 Volume 2, Section 4, of the Life of Charlotte Bronte, the Life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Claycorn Gaskell. Volume 2, Section 4. 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 Gray she had been laboring 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 slightest to be only considered good fellowship, was painfully discordant to one who would feign 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 being 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 Alice and Acton Bell. In consequence of his mode of doing business, considerable annoyance was occasioned both to misbronty 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, and the tenet 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 a 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 adverienced 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 Keithley by an opportune cart, and after early tea they set off to walk Bither, 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 Keithley, 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 Potter Noster 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 Howarth 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 men. On reaching Mr. Smith's, Charlotte put his own letter into his hands, the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at Howarth 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 actin 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 at 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. The sisters were equally persevering in declining Mr. Smith's invitations to stay at his house. They refused to leave their quarters saying they were not prepared for a long stay. When they returned back to their inn poor Charlotte paid for the excitement of the interview which had wound up the agitation and hurry of the last twenty-four hours by a racking headache and harassing sickness. Towards evening as she rather expected some of the ladies of Mr. Smith's family to call she prepared herself for the chance by taking a strong dose of salvalataly which roused her little but still as she says she was in grievous bodily case when their visitors were announced in full evening costume. The sisters had not understood that it had been settled that they were to go to the opera and therefore were not ready. Moreover they had no fine elegant dresses either with them or in the world but Miss Bronte resolved to raise no objections in the acceptance of kindness so in spite of headache and weariness they made haste to dress themselves in their plain high-made country garments. Charlotte says in an account which she gives to her friend of this visit to London describing the entrance of her party into the opera house. Fine ladies and gentlemen glanced at us as we stood by the box door which was not yet opened with a slight graceful superciliousness quite warranted by the circumstances. Still I felt pleasurably excited in spite of headache, sickness and conscious clownishness and I saw Anne was calm and gentle but she always is. The performance was Rossini's Barber of Seville, very brilliant though I fancy there are things I should like better. We got home after one o'clock, we had never been in bed the night before, had been in constant excitement for twenty-four hours, you may imagine we were tired. The next day, Sunday, Mr. Williams came early to take us to church and in the afternoon Mr. Smith and his mother fetched us in a carriage and took us to his house to dine. On Monday we went to the exhibition of the Royal Academy, the National Gallery, dined again at Mr. Smith's and then went home to tea with Mr. Williams at his house. On Tuesday morning we left London, laden with books Mr. Smith had given us and got safely home. A more jaded wretch than I looked it would be difficult to conceive. I was thin when I went but I was meager indeed when I returned. My face looking grey and very old with strange deep lines plowed in it. My eyes stared unnaturally. I was weak and yet restless. In a while, however, these bad effects of excitement went off and I regained my normal condition. The impression Miss Bronte made upon those with whom she first became acquainted during this visit to London was of a person with clear judgment and fine sense, and though reserved, possessing unconsciously the power of drawing out others in conversation. She never expressed an opinion without assigning a reason for it. She never put a question without a definite purpose. And yet people felt at their ease in talking with her. All conversation with her was genuine and stimulating, and when she launched forth in praise or reparation of books or deeds or works of art, her eloquence was indeed burning. She was thorough in all that she said or did, yet so open and fair in dealing with a subject or contending with an opponent, that instead of rousing resentment, she merely convinced her hearers of her earnest zeal for the truth and right. Not the least singular part of their proceedings was the place at which the sisters had chosen to stay. Potter Noster Roe was for many years sacred to publishers. It is a narrow, flagged street, lying under the shadow of St. Paul's. At each end there are posts placed so as to prevent the passage of carriages and thus preserve a solemn silence for the deliberations of the Fathers of the Roe. The dull warehouses on each side are mostly