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I put into words what Charlotte Bronte put into actions.

The year 1848 opened with sad domestic distress. It is necessary,
however painful, to remind the reader constantly of what was
always present to the hearts of father and sisters at this time.
It is well that the thoughtless critics, who spoke of the sad and
gloomy views of life presented by the Brontes in their tales,
should know how such words were wrung out of them by the living
recollection of the long agony they suffered. It is well, too,
that they who have objected to the representation of coarseness
and shrank from it with repugnance, as if such conceptions arose
out of the writers, should learn, that, not from the
imagination--not from internal conception--but from the hard
cruel facts, pressed down, by external life, upon their very
senses, for long months and years together, did they write out
what they saw, obeying the stern dictates of their consciences.
They might be mistaken. They might err in writing at all, when
their affections were so great that they could not write
otherwise than they did of life. It is possible that it would
have been better to have described only good and pleasant people,
doing only good and pleasant things (in which case they could
hardly have written at any time): all I say is, that never, I
believe, did women, possessed of such wonderful gifts, exercise
them with a fuller feeling of responsibility for their use. As to
mistakes, stand now--as authors as well as women--before the
judgment-seat of God.

"Jan. 11th, 1848.

"We have not been very comfortable here at home lately. Branwell
has, by some means, contrived to get more money from the old
quarter, and has led us a sad life. . . . Papa is harassed day
and night; we have little peace, he is always sick; has two or
three times fallen down in fits; what will be the ultimate end,
God knows. But who is without their drawback, their scourge,
their skeleton behind the curtain? It remains only to do one's
best, and endure with patience what God sends."

I suppose that she had read Mr. Lewes' review on "Recent Novels,"
when it appeared in the December of the last year, but I find no
allusion to it till she writes to him on January 12th, 1848.

"Dear Sir,--I thank you then sincerely for your generous review;
and it is with the sense of double content I express my
gratitude, because I am now sure the tribute is not superfluous
or obtrusive. You were not severe on 'Jane Eyre;' you were very
lenient. I am glad you told me my faults plainly in private, for
in your public notice you touch on them so lightly, I should
perhaps have passed them over thus indicated, with too little
reflection.

"I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I
undertake new works; my stock of materials is not abundant, but
very slender; and, besides, neither my experience, my
acquirements, nor my powers, are sufficiently varied to justify
my ever becoming a frequent writer. I tell you this, because your
article in Frazer left in me an uneasy impression that you were
disposed to think better of the author of 'Jane Eyre' than that
individual deserved; and I would rather you had a correct than a
flattering opinion of me, even though I should never see you.

"If I ever DO write another book, I think I will have nothing of
what you call 'melodrama;' I think so, but I am not sure. I
THINK, too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines
out of Miss Austen's 'mild eyes,' 'to finish more and be more
subdued;' but neither am I sure of that. When authors write best,
or, at least, when they write most fluently, an influence seems
to waken in them, which becomes their master--which will have its
own way--putting out of view all behests but its own, dictating
certain words, and insisting on their being used, whether
vehement or measured in their nature; new-moulding characters,
giving unthought of turns to incidents, rejecting
carefully-elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and
adopting new ones.

"Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence?
Can we indeed counteract it?

"I am glad that another work of yours will soon appear; most
curious shall I be to see whether you will write up to your own
principles, and work out your own theories. You did not do it
altogether in 'Ranthorpe'--at least not in the latter part; but
the first portion was, I think, nearly without fault; then it had
a pith, truth, significance in it, which gave the book sterling
value; but to write so, one must have seen and known a great
deal, and I have seen and known very little.

"Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that
point. What induced you to say that you would have rather written
"Pride and Prejudice,' or 'Tom Jones,' than any of the 'Waverley
Novels'?

"I had not seen 'Pride and Prejudice' till I read that sentence
of yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An
accurate, daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a
carefully-fenced, highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and
delicate flowers; but no glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy,
no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I
should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in
their elegant but confined houses. These observations will
probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk.

"Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I
never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even
'Consuelo,' which is the best, or the best that I have read,
appears to me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous
excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot
fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is sagacious and
profound;--Miss Austen is only shrewd and observant.

