An article on "Vanity Fair" and "Jane Eyre" had appeared in the
Quarterly Review of December, 1848. Some weeks after, Miss Brontë
wrote to her publishers, asking why it had not been sent to her; and
conjecturing that it was unfavourable, she repeated her previous
request, that whatever was done with the laudatory, all critiques
adverse to the novel might be forwarded to her without fail. The
Quarterly Review was accordingly sent. I am not aware that Miss Brontë
took any greater notice of the article than to place a few sentences out
of it in the mouth of a hard and vulgar woman in "Shirley," where they
are so much in character, that few have recognised them as a quotation.
The time when the article was read was good for Miss Brontë; she was
numbed to all petty annoyances by the grand severity of Death. Otherwise
she might have felt more keenly than they deserved the criticisms which,
while striving to be severe, failed in logic, owing to the misuse of
prepositions; and have smarted under conjectures as to the authorship
of "Jane Eyre," which, intended to be acute, were merely flippant. But
flippancy takes a graver name when directed against an author by an
anonymous writer. We call it then cowardly insolence.
Every one has a right to form his own conclusion respecting the merits
and demerits of a book. I complain not of the judgment which the
reviewer passes on "Jane Eyre." Opinions as to its tendency varied then,
as they do now. While I write, I receive a letter from a clergyman in
America in which he says: "We have in our sacred of sacreds a special
shelf, highly adorned, as a place we delight to honour, of novels which
we recognise as having had a good influence on character OUR character.
Foremost is 'Jane Eyre.'"
Nor do I deny the existence of a diametrically opposite judgment. And so
(as I trouble not myself about the reviewer's style of composition) I
leave his criticisms regarding the merits of the work on one side. But
when--forgetting the chivalrous spirit of the good and noble Southey,
who said: "In reviewing anonymous works myself, when I have known the
authors I have never mentioned them, taking it for granted they had
sufficient reasons for avoiding the publicity"--the Quarterly reviewer
goes on into gossiping conjectures as to who Currer Bell really is, and
pretends to decide on what the writer may be from the book, I protest
with my whole soul against such want of Christian charity. Not even
the desire to write a "smart article," which shall be talked about in
London, when the faint mask of the anonymous can be dropped at pleasure
if the cleverness of the review be admired--not even this temptation
can excuse the stabbing cruelty of the judgment. Who is he that should
say of an unknown woman: "She must be one who for some sufficient
reason has long forfeited the society of her sex"? Is he one who has
led a wild and struggling and isolated life,--seeing few but plain and
outspoken Northerns, unskilled in the euphuisms which assist the polite
world to skim over the mention of vice? Has he striven through long
weeping years to find excuses for the lapse of an only brother; and
through daily contact with a poor lost profligate, been compelled into a
certain familiarity with the vices that his soul abhors? Has he, through
trials, close following in dread march through his household, sweeping
the hearthstone bare of life and love, still striven hard for strength
to say, "It is the Lord! let Him do what seemeth to Him good"--and
sometimes striven in vain, until the kindly Light returned? If through
all these dark waters the scornful reviewer have passed clear, refined,
free from stain,--with a soul that has never in all its agonies cried
"lama sabachthani,"--still, even then let him pray with the Publican
rather than judge with the Pharisee.
"Jan. 10th, 1849.
"Anne had a very tolerable day yesterday, and a pretty quiet night last
night, though she did not sleep much. Mr. Wheelhouse ordered the blister
to be put on again. She bore it without sickness. I have just dressed
it, and she is risen and come down-stairs. She looks somewhat pale and
sickly. She has had one dose of the cod-liver oil; it smells and tastes
like train oil. I am trying to hope, but the day is windy, cloudy, and
stormy. My spirits fall at intervals very low; then I look where you
counsel me to look, beyond earthly tempests and sorrows. I seem to get
strength, if not consolation. It will not do to anticipate. I feel that
hourly. In the night, I awake and long for morning; then my heart is
wrung. Papa continues much the same; he was very faint when he came down
to breakfast. . . . Dear E----, your friendship is some comfort to me. I
am thankful for it. I see few lights through the darkness of the present
time, but amongst them the constancy of a kind heart attached to me is
one of the most cheering and serene."