occupied at present by wholesale stationers. If they be publishers' shops they show no attractive front to the dark and narrow street. Halfway up on the left-hand side is the chapter coffee-house. I visited it last June. It was then unoccupied. It had the appearance of a dwelling-house two hundred years old or so, such as one sometimes sees in ancient country towns. The ceilings of the small rooms were low and had heavy beams running across them. The walls were wanes-caught at breast-high. The staircase was shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much space in the centre of the house. This then was the chapter coffee-house which, a century ago, was the resort of all the booksellers and publishers, and where the literary hacks, the critics, and even the wits used to go in search of ideas or employment. This was the place about which Chatterton wrote in those delusive letters he sent to his mother at Bristol, while he was starving in London. I am quite familiar at the chapter coffee-house and know all the geniuses there. Here he heard of chances of employment. Here his letters were to be left. Years later it became the taverns frequented by university men and country clergymen who were up in London for a few days, and having no private friends or access into society were glad to learn what was going on in the world of letters from the conversation which they were sure to hear in the coffee-room. When Mr. Bronte's few and brief visits to town during his residence at Cambridge and the period of his curacy in Essex, he had stayed at this house. Hither he had brought his daughters when he was convoying them to Brussels, and here they came now, from very ignorance where else to go. It was a place solely frequented by men. I believe there was but one female servant in the house. Few people slept there. Some of the stated meetings of the trade were held in it as they had been for more than a century, and occasionally country booksellers with now and then a clergyman resorted to it, but it was a strange desolate place for the Miss Bronte's to have gone to from its purely business and masculine aspect. The old gray-haired elderly man who officiated as a waiter seems to have been touched from the very first with the quiet simplicity of the two ladies, and he tried to make them feel comfortable and at home in the long, low, dingy room upstairs where the meetings of the trade were held. The high, narrow windows looked into the gloomy row, the sisters clinging together on the most remote window-seat, as Mr. Smith tells me he found them when he came that Saturday morning to take them to the opera. Could see nothing of motion or of change in the grim, dark houses opposite, so near and close, although the whole breadth of the row was between. The mighty roar of London was round them, like the sound of an unseen ocean, yet every footfall on the pavement below might be heard distinctly in that unfrequented street. Such as it was, they preferred remaining at the chapter coffee house to accepting the invitation which Mr. Smith and his mother urged upon them, and in after years, Charlotte says, Since those days I have seen the west end, the parks, the fine squares, but I love the city far better. The city seems so much more in earnest. Its business, its rush, its roar are such serious things, sights, sounds. The city is getting its living, the west end, but enjoying its pleasure. At the west end you may be amused, but in the city you are deeply excited. Vallette, Volume 1, Page 89 Their wish had been to hear Dr. Crowley on the Sunday morning and Mr. Williams escorted them to St. Stephen's wallbrook, but they were disappointed as Dr. Crowley did not preach. Mr. Williams also took them, as Miss Bronte has mentioned, to drink tea at his house. On the way thither they had to pass through Kensington Gardens, and Miss Bronte was much struck with the beauty of the scene, the fresh verger of the turf, and the soft, rich masses of foliage. From remarks on the different character of the landscape in the south to what it was in the north, she was led to speak of the softness and varied intonations of the voices of those with whom she conversed in London, which seemed to have made a strong impression on both sisters. All this time those who came in contact with Miss Browns and other pseudonym, also beginning with a B, seem only to have regarded them as shy and reserved little country women with not much to say. Mr. Williams tells me that on the night when he accompanied the party to the opera, as Charlotte ascended the flight of stairs leading from the grand entrance up to the lobby of the first tier of boxes, she was so much struck with the architectural effect of the splendid decorations of that vestibule and saloon that involuntarily she slightly pressed his arm and whispered, You know I am not accustomed to this sort of thing. Indeed it must have formed a vivid contrast to what they were doing and seeing an hour or two earlier the night before when they were trudging along with beating hearts and high strong courage on the road between Haworth and Keithley, hardly thinking of the thunderstorm that beat above their heads for the thoughts which filled them of how they would go straight away to London and prove that they were really two people and not one impostor. It was no wonder that they returned to Haworth utterly