Book: The Life of Charlotte Bronte

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The following extract will be read with interest as conveying her
thoughts after the perusal of Dr. Arnold's Life:--

"Nov. 6th.

"I have just finished reading the 'Life of Dr. Arnold;' but now
when I wish, according to your request, to express what I think
of it, I do not find the task very easy; proper terms seem
wanting. This is not a character to be dismissed with a few
laudatory words; it is not a one-sided character; pure panegyric
would be inappropriate. Dr. Arnold (it seems to me) was not quite
saintly; his greatness was cast in a mortal mould; he was a
little severe, almost a little hard; he was vehement and somewhat
oppugnant. Himself the most indefatigable of workers, I know not
whether he could have understood, or made allowance for, a
temperament that required more rest; yet not to one man in twenty
thousand is given his giant faculty of labour; by virtue of it he
seems to me the greatest of working men. Exacting he might have
been, then, on this point; and granting that he were so, and a
little hasty, stern, and positive, those were his sole faults
(if, indeed, that can be called a fault which in no shape
degrades the individual's own character; but is only apt to
oppress and overstrain the weaker nature of his neighbours).
Afterwards come his good qualities. About these there is nothing
dubious. Where can we find justice, firmness, independence,
earnestness, sincerity, fuller and purer than in him?

"But this is not all, and I am glad of it. Besides high intellect
and stainless rectitude, his letters and his life attest his
possession of the most true-hearted affection. WITHOUT this,
however one might admire, we could not love him; but WITH it I
think we love him much. A hundred such men--fifty--nay, ten or
five such righteous men might save any country; might
victoriously champion any cause.

"I was struck, too, by the almost unbroken happiness of his life;
a happiness resulting chiefly, no doubt, from the right use to
which he put that health and strength which God had given him,
but also owing partly to a singular exemption from those deep and
bitter griefs which most human beings are called on to endure.
His wife was what he wished; his children were healthy and
promising; his own health was excellent; his undertakings were
crowned with success; even death was kind,--for, however sharp
the pains of his last hour, they were but brief. God's blessing
seems to have accompanied him from the cradle to the grave. One
feels thankful to know that it has been permitted to any man to
live such a life.

"When I was in Westmoreland last August, I spent an evening at
Fox How, where Mrs. Arnold and her daughters still reside. It was
twilight as I drove to the place, and almost dark ere I reached
it; still I could perceive that the situation was lovely. The
house looked like a nest half buried in flowers and creepers:
and, dusk as it was, I could FEEL that the valley and the hills
round were beautiful as imagination could dream."


If I say again what I have said already before, it is only to
impress and re-impress upon my readers the dreary monotony of her
life at this time. The dark, bleak season of the year brought
back the long evenings, which tried her severely: all the more
so, because her weak eyesight rendered her incapable of following
any occupation but knitting by candle-light. For her father's
sake, as well as for her own, she found it necessary to make some
exertion to ward off settled depression of spirits. She
accordingly accepted an invitation to spend a week or ten days
with Miss Martineau at Ambleside. She also proposed to come to
Manchester and see me, on her way to Westmoreland. But,
unfortunately, I was from home, and unable to receive her. The
friends with whom I was staying in the South of England ( hearing
me express my regret that I could not accept her friendly
proposal, and aware of the sad state of health and spirits which
made some change necessary for her) wrote to desire that she
would come and spend a week or two with me at their house. She
acknowledged this invitation in a letter to me, dated--

"Dec. 13th, 1850.

"My dear Mrs. Gaskell,--Miss ----'s kindness and yours is such
that I am placed in the dilemma of not knowing how adequately to
express my sense of it. THIS I know, however, very well-that if I
COULD go and be with you for a week or two in such a quiet
south-country house, and with such kind people as you describe, I
should like it much. I find the proposal marvellously to my
taste; it is the pleasantest, gentlest, sweetest, temptation
possible; but, delectable as it is, its solicitations are by no
means to be yielded to without the sanction of reason, and
therefore I desire for the present to be silent, and to stand
back till I have been to Miss Martineau's, and returned home, and
considered well whether it is a scheme as right as agreeable.

"Meantime, the mere thought does me good."