"Jan. 15th, 1849.
"I can scarcely say that Anne is worse, nor can I say she is better. She
varies often in the course of a day, yet each day is passed pretty much
the same. The morning is usually the best time; the afternoon and the
evening the most feverish. Her cough is the most troublesome at night,
but it is rarely violent. The pain in her arm still disturbs her. She
takes the cod-liver oil and carbonate of iron regularly; she finds them
both nauseous, but especially the oil. Her appetite is small indeed.
Do not fear that I shall relax in my care of her. She is too precious
not to be cherished with all the fostering strength I have. Papa, I am
thankful to say, has been a good deal better this last day or two.
"As to your queries about myself, I can only say, that if I continue as
I am I shall do very well. I have not yet got rid of the pains in my
chest and back. They oddly return with every change of weather; and are
still sometimes accompanied with a little soreness and hoarseness, but I
combat them steadily with pitch plasters and bran tea. I should think it
silly and wrong indeed not to be regardful of my own health at present;
it would not do to be ill NOW.
"I avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward.
This is not the time to regret, dread, or weep. What I have and ought
to do is very distinctly laid out for me; what I want, and pray for,
is strength to perform it. The days pass in a slow, dark march; the
nights are the test; the sudden wakings from restless sleep, the revived
knowledge that one lies in her grave, and another not at my side, but in
a separate and sick bed. However, God is over all."
"Jan. 22nd, 1849.
"Anne really did seem to be a little better during some mild days last
week, but to-day she looks very pale and languid again. She perseveres
with the cod-liver oil, but still finds it very nauseous.
"She is truly obliged to you for the soles for her shoes, and finds
them extremely comfortable. I am to commission you to get her just such
a respirator as Mrs. ---- had. She would not object to give a higher
price, if you thought it better. If it is not too much trouble, you may
likewise get me a pair of soles; you can send them and the respirator
when you send the box. You must put down the price of all, and we will
pay you in a Post Office order. "Wuthering Heights" was given to you. I
have sent ---- neither letter nor parcel. I had nothing but dreary news
to write, so preferred that others should tell her. I have not written
to ---- either. I cannot write, except when I am quite obliged."
"Feb. 11th, 1849.
"We received the box and its contents quite safely to-day. The penwipers
are very pretty, and we are very much obliged to you for them. I hope
the respirator will be useful to Anne, in case she should ever be well
enough to go out again. She continues very much in the same state--I
trust not greatly worse, though she is becoming very thin. I fear
it would be only self-delusion to fancy her better. What effect the
advancing season may have on her, I know not; perhaps the return of
really warm weather may give nature a happy stimulus. I tremble at the
thought of any change to cold wind or frost. Would that March were well
over! Her mind seems generally serene, and her sufferings hitherto are
nothing like Emily's. The thought of what may be to come grows more
familiar to my mind; but it is a sad, dreary guest."
"March 16th, 1849.
"We have found the past week a somewhat trying one; it has not been
cold, but still there have been changes of temperature whose effect
Anne has felt unfavourably. She is not, I trust, seriously worse, but
her cough is at times very hard and painful, and her strength rather
diminished than improved. I wish the month of March was well over. You
are right in conjecturing that I am somewhat depressed; at times I
certainly am. It was almost easier to bear up when the trial was at its
crisis than now. The feeling of Emily's loss does not diminish as time
wears on; it often makes itself most acutely recognised. It brings too
an inexpressible sorrow with it; and then the future is dark. Yet I am
well aware, it will not do either to complain, or sink, and I strive to
do neither. Strength, I hope and trust, will yet be given in proportion
to the burden; but the pain of my position is not one likely to lessen
with habit. Its solitude and isolation are oppressive circumstances,
yet I do not wish for any friends to stay with me; I could not do with
any one--not even you--to share the sadness of the house; it would rack
me intolerably. Meantime, judgment is still blent with mercy. Anne's
sufferings still continue mild. It is my nature, when left alone, to
struggle on with a certain perseverance, and I believe God will help me."