fagged and worn out after the fatigue and excitement of this visit. The next notice I find of Charlotte's life at this time is of a different character to anything telling of enjoyment. July 28th. Branwell is the same in conduct as ever. His constitution seems much shattered. Papa and sometimes all of us have sad nights with him. He sleeps most of the day and consequently will lie awake at night, but has not every house its trial. While her most intimate friends were yet in ignorance of the fact of her authorship of Jane Eyre, she received a letter from one of them making inquiries about Casterton's school. It is but right to give her answer, written on August 28th, 1848. Since you wish to hear from me while you are from home, I will write without further delay. It often happens that when we linger at first in answering a friend's letter, obstacles occur to retard us to an inexcusably late period. In my last I forgot to answer a question which you asked me and was sorry afterwards for the omission. I will begin, therefore, by replying to it, though I fear what information I can give will come a little late. You said Mrs. Blank had some thoughts of sending Blank to school and wished to know whether the clergy daughter's school at Casterton was an eligible place. My personal knowledge of that institution is very much out of date, being derived from the experience of twenty years ago. The establishment was at that time in its infancy and a sad rickety infancy it was. Typhus fever decimated the school periodically, and consumption and scrawfula in every variety of form, bad air and water, bad and insufficient diet can generate, preyed on the ill-fated pupils. It would not then have been a fit place for any of Mrs. Blank's children, but I understand it is very much altered for the better since those days. The school is removed from Cowan Bridge, a situation as unhealthy as it was picturesque, low, damp, beautiful with wood and water, to Casterton. The accommodations, the diet, the discipline, the system of tuition, all are, I believe, entirely altered and greatly improved. I was told that such pupils as behaved well and remained at the school till their education was finished, were provided with situations as governesses, if they wished to adopt the vocation, and much care was exercised in the selection, it was added, that they were also furnished with an excellent wardrobe on leaving Casterton. The oldest family in Hallworth failed lately, and have quitted the neighborhood where their fathers resided before them for, it is said, thirteen generations. Papa, I am most thankful to say, continues in very good health considering his age, his sight, too, rather I think, improves than deteriorates. My sisters likewise are pretty well. But the dark cloud was hanging over that doomed household and gathering blackness every hour. On October the Ninth she thus writes, The past three weeks have been a dark interval in our humble home. Branwell's constitution had been failing fast all the summer, but still neither the doctors nor himself thought him so near his end as he was. He was entirely confined to his bed but for one single day, and was in the village two days before his death. He died after twenty minutes struggle on Sunday morning, September twenty-fourth. He was perfectly conscious till the last agony came on. His mind had undergone the peculiar change which frequently precedes death two days previously. The calm of better feelings filled it, a return of natural affection marked his last moments. He is in God's hands now, and the all-powerful is likewise the all-merciful. A deep conviction that he rests at last rests well after his brief airing, suffering, feverish life fills and quiets my mind now. The final separation, the spectacle of his pale corpse, gave me more acute bitter pain than I could have imagined. Till the last hour comes we never know how much we can forgive, pity, regret, and near-relative. All his vices were and are nothing now. We remember only his woes. Papa was acutely distressed at first, but on the whole has borne the event well. Emily and Anne are pretty well, though Anne is always delicate, and Emily has a cold and cough at present. It was my fate to sink at the crisis when I should have collected my strength. Headache and sickness came on first on the Sunday. I could not regain my appetite. Then internal pain attacked me. I became at once much reduced. It was impossible to touch a morsel. At last, bilious fever declared itself, I was confined to bed a week, a dreary week. But, thank God, health seems now returning. I can sit up all day and take moderate nourishment. The doctor said at first I should be very slow in recovering, but I seem to get on faster than he anticipated. I am truly much better. I have heard from one who attended Branwell in his last illness that he resolved on standing up to die. He had repeatedly said that as long as there was life there was strength of will to do what it chose, and when the last agony came on he insisted on assuming the position just mentioned. I have previously stated that when his fatal attack came on his pockets were found filled with old letters from the woman to whom he was attached. He died, she lives still, in Mayfair. The amenities, I suppose, went out of existence at the time when the whale was heard, Great Pan is dead. I think we could