she liked me, and I begin to like

her much. Kindness is a potent heart-winner. I had not judged too

favourably of ---- on a first impression--he pleases me much: I

like him better as a son and brother than as a man of business.

Mr. W---- too is really most gentlemanly and well-informed; his

weak points he certainly has, but these are not seen in society.

Mr. X---- (the little man) has again shown his parts. Of him I

have not yet come to a clear decision. Abilities he has, for he

rules his firm and keeps forty young men under strict control by

his iron will. His young superior likes him, which, to speak the

truth, is more than I do at present. In fact, I suspect that he is

of the Helston order of men--rigid, despotic, and self-willed. He

tries to be very kind, and even to express sympathy sometimes, and

he does not manage it. He has a determined, dreadful nose in the

middle of his face, which, when poked into my countenance, cuts

into my soul like iron. Still he is horribly intelligent, quick,

searching, sagacious, and with a memory of relentless tenacity: to

turn to--after him is to turn from granite to easy down or warm

fur. I have seen Thackeray.

As to being happy, I am under scenes and circumstances of

excitement, but I suffer acute pain sometimes--mental pain, I

mean. At the moment Mr. Thackeray presented himself I was

thoroughly faint from inanition, having eaten nothing since a very

slight breakfast, and it was then seven o'clock in the evening.

Excitement and exhaustion together made savage work of me that

evening. What he thought of me I cannot tell. This evening I am

going to meet Miss Martineau; she has written to me most kindly;

she knows me only as Currer Bell; I am going alone; how I shall

get on I do not know. If Mrs. ---- were not kind, I should

sometimes be miserable; but she treats me almost affectionately,

her attentions never flag. I have seen many things; I hope some

day to tell you what. Yesterday I went over the new Houses of

Parliament with Mr. ----. An attack of rheumatic fever has kept

poor Mr. X---- out of the way since I wrote last. I am sorry for

_his_ sake. It grows quite dark. I must stop. I shall not stay in

London a day longer than I first intended. On those points I form

my resolutions, and will not be shaken. The thundering _Times_ has

attacked me savagely.

The following letters (with one exception not previously published)

belong to the spring of 1850, when Charlotte was at home again,

engaged in attending to her father and to the household cares which

shared her attention with literary work and anxieties. The first,

which refers exclusively to her visit to London, was addressed to one

of her old friends in Yorkshire:

Ellen it seems told you that I spent a fortnight in London last

December. They wished me very much to stay a month, alleging that

I should in that time be able to secure a complete circle of

acquaintance, but I found a fortnight of such excitement quite

enough. The whole day was usually devoted to sight-seeing, and

often the evening was spent in society; it was more than I could

bear for any length of time. On one occasion I met a party of my

critics--seven of them. Some of them had been my bitter foes in

print, but they were prodigiously civil face to face. These

gentlemen seemed infinitely grander, more pompous, dashing, showy,

than the few authors I saw. Mr. Thackeray, for example, is a man

of very quiet, simple demeanour; he is, however, looked upon with

some awe and even distrust. His conversation is very peculiar, too

perverse to be pleasant. It was proposed to me to see Charles

Dickens, Lady Morgan, Mesdames Trollope, Gore, and some others;

but I was aware these introductions would bring a degree of

notoriety I was not disposed to encounter; I declined therefore

with thanks. Nothing charmed me more during my stay in town than

the pictures I saw; one or two private collections of Turner's

best water-colours were indeed a treat. His later oil paintings

are strange things--things that baffle description. I have twice

seen Macready act; once in "Macbeth," and once in "Othello." I

astounded a dinner-party by honestly saying I did not like him. It

is the fashion to rave about his splendid acting; anything more

false and artificial, less genuinely impressive than his whole

style, I could scarcely have imagined. The fact is, the stage

system altogether is hollow nonsense. They act farces well enough;

the actors comprehend their parts and do them justice. They

comprehend nothing about tragedy or Shakespeare, and it is a

failure. I said so, and by so saying produced a blank silence, a

mute consternation. I was indeed obliged to dissent on many

occasions, and to offend by dissenting. It seems now very much the

custom to admire a certain wordy, intricate, obscure style of

poetry, such as Elizabeth Barrett Browning writes. Some pieces

were referred to, about which Currer Bell was expected to be very

rapturous, and failing in this he disappointed. London people

strike a provincial as being very much taken up with little

matters, about which no one out of particular town circles cares

much. They talk too of persons, literary men and women, whose

names are scarcely heard in the country, and in whom you cannot

get up an interest. I think I should scarcely like to live in

London, and were I obliged to live there I should certainly go

little into company--especially I should eschew the literary

critics.