Anne had been delicate all her life; a fact which perhaps made them less
aware than they would otherwise have been of the true nature of those
fatal first symptoms. Yet they seem to have lost but little time before
they sent for the first advice that could be procured. She was examined
with the stethoscope, and the dreadful fact was announced that her
lungs were affected, and that tubercular consumption had already made
considerable progress. A system of treatment was prescribed, which was
afterwards ratified by the opinion of Dr. Forbes.
For a short time they hoped that the disease was arrested.
Charlotte--herself ill with a complaint that severely tried her
spirits--was the ever-watchful nurse of this youngest, last sister. One
comfort was that Anne was the patientest, gentlest invalid that could
be. Still, there were hours, days, weeks of inexpressible anguish to be
borne; under the pressure of which Charlotte could only pray and pray
she did, right earnestly. Thus she writes on March 24th;--
"Anne's decline is gradual and fluctuating; but its nature is not
doubtful. . . . In spirit she is resigned: at heart she is, I believe,
a true Christian. . . . May God support her and all of us through
the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the last hour when
the struggle which separates soul from body must be gone through!
We saw Emily torn from the midst of us when our hearts clung to her
with intense attachment. . . She was scarce buried when Anne's health
failed. . . . These things would be too much, if reason, unsupported by
religion, were condemned to bear them alone. I have cause to be most
thankful for the strength that has hitherto been vouchsafed both to my
father and to myself. God, I think, is especially merciful to old age;
and for my own part, trials, which in perspective would have seemed
to me quite intolerable, when they actually came I endured without
prostration. Yet I must confess that, in the time which has elapsed
since Emily's death, there have been moments of solitary, deep, inert
affliction, far harder to bear than those which immediately followed
our loss. The crisis of bereavement has an acute pang which goads to
exertion; the desolate after-feeling sometimes paralyses. I have learnt
that we are not to find solace in our own strength; we must seek it
in God's omnipotence. Fortitude is good; but fortitude itself must be
shaken under us to teach us how weak we are!"
All through this illness of Anne's, Charlotte had the comfort of being
able to talk to her about her state; a comfort rendered inexpressibly
great by the contrast which it presented to the recollection of Emily's
rejection of all sympathy. If a proposal for Anne's benefit was made,
Charlotte could speak to her about it, and the nursing and dying sister
could consult with each other as to its desirability. I have seen but
one of Anne's letters; it is the only time we seem to be brought into
direct personal contact with this gentle, patient girl. In order to give
the requisite preliminary explanation, I must state that the family of
friends, to which E---- belonged, proposed that Anne should come to
them; in order to try what change of air and diet, and the company of
kindly people could do towards restoring her to health. In answer to
this proposal, Charlotte writes:--
"March 24th.
"I read your kind note to Anne, and she wishes me to thank you sincerely
for your friendly proposal. She feels, of course, that it would not do
to take advantage of it, by quartering an invalid upon the inhabitants
of ----; but she intimates there is another way in which you might
serve her, perhaps with some benefit to yourself as well as to her.
Should it, a month or two hence, be deemed advisable that she should go
either to the sea-side, or to some inland watering-place--and should
papa be disinclined to move, and I consequently obliged to remain at
home--she asks, could you be her companion? Of course I need not add
that in the event of such an arrangement being made, you would be put
to no expense. This, dear E., is Anne's proposal; I make it to comply
with her wish; but for my own part, I must add that I see serious
objections to your accepting it--objections I cannot name to her. She
continues to vary; is sometimes worse, and sometimes better, as the
weather changes; but, on the whole, I fear she loses strength. Papa
says her state is most precarious; she may be spared for some time, or
a sudden alteration might remove her before we are aware. Were such an
alteration to take place while she was far from home, and alone with
you, it would be terrible. The idea of it distresses me inexpressibly,
and I tremble whenever she alludes to the project of a journey. In
short, I wish we could gain time, and see how she gets on. If she leaves
home it certainly should not be in the capricious month of May, which
is proverbially trying to the weak. June would be a safer month. If we
could reach June, I should have good hopes of her getting through the
summer. Write such an answer to this note as I can show Anne. You can
write any additional remarks to me on a separate piece of paper. Do not
consider yourself as confined to discussing only our sad affairs. I am
interested in all that interests you."
