Chapter VIII (1)

On the 29th of July, 1835, Charlotte, now a little more than nineteen years old, went as teacher to Miss W---'s. Emily accompanied her as a pupil; but she became literally ill from home-sickness, and could not settle to anything, and after passing only three months at Roe Head, returned to the parsonage and the beloved moors.

Miss Bronte gives the following reasons as those which prevented Emily's remaining at school, and caused the substitution of her younger sister in her place at Miss W---'s:--

"My sister Emily loved the moors. Flowers brighter than the rose bloomed in the blackest of the heath for her;--out of a sullen hollow in a livid hill-side, her mind could make an Eden. She found in the bleak solitude many and dear delights; and not the least and best-loved was--liberty. Liberty was the breath of Emily's nostrils; without it she perished. The change from her own home to a school, and from her own very noiseless, very secluded, but unrestricted and unartificial mode of life, to one of disciplined routine (though under the kindest auspices), was what she failed in enduring. Her nature proved here too strong for her fortitude. Every morning, when she woke, the vision of home and the moors rushed on her, and darkened and saddened the day that lay before her. Nobody knew what ailed her but me. I knew only too well. In this struggle her health was quickly broken: her white face, attenuated form, and failing strength, threatened rapid decline. I felt in my heart she would die, if she did not go home, and with this conviction obtained her recall. She had only been three months at school; and it was some years before the experiment of sending her from home was again ventured on."

This physical suffering on Emily's part when absent from Haworth, after recurring several times under similar circumstances, became at length so much an acknowledged fact, that whichever was obliged to leave home, the sisters decided that Emily must remain there, where alone she could enjoy anything like good health. She left it twice again in her life; once going as teacher to a school in Halifax for six months, and afterwards accompanying Charlotte to Brussels for ten. When at home, she took the principal part of the cooking upon herself, and did all the household ironing; and after Tabby grew old and infirm, it was Emily who made all the bread for the family; and any one passing by the kitchen-door, might have seen her studying German out of an open book, propped up before her, as she kneaded the dough; but no study, however interesting, interfered with the goodness of the bread, which was always light and excellent. Books were, indeed, a very common sight in that kitchen; the girls were taught by their father theoretically, and by their aunt, practically, that to take an active part in all household work was, in their position, woman's simple duty; but in their careful employment of time, they found many an odd five minutes for reading while watching the cakes, and managed the union of two kinds of employment better than King Alfred.

Charlotte's life at Miss W---'s was a very happy one, until her health failed. She sincerely loved and respected the former schoolmistress, to whom she was now become both companion and friend. The girls were hardly strangers to her, some of them being younger sisters of those who had been her own playmates. Though the duties of the day might be tedious and monotonous, there were always two or three happy hours to look forward to in the evening, when she and Miss W--- sat together--sometimes late into the night--and had quiet pleasant conversations, or pauses of silence as agreeable, because each felt that as soon as a thought or remark occurred which they wished to express, there was an intelligent companion ready to sympathise, and yet they were not compelled to "make talk."

Miss W--- was always anxious to afford Miss Bronte every opportunity of recreation in her power; but the difficulty often was to persuade her to avail herself of the invitations which came, urging her to spend Saturday and Sunday with "E." and "Mary," in their respective homes, that lay within the distance of a walk. She was too apt to consider, that allowing herself a holiday was a dereliction of duty, and to refuse herself the necessary change, from something of an over-ascetic spirit, betokening a loss of healthy balance in either body or mind. Indeed, it is clear that such was the case, from a passage, referring to this time, in the letter of "Mary" from which I have before given extracts.

"Three years after--" (the period when they were at school together)--"I heard that she had gone as teacher to Miss W---'s. I went to see her, and asked how she could give so much for so little money, when she could live without it. She owned that, after clothing herself and Anne, there was nothing left, though she had hoped to be able to save something. She confessed it was not brilliant, but what could she do? I had nothing to answer. She seemed to have no interest or pleasure beyond the feeling of duty, and, when she could get, used to sit alone, and 'make out.' She told me afterwards, that one evening she had sat in the dressing-room until it was quite dark, and then observing it all at once, had taken sudden fright." No doubt she remembered this well when she described a similar terror getting hold upon Jane Eyre. She says in the story, "I sat looking at the white bed and overshadowed walls--occasionally turning a fascinated eye towards the gleaming mirror--I began to recall what I had heard of dead men troubled in their graves . . . I endeavoured to be firm; shaking my hair from my eyes, I lifted my head and tried to look boldly through the dark room; at this moment, a ray from the moon penetrated some aperture in the blind. No! moon light was still, and this stirred . . . prepared as my mind was for horror, shaken as my nerves were by agitation, I thought the swift-darting beam was a herald of some coming vision from another world. My heart beat thick, my head grew hot; a sound filled my ears which I deemed the rustling of wings; something seemed near me." {4}

"From that time," Mary adds, "her imaginations became gloomy or frightful; she could not help it, nor help thinking. She could not forget the gloom, could not sleep at night, nor attend in the day.