"Am I wrong--or, were you hasty in what you said? If you have
time, I should be glad to hear further on this subject; if not,
or if you think the questions frivolous, do not trouble yourself
to reply.--I am, yours respectfully,

C. BELL."

To G. H. LEWES, ESQ.

"Jan. 18th, 1848.

"Dear Sir,--I must write one more note, though I had not intended
to trouble you again so soon. I have to agree with you, and to
differ from you.

"You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the 'influence';
well, I accept your definition of what the effects of that
influence should be; I recognise the wisdom of your rules for its
regulation. . . .

"What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I
must familiarise my mind with the fact, that 'Miss Austen is not
a poetess, has no "sentiment" (you scornfully enclose the word
in inverted commas), no eloquence, none of the ravishing
enthusiasm of poetry,'--and then you add, I MUST 'learn to
acknowledge her as ONE OF THE GREATEST ARTISTS, OF THE GREATEST
PAINTERS OF HUMAN CHARACTER, and one of the writers with the
nicest sense of means to an end that ever lived.'

"The last point only will I ever acknowledge.

"Can there be a great artist without poetry?

"What I call--what I will bend to, as a great artist then--cannot
be destitute of the divine gift. But by POETRY, I am sure, you
understand something different to what I do, as you do by
'sentiment.' It is POETRY, as I comprehend the word, which
elevates that masculine George Sand, and makes out of something
coarse, something Godlike. It is 'sentiment,' in my sense of the
term--sentiment jealously hidden, but genuine, which extracts the
venom from that formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be
corrosive poison into purifying elixir.

"If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for
his kind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe,
he wishes only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without
'sentiment,' without Poetry, maybe IS sensible, real (more REAL
than TRUE), but she cannot be great.

"I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not
questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass
over me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when
that will be, as I have no access to a circulating library),
diligently peruse all Miss Austen's works, as you recommend. . .
. You must forgive me for not always being able to think as you
do, and still believe me, yours gratefully,

C. BELL."

I have hesitated a little, before inserting the following extract
from a letter to Mr. Williams, but it is strikingly
characteristic; and the criticism contained in it is, from that
circumstance, so interesting (whether we agree with it or not),
that I have determined to do so, though I thereby displace the
chronological order of the letters, in order to complete this
portion of a correspondence which is very valuable, as showing
the purely intellectual side of her character.

To W. S. WILLIAMS, BSQ.

"April 26th, 1848.

"My dear Sir,--I have now read 'Rose, Blanche, and Violet,' and I
will tell you, as well as I can, what I think of it. Whether it
is an improvement on 'Ranthorpe' I do not know, for I liked
'Ranthorpe' much; but, at any rate, it contains more of a good
thing. I find in it the same power, but more fully developed.

"The author's character is seen in every page, which makes the
book interesting--far more interesting than any story could do;
but it is what the writer himself says that attracts far more
than what he puts into the mouths of his characters. G. H. Lewes
is, to my perception, decidedly the most original character in
the book. . . . The didactic passages seem to me the best--far
the best--in the work; very acute, very profound, are some of the
views there given, and very clearly they are offered to the
reader. He is a just thinker; he is a sagacious observer; there
is wisdom in his theory, and, I doubt not, energy in his
practice. But why, then, are you often provoked with him while
you read? How does he manage, while teaching, to make his hearer
feel as if his business was, not quietly to receive the doctrines
propounded, but to combat them? You acknowledge that he offers
you gems of pure truth; why do you keep perpetually scrutinising
them for flaws?

"Mr. Lewes, I divine, with all his talents and honesty, must have
some faults of manner; there must be a touch too much of
dogmatism; a dash extra of confidence in him, sometimes. This you
think while you are reading the book; but when you have closed it
and laid it down, and sat a few minutes collecting your thoughts,
and settling your impressions, you find the idea or feeling
predominant in your mind to be pleasure at the fuller
acquaintance you have made with a fine mind and a true heart,
with high abilities and manly principles. I hope he will not be
long ere he publishes another book. His emotional scenes are
somewhat too uniformly vehement: would not a more subdued style
of treatment often have produced a more masterly effect? Now and
then Mr. Lewes takes a French pen into his hand, wherein he
differs from Mr. Thackeray, who always uses an English quill.
However, the French pen does not far mislead Mr. Lewes; he wields
it with British muscles. All honour to him for the excellent
general tendency of his book!