FROM ANNE BRONTË
"April 5th, 1849.
"My dear Miss ----,--I thank you greatly for your kind letter, and your
ready compliance with my proposal, as far as the WILL can go at least. I
see, however, that your friends are unwilling that you should undertake
the responsibility of accompanying me under present circumstances. But
I do not think there would be any great responsibility in the matter.
I know, and everybody knows, that you would be as kind and helpful as
any one could possibly be, and I hope I should not be very troublesome.
It would be as a companion, not as a nurse, that I should wish for your
company; otherwise I should not venture to ask it. As for your kind and
often-repeated invitation to ----, pray give my sincere thanks to your
mother and sisters, but tell them I could not think of inflicting my
presence upon them as I now am. It is very kind of them to make so light
of the trouble, but still there must be more or less, and certainly
no pleasure, from the society of a silent invalid stranger. I hope,
however, that Charlotte will by some means make it possible to accompany
me after all. She is certainly very delicate, and greatly needs a change
of air and scene to renovate her constitution. And then your going with
me before the end of May, is apparently out of the question, unless you
are disappointed in your visitors; but I should be reluctant to wait
till then, if the weather would at all permit an earlier departure.
You say May is a trying month, and so say others. The earlier part is
often cold enough, I acknowledge, but, according to my experience, we
are almost certain of some fine warm days in the latter half, when the
laburnums and lilacs are in bloom; whereas June is often cold, and
July generally wet. But I have a more serious reason than this for my
impatience of delay. The doctors say that change of air or removal
to a better climate would hardly ever fail of success in consumptive
cases, if the remedy were taken IN TIME; but the reason why there are
so many disappointments is, that it is generally deferred till it is
too late. Now I would not commit this error; and, to say the truth,
though I suffer much less from pain and fever than I did when you were
with us, I am decidedly weaker, and very much thinner. My cough still
troubles me a good deal, especially in the night, and, what seems worse
than all, I am subject to great shortness of breath on going up-stairs
or any slight exertion. Under these circumstances, I think there is no
time to be lost. I have no horror of death: if I thought it inevitable,
I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect, in the hope that
you, dear Miss ----, would give as much of your company as you possibly
could to Charlotte, and be a sister to her in my stead. But I wish it
would please God to spare me, not only for papa's and Charlotte's sakes,
but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I
have many schemes in my head for future practice--humble and limited
indeed--but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and
myself to have lived to so little purpose. But God's will be done.
Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and believe me,
dear Miss ----, yours most affectionately,
"ANNE BRONTË."
It must have been about this time that Anne composed her last verses,
before "the desk was closed, and the pen laid aside for ever."
I.
"I hoped that with the brave and strong
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high.
II.
"But God has fixed another part,
And He has fixed it well:
I said so with my bleeding heart,
When first the anguish fell.
III.
"Thou God, hast taken our delight,
Our treasured hope, away;
Thou bid'st us now weep through the night
And sorrow through the day.
IV.
"These weary hours will not be lost,
These days of misery,--
These nights of darkness, anguish-tost,--
Can I but turn to Thee.
IV.
"With secret labour to sustain
In humble patience every blow;
To gather fortitude from pain,
And hope and holiness from woe.
VI.
"Thus let me serve Thee from my heart,
Whate'er may be my written fate;
Whether thus early to depart,
Or yet a while to wait.
VII.
"If Thou should'st bring me back to life,
More humbled I should be;
More wise--more strengthened for the strife,
More apt to lean on Thee.
VIII.
"Should death be standing at the gate,
Thus should I keep my vow;
But, Lord, whatever be my fate,
Oh let me serve Thee now!"
I take Charlotte's own words as the best record of her thoughts and
feelings during all this terrible time.
"April 12th.
"I read Anne's letter to you; it was touching enough, as you say.