"She told me that one night, sitting alone, about this time, she heard a voice repeat these lines:

"'Come thou high and holy feeling,
Shine o'er mountain, flit o'er wave,
Gleam like light o'er dome and shielding.'

"There were eight or ten more lines which I forget. She insisted that she had not made them, that she had heard a voice repeat them. It is possible that she had read them, and unconsciously recalled them. They are not in the volume of poems which the sisters published. She repeated a verse of Isaiah, which she said had inspired them, and which I have forgotten. Whether the lines were recollected or invented, the tale proves such habits of sedentary, monotonous solitude of thought as would have shaken a feebler mind."

Of course, the state of health thus described came on gradually, and is not to be taken as a picture of her condition in 1836. Yet even then there is a despondency in some of her expressions, that too sadly reminds one of some of Cowper's letters. And it is remarkable how deeply his poems impressed her. His words, his verses, came more frequently to her memory, I imagine, than those of any other poet.

"Mary" says: "Cowper's poem, 'The Castaway,' was known to them all, and they all at times appreciated, or almost appropriated it. Charlotte told me once that Branwell had done so; and though his depression was the result of his faults, it was in no other respect different from hers. Both were not mental but physical illnesses. She was well aware of this, and would ask how that mended matters, as the feeling was there all the same, and was not removed by knowing the cause. She had a larger religious toleration than a person would have who had never questioned, and the manner of recommending religion was always that of offering comfort, not fiercely enforcing a duty. One time I mentioned that some one had asked me what religion I was of (with the view of getting me for a partizan), and that I had said that that was between God and me;--Emily (who was lying on the hearth-rug) exclaimed, 'That's right.' This was all I ever heard Emily say on religious subjects. Charlotte was free from religious depression when in tolerable health; when that failed, her depression returned. You have probably seen such instances. They don't get over their difficulties; they forget them, when their stomach (or whatever organ it is that inflicts such misery on sedentary people) will let them. I have heard her condemn Socinianism, Calvinism, and many other 'isms' inconsistent with Church of Englandism. I used to wonder at her acquaintance with such subjects."

"May 10th, 1836.

"I was struck with the note you sent me with the umbrella; it showed a
degree of interest in my concerns which I have no right to expect from
any earthly creature. I won't play the hypocrite; I won't answer your
kind, gentle, friendly questions in the way you wish me to. Don't
deceive yourself by imagining I have a bit of real goodness about me.
My darling, if I were like you, I should have my face Zion-ward,
though prejudice and error might occasionally fling a mist over the
glorious vision before me--but I _am not like you_. If you knew my
thoughts, the dreams that absorb me, and the fiery imagination that at
times eats me up, and makes me feel society, as it is, wretchedly
insipid, you would pity and I dare say despise me. But I know the
treasures of the _Bible_; I love and adore them. I can _see_ the Well
of Life in all its clearness and brightness; but when I stoop down to
drink of the pure waters they fly from my lips as if I were Tantalus.

"You are far too kind and frequent in your invitations. You puzzle
me. I hardly know how to refuse, and it is still more embarrassing to
accept. At any rate, I cannot come this week, for we are in the very
thickest melee of the Repetitions. I was hearing the terrible fifth
section when your note arrived. But Miss Wooler says I must go to
Mary next Friday, as she promised for me on Whit-Sunday; and on Sunday
morning I will join you at church, if it be convenient, and stay till
Monday. There's a free and easy proposal! Miss W--- has driven me to
it. She says her character is implicated."

Good, kind Miss W---! however monotonous and trying were the duties Charlotte had to perform under her roof, there was always a genial and thoughtful friend watching over her, and urging her to partake of any little piece of innocent recreation that might come in her way. And in those Midsummer holidays of 1836, her friend E. came to stay with her at Haworth, so there was one happy time secured.

Here follows a series of letters, not dated, but belonging to the latter portion of this year; and again we think of the gentle and melancholy Cowper.

"My dear dear E.,

"I am at this moment trembling all over with excitement, after reading
your note; it is what I never received before--it is the unrestrained
pouring out of a warm, gentle, generous heart . . . I thank you with
energy for this kindness. I will no longer shrink from answering your
questions. I _do_ wish to be better than I am. I pray fervently
sometimes to be made so. I have stings of conscience, visitings of
remorse, glimpses of holy, of inexpressible things, which formerly I
used to be a stranger to; it may all die away, and I may be in utter
midnight, but I implore a merciful Redeemer, that, if this be the dawn
of the gospel, it may still brighten to perfect day. Do not mistake
me--do not think I am good; I only wish to be so. I only hate my
former flippancy and forwardness. Oh! I am no better than ever I was.
I am in that state of horrid, gloomy uncertainty that, at this moment,
I would submit to be old, grey-haired, to have passed all my youthful
days of enjoyment, and to be settling on the verge of the grave, if I
could only thereby ensure the prospect of reconciliation to God, and
redemption through his Son's merits. I never was exactly careless of
these matters, but I have always taken a clouded and repulsive view of
them; and now, if possible, the clouds are gathering darker, and a
more oppressive despondency weighs on my spirits. You have cheered
me, my darling; for one moment, for an atom of time, I thought I might
call you my own sister in the spirit; but the excitement is past, and
I am now as wretched and hopeless as ever. This very night I will
pray as you wish me. May the Almighty hear me compassionately! and I
humbly hope he will, for you will strengthen my polluted petitions
with your own pure requests. All is bustle and confusion round me,
the ladies pressing with their sums and their lessons . . . If you
love me, _do, do, do_ come on Friday: I shall watch and wait for you,
and if you disappoint me I shall weep. I wish you could know the
thrill of delight which I experienced, when, as I stood at the dining-
room window, I saw ---, as he whirled past, toss your little packet
over the wall."