I have, since you went, had a remarkable epistle from Thackeray,

long, interesting, characteristic; but it unfortunately concludes

with the strict injunction, _Show this letter to no one_; adding

that if he thought his letters were seen by others, he would either

cease to write, or write only what was conventional. But for this

circumstance I should have sent it with the others. I answered it

at length. Whether my reply will give satisfaction or displeasure

remains yet to be ascertained. Thackeray's feelings are not such as

can be gauged by ordinary calculation: variable weather is what I

should ever expect from that quarter. Yet in correspondence, as in

verbal intercourse, this would torment me.

[Illustration: THE "BRIARFIELD" CHURCH OF SHIRLEY.]

I believe I should have written to you before, but I don't know

what heaviness of spirit has beset me of late, made my faculties

dull, made rest weariness, and occupation burdensome. Now and then

the silence of the house, the solitude of the room has pressed on

me with a weight I found it difficult to bear, and recollection

has not failed to be as alert, poignant, obtrusive, as other

feelings were languid. I attribute this state of things partly to

the weather. Quicksilver invariably falls low in storms and high

winds, and I have ere this been warned of approaching disturbance

in the atmosphere by a sense of bodily weakness, and deep, heavy

mental sadness, which some would call _presentiment_. Presentiment

indeed it is, but not at all supernatural. The Haworth people have

been making great fools of themselves about "Shirley;" they take it

in the enthusiastic light. When they got the volumes at the

Mechanics' Institution, 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 to be fined a shilling _per diem_ for longer

detention. It would be mere nonsense and vanity to tell you what

they say. I have had no letters from London for a long time, and am

very much ashamed of myself to find, now that that stimulus is

withdrawn, how dependent upon it I had become. I cannot help

feeling something of the excitement of expectation till 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

enraged at my own dependence and folly. It is so bad for the mind

to be quite alone, to have none with whom to talk over little

crosses and disappointments, and laugh them away. If I could write

I daresay I should be better, but I cannot write a line. However

(D. V.), I shall contend against the idiocy. I had rather a foolish

letter from Miss ---- the other day. Some things in it nettled me,

especially an unnecessarily earnest assurance that in spite of all

I had gone and 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

myself nor her the injustice to suppose there was anything in what

I had written to incur the just forfeiture of esteem. I was aware,

I intimated, that some persons thought proper to take exceptions at

"Jane Eyre," and that for their own sakes I was sorry, as I

invariably found them individuals in whom the animal largely

predominated over the intellectual, persons by nature coarse, by

inclination sensual, whatever they might be by education and

principle.

I enclose a slip of newspaper for your amusement. Me it both

amused and touched, for it alludes to some who are in this world

no longer. It is an extract from an American paper, and is written

by an emigrant from Haworth. You will find it a curious mixture of

truth and inaccuracy. Return it when you write again. I also send

you for perusal an opinion of "Jane Eyre," written by a _working

man_ in this village; rather, I should say, a record of the

feelings the book excited in the poor fellow's mind; it was not

written for my inspection, nor does the writer now know that his

little document has by intricate ways come into my possession, and

I have forced those who gave it to promise that they will never

inform him of this circumstance. He is a modest, thoughtful,

feeling, reading being, to whom I have spoken perhaps about three

times in the course of my life; his delicate health renders him

incapable of hard or close labour; he and his family are often

under the pressure of want. He feared that if Miss Brontë saw what

he had written she would laugh it to scorn. But Miss Brontë

considers it one of the highest, because one of the most truthful

and artless tributes her work has yet received. You must return

this likewise. I do you great honour in showing it to you.

Once more we can see that the healthy, happy interest she takes in the

welfare of others is beginning to assert itself. For a time, under the

keen smart of the wounds death had inflicted on her, she had found

little heart to discuss the affairs of her circle of friends in her

correspondence; but now the outer world vindicates its claim to her

renewed attention, and she again begins to discuss and analyse the

characters of her acquaintances with a skill and minuteness which make

them as interesting even to strangers as any of the most

closely-studied characters of fiction can be.