If there were no hope beyond this world,--no eternity, no life
to come,--Emily's fate, and that which threatens Anne, would be
heart-breaking. I cannot forget Emily's death-day; it becomes a more
fixed, a darker, a more frequently recurring idea in my mind than ever.
It was very terrible. She was torn, conscious, panting, reluctant,
though resolute, out of a happy life. But it WILL NOT do to dwell on
these things.
"I am glad your friends object to your going with Anne: it would never
do. To speak truth, even if your mother and sisters had consented, I
never could. It is not that there is any laborious attention to pay
her; she requires, and will accept, but little nursing; but there would
be hazard, and anxiety of mind, beyond what you ought to be subject
to. If, a month or six weeks hence, she continues to wish for a change
as much as she does now, I shall (D. V.) go with her myself. It will
certainly be my paramount duty; other cares must be made subservient to
that. I have consulted Mr. T----: he does not object, and recommends
Scarborough, which was Anne's own choice. I trust affairs may be so
ordered, that you may be able to be with us at least part of the
time. . . . Whether in lodgings or not, I should wish to be boarded.
Providing oneself is, I think, an insupportable nuisance. I don't like
keeping provisions in a cupboard, locking up, being pillaged, and all
that. It is a petty, wearing annoyance."
The progress of Anne's illness was slower than that of Emily's had been;
and she was too unselfish to refuse trying means, from which, if she
herself had little hope of benefit, her friends might hereafter derive a
mournful satisfaction.
"I began to flatter myself she was getting strength. But the change to
frost has told upon her; she suffers more of late. Still her illness has
none of the fearful rapid symptoms which appalled in Emily's case. Could
she only get over the spring, I hope summer may do much for her, and
then early removal to a warmer locality for the winter might, at least,
prolong her life. Could we only reckon upon another year, I should be
thankful; but can we do this for the healthy? A few days ago I wrote
to have Dr. Forbes' opinion. . . . He warned us against entertaining
sanguine hopes of recovery. The cod-liver oil he considers a peculiarly
efficacious medicine. He, too, disapproved of change of residence for
the present. There is some feeble consolation in thinking we are doing
the very best that can be done. The agony of forced, total neglect,
is not now felt, as during Emily's illness. Never may we be doomed
to feel such agony again. It was terrible. I have felt much less of
the disagreeable pains in my chest lately, and much less also of the
soreness and hoarseness. I tried an application of hot vinegar, which
seemed to do good."
"May 1st.
"I was glad to hear that when we go to Scarborough, you will be at
liberty to go with us, but the journey and its consequences still
continue a source of great anxiety to me, I must try to put it off two
or three weeks longer if I can; perhaps by that time the milder season
may have given Anne more strength,perhaps it will be otherwise; I cannot
tell. The change to fine weather has not proved beneficial to her so
far. She has sometimes been so weak, and suffered so much from pain
in the side, during the last few days, that I have not known what to
think. . . . She may rally again, and be much better, but there must be
SOME improvement before I can feel justified in taking her away from
home. Yet to delay is painful; for, as is ALWAYS the case, I believe,
under her circumstances, she seems herself not half conscious of the
necessity for such delay. She wonders, I believe, why I don't talk more
about the journey: it grieves me to think she may even be hurt by my
seeming tardiness. She is very much emaciated,--far more than when you
were with us; her arms are no thicker than a little child's. The least
exertion brings a shortness of breath. She goes out a little every day,
but we creep rather than walk. . . . Papa continues pretty well;--I hope
I shall be enabled to bear up. So far, I have reason for thankfulness to
God."