Huddersfield market-day was still the great period for events at Roe Head. Then girls, running round the corner of the house and peeping between tree-stems, and up a shadowy lane, could catch a glimpse of a father or brother driving to market in his gig; might, perhaps, exchange a wave of the hand; or see, as Charlotte Bronte did from the window, a white packet tossed over the avail by come swift strong motion of an arm, the rest of the traveller's body unseen.

"Weary with a day's hard work . . . I am sitting down to write a few lines to my dear E. Excuse me if I say nothing but nonsense, for my mind is exhausted and dispirited. It is a stormy evening, and the wind is uttering a continual moaning sound, that makes me feel very melancholy. At such times--in such moods as these--it is my nature to seek repose in some calm tranquil idea, and I have now summoned up your image to give me rest. There you sit, upright and still in your black dress, and white scarf, and pale marble-like face--just like reality. I wish you would speak to me. If we should be separated--if it should be our lot to live at a great distance, and never to see each other again--in old age, how I should conjure up the memory of my youthful days, and what a melancholy pleasure I should feel in dwelling on the recollection of my early friend! . . . I have some qualities that make me very miserable, some feelings that you can have no participation in--that few, very few, people in the world can at all understand. I don't pride myself on these peculiarities. I strive to conceal and suppress them as much as I can; but they burst out sometimes, and then those who see the explosion despise me, and I hate myself for days afterwards . . . I have just received your epistle and what accompanied it. I can't tell what should induce you and your sisters to waste your kindness on such a one as me. I'm obliged to them, and I hope you'll tell them so. I'm obliged to you also, more for your note than for your present. The first gave me pleasure, the last something like pain."

* * * * *

The nervous disturbance, which is stated to have troubled her while she was at Miss W---'s, seems to have begun to distress her about this time; at least, she herself speaks of her irritable condition, which was certainly only a temporary ailment.

"You have been very kind to me of late, and have spared me all those little sallies of ridicule, which, owing to my miserable and wretched touchiness of character, used formerly to make me wince, as if I had been touched with a hot iron; things that nobody else cares for, enter into my mind and rankle there like venom. I know these feelings are absurd, and therefore I try to hide them, but they only sting the deeper for concealment."

Compare this state of mind with the gentle resignation with which she had submitted to be put aside as useless, or told of her ugliness by her school-fellows, only three years before.

"My life since I saw you has passed as monotonously and unbroken as ever; nothing but teach, teach, teach, from morning till night. The greatest variety I ever have is afforded by a letter from you, or by meeting with a pleasant new book. The 'Life of Oberlin,' and 'Leigh Richmond's Domestic Portraiture,' are the last of this description. The latter work strongly attracted and strangely fascinated my attention. Beg, borrow, or steal it without delay; and read the 'Memoir of Wilberforce,'--that short record of a brief uneventful life; I shall never forget it; it is beautiful, not on account of the language in which it is written, not on account of the incidents it details, but because of the simple narrative it gives of a young talented sincere Christian."

* * * * *

About this time Miss W--- removed her school from the fine, open, breezy situation of Roe Head, to Dewsbury Moor, only two or three miles distant. Her new residence was on a lower site, and the air was less exhilarating to one bred in the wild hill-village of Haworth. Emily had gone as teacher to a school at Halifax, where there were nearly forty pupils.

"I have had one letter from her since her departure," writes Charlotte, on October 2nd, 1836: "it gives an appalling account of her duties; hard labour from six in the morning to eleven at night, with only one half- hour of exercise between. This is slavery. I fear she can never stand it."