I return Q----'s letter. The business is a most unpleasant one to

be concerned in. It seems to me _now_ altogether unworthy in its

beginning, progress, and ending. Q---- is the only pure thing about

it; she stands between her coarse father and cold, unloving suitor,

like innocence between a pair of world-hardened knaves. The

comparison seems rather hard to be applied to V----, but as I see

him now he merits it. If V---- has no means of keeping a wife, if

he does not possess a sixpence he is sure of, how can he think of

marrying a woman from whom he cannot expect she should work to keep

herself? V----'s want of candour, the twice-falsified account he

gave of the matter, tells painfully and deeply against him. It

shows a glimpse of his hidden motives such as I refrain from

describing in words. After all he is perhaps only like the majority

of men. Certainly those men who lead a gay life in their youth, and

arrive at middle life with feelings blunted and passions exhausted,

can have but one aim in marriage--the selfish advancement of their

interest. And to think that such men take as wives--as second

selves--women young, modest, sincere, pure in heart and life, with

feelings all fresh and emotions all unworn, and bind such virtue

and vitality to their own withered existence, such sincerity to

their own hollowness, such disinterestedness to their own haggard

avarice! to think this, troubles the soul to its inmost depths.

Nature and justice forbid the banns of such wedlock. This note is

written under excitement. Q----'s letter seems to have lifted so

fraudulent a veil, and to show both father and suitor lurking

behind in shadow so dark, acting from motives so poor and low, so

conscious of each other's littleness, and consequently so destitute

of mutual respect! These things incense me, but I shall cool down.

I cannot find your last letter to refer to, and therefore this

will be no answer to it. You must write again by return of post if

possible, and let me know how you are progressing. What you said

in your last confirmed my opinion that your late attack had been

coming on for a long time. Your wish for a cold-water bath, &c,

is, I should think, the result of fever. Almost everyone has

complained lately of some tendency to slow fever. I have felt it

in frequent thirst and in frequent appetite. Papa too, and even

Martha, have complained. I fear this damp weather will scarcely

suit you; but write and say all. Of late I have had many letters

to answer; and some very bothering ones from people who want

opinions about their books, who seek acquaintance, and who flatter

to get it; people who utterly mistake all about me. They are most

difficult to answer, put off, and appease, without offending; for

such characters are excessively touchy, and when affronted turn

malignant. Their books are too often deplorable.

In June, 1850, she is induced to pay another visit to London, going

upon this occasion whilst the season is at its height, though she has

stipulated before going that she is "not to be lionised."

I came to London last Thursday. I am staying at ----. Here I feel

very comfortable. Mrs. ---- treats me with a serene, equable

kindness which just suits me. Her son is as before--genial and

friendly. I have seen very few persons, and am not likely to see

many, as the agreement was that I was to be very quiet. We have

been to the exhibition of the Royal Academy, to the opera, and the

Zoological Gardens. The weather is splendid. I shall not stay

longer than a fortnight in London; the feverishness and exhaustion

beset me somewhat, but I think not quite so badly as before--as

indeed I have not yet been so much tired.

I am leaving London if all be well on Tuesday, and shall be very

glad to come to you for a few days if that arrangement still

remains convenient to you. My London visit has much surpassed my

expectations this time. I have suffered less, and enjoyed more

than before; rather a trying termination yet remains to me. Mrs.

----'s youngest son is at school in Scotland, and her eldest is

going to fetch him home for the vacation. The other evening he

announced his intention of taking one of his sisters with him, and

the evening after he further proposed that Miss Brontë should go

down to Edinburgh and join them there, and see that city and its

suburbs. I concluded he was joking, laughed and declined. However,

it seems he was in earnest, and being always accustomed to have

his will, he brooks opposition ill. The thing appearing to me

perfectly out of the question, I still refused. Mrs. ---- did not

at all favour it, but her worthy son only waxed more determined.

This morning she came and entreated me to go; G---- wished it so

much, he had begged her to use her influence, &c. &c. Now, I

believe that he and I understand each other very well, and respect

each other very sincerely. We both know the wide breach time has

made between us. We do not embarrass each other, or very rarely.

My six or eight years of seniority, to say nothing of lack of all

pretensions to beauty, &c, are a perfect safeguard. I should not

in the least fear to go with him to China. I like to see him

pleased. I greatly _dis_like to ruffle and disappoint him; so

he shall have his mind, and if all be well I mean to join him in

Edinburgh, after I have spent a few days with you. With his

buoyant animal spirits and youthful vigour he will make severe

demands on my muscles and nerves; but I daresay I shall get

through somehow.

IX.

LONELINESS AND FAME.