On the 10th of December, the second edition of "Wuthering
Heights" was published. She sent a copy of it to Mr. Dobell, with
the following letter:--

To MR. DOBELL.

"Haworth, near Keighley, Yorkshire,

"Dec. 8th, 1850.

"I offer this little book to my critic in the 'Palladium,' and he
must believe it accompanied by a tribute of the sincerest
gratitude; not so much for anything he has said of myself, as for
the noble justice he has rendered to one dear to me as myself--
perhaps dearer; and perhaps one kind word spoken for her awakens
a deeper, tenderer, sentiment of thankfulness than eulogies
heaped on my own head. As you will see when you have read the
biographical notice, my sister cannot thank you herself; she is
gone out of your sphere and mine, and human blame and praise are
nothing to her now. But to me, for her sake, they are something
still; it revived me for many a day to find that, dead as she
was, the work of her genius had at last met with worthy
appreciation.

"Tell me, when you have read the introduction, whether any doubts
still linger in your mind respecting the authorship of 'Wuthering
Heights,' 'Wildfell Hall,' etc. Your mistrust did me some
injustice; it proved a general conception of character such as I
should be sorry to call mine; but these false ideas will
naturally arise when we only judge an author from his works. In
fairness, I must also disclaim the flattering side of the
portrait. I am no 'young Penthesilea mediis in millibus,' but a
plain country parson's daughter.

"Once more I thank you, and that with a full heart.

"C. BRONTE."



CHAPTER IX.

Immediately after the republication of her sisters' book she went
to Miss Martineau's.

"I can write to you now, dear E----, for I am away from home) and
relieved, temporarily, at least, by change of air and scene, from
the heavy burden of depression which, I confess, has for nearly
three months been sinking me to the earth. I never shall forget
last autumn! Some days and nights have been cruel; but now,
having once told you this, I need say no more on the subject. My
loathing of solitude grew extreme; my recollection of my sisters
intolerably poignant. I am better now. I am at Miss Martineau's
for a week. Her house is very pleasant, both within and without;
arranged at; all points with admirable neatness and comfort. Her
visitors enjoy the most perfect liberty; what she claims for
herself she allows them. I rise at my own hour, breakfast alone
(she is up at five, takes a cold bath, and a walk by starlight,
and has finished breakfast and got to her work by seven o'clock).
I pass the morning in the drawing-room--she, in her study. At two
o'clock we meet--work, talk, and walk together till five, her
dinner-hour, spend the evening together, when she converses
fluently and abundantly, and with the most complete frankness. I
go to my own. room soon after ten,--she sits up writing letters
till twelve. She appears exhaustless in strength and spirits, and
indefatigable in the faculty of labour. She is a great and a good
woman; of course not without peculiarities, but I have seen none
as yet that annoy me. She is both hard and warm-hearted, abrupt
and affectionate, liberal and despotic. I believe she is not at
all conscious of her own absolutism. When I tell her of it, she
denies the charge warmly; then I laugh at her. I believe she
almost rules Ambleside. Some of the gentry dislike her, but the
lower orders have a great regard for her. . . . I thought I
should like to spend two or three days with you before going
home, so, if it is not inconvenient to you, I will (D. V.) come
on Monday and stay till Thursday. . . . I have truly enjoyed my
visit here. I have seen a good many people, and all have been so
marvellously kind; not the least so, the family of Dr. Arnold.
Miss Martineau I relish inexpressibly."

Miss Bronte paid the visit she here proposes to her friend, but
only remained two or three days. She then returned home, and
immediately began to suffer from her old enemy, sickly and
depressing headache. This was all the more trying to bear, as she
was obliged to take an active share in the household work,--one
servant being ill in bed, and the other, Tabby, aged upwards of
eighty.

This visit to Ambleside did Miss Bronte much good, and gave her a
stock of pleasant recollections, and fresh interests, to dwell
upon in her solitary life. There are many references in her
letters to Miss Martineau's character and kindness.