* * * * *

When the sisters met at home in the Christmas holidays, they talked over their lives, and the prospect which they afforded of employment and remuneration. They felt that it was a duty to relieve their father of the burden of their support, if not entirely, or that of all three, at least that of one or two; and, naturally, the lot devolved upon the elder ones to find some occupation which would enable them to do this. They knew that they were never likely to inherit much money. Mr. Bronte had but a small stipend, and was both charitable and liberal. Their aunt had an annuity of 50_l_., but it reverted to others at her death, and her nieces had no right, and were the last persons in the world to reckon upon her savings. What could they do? Charlotte and Emily were trying teaching, and, as it seemed, without much success. The former, it is true, had the happiness of having a friend for her employer, and of being surrounded by those who knew her and loved her; but her salary was too small for her to save out of it; and her education did not entitle her to a larger. The sedentary and monotonous nature of the life, too, was preying upon her health and spirits, although, with necessity "as her mistress," she might hardly like to acknowledge this even to herself. But Emily--that free, wild, untameable spirit, never happy nor well but on the sweeping moors that gathered round her home--that hater of strangers, doomed to live amongst them, and not merely to live but to slave in their service--what Charlotte could have borne patiently for herself, she could not bear for her sister. And yet what to do? She had once hoped that she herself might become an artist, and so earn her livelihood; but her eyes had failed her in the minute and useless labour which she had imposed upon herself with a view to this end.

It was the household custom among these girls to sew till nine o'clock at night. At that hour, Miss Branwell generally went to bed, and her nieces' duties for the day were accounted done. They put away their work, and began to pace the room backwards and forwards, up and down,--as often with the candles extinguished, for economy's sake, as not,--their figures glancing into the fire-light, and out into the shadow, perpetually. At this time, they talked over past cares and troubles; they planned for the future, and consulted each other as to their plans. In after years this was the time for discussing together the plots of their novels. And again, still later, this was the time for the last surviving sister to walk alone, from old accustomed habit, round and round the desolate room, thinking sadly upon the "days that were no more." But this Christmas of 1836 was not without its hopes and daring aspirations. They had tried their hands at story-writing, in their miniature magazine, long ago; they all of them "made out" perpetually. They had likewise attempted to write poetry; and had a modest confidence that they had achieved a tolerable success. But they knew that they might deceive themselves, and that sisters' judgments of each other's productions were likely to be too partial to be depended upon. So Charlotte, as the eldest, resolved to write to Southey. I believe (from an expression in a letter to be noticed hereafter), that she also consulted Coleridge; but I have not met with any part of that correspondence.

On December 29th, her letter to Southey was despatched; and from an excitement not unnatural in a girl who has worked herself up to the pitch of writing to a Poet Laureate and asking his opinion of her poems, she used some high-flown expressions which, probably, gave him the idea that she was a romantic young lady, unacquainted with the realities of life.

This, most likely, was the first of those adventurous letters that passed through the little post-office of Haworth. Morning after morning of the holidays slipped away, and there was no answer; the sisters had to leave home, and Emily to return to her distasteful duties, without knowing even whether Charlotte's letter had ever reached its destination.

Not dispirited, however, by the delay, Branwell determined to try a similar venture, and addressed the following letter to Wordsworth. It was given by the poet to Mr. Quillinan in 1850, after the name of Bronte had become known and famous. I have no means of ascertaining what answer was returned by Mr. Wordsworth; but that he considered the letter remarkable may, I think, be inferred both from its preservation, and its recurrence to his memory when the real name of Currer Bell was made known to the public.

"Haworth, near Bradford,
"Yorkshire, January 19, 1837.

"Sir,--I most earnestly entreat you to read and pass your judgment
upon what I have sent you, because from the day of my birth to this
the nineteenth year of my life, I have lived among secluded hills,
where I could neither know what I was, or what I could do. I read for
the same reason that I ate or drank; because it was a real craving of
nature. I wrote on the same principle as I spoke--out of the impulse
and feelings of the mind; nor could I help it, for what came, came
out, and there was the end of it. For as to self-conceit, that could
not receive food from flattery, since to this hour, not half a dozen
people in the world know that I have ever penned a line.

"But a change has taken place now, sir: and I am arrived at an age
wherein I must do something for myself: the powers I possess must be
exercised to a definite end, and as I don't know them myself I must
ask of others what they are worth. Yet there is not one here to tell
me; and still, if they are worthless, time will henceforth be too
precious to be wasted on them.

"Do pardon me, sir, that I have ventured to come before one whose
works I have most loved in our literature, and who most has been with
me a divinity of the mind, laying before him one of my writings, and
asking of him a judgment of its contents. I must come before some one
from whose sentence there is no appeal; and such a one is he who has
developed the theory of poetry as well as its practice, and both in
such a way as to claim a place in the memory of a thousand years to
come.

"My aim, sir, is to push out into the open world, and for this I trust
not poetry alone--that might launch the vessel, but could not bear her
on; sensible and scientific prose, bold and vigorous efforts in my
walk in life, would give a farther title to the notice of the world;
and then again poetry ought to brighten and crown that name with
glory; but nothing of all this can be ever begun without means, and as
I don't possess these, I must in every shape strive to gain them.
Surely, in this day, when there is not a _writing_ poet worth a
sixpence, the field must be open, if a better man can step forward.