May had come, and brought the milder weather longed for; but Anne was
worse for the very change. A little later on it became colder, and she
rallied, and poor Charlotte began to hope that, if May were once over,
she might last for a long time. Miss Brontë wrote to engage the lodgings
at Scarborough,--a place which Anne had formerly visited with the family
to whom she was governess. They took a good-sized sitting-room, and an
airy double-bedded room (both commanding a sea-view), in one of the best
situations of the town. Money was as nothing in comparison with life;
besides, Anne had a small legacy left to her by her godmother, and they
felt that she could not better employ this than in obtaining what might
prolong life, if not restore health. On May 16th, Charlotte writes:
"It is with a heavy heart I prepare; and earnestly do I wish the
fatigue of the journey were well over. It may be borne better than I
expect; for temporary stimulus often does much; but when I see the
daily increasing weakness, I know not what to think. I fear you will
be shocked when you see Anne; but be on your guard, dear E----, not to
express your feelings; indeed, I can trust both your self-possession
and your kindness. I wish my judgment sanctioned the step of going to
Scarborough, more fully than it does. You ask how I have arranged about
leaving Papa. I could make no special arrangement. He wishes me to go
with Anne, and would not hear of Mr. N----'s coming, or anything of that
kind; so I do what I believe is for the best, and leave the result to
Providence."
They planned to rest and spend a night at York; and, at Anne's desire,
arranged to make some purchases there. Charlotte ends the letter to her
friend, in which she tells her all this, with--
"May 23rd.
"I wish it seemed less like a dreary mockery in us to talk of buying
bonnets, etc. Anne was very ill yesterday. She had difficulty of
breathing all day, even when sitting perfectly still. To-day she seems
better again. I long for the moment to come when the experiment of the
sea-air will be tried. Will it do her good? I cannot tell; I can only
wish. Oh! if it would please God to strengthen and revive Anne, how
happy we might be together: His will, however, be done!"
The two sisters left Haworth on Thursday, May 24th. They were to
have done so the day before, and had made an appointment with their
friend to meet them at the Leeds Station, in order that they might all
proceed together. But on Wednesday morning Anne was so ill, that it was
impossible for the sisters to set out; yet they had no means of letting
their friend know of this, and she consequently arrived at Leeds station
at the time specified. There she sate waiting for several hours. It
struck her as strange at the time--and it almost seems ominous to her
fancy now--that twice over, from two separate arrivals on the line by
which she was expecting her friends, coffins were carried forth, and
placed in hearses which were in waiting for their dead, as she was
waiting for one in four days to become so.
The next day she could bear suspense no longer, and set out for Haworth,
reaching there just in time to carry the feeble, fainting invalid into
the chaise which stood at the gate to take them down to Keighley. The
servant who stood at the Parsonage gates, saw Death written on her
face, and spoke of it. Charlotte saw it and did not speak of it,--it
would have been giving the dread too distinct a form; and if this last
darling yearned for the change to Scarborough, go she should, however
Charlotte's heart might be wrung by impending fear. The lady who
accompanied them, Charlotte's beloved friend of more than twenty years,
has kindly written out for me the following account of the journey--and
of the end.
"She left her home May 24th, 1849--died May 28th. Her life was calm,
quiet, spiritual: SUCH was her end. Through the trials and fatigues of
the journey, she evinced the pious courage and fortitude of a martyr.
Dependence and helplessness were ever with her a far sorer trial than
hard, racking pain.
"The first stage of our journey was to York; and here the dear invalid
was so revived, so cheerful, and so happy, we drew consolation, and
trusted that at least temporary improvement was to be derived from the
change which SHE had so longed for, and her friends had so dreaded for
her.
"By her request we went to the Minster, and to her it was an
overpowering pleasure; not for its own imposing and impressive grandeur
only, but because it brought to her susceptible nature a vital and
overwhelming sense of omnipotence. She said, while gazing at the
structure, 'If finite power can do this, what is the . . . ?' and here
emotion stayed her speech, and she was hastened to a less exciting scene.
"Her weakness of body was great, but her gratitude for every mercy was
greater. After such an exertion as walking to her bed-room, she would
clasp her hands and raise her eyes in silent thanks, and she did this
not to the exclusion of wonted prayer, for that too was performed on
bended knee, ere she accepted the rest of her couch.
"On the 25th we arrived at Scarborough; our dear invalid having, during
the journey, directed our attention to every prospect worthy of notice.
"On the 26th she drove on the sands for an hour; and lest the poor
donkey should be urged by its driver to a greater speed than her tender
heart thought right, she took the reins, and drove herself. When joined
by her friend, she was charging the boy-master of the donkey to treat
the poor animal well. She was ever fond of dumb things, and would give
up her own comfort for them.