better have spared him than those awful sisters who sting dead conscience into life. I turn from her forever. That is look once more into the parsonage at Haworth. October 29th, 1848. I think I have now nearly got over the effects of my late illness and am almost restored to my normal condition of health. I sometimes wish that it was a little higher, but we ought to be content with such blessings as we have and not pine after those that are out of our reach. I feel much more uneasy about my sister than myself just now. Emily's cold and cough are very obstinate. I fear she has pain in her chest and I sometimes catch a shortness in her breathing when she has moved at all quickly. She looks very thin and pale. Her reserved nature occasions me great uneasiness of mind. It is useless to question her, you get no answers. It is still more useless to recommend remedies they are never adopted. Nor can I shut my eyes to Anne's great delicacy of constitution. The late, sad event has, I feel, made me more apprehensive than common. I cannot help feeling much depressed sometimes. I try to leave all in God's hands to trust in his goodness, but faith and resignation are difficult to practice under some circumstances. The weather has been most unfavorable for invalids of late. Sudden changes of temperature and cold penetrating winds have been frequent here. Should the atmosphere become more settled, perhaps a favorable effect might be produced on the general health, and these harassing colds and coughs be removed. Papa has not quite escaped, but he has so far stood it better than any of us. You must not mention my going to blank this winter. I could not and would not leave home on any account. Miss Blank has been for some years out of health now. These things make one feel, as well as know, that this world is not our abiding place. We should not knit human ties too close or clasp human affections too fondly. They must leave us or we must leave them one day. God restore health and strength to all who need it. I go on now with her own affecting words in the biographical notice of her sisters. But a great change approached. Affliction came in that shape which to anticipate is dread to look back on grief. In the very heat and burden of the day, the labourers failed over their work. My sister Emily first declined. Never in all her life had she lingered over any task that lay before her, and she did not linger now. She sank rapidly. She made haste to leave us. Day by day when I saw with what affront she met suffering, I looked on her with an anguish of wonder and love. I have seen nothing like it, but indeed I have never seen her parallel in anything. Stronger than a man, simpler than a child, her nature stood alone. The awful point was that, while full of Ruth for others, on herself she had no pity. The spirit was inexorable to the flesh. From the trembling hands, the unnerved limbs, the fading eyes, the same service was exacted as they had rendered in health. To stand by and witness this, and not dare to remonstrate, was a pain no words can render. In fact, Emily never went out of doors after the Sunday succeeding Branwell's death. She made no complaint. She would not endure questioning. She rejected sympathy and help. Many a time did Charlotte and Anne drop their sowing or cease from their writing to listen with wrong hearts to the failing step, the laboured breathing, the frequent pauses with which their sister climbed the short staircase. Yet they dared not notice what they observed, with pangs of suffering even deeper than hers. They dared not notice it in words far less by the caressing assistance of a helping arm or hand. They sat still and silent. November 23, 1848. I told you Emily was ill in my last letter. She has not rallied yet. She is very ill. I believe if you were to see her your impression would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect I have not beheld. The deep, tight cough continues. The breathing after the least exertion is a rapid pant, and these symptoms are accompanied by pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowed it to be felt, was found to beat a hundred and fifteen per minute. In this state she resolutely refuses to see a doctor. She will give no explanation of her feelings. She will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is, and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God only knows how all this is to terminate. More than once I have been forced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable. But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in the world. When a doctor had been sent for and was in the very house, Emily refused to see him. Her sisters could only describe to him what symptoms they had observed, and the medicines which she sent she would not take, denying that she was ill. December 10th, 1848 I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now interests me the most keenly of anything in this world, for in truth I hardly know what to think myself. Hope and fear fluctuate daily. The pain in her side and chest is better, the cough, the shortness of breath, the extreme emaciation continue. I have endured, however, such tortures of uncertainty on the subject that at length I could enter it no longer. And as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continues immutable, as she declares no poisoning doctor