"What I send you is the Prefatory Scene of a much longer subject, in
which I have striven to develop strong passions and weak principles
struggling with a high imagination and acute feelings, till, as youth
hardens towards age, evil deeds and short enjoyments end in mental
misery and bodily ruin. Now, to send you the whole of this would be a
mock upon your patience; what you see, does not even pretend to be
more than the description of an imaginative child. But read it, sir;
and, as you would hold a light to one in utter darkness--as you value
your own kindheartedness--_return_ me an _answer_, if but one word,
telling me whether I should write on, or write no more. Forgive undue
warmth, because my feelings in this matter cannot be cool; and believe
me, sir, with deep respect,

"Your really humble servant,
"P. B. Bronte"

The poetry enclosed seems to me by no means equal to parts of the letter; but, as every one likes to judge for himself, I copy the six opening stanzas--about a third of the whole, and certainly not the worst.

So where he reigns in glory bright,
Above those starry skies of night,
Amid his Paradise of light
Oh, why may I not be?

Oft when awake on Christmas morn,
In sleepless twilight laid forlorn,
Strange thoughts have o'er my mind been borne,
How he has died for me.

And oft within my chamber lying,
Have I awaked myself with crying
From dreams, where I beheld Him dying
Upon the accursed Tree.

And often has my mother said,
While on her lap I laid my head,
She feared for time I was not made,
But for Eternity.

So "I can read my title clear,
To mansions in the skies,
And let me bid farewell to fear,
And wipe my weeping eyes."

I'll lay me down on this marble stone,
And set the world aside,
To see upon her ebon throne
The Moon in glory ride.

Soon after Charlotte returned to Dewsbury Moor, she was distressed by hearing that her friend "E." was likely to leave the neighbourhood for a considerable length of time.

"Feb. 20th.

"What shall I do without you? How long are we likely to be separated?
Why are we to be denied each other's society? It is an inscrutable
fatality. I long to be with you, because it seems as if two or three
days, or weeks, spent in your company would beyond measure strengthen
me in the enjoyment of those feelings which I have so lately begun to
cherish. You first pointed out to me that way in which I am so feebly
endeavouring to travel, and now I cannot keep you by my side, I must
proceed sorrowfully alone. Why are we to be divided? Surely, it must
be because we are in danger of loving each other too well--of losing
sight of the _Creator_ in idolatry of the _creature_. At first, I
could not say 'Thy will be done!' I felt rebellious, but I knew it
was wrong to feel so. Being left a moment alone this morning, I
prayed fervently to be enabled to resign myself to _every_ decree of
God's will, though it should be dealt forth by a far severer hand than
the present disappointment; since then I have felt calmer and humbler,
and consequently happier. Last Sunday I took up my Bible in a gloomy
state of mind: I began to read--a feeling stole over me such as I have
not known for many long years--a sweet, placid sensation, like those,
I remember, which used to visit me when I was a little child, and, on
Sunday evenings in summer, stood by the open window reading the life
of a certain French nobleman, who attained a purer and higher degree
of sanctity than has been known since the days of the early martyrs."

"E.'s" residence was equally within a walk from Dewsbury Moor as it had been from Roe Head; and on Saturday afternoons both "Mary" and she used to call upon Charlotte, and often endeavoured to persuade her to return with them, and be the guest of one of them till Monday morning; but this was comparatively seldom. Mary says:--"She visited us twice or thrice when she was at Miss W---'s. We used to dispute about politics and religion. She, a Tory and clergyman's daughter, was always in a minority of one in our house of violent Dissent and Radicalism. She used to hear over again, delivered _with authority_, all the lectures I had been used to give her at school on despotic aristocracy, mercenary priesthood, &c. She had not energy to defend herself; sometimes she owned to a _little_ truth in it, but generally said nothing. Her feeble health gave her her yielding manner, for she could never oppose any one without gathering up all her strength for the struggle. Thus she would let me advise and patronise most imperiously, sometimes picking out any grain of sense there might be in what I said, but never allowing any one materially to interfere with her independence of thought and action. Though her silence sometimes left one under the impression that she agreed when she did not, she never gave a flattering opinion, and thus her words were golden, whether for praise or blame."

"Mary's" father was a man of remarkable intelligence, but of strong, not to say violent prejudices, all running in favour of Republicanism and Dissent. No other county but Yorkshire could have produced such a man. His brother had been a _detenu_ in France, and had afterwards voluntarily taken up his residence there. Mr. T. himself had been much abroad, both on business and to see the great continental galleries of paintings. He spoke French perfectly, I have been told, when need was; but delighted usually in talking the broadest Yorkshire. He bought splendid engravings of the pictures which he particularly admired, and his house was full of works of art and of books; but he rather liked to present his rough side to any stranger or new-comer; he would speak his broadest, bring out his opinions on Church and State in their most startling forms, and, by and by, if he found his hearer could stand the shock, he would involuntarily show his warm kind heart, and his true taste, and real refinement. His family of four sons and two daughters were brought up on Republican principles; independence of thought and action was encouraged; no "shams" tolerated. They are scattered far and wide: Martha, the younger daughter, sleeps in the Protestant cemetery at Brussels; Mary is in New Zealand; Mr. T. is dead. And so life and death have dispersed the circle of "violent Radicals and Dissenters" into which, twenty years ago, the little, quiet, resolute clergyman's daughter was received, and by whom she was truly loved and honoured.