"She is certainly a woman of wonderful endowments, both
intellectual and physical; and though I share few of her
opinions, and regard her as fallible on certain points of
judgment, I must still award her my sincerest esteem. The manner
in which she combines the highest mental culture with the nicest
discharge of feminine duties filled me with admiration; while her
affectionate kindness earned my gratitude." "I think her good and
noble qualities far outweigh her defects. It is my habit to
consider the individual apart from his (or her) reputation,
practice independent of theory, natural disposition isolated from
acquired opinions. Harriet Martineau's person, practice, and
character, inspire me with the truest affection and respect."You
ask me whether Miss Martineau made me a convert to mesmerism?
Scarcely; yet I heard miracles of its efficacy, and could hardly
discredit the whole of what was told me. I even underwent a
personal experiment; and though the result was not absolutely
clear, it was inferred that in time I should prove an excellent
subject. The question of mesmerism will be discussed with little
reserve, I believe, in a forthcoming work of Miss Martineau's;
and I have some painful anticipations of the manner in which
other subjects, offering less legitimate ground for speculation,
will be handled."

"Your last letter evinced such a sincere and discriminating
admiration for Dr. Arnold, that perhaps you will not be wholly
uninterested in hearing that, during my late visit to Miss
Martineau, I saw much more of Fox How and its inmates, and daily
admired, in the widow and children of one of the greatest and
best men of his time, the possession of qualities the most
estimable and endearing. Of my kind hostess herself, I cannot
speak in terms too high. Without being able to share all her
opinions, philosophical, political, or religious,--without
adopting her theories,--I yet find a worth and greatness in
herself, and a consistency, benevolence, perseverance in her
practice, such as wins the sincerest esteem and affection. She is
not a person to be judged by her writings alone, but rather by
her own deeds and life, than which nothing can be more exemplary
or nobler. She seems to me the benefactress of Ambleside, yet
takes no sort of credit to herself for her active and
indefatigable philanthropy. The government of her household is
admirably administered: all she does is well done, from the
writing of a history down to the quietest female occupation. No
sort of carelessness or neglect is allowed under her rule, and
yet she is not over-strict, nor too rigidly exacting: her
servants and her poor neighbours love as well as respect her.

"I must not, however, fall into the error of talking too much
about her merely because my own mind is just now deeply impressed
with what I have seen of her intellectual power and moral worth.
Faults she has; but to me they appear very trivial weighed in the
balance against her excellences."

"Your account of Mr. A---- tallies exactly with Miss M----'s.
She, too, said that placidity and mildness (rather than
originality and power) were his external characteristics. She
described him as a combination of the antique Greek sage with the
European modern man of science. Perhaps it was mere perversity in
me to get the notion that torpid veins, and a cold, slow-beating
heart, lay under his marble outside. But he is a materialist: he
serenely denies us our hope of immortality, and quietly blots
from man's future Heaven and the Life to come. That is why a
savour of bitterness seasoned my feeling towards him.

"All you say of Mr. Thackeray is most graphic and characteristic.
He stirs in me both sorrow and anger. Why should he lead so
harassing a life? Why should his mocking tongue so perversely
deny the better feelings of his better moods?"

For some time, whenever she was well enough in health and
spirits, she had been employing herself upon Villette; but she
was frequently unable to write, and was both grieved and angry
with herself for her inability. In February, she writes as
follows to Mr. Smith:--

"Something you say about going to London; but the words are
dreamy, and fortunately I am not obliged to hear or answer them.
London and summer are many months away: our moors are all white
with snow just now, and little redbreasts come every morning to
the window for crumbs. One can lay no plans three or four months
beforehand. Besides, I don't deserve to go to London; nobody
merits a change or a treat less. I secretly think, on the
contrary, I ought to be put in prison, and kept on bread and
water in solitary confinement--without even a letter from
Cornhill--till I had written a book. One of two things would
certainly result from such a mode of treatment pursued for twelve
months; either I should come out at the end of that time with a
three-volume MS. in my hand, or else with a condition of
intellect that would exempt me ever after from literary efforts
and expectations."

Meanwhile, she was disturbed and distressed by the publication of
Miss Martineau's "Letters," etc.; they came down with a peculiar
force and heaviness upon a heart that looked, with fond and
earnest faith, to a future life as to the meeting-place with
those who were "loved and lost awhile."

"Feb. 11th, 1851.

"My dear Sir,--Have you yet read Miss Martineau's and Mr.
Atkinson's new work, 'Letters on the Nature and Development of
Man'? If you have not, it would be worth your while to do so.