Charlotte Brontë's letters during 1850 and 1851 are among the most

valuable illustrations of the true character of the woman which we

possess. Stricken as she had been by successive bereavements, which

had robbed her of her dearest friends and companions, and left her the

sole prop of the dull house on the moors and of its aged head, she had

yet recovered much of her peace of mind and even of her vitality and

cheerfulness. She had now, also, begun to see something of life as it

is presented, not to despised governesses, but to successful

authoresses. Her visits to London had brought her into contact with

some of the leaders of the literary world. Who can have forgotten her

interview with Thackeray, when she was "moved to speak to the giant of

some of his shortcomings?" Haworth itself had become a point of

attraction to curious persons, and not a few visitors found their way

under one pretence or another to the old parsonage, to be received

with effusive courtesy by Mr. Brontë, and with shy indifference by his

daughter. Her correspondence, too, became widely-spread among men and

women of distinction in the world and in Society. Altogether it was a

different life upon which she now looked out from her remote eyrie

among the hills--a life with many new interests in it, with much that

was calculated to awaken chords in her heart hitherto untouched, and

to bring to light new characteristics of her temper and genius. One

would fain speculate upon what might have been, but for the desolation

wrought in her home and heart by that tempest of death which raged

during the autumn of 1848 and the spring of 1849. As it was, no

novelty could make her forget what had been; no new faces, however

welcome, could dim the tender visions of the faces that were seen no

more, or could weaken in any degree the affection with which she still

clung to the friend of her school-days. Simplicity and sincerity are

the prevailing features of her letters, during this critical time in

her life, as during all the years which had preceded it. They reflect

her mind in many moods; they show her in many different situations;

but they never fail to give the impression of one whose allegiance to

her own conscience and whose reverence for truth and purity remain now

what they had been in her days of happy and unworldly obscurity. The

letters I now quote are quite new to the public.

July 18th, 1850.

You must cheer up, for your letter proves to me that you are

low-spirited. As for me, what I said is to be taken in this sense:

that, under the circumstances, it would be presumptuous in me to

calculate on a long life--a truth obvious enough. For the rest, we

are all in the hands of Him who apportions His gifts, health or

sickness, length or brevity of days, as is best for the receiver:

to him who has work to do time will be given in which to do it;

for him to whom no task is assigned the season of rest will come

earlier. As to the suffering preceding our last sleep, the

sickness, decay, the struggle of flesh and spirit, it _must_

come sooner or later to all. If, in one point of view, it is sad

to have few ties in the world, in another point of view it is

soothing; women who have husbands and children must look forward

to death with more pain, more fear, than those who have none. To

dismiss the subject, I wish (without cant, and not in any

hackneyed sense) that both you and I could always say in this

matter, the will of God be done. I am beginning to get settled at

home, but the solitude seems heavy as yet. It is a great change,

but in looking forward I try to hope for the best. So little faith

have I in the power of any temporary excitement to do real good

that I put off day by day writing to London to tell them I have

come home; and till then it was agreed I should not hear from

them. It is painful to be dependent on the small stimulus letters

give. I sometimes think I will renounce it altogether, close all

correspondence on some quiet pretext, and cease to look forward at

post-time for any letters but yours.

August 1st, 1850.

MY DEAR E.,--I have certainly felt the late wet weather a good

deal, and been somewhat bothered with frequently-returning colds,

and so has Papa. About him I have been far from happy: every cold

seems to make and leave him so weak. It is easy to say this world

is only a scene of probation, but it is a hard thing to feel. Your

friends the ----s seem to be happy just now, and long may they

continue to be so! Give C. Brontë's sincere love to R---- and tell

her she hopes Mr. ---- will make her a good husband. If he does

not, woe be to him! I wish a similar wish for Q----; and then I do

really think there will be a kind of happiness. That proposition

about remaining at H---- sounds like beginning life sensibly, with

no showy dash--I like it. Are you comfortable amongst all these

turtle-doves? I could not maintain your present position for a day;

I should feel _de trop_, as the French say; that is in the way. But

you are different to me. My portrait is come from London, and the

Duke of Wellington's, and kind letters enough. Papa thinks the

portrait looks older than I do. He says the features are far from

flattered, but acknowledges that the expression is wonderfully good

and life-like. I left the book called "Social Aspects" at B----;

accept it from me. I may well give it you, for the author has

kindly sent me another copy.... You ask for some promise: who that

does not know the future can make promises? Not I.

September 2nd, 1850.

Poor Mrs. A---- it seems is gone; I saw her death in the papers.

It is another lesson on the nature of life, on its strange

brevity, and in many instances apparent futility.... V---- came

here on Saturday last; T----, who was to have accompanied him, was

prevented from executing his intention. I regretted his absence,

for I by no means coveted the long _tête-à-tête_ with V----.