January and February of 1837 had passed away, and still there was no reply from Southey. Probably she had lost expectation and almost hope when at length, in the beginning of March, she received the letter inserted in Mr. C. C. Southey's life of his Father, vol. iv. p. 327.

After accounting for his delay in replying to hers by the fact of a long absence from home, during which his letters had accumulated, whence "it has lain unanswered till the last of a numerous file, not from disrespect or indifference to its contents, but because in truth it is not an easy task to answer it, nor a pleasant one to cast a damp over the high spirits and the generous desires of youth," he goes on to say: "What you are I can only infer from your letter, which appears to be written in sincerity, though I may suspect that you have used a fictitious signature. Be that as it may, the letter and the verses bear the same stamp, and I can well understand the state of mind they indicate.

* * * * *

"It is not my advice that you have asked as to the direction of your talents, but my opinion of them, and yet the opinion may be worth little, and the advice much. You evidently possess, and in no inconsiderable degree, what Wordsworth calls the 'faculty of verse.' I am not depreciating it when I say that in these times it is not rare. Many volumes of poems are now published every year without attracting public attention, any one of which if it had appeared half a century ago, would have obtained a high reputation for its author. Whoever, therefore, is ambitious of distinction in this way ought to be prepared for disappointment.

"But it is not with a view to distinction that you should cultivate this talent, if you consult your own happiness. I, who have made literature my profession, and devoted my life to it, and have never for a moment repented of the deliberate choice, think myself, nevertheless, bound in duty to caution every young man who applies as an aspirant to me for encouragement and advice, against taking so perilous a course. You will say that a woman has no need of such a caution; there can be no peril in it for her. In a certain sense this is true; but there is a danger of which I would, with all kindness and all earnestness, warn you. The day dreams in which you habitually indulge are likely to induce a distempered state of mind; and in proportion as all the ordinary uses of the world seem to you flat and unprofitable, you will be unfitted for them without becoming fitted for anything else. Literature cannot be the business of a woman's life, and it ought not to be. The more she is engaged in her proper duties, the less leisure will she have for it, even as an accomplishment and a recreation. To those duties you have not yet been called, and when you are you will be less eager for celebrity. You will not seek in imagination for excitement, of which the vicissitudes of this life, and the anxieties from which you must not hope to be exempted, be your state what it may, will bring with them but too much.

"But do not suppose that I disparage the gift which you possess; nor that I would discourage you from exercising it. I only exhort you so to think of it, and so to use it, as to render it conducive to your own permanent good. Write poetry for its own sake; not in a spirit of emulation, and not with a view to celebrity; the less you aim at that the more likely you will be to deserve and finally to obtain it. So written, it is wholesome both for the heart and soul; it may be made the surest means, next to religion, of soothing the mind and elevating it. You may embody in it your best thoughts and your wisest feelings, and in so doing discipline and strengthen them.

"Farewell, madam. It is not because I have forgotten that I was once young myself, that I write to you in this strain; but because I remember it. You will neither doubt my sincerity nor my good will; and however ill what has here been said may accord with your present views and temper, the longer you live the more reasonable it will appear to you. Though I may be but an ungracious adviser, you will allow me, therefore, to subscribe myself, with the best wishes for your happiness here and hereafter, your true friend,

"ROBERT SOUTHEY."

* * * * *

I was with Miss Bronte when she received Mr. Cuthbert Southey's note, requesting her permission to insert the foregoing letter in his father's life. She said to me, "Mr. Southey's letter was kind and admirable; a little stringent, but it did me good."

It is partly because I think it so admirable, and partly because it tends to bring out her character, as shown in the following reply, that I have taken the liberty of inserting the foregoing extracts from it.

"Sir, March 16th.

"I cannot rest till I have answered your letter, even though by
addressing you a second time I should appear a little intrusive; but I
must thank you for the kind and wise advice you have condescended to
give me. I had not ventured to hope for such a reply; so considerate
in its tone, so noble in its spirit. I must suppress what I feel, or
you will think me foolishly enthusiastic.