"Of the impression this book has made on me, I will not now say
much. It is the first exposition of avowed atheism and
materialism I have ever read; the first unequivocal declaration
of disbelief in the existence of a God or a future life I have
ever seen. In judging of such exposition and declaration, one
would wish entirely to put aside the sort of instinctive horror
they awaken, and to consider them in an impartial spirit and
collected mood. This I find it difficult to do. The strangest
thing is, that we are called on to rejoice over this hopeless
blank-to receive this bitter bereavement as great gain--to
welcome this unutterable desolation as a state of pleasant
freedom. Who COULD do this if he would? Who WOULD do it if he
could?

"Sincerely, for my own part, do I wish to find and know the
Truth; but if this be Truth, well may she guard herself with
mysteries, and cover herself with a veil. If this be Truth, man
or woman who beholds her can but curse the day he or she was
born. I said, however, I would not dwell on what I thought; I
wish to hear, rather, what some other person thinks,--some one
whose feelings are unapt to bias his judgment. Read the book,
then, in an unprejudiced spirit, and candidly say what you think
of it. I mean, of course, if you have time--NOT OTHERWISE."

And yet she could not bear the contemptuous tone in which this
work was spoken of by many critics; it made her more indignant
than almost any other circumstance during my acquaintance with
her. Much as she regretted the publication of the book, she could
not see that it had given any one a right to sneer at an action,
certainly prompted by no worldly motive, and which was but one
error--the gravity of which she admitted--in the conduct of a
person who had, all her life long, been striving, by deep thought
and noble words, to serve her kind.

"Your remarks on Miss Martineau and her book pleased me greatly,
from their tone and spirit. I have even taken the liberty of
transcribing for her benefit one or two phrases, because I know
they will cheer her; she likes sympathy and appreciation (as all
people do who deserve them); and most fully do I agree with you
in the dislike you express of that hard, contemptuous tone in
which her work is spoken of by many critics.

Before I return from the literary opinions of the author to the
domestic interests of the woman, I must copy out what she felt
and thought about "The Stones of Venice".

"'The Stones of Venice' seem nobly laid and chiselled. How
grandly the quarry of vast marbles is disclosed! Mr. Ruskin seems
to me one of the few genuine writers, as distinguished from
book-makers, of this age. His earnestness even amuses me in
certain passages; for I cannot help laughing to think how
utilitarians will fume and fret over his deep, serious (and as
THEY will think), fanatical reverence for Art. That pure and
severe mind you ascribed to him speaks in every line. He writes
like a consecrated Priest of the Abstract and Ideal.

"I shall bring with me 'The Stones of Venice'; all the
foundations of marble and of granite, together with the mighty
quarry out of which they were hewn; and, into the bargain, a
small assortment of crotchets and dicta--the private property of
one John Ruskin, Esq."

As spring drew on, the depression of spirits to which she was
subject began to grasp her again, and "to crush her with a day-
and night-mare." She became afraid of sinking as low as she had
done in the autumn; and to avoid this, she prevailed on her old
friend and schoolfellow to come and stay with her for a few weeks
in March. She found great benefit from this companionship,--both
from the congenial society in itself, and from the self-restraint
of thought imposed by the necessity of entertaining her and
looking after her comfort. On this occasion, Miss Bronte said,
"It will not do to get into the habit offrom home, and thus
temporarily evading an running away oppression instead of facing,
wrestling with and conquering it or being conquered by it."

I shall now make an extract from one of her letters, which is
purposely displaced as to time. I quote it because it relates to
a third offer of marriage which she had, and because I find that
some are apt to imagine, from the extraordinary power with which
she represented the passion of love in her novels, that she
herself was easily susceptible of it.

"Could I ever feel enough for ----, to accept of him as a
husband? Friendship--gratitude--esteem--I have; but each moment
he came near me, and that I could see his eyes fastened on me, my
veins ran ice. Now that he is away, I feel far more gently
towards him, it is only close by that I grow rigid, stiffening
with a strange mixture of apprehension and anger, which nothing
softens but his retreat, and a perfect subduing of his manner. I
did not want to be proud, nor intend to be proud, but I was
forced to be so. Most true it is, that we are over-ruled by One
above us; that in His hands our very will is as clay in the hands
of the potter."