"On Sunday, the 27th, she wished to go to church, and her eye
brightened with the thought of once more worshipping her God amongst
her fellow-creatures. We thought it prudent to dissuade her from the
attempt, though it was evident her heart was longing to join in the
public act of devotion and praise.
"She walked a little in the afternoon, and meeting with a sheltered and
comfortable seat near the beach, she begged we would leave her, and
enjoy the various scenes near at hand, which were new to us but familiar
to her. She loved the place, and wished us to share her preference.
"The evening closed in with the most glorious sunset ever witnessed.
The castle on the cliff stood in proud glory gilded by the rays of
the declining sun. The distant ships glittered like burnished gold;
the little boats near the beach heaved on the ebbing tide, inviting
occupants. The view was grand beyond description. Anne was drawn in her
easy chair to the window, to enjoy the scene with us. Her face became
illumined almost as much as the glorious scene she gazed upon. Little
was said, for it was plain that her thoughts were driven by the imposing
view before her to penetrate forwards to the regions of unfading glory.
She again thought of public worship, and wished us to leave her, and
join those who were assembled at the House of God. We declined, gently
urging the duty and pleasure of staying with her, who was now so dear
and so feeble. On returning to her place near the fire, she conversed
with her sister upon the propriety of returning to their home. She did
not wish it for her own sake, she said she was fearing others might
suffer more if her decease occurred where she was. She probably thought
the task of accompanying her lifeless remains on a long journey was more
than her sister could bear--more than the bereaved father could bear,
were she borne home another, and a third tenant of the family-vault in
the short space of nine months.
"The night was passed without any apparent accession of illness. She
rose at seven o'clock, and performed most of her toilet herself, by her
expressed wish. Her sister always yielded such points, believing it was
the truest kindness not to press inability when it was not acknowledged.
Nothing occurred to excite alarm till about 11 A. M. She then spoke of
feeling a change. She believed she had not long to live. Could she reach
home alive, if we prepared immediately for departure? A physician was
sent for. Her address to him was made with perfect composure. She begged
him to say how long he thought she might live;--not to fear speaking the
truth, for she was not afraid to die. The doctor reluctantly admitted
that the angel of death was already arrived, and that life was ebbing
fast. She thanked him for his truthfulness, and he departed to come
again very soon. She still occupied her easy chair, looking so serene,
so reliant there was no opening for grief as yet, though all knew the
separation was at hand. She clasped her hands, and reverently invoked
a blessing from on high; first upon her sister, then upon her friend,
to whom she said, 'Be a sister in my stead. Give Charlotte as much of
your company as you can.' She then thanked each for her kindness and
attention.
"Ere long the restlessness of approaching death appeared, and she
was borne to the sofa; on being asked if she were easier, she looked
gratefully at her questioner, and said, 'It is not YOU who can give me
ease, but soon all will be well, through the merits of our Redeemer.'
Shortly after this, seeing that her sister could hardly restrain her
grief, she said, 'Take courage, Charlotte; take courage.' Her faith
never failed, and her eye never dimmed till about two o'clock, when
she calmly and without a sigh passed from the temporal to the eternal.
So still, and so hallowed were her last hours and moments. There was
no thought of assistance or of dread. The doctor came and went two or
three times. The hostess knew that death was near, yet so little was the
house disturbed by the presence of the dying, and the sorrow of those
so nearly bereaved, that dinner was announced as ready, through the
half-opened door, as the living sister was closing the eyes of the dead
one. She could now no more stay the welled-up grief of her sister with
her emphatic and dying 'Take courage,' and it burst forth in brief but
agonising strength. Charlotte's affection, however, had another channel,
and there it turned in thought, in care, and in tenderness. There was
bereavement, but there was not solitude;--sympathy was at hand, and it
was accepted. With calmness, came the consideration of the removal of
the dear remains to their home resting-place. This melancholy task,
however, was never performed; for the afflicted sister decided to lay
the flower in the place where it had fallen. She believed that to do so
would accord with the wishes of the departed. She had no preference for
place. She thought not of the grave, for that is but the body's goal,
but of all that is beyond it.