"At the first perusal of your letter, I felt only shame and regret
that I had ever ventured to trouble you with my crude rhapsody; I felt
a painful heat rise to my face when I thought of the quires of paper I
had covered with what once gave me so much delight, but which now was
only a source of confusion; but after I had thought a little and read
it again and again, the prospect seemed to clear. You do not forbid
me to write; you do not say that what I write is utterly destitute of
merit. You only warn me against the folly of neglecting real duties
for the sake of imaginative pleasures; of writing for the love of
fame; for the selfish excitement of emulation. You kindly allow me to
write poetry for its own sake, provided I leave undone nothing which I
ought to do, in order to pursue that single, absorbing, exquisite
gratification. I am afraid, sir, you think me very foolish. I know
the first letter I wrote to you was all senseless trash from beginning
to end; but I am not altogether the idle dreaming being it would seem
to denote. My father is a clergyman of limited, though competent
income, and I am the eldest of his children. He expended quite as
much in my education as he could afford in justice to the rest. I
thought it therefore my duty, when I left school, to become a
governess. In that capacity I find enough to occupy my thoughts all
day long, and my head and hands too, without having a moment's time
for one dream of the imagination. In the evenings, I confess, I do
think, but I never trouble any one else with my thoughts. I carefully
avoid any appearance of preoccupation and eccentricity, which might
lead those I live amongst to suspect the nature of my pursuits.
Following my father's advice--who from my childhood has counselled me,
just in the wise and friendly tone of your letter--I have endeavoured
not only attentively to observe all the duties a woman ought to
fulfil, but to feel deeply interested in them. I don't always
succeed, for sometimes when I'm teaching or sewing I would rather be
reading or writing; but I try to deny myself; and my father's
approbation amply rewarded me for the privation. Once more allow me
to thank you with sincere gratitude. I trust I shall never more feel
ambitious to see my name in print: if the wish should rise, I'll look
at Southey's letter, and suppress it. It is honour enough for me that
I have written to him, and received an answer. That letter is
consecrated; no one shall ever see it, but papa and my brother and
sisters. Again I thank you. This incident, I suppose, will be
renewed no more; if I live to be an old woman, I shall remember it
thirty years hence as a bright dream. The signature which you
suspected of being fictitious is my real name. Again, therefore, I
must sign myself,

"C. Bronte.

"P.S.--Pray, sir, excuse me for writing to you a second time; I could
not help writing, partly to tell you how thankful I am for your
kindness, and partly to let you know that your advice shall not be
wasted; however sorrowfully and reluctantly it may be at first
followed.

"C. B."

I cannot deny myself the gratification of inserting Southey's reply:--

"Keswick, March 22, 1837.

"Dear Madam,

"Your letter has given me great pleasure, and I should not forgive
myself if I did not tell you so. You have received admonition as
considerately and as kindly as it was given. Let me now request that,
if you ever should come to these Lakes while I am living here, you
will let me see you. You would then think of me afterwards with the
more good-will, because you would perceive that there is neither
severity nor moroseness in the state of mind to which years and
observation have brought me.

"It is, by God's mercy, in our power to attain a degree of
self-government, which is essential to our own happiness, and
contributes greatly to that of those around us. Take care of over-
excitement, and endeavour to keep a quiet mind (even for your health
it is the best advice that can be given you): your moral and spiritual
improvement will then keep pace with the culture of your intellectual
powers.

"And now, madam, God bless you!

"Farewell, and believe me to be your sincere friend,

"ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Of this second letter, also, she spoke, and told me that it contained an invitation for her to go and see the poet if ever she visited the Lakes. "But there was no money to spare," said she, "nor any prospect of my ever earning money enough to have the chance of so great a pleasure, so I gave up thinking of it." At the time we conversed together on the subject we were at the Lakes. But Southey was dead.

This "stringent" letter made her put aside, for a time, all idea of literary enterprise. She bent her whole energy towards the fulfilment of the duties in hand; but her occupation was not sufficient food for her great forces of intellect, and they cried out perpetually, "Give, give," while the comparatively less breezy air of Dewsbury Moor told upon her health and spirits more and more. On August 27, 1837, she writes:--

"I am again at Dewsbury, engaged in the old business,--teach, teach,
teach . . . _When will you come home_? Make haste! You have been at
Bath long enough for all purposes; by this time you have acquired
polish enough, I am sure; if the varnish is laid on much thicker, I am
afraid the good wood underneath will be quite concealed, and your
Yorkshire friends won't stand that. Come, come. I am getting really
tired of your absence. Saturday after Saturday comes round, and I can
have no hope of hearing your knock at the door, and then being told
that 'Miss E. is come.' Oh, dear! in this monotonous life of mine,
that was a pleasant event. I wish it would recur again; but it will
take two or three interviews before the stiffness--the estrangement of
this long separation--will wear away."

About this time she forgot to return a work-bag she had borrowed, by a messenger, and in repairing her error she says:--"These aberrations of memory warn me pretty intelligibly that I am getting past my prime." AEtat 21! And the same tone of despondency runs through the following letter:--