shall come near her, I have written unknown to her to an eminent physician in London, giving as my new test statement of her case and symptoms as I could draw up and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a day or two. I am thankful to say that my own health at present is very tolerable. It is well such as the case, for Anne, with the best will in the world to be useful, is really too delicate to do or bear much. She too at present has frequent pains in the side. Papa is also pretty well, though Emily's state renders him very anxious. The blanks, Anne brought his former pupils, were here about a week ago. They are attractive and stylish-looking girls. They seemed overjoyed to see Anne when I went into the room they were clinging round her like two children. She, meantime, looking perfectly quiet and passive. I, and H, took it into their heads to come here. I think it probable a fence was taken on that occasion from what cause I know not, and as, if such be the case, the grudge must rest upon purely imaginary grounds, and since besides I have other things to think about, my mind rarely dwells upon the subject. If Emily were but well, I feel as if I should not care who neglected, misunderstood, or abused me. I would rather you were not of the number, either. The crab cheese arrived safely. Emily has just reminded me to thank you for it. It looks very nice. I wish she were well enough to eat it. But Emily was growing rapidly worse. I remember Miss Bronte's shiver at recalling the pang she felt when, after having searched in the little hollows and sheltered crevices of the moors for a lingering spray of heather, just one spray, however withered, to take into Emily, she saw that the flower was not recognized by the dim and indifferent eyes. Yet to the last Emily adhered tenaciously to her habits of independence. She would suffer no one to assist her. Any effort to do so roused the old stern spirit. One Tuesday morning in December she arose and dressed herself as usual, making many a pause, but doing everything for herself, and even endeavouring to take up her employment of sowing. The servants looked on and knew what the catching rattling breath and the glazing of the eye too surely foretold, but she kept at her work, and Charlotte and Anne, though full of unspeakable dread, had still the faintest spark of hope. On that morning Charlotte wrote thus, probably in the very presence of her dying sister. Tuesday. I should have written to you before if I had had one word of hope to say, but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician's opinion was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine which she would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. I pray for God's support to us all. Hitherto he has granted it. The morning drew on to noon. Emily was worse. She could only whisper in gasps. Now, when it was too late, she said to Charlotte, If you will send for a doctor, I will see him now. About two o'clock she died. December 21st, 1848. Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will suffer more in this world. She is gone after a hard short conflict. She died on Tuesday the very day I wrote to you. I thought it very possible she might be with us still for weeks, and a few hours afterwards she was in eternity. Yes, there is no Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor wasted mortal frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over. The spectacle of the pains of death is gone by. The funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel them. She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime. But it is God's will, and the place where she is gone is better than that she has left. God has sustained me in a way that I marvel at, through such agony as I had not conceived. I now look at Anne and wish she were well and strong, but she is neither, nor is Papa. Could you now come to us for a few days? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tell me if you could come next week, and by what train I would try to send a gig for you to Keithley. You will, I trust, find us tranquil. Try to come. I never so much needed the consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure, of course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what your kind heart would teach you to find in doing good to others. As the old bereaved father and his two surviving children followed the coffin to the grave, they were joined by Keeper, Emily's fierce, faithful bulldog. He walked alongside of the mourners and into the church, and stayed quietly there all the time that the burial service was being read. When he came home, he lay down at Emily's chamber door and howled pitifully for many days. Anne Bronte drooped and sickened more rapidly from that time, and so ended the year 1848. End of Section 4. Volume 2, Section 5 of the Life of Charlotte Bronte. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Chuley for Malachem. The Life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Glagan Gaskell. Volume 2, Section 5. Chapter 3 An article on Vanity Fair and Jane Eyre had appeared in the quarterly review of December 1848. Some weeks after, Ms. Bronte wrote to her publishers, asking why it had not been sent to her, and conjecturing that it was unfavorable, she repeated her previous request, that whatever was done with the auditory, all critiques adverse to is another might be forwarded to her without fail. The quarterly review was accordingly sent. I am not aware that Ms. Bronte took any greater notice of the article than to place a few sentences out of it, in the mouth of a hard and vulgar woman in Shirley, where they are so much in character, that few have recognized them as a quotation. The time when the article was read was good for Ms. Bronte. She was numb to all petty annoyances by the grand severity of death. Otherwise, she might have felt more keenly than they deserved, the criticisms which, whilst striving to be severe, failed in logic owing to them as use of prepositions, and have smartered, under conjectures as to the authorship of Jane Eyre, which, intended to be accused, were merely flippant. But flippancy takes a grave name when directed against an author by an anonymous writer. We call it, then, cowardly insolence. Every one has a right to form his own conclusion, respecting the merits and demerits of a book. I complain not of the judgment which the reviewer passes on Jane Eyre. Opinions as to its tenancy varied, then, as they do now. While I write, I receive a letter from a clergyman in America in which he says, We have in our sacred of sacreds a special shelf highly adorned as a place we delight your honor of novels which we recognize as having had a good influence on character, our character. For most is Jane Eyre. Nor do I deny the existence of a diametrically opposite judgment, and so, as I trouble not myself about the reviewer's style of composition, I leave as criticisms regarding the merits of the work on one side. But when forgetting the chivalrous spirit of the good and noble Southie, who said, In reviewing anonymous works myself, when I have known the authors, I have never mentioned them, taking it for granted, they had sufficient reasons for avoiding the publicity. The quarterly reviewer goes on into gossiping on lectures as to whom Curra Bell really is, and pretends to decide on what the writer may be from the book. I protest with my whole soul against such want of Christian charity. Not even the desire to write a smart article, which shall be talked about in London, when the faint mask of the anonymous can be dropped at pleasure if the cleverness of the review be admired. Not even this temptation can excuse the stabbing cruelty of the judgment. Who is he that should say of an unknown woman? She must be one who, for some sufficient reason, has long forfeited the society of her sex. Is he one who has led a wild and struggling and isolated life, seeing few but plain and outspoken Northens, unskilled in the euphemisms which assist the polite world to skim over the mention of vice? Has he striven through long weeping years to find excuses for the lapse of an only brother, and through daily contact with the poor lost profligate been compelled into a certain familiarity with the vices that his soul abhors? Has he, through trials, close following in dread march through his household, sweeping the half-stone bare of life and love, still strive and hard for strength to say, It is the Lord, let him do what seems to him good, and sometimes strive and bane until the kindly light returned. After all these dark waters, the scornful reviewer have passed clear, refined, free from stain, with the soul that has never in all its agnies cried, lama sabbaktani. Still, even then, let him pray with the publican, rather than judge with a Pharisee. January 10th, 1849 Anne had a very tolerable day yesterday, and a pretty quiet night last night, though she did not sleep much. Mr. Wheelhouse ordered the blizzard to be put on again. She wore it without sickness. I have just dressed it, and she has risen and come downstairs. She looks somewhat pale and sickly. She has had one dose of the cod liver oil. It smells and tastes like train oil. I am draining to hope, but the day is windy, cloudy, and stormy. My spirits fall at intervals very low. Then I look where you counsel me to look, beyond earthly tempests and sorrows. I seem to get strength, if not consolation. It will not do to anticipate. I feel that hourly. In the night I wake and long for morning, then my heart is rung. Papa continues much the same. It was very faint when he came down to breakfast. Dear I, your friendship is some comfort to me. I am thankful for it. I see few lights through the darkness of the present time, but amongst them the constancy of a kind heart attached to me is one of the most jeering and serene. January 15th, 1849 I can scarcely say that Anna's worse, nor can I say she's better. She varies often in the course of a day, yet each day is passed pretty much the same. The morning is usually the best time, the afternoon and the evening the most feverish. Her cuff is the most troublesome at night, but it is rarely violent. The pain in her arm still disturbs her. She takes in the cuddle of her oil and carbonate of iron regularly. She finds them both nauseous, but especially the oil. Her appetite is small indeed. Did not fear that I shall relax in my care of her. She's too precious not to be cherished with all the fostering strengths I have. Papa, I am thankful to say, has been a good deal better this last day or two. As to your queries about myself, I can only say, that if I continue as I am, I shall do very well. I have not yet got rid of the pains in my chest