However, it passed off pretty well. He is satisfied now with his

own prospects, and this makes him--on the surface--satisfied with

other things. He spoke of Q---- with content and approbation. He

looks forward to marriage as a sort of harbour where he is to lay

up his now somewhat battered vessel in quiet moorings. He has seen

all he wants to see of life; now he is prepared to settle. I

listened to all with equanimity and cheerfulness--not assumed but

real--for Papa is now somewhat better; his appetite and spirits

are improved, and that eases my mind of cankering anxiety. My own

health, too, is, I think, really benefited by the late changes of

air and scene; I fancy, at any rate, that I feel stronger. Still I

mused in my own way on V----'s character--its depth and scope, I

believe, are ascertained.

I saw the governess at ----; she looked a little better and more

cheerful. She was almost as pleased to see me as if we had been

related; and when I bid her good-bye expressed an earnest hope

that I would soon come again. The children seem fond of her, and

on the whole obedient--two great alleviations of the inevitable

evils of her position.

Cheer up, dear Nell, and try not to stagnate; or, when you cannot

help it, and when your heart is constricted and oppressed,

remember what life is and must be to all: some moments of sunshine

alternating with many of overclouded and often tempestuous

darkness. Humanity cannot escape its fate, which is to drink a

mixed cup. Let us believe that the gall and the vinegar are

salutary.

Sept. 14th, 1850.

I wish, dear Ellen, you would tell me what is the "twaddle" about

my marrying, which you hear. If I knew the details I should have a

better chance of guessing the quarter from which such gossip

comes. As it is I am quite at a loss. Whom am I to marry? I think

I have scarcely seen a single man with whom such a union would be

possible since I left London. Doubtless there are men whom, if I

chose to encourage, I might marry. But no matrimonial lot is even

remotely offered me which seems to me truly desirable. And even if

that were the case there would be many obstacles. The least

allusion to such a thing is most offensive to Papa. An article

entitled "Currer Bell" has lately appeared in _The Palladium_,

a new periodical published in Edinburgh. It is an eloquent

production, and one of such warm sympathy and high appreciation as

I had never expected to see. It makes mistakes about authorship,

&c, but those I hope one day to set right. Mr. X---- (the little

man) first informed me of this article. I was somewhat surprised to

receive his letter, having concluded nine months ago that there

would be no more correspondence from that quarter. I enclose a note

from him received subsequently, in answer to my acknowledgment.

Read it, and tell me exactly how it impresses you regarding the

writer's character, &c. He is deficient neither in spirit nor

sense.

October 14th, 1850.

I return Q----'s letter. She seems quite happy and fully satisfied

of her husband's affection. Is this the usual way of spending the

honeymoon? To me it seems as if they overdo it. That travelling,

and tugging, and fagging about, and getting drenched and muddled,

by no means harmonises with my notions of happiness. Besides, the

two meals a day, &c, would do one up. It all reminds me too

sharply of the few days I spent with V---- in London nearly ten

years since, when I was many a time fit to drop with the fever and

the faintness resulting from long fasting and excessive fatigue.

However, no doubt a bride can bear such things better than others.

I smiled to myself at some passages. She has wondrous faith in her

husband's intellectual powers and acquirements. V----'s illusions

will soon be over, but Q----'s will not--and therein she is

happier than he.... I suppose ---- will probably discover that

he, too, wants a wife. But I will say no more. You know I

disapprove of jesting and teasing on these matters. Idle words

sometimes do unintentional harm.

December, 1850.

I got home all right yesterday soon after two o'clock, and found

Papa, thank God, well and free from cold. To-day some amount of

sickliness and headache is bothering me, but nothing to

signify.... The Christmas books waiting for me were, as I

expected, from Thackeray, Mrs. Gaskell, and Mr. Ruskin. No letter

from Mr. W----. It is six weeks since I heard from him. I feel

uneasy, but do not like to write. _The Examiner_ is very sore

about my Preface, because I did not make it a special exception in

speaking of the mass of critics. The soreness is unfortunate and

gratuitous, for in my mind I certainly excepted it. Another paper

shows painful sensitiveness on the same account; but it does not

matter, these things are all transitory.

The "Preface" to which she alludes in the foregoing letter, was that

to her collected edition of Emily and Anne Brontë's works, in which

she makes allusion to the fact that the "critics failed to do justice"

to "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" when they were published.

Jan. 20th, 1851.