"He gives no charming picture of London literary society, and
especially the female part of it; but all coteries, whether they
be literary, scientific, political, or religious, must, it seems
to me, have a tendency to change truth into affectation. When
people belong to a clique, they must, I suppose, in some measure,
write, talk, think, and live for that clique; a harassing and
narrowing necessity. I trust, the press and the public show
themselves disposed to give the book the reception it merits, and
that is a very cordial one, far beyond anything due to a Bulwer
or D'Israeli production."

Let us return from Currer Bell to Charlotte Bronte. The winter in
Haworth had been a sickly season. Influenza had prevailed amongst
the villagers, and where there was a real need for the presence
of the clergyman's daughters, they were never found wanting,
although they were shy of bestowing mere social visits on the
parishioners. They had themselves suffered from the epidemic;
Anne severely, as in her case it had been attended with cough and
fever enough to make her elder sisters very anxious about her.

There is no doubt that the proximity of the crowded church-yard
rendered the Parsonage unhealthy, and occasioned much illness to
its inmates. Mr. Bronte represented the unsanitary state at
Haworth pretty forcibly to the Board of Health; and, after the
requisite visits from their officers, obtained a recommendation
that all future interments in the churchyard should be forbidden,
a new graveyard opened on the hill-side, and means set on foot
for obtaining a water-supply to each house, instead of the weary,
hard-worked housewives having to carry every bucketful, from a
distance of several hundred yards, up a steep street. But he was
baffled by the rate-payers; as, in many a similar instance,
quantity carried it against quality, numbers against
intelligence. And thus we find that illness often assumed a low
typhoid form in Haworth, and fevers of various kinds visited the
place with sad frequency.

In February, 1848, Louis Philippe was dethroned. The quick
succession of events at that time called forth the following
expression of Miss Bronte's thoughts on the subject, in a letter
addressed to Miss Wooler, and dated March 31st.

"I remember well wishing my lot had been cast in the troubled
times of the late war, and seeing in its exciting incidents a
kind of stimulating charm, which it made my pulses beat fast to
think of I remember even, I think; being a little impatient, that
you would not fully sympathise with my feelings on those
subjects; that you heard my aspirations and speculations very
tranquilly, and by no means seemed to think the flaming swords
could be any pleasant addition to Paradise. I have now out-lived
youth; and, though I dare not say that I have outlived all its
illusions--that the romance is quite gone from life--the veil
fallen from truth, and that I see both in naked reality--yet,
certainly, many things are not what they were ten years ago: and,
amongst the rest, the pomp and circumstance of war have quite
lost in my eyes their fictitious glitter. I have still no doubt
that the shock of moral earthquakes wakens a vivid sense of life,
both in nations and individuals; that the fear of dangers on a
broad national scale, diverts men's minds momentarily from
brooding over small private perils, and for the time gives them
something like largeness of views; but, as little doubt have I,
that convulsive revolutions put back the world in all that is
good, check civilisation, bring the dregs of society to its
surface; in short, it appears to me that insurrections and
battles are the acute diseases of nations, and that their
tendency is to exhaust, by their violence, the vital energies of
the countries where they occur. That England may be spared the
spasms, cramps, and frenzy-fits now contorting the Continent, and
threatening Ireland, I earnestly pray. With the French and Irish
I have no sympathy. With the Germans and Italians I think the
case is different; as different as the love of freedom is from
the lust for license."

Her birthday came round. She wrote to the friend whose birthday
was within a week of hers; wrote the accustomed letter; but,
reading it with our knowledge of what she had done, we perceive
the difference between her thoughts and what they were a year or
two ago, when she said "I have done nothing." There must have
been a modest consciousness of having "done something" present in
her mind, as she wrote this year:--

"I am now thirty-two. Youth is gone--gone,--and will never come
back: can't help it. . . . It seems to me, that sorrow must come
some time to everybody, and those who scarcely taste it in their
youth, often have a more brimming and bitter cup to drain in
after life; whereas, those who exhaust the dregs early, who drink
the lees before the wine, may reasonably hope for more palatable
draughts to succeed."