"Her remains rest,
'Where the south sun warms the now dear sod, Where the ocean billows
lave and strike the steep and turf-covered rock.'"
Anne died on the Monday. On the Tuesday Charlotte wrote to her father;
but, knowing that his presence was required for some annual Church
solemnity at Haworth, she informed him that she had made all necessary
arrangements for the interment and that the funeral would take place so
soon, that he could hardly arrive in time for it. The surgeon who had
visited Anne on the day of her death, offered his attendance, but it was
respectfully declined.
Mr. Brontë wrote to urge Charlotte's longer stay at the seaside. Her
health and spirits were sorely shaken; and much as he naturally longed
to see his only remaining child, he felt it right to persuade her to
take, with her friend, a few more weeks' change of scene,--though
even that could not bring change of thought. Late in June the friends
returned homewards,--parting rather suddenly (it would seem) from each
other, when their paths diverged.
"July, 1849.
"I intended to have written a line to you to-day, if I had not received
yours. We did indeed part suddenly; it made my heart ache that we were
severed without the time to exchange a word; and yet perhaps it was
better. I got here a little before eight o'clock. All was clean and
bright waiting for me. Papa and the servants were well; and all received
me with an affection which should have consoled. The dogs seemed in
strange ecstasy. I am certain they regarded me as the harbinger of
others. The dumb creatures thought that as I was returned, those who had
been so long absent were not far behind.
"I left Papa soon, and went into the dining-room: I shut the door--I
tried to be glad that I was come home. I have always been glad
before--except once--even then I was cheered. But this time joy was
not to be the sensation. I felt that the house was all silent--the
rooms were all empty. I remembered where the three were laid--in what
narrow dark dwellings--never more to reappear on earth. So the sense of
desolation and bitterness took possession of me. The agony that WAS to
be undergone, and WAS NOT to be avoided, came on. I underwent it, and
passed a dreary evening and night, and a mournful morrow; to-day I am
better.
"I do not know how life will pass, but I certainly do feel confidence
in Him who has upheld me hitherto. Solitude may be cheered, and made
endurable beyond what I can believe. The great trial is when evening
closes and night approaches. At that hour, we used to assemble in the
dining-room--we used to talk. Now I sit by myself--necessarily I am
silent. I cannot help thinking of their last days, remembering their
sufferings, and what they said and did, and how they looked in mortal
affliction. Perhaps all this will become less poignant in time.
"Let me thank you once more, dear E----, for your kindness to me, which
I do not mean to forget. How did you think all looking at your home?
Papa thought me a little stronger; he said my eyes were not so sunken."
"July 14th, 1849.
"I do not much like giving an account of myself. I like better to go out
of myself, and talk of something more cheerful. My cold, wherever I got
it, whether at Easton or elsewhere, is not vanished yet. It began in my
head, then I had a sore throat, and then a sore chest, with a cough, but
only a trifling cough, which I still have at times. The pain between my
shoulders likewise amazed me much. Say nothing about it, for I confess
I am too much disposed to be nervous. This nervousness is a horrid
phantom. I dare communicate no ailment to Papa; his anxiety harasses me
inexpressibly.
"My life is what I expected it to be. Sometimes when I wake in the
morning, and know that Solitude, Remembrance, and Longing are to be
almost my sole companions all day through--that at night I shall go to
bed with them, that they will long keep me sleepless--that next morning
I shall wake to them again,--sometimes, Nell, I have a heavy heart of
it. But crushed I am not, yet; nor robbed of elasticity, nor of hope,
nor quite of endeavour. I have some strength to fight the battle of
life. I am aware, and can acknowledge, I have many comforts, many
mercies. Still I can GET ON. But I do hope and pray, that never may you,
or any one I love, be placed as I am. To sit in a lonely room--the clock
ticking loud through a still house--and have open before the mind's eye
the record of the last year, with its shocks, sufferings, losses--is a
trial.
"I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear me with
moderation--that you will not take alarm or think me in any way worse
off than I am."