"I wish exceedingly that I could come to you before Christmas, but it
is impossible; another three weeks must elapse before I shall again
have my comforter beside me, under the roof of my own dear quiet home.
If I could always live with you, and daily read the Bible with you--if
your lips and mine could at the same time drink the same draught, from
the same pure fountain of mercy--I hope, I trust, I might one day
become better, far better than my evil, wandering thoughts, my corrupt
heart, cold to the spirit and warm to the flesh, will now permit me to
be. I often plan the pleasant life which we might lead together,
strengthening each other in that power of self-denial, that hallowed
and glowing devotion, which the first saints of God often attained to.
My eyes fill with tears when I contrast the bliss of such a state,
brightened by hopes of the future, with the melancholy state I now
live in, uncertain that I ever felt true contrition, wandering in
thought and deed, longing for holiness, which I shall _never_, _never_
obtain, smitten at times to the heart with the conviction that ghastly
Calvinistic doctrines are true--darkened, in short, by the very
shadows of spiritual death. If Christian perfection be necessary to
salvation, I shall never be saved; my heart is a very hotbed for
sinful thoughts, and when I decide on an action I scarcely remember to
look to my Redeemer for direction. I know not how to pray; I cannot
bend my life to the grand end of doing good; I go on constantly
seeking my own pleasure, pursuing the gratification of my own desires.
I forget God, and will not God forget me? And, meantime, I know the
greatness of Jehovah; I acknowledge the perfection of His word; I
adore the purity of the Christian faith; my theory is right, my
practice horribly wrong."

The Christmas holidays came, and she and Anne returned to the parsonage, and to that happy home circle in which alone their natures expanded; amongst all other people they shrivelled up more or less. Indeed, there were only one or two strangers who could be admitted among the sisters without producing the same result. Emily and Anne were bound up in their lives and interests like twins. The former from reserve, the latter from timidity, avoided all friendships and intimacies beyond their family. Emily was impervious to influence; she never came in contact with public opinion, and her own decision of what was right and fitting was a law for her conduct and appearance, with which she allowed no one to interfere. Her love was poured out on Anne, as Charlotte's was on her. But the affection among all the three was stronger than either death or life.

"E." was eagerly welcomed by Charlotte, freely admitted by Emily, and kindly received by Anne, whenever she could visit them; and this Christmas she had promised to do so, but her coming had to be delayed on account of a little domestic accident detailed in the following letter:--

"Dec. 29, 1837.

"I am sure you will have thought me very remiss in not sending my
promised letter long before now; but I have a sufficient and very
melancholy excuse in an accident that befell our old faithful Tabby, a
few days after my return home. She was gone out into the village on
some errand, when, as she was descending the steep street, her foot
slipped on the ice, and she fell; it was dark, and no one saw her
mischance, till after a time her groans attracted the attention of a
passer-by. She was lifted up and carried into the druggist's near;
and, after the examination, it was discovered that she had completely
shattered and dislocated one leg. Unfortunately, the fracture could
not be set till six o'clock the next morning, as no surgeon was to be
had before that time, and she now lies at our house in a very doubtful
and dangerous state. Of course we are all exceedingly distressed at
the circumstance, for she was like one of our own family. Since the
event we have been almost without assistance--a person has dropped in
now and then to do the drudgery, but we have as yet been able to
procure no regular servant; and consequently, the whole work of the
house, as well as the additional duty of nursing Tabby, falls on
ourselves. Under these circumstances I dare not press your visit
here, at least until she is pronounced out of danger; it would be too
selfish of me. Aunt wished me to give you this information before,
but papa and all the rest were anxious I should delay until we saw
whether matters took a more settled aspect, and I myself kept putting
it off from day to day, most bitterly reluctant to give up all the
pleasure I had anticipated so long. However, remembering what you
told me, namely, that you had commended the matter to a higher
decision than ours, and that you were resolved to submit with
resignation to that decision, whatever it might be, I hold it my duty
to yield also, and to be silent; it may be all for the best. I fear,
if you had been here during this severe weather, your visit would have
been of no advantage to you, for the moors are blockaded with snow,
and you would never have been able to get out. After this
disappointment, I never dare reckon with certainty on the enjoyment of
a pleasure again; it seems as if some fatality stood between you and
me. I am not good enough for you, and you must be kept from the
contamination of too intimate society. I would urge your visit yet--I
would entreat and press it--but the thought comes across me, should
Tabby die while you are in the house, I should never forgive myself.
No! it must not be, and in a thousand ways the consciousness of that
mortifies and disappoints me most keenly, and I am not the only one
who is disappointed. All in the house were looking to your visit with
eagerness. Papa says he highly approves of my friendship with you,
and he wishes me to continue it through life."

A good neighbour of the Brontes--a clever, intelligent Yorkshire woman, who keeps a druggist's shop in Haworth, and from her occupation, her experience, and excellent sense, holds the position of village doctress and nurse, and, as such, has been a friend, in many a time of trial, and sickness, and death, in the households round--told me a characteristic little incident connected with Tabby's fractured leg. Mr. Bronte is truly generous and regardful of all deserving claims. Tabby had lived with them for ten or twelve years, and was, as Charlotte expressed it, "one of the family." But on the other hand, she was past the age for any very active service, being nearer seventy than sixty at the time of the accident; she had a sister living in the village; and the savings she had accumulated, during many years' service, formed a competency for one in her rank of life. Or if, in this time of sickness, she fell short of any comforts which her state rendered necessary, the parsonage could supply them. So reasoned Miss Branwell, the prudent, not to say anxious aunt; looking to the limited contents of Mr. Bronte's purse, and the unprovided- for-future of her nieces; who were, moreover, losing the relaxation of the holidays, in close attendance upon Tabby.