The authorship of "Jane Eyre" was as yet a close secret in the
Bronte family; not even this friend, who was all but a sister
knew more about it than the rest of the world. She might
conjecture, it is true, both from her knowledge of previous
habits, and from the suspicious fact of the proofs having been
corrected at B----, that some literary project was afoot; but she
knew nothing, and wisely said nothing, until she heard a report
from others, that Charlotte Bronte was an author--had published a
novel! Then she wrote to her; and received the two following
letters; confirmatory enough, as it seems to me now, in their
very vehemence and agitation of intended denial, of the truth of
the report.

"April 28th, 1848.

"Write another letter, and explain that last note of yours
distinctly. If your allusions are to myself, which I suppose they
are, understand this,--I have given no one a right to gossip
about me, and am not to be judged by frivolous conjectures,
emanating from any quarter whatever. Let me know what you heard,
and from whom you heard it."

"May 3rd, 1848.

"All I can say to you about a certain matter is this: the
report--if report there be--and if the lady, who seems to have
been rather mystified, had not dreamt what she fancied had been
told to her--must have had its origin in some absurd
misunderstanding. I have given NO ONE a right either to affirm,
or to hint, in the most distant manner, that I was
'publishing'--(humbug!) Whoever has said it--if any one has,
which I doubt--is no friend of mine. Though twenty books were
ascribed to me, I should own none. I scout the idea utterly.
Whoever, after I have distinctly rejected the charge, urges it
upon me, will do an unkind and an ill-bred thing. The most
profound obscurity is infinitely preferable to vulgar notoriety;
and that notoriety I neither seek nor will have. If then any
B--an, or G--an, should presume to bore you on the subject,--to
ask you what 'novel' Miss Bronte has been 'publishing,' you can
just say, with the distinct firmness of which you are perfect
mistress when you choose, that you are authorised by Miss Bronte
to say, that she repels and disowns every accusation of the kind.
You may add, if you please, that if any one has her confidence,
you believe you have, and she has made no drivelling confessions
to you on the subject. I am at a loss to conjecture from what
source this rumour has come; and, I fear, it has far from a
friendly origin. I am not certain, however, and I should be very
glad if I could gain certainty. Should you hear anything more,
please let me know. Your offer of 'Simeon's Life' is a very kind
one, and I thank you for it. I dare say Papa would like to see
the work very much, as he knew Mr. Simeon. Laugh or scold A----
out of the publishing notion; and believe me, through all chances
and changes, whether calumniated or let alone,--Yours faithfully,

C. BRONTE."

The reason why Miss Bronte was so anxious to preserve her secret,
was, I am told, that she had pledged her word to her sisters
that it should not be revealed through her.

The dilemmas attendant on the publication of the sisters' novels,
under assumed names, were increasing upon them. Many critics
insisted on believing, that all the fictions published as by
three Bells were the works of one author, but written at
different periods of his development and maturity. No doubt, this
suspicion affected the reception of the books. Ever since the
completion of Anne Bronte's tale of "Agnes Grey", she had been
labouring at a second, "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall." It is
little known; the subject--the deterioration of a character,
whose profligacy and ruin took their rise in habits of
intemperance, so slight as to be only considered "good
fellowship"--was painfully discordant to one who would fain have
sheltered herself from all but peaceful and religious ideas. "She
had" (says her sister of that gentle "little one"), "in the
course of her life, been called on to contemplate near at hand,
and for a long time, the terrible effects of talents misused and
faculties abused; hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and
dejected nature; what she saw sunk very deeply into her mind; it
did her harm. She brooded over it till she believed it to be a
duty to reproduce every detail (of course, with fictitious
characters, incidents, and situations), as a warning to others.
She hated her work, but would pursue it. When reasoned with on
the subject, she regarded such reasonings as a temptation to
self-indulgence. She must be honest; she must not varnish,
soften, or conceal. This well-meant resolution brought on her
misconstruction, and some abuse, which she bore, as it was her
custom to bear whatever was unpleasant with mild steady patience.
She was a very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of
religious melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief
blameless life."