I have now named all the offers of marriage she ever received,
until that was made which she finally accepted. The gentle-man
referred to in this letter retained so much regard for her as to
be her friend to the end of her life; a circumstance to his
credit and to hers.

Before her friend E---- took her departure, Mr. Bronte caught
cold, and continued for some weeks much out of health, with an
attack of bronchitis. His spirits, too, became much depressed;
and all his daughter's efforts were directed towards cheering
him.

When he grew better, and had regained his previous strength, she
resolved to avail herself of an invitation which she had received
some time before, to pay a visit in London. This year, 1851, was,
as e very one remembers, the time of the great Exhibition; but
even with that attraction in prospect, she did not intend to stay
there long; and, as usual, she made an agreement with her
friends, before finally accepting their offered hospitality, that
her sojourn at their house was to be as quiet as ever, since any
other way of proceeding disagreed with her both mentally and
physically. She never looked excited except for a moment, when
something in conversation called her out; but she often felt so,
even about comparative trifles, and the exhaustion of reaction
was sure to follow. Under such circumstances, she always became
extremely thin and haggard; yet she averred that the change
invariably did her good afterwards.

Her preparations in the way of dress for this visit, in the gay
time of that gay season, were singularly in accordance with her
feminine taste; quietly anxious to satisfy her love for modest,
dainty, neat attire, and not regardless of the becoming, yet
remembering consistency, both with her general appearance and
with her means, in every selection she made.

"By the bye, I meant to ask you when you went to Leeds, to do a
small errand for me, but fear your hands will be too full of
business. It was merely this: in case you chanced to be in any
shop where the lace cloaks, both black and white, of which I
spoke, were sold, to ask their price. I suppose they would hardly
like to send a few to Haworth to be looked at; indeed, if they
cost very much, it would be useless, but if they are reasonable
and they would send them, I should like to see them; and also
some chemisettes of small size (the full woman's size don't fit
me), both of simple style for every day and good quality for
best.". . . ."It appears I could not rest satisfied when I was
well off. I told you I had taken one of the black lace mantles,
but when I came to try it with the black satin dress, with which
I should chiefly want to wear it, I found the effect was far from
good; the beauty of the lace was lost, and it looked somewhat
brown and rusty; I wrote to Mr. ----, requesting him to change it
for a WHITE mantle of the same price; he was extremely courteous,
and sent to London for one, which I have got this morning. The
price is less, being but 1 pound 14s.; it is pretty, neat and
light, looks well on black; and upon reasoning the matter over, I
came to the philosophic conclusion, that it would be no shame for
a person of my means to wear a cheaper thing; so I think I shall
take it, and if you ever see it and call it 'trumpery' so much
the worse."

"Do you know that I was in Leeds on the very same day with you--
last Wednesday? I had thought of telling you where I was going,
and having your help and company in buying a bonnet, etc., but
then I reflected this would merely be making a selfish use of
you, so I determined to manage or mismanage the matter alone. I
went to Hurst and Hall's for the bonnet, and got one which seemed
grave and quiet there amongst all the splendours; but now it
looks infinitely too gay with its pink lining. I saw some
beautiful silks of pale sweet colours, but had not the spirit nor
the means to launch out at the rate of five shillings per yard,
and went and bought a black silk at three shillings after all. I
rather regret this, because papa says he would have lent me a
sovereign if he had known. I believe, if you had been there, you
would have forced me to get into debt. . . . I really can no more
come to B---- before I go to London than I can fly. I have
quantities of sewing to do, as well as household matters to
arrange, before I leave, as they will clean, etc., in my absence.
Besides, I am grievously afflicted with headache, which I trust
to change of air for relieving; but meantime, as it proceeds from
the stomach, it makes me very thin and grey; neither you nor
anybody else would fatten me up or put me into good condition for
the visit; it is fated otherwise. No matter. Calm your passion;
yet I am glad to see it. Such spirit seems to prove health.
Good-bye, in haste.

"Your poor mother is like Tabby, Martha and Papa; all these fancy
I am somehow, by some mysterious process, to be married in
London, or to engage myself to matrimony. How I smile internally!
How groundless and improbable is the idea! Papa seriously told
me yesterday, that if I married and left him he should give up
housekeeping and go into lodgings!"

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