In the June of this year, 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall' was
sufficiently near its completion to be submitted to the person
who had previously published for Ellis and Acton Bell.

In consequence of his mode of doing business, considerable
annoyance was occasioned both to Miss Bronte and to them. The
circumstances, as detailed in a letter of hers to a friend in New
Zealand, were these:--One morning, at the beginning of July, a
communication was received at the Parsonage from Messrs. Smith
and Elder, which disturbed its quiet inmates not a little, as,
though the matter brought under their notice was merely referred
to as one which affected their literary reputation, they
conceived it to have a bearing likewise upon their character.
"Jane Eyre" had had a great run in America, and a publisher there
had consequently bid high for early sheets of the next work by
"Currer Bell." These Messrs. Smith and Elder had promised to let
him have. He was therefore greatly astonished, and not well
pleased, to learn that a similar agreement had been entered into
with another American house, and that the new tale was very
shortly to appear. It turned out, upon inquiry, that the mistake
had originated in Acton and Ellis Bell's publisher having assured
this American house that, to the best of his belief, "Jane Eyre",
"Wuthering Heights", and "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" (which he
pronounced superior to either of the other two) were all written
by the same author.

Though Messrs. Smith and Elder distinctly stated in their letter
that they did not share in such "belief," the sisters were
impatient till they had shown its utter groundlessness, and set
themselves perfectly straight. With rapid decision, they resolved
that Charlotte and Anne should start, for London, that very day,
in order to prove their separate identity to Messrs. Smith and
Elder, and demand from the credulous publisher his reasons for a
"belief" so directly at variance with an assurance which had
several times been given to him. Having arrived at this
determination, they made their preparations. with resolute
promptness. There were many household duties to be performed
that day; but they were all got through. The two sisters each
packed up a change of dress in a small box, which they sent down
to Keighley by an opportune cart; and after early tea they set
off to walk thither--no doubt in some excitement; for,
independently of the cause of their going to London, it was
Anne's first visit there. A great thunderstorm overtook them on
their way that summer evening to the station; but they had no
time to seek shelter. They only just caught the train at
Keighley, arrived at Leeds, and were whirled up by the night
train to London.

About eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, they arrived at the
Chapter Coffee-house, Paternoster Row--a strange place, but they
did not well know where else to go. They refreshed themselves by
washing, and had some breakfast. Then they sat still for a few
minutes, to consider what next should be done.

When they had been discussing their project in the quiet of
Haworth Parsonage the day before, and planning the mode of
setting about the business on which they were going to London,
they had resolved to take a cab, if they should find it
desirable, from their inn to Cornhill; but that, amidst the
bustle and "queer state of inward excitement" in which they found
themselves, as they sat and considered their position on the
Saturday morning, they quite forgot even the possibility of
hiring a conveyance; and when they set forth, they became so
dismayed by the crowded streets, and the impeded crossings, that
they stood still repeatedly, in complete despair of making
progress, and were nearly an hour in walking the half-mile they
had to go. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Williams knew that they were
coming; they were entirely unknown to the publishers of "Jane
Eyre", who were not, in fact, aware whether the "Bells" were men
or women, but had always written to them as to men.

On reaching Mr. Smith's, Charlotte put his own letter into his
hands; the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at
Haworth Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. "Where did you
get this?" said he,--as if he could not believe that the two
young ladies dressed in black, of slight figures and diminutive
stature, looking pleased yet agitated, could be the embodied
Currer and Acton Bell, for whom curiosity had been hunting so
eagerly in vain. An explanation ensued, and Mr. Smith at once
began to form plans for their amusement and pleasure during their
stay in London. He urged them to meet a few literary friends at
his house; and this was a strong temptation to Charlotte, as
amongst them were one or two of the writers whom she particularly
wished to see; but her resolution to remain unknown induced her
firmly to put it aside.

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