and back. They oddly return with every change of weather, and are still sometimes accompanied with a little soreness and hoarseness, but I combat them steadily with pitch-plasters and brand tea. I should think it silly and wrong indeed not to be regardful of my own health at present. It would not do to be ill now. I avoid looking forward or backward, and try to keep looking upward. This is not the time to regret, dread or weep. What I have, and ought to do, is very distinctly laid out for me. What I want and pray for is strength to perform it. The days pass in a slow, dark march. The nights are the test. The sudden wakeings from restless sleep. The revived knowledge that one lies in her grave, and another not at my side, but in a separate and sick bed. However, God is over all. January 22nd, 1849 Anne really did seem to be a little better during some mild days last week, but today she looks very pale and languid again. She perseveres with a cod-liver oil, but still finds it very nauseous. She is thoroughly obliged to you for the soles for her shoes, and finds them extremely comfortable. I am to commission you to get her just such a respirator as Mrs. Blank had. She would not object to give a high of rice if you thought it better. If it is not too much trouble, you may likewise get me a pair of soles. You can send them and the respirator when you send the box. You must put down the price of all, and we will pay you in a post-office order. With the ring hides was given to you. I have sent Blank neither letter nor parcel. I had nothing but drarion used to write, so preferred that others should tell her. I have not written to Blank, either. I cannot write, except when I am quite obliged. February 11th, 1849 We received the box and its contents quite safely today. The panwipers are very pretty, and we are very much obliged to you for them. I hope the respirator will be useful to Anne, in case she should ever be well enough to go out again. She continues very much in the same state. I trust not greatly worse, though she is becoming very thin. I fear it would be only self-delusion to fancy her better. What effect the advancing season may have on her, I know not. Perhaps the return of really warm weather may give nature a happy stimulus. I tremble at the thought of any change to cold wind or frost. All that march were well over. The mind seems generally serene, and her sufferings hitherto are nothing like amnes. The thought of what may be to come grows more familiar to my mind. But it is a sad, dreary guest. March 16th, 1849 We have found the past week a somewhat trying one. It has not been cold, but still there have been changes of temperature whose effect Anne has felt unfavorably. She is not, I trust, seriously worse, but her cough is at times very hard and painful, and her strengths rather diminished than improved. I wish the month of March was well over. You are right, in conjecturing, that I am somewhat depressed, at times I certainly am. It was almost easier to bear up when the trial was at its crisis than now. The feeling of Emily's loss does not diminish as time wears on. It often makes itself most acutely recognized. It brings two an inexpressible sorrow with it. And then the future is dark. Yet I am well aware it will not do either to complain or sing. And I strive to do neither. Strength, I hope, and trust, will yet be given in proportion to the burden, that the pain of my position is not one likely to lessen with habit. Its solitude and isolation are oppressive circumstances. Yet I do not wish for any friends to stay with me. I could not do with any one, or even you, to share the sadness of the house. It would wreck me intolerably. Meantime, judgment is still bland with mercy, and suffering still continue mild. It is my nature, well left alone, to struggle on with a certain perseverance, and I believe God will help me. Anne had been delicate all her life, a fact which perhaps made them less aware than they would otherwise have been of the true nature of those fatal first symptoms. Yet they seem to have lost but little time before they sent for the first advice that could be procured. She was examined with the status-cope, and the dreadful fact was announced that her lungs were affected, and that ubercular consumption had already made considerable progress. A system of treatment was prescribed, which was afterwards ratified by the opinion of Dr. Forbes. For a short time they hoped that disease was arrested. Charlotte, herself ill with a complaint that severely tried her spirits, was the ever-watchful nurse of this youngest last sister. One comfort was that Anne was a patientist, gentlest invalid that could be. Still there were hours, days, weeks of inexpressible anguish to be born, under the pressure of which Charlotte could only pray, and pray she did, right earnestly. Thus she writes on March 24th. Anne's decline is gradual and fluctuating, but its nature is not doubtful. In spirit she is resigned, at heart she is, I believe, a true Christian. May God support her and all of us through the trial of lingering sickness, and aid her in the last hour when the struggle which separates soul from body must be gone through. We saw Emily torn from the midst of us, when our hearts clung to her with intense attachment. She was scarce buried when Anne's health failed. These things would be too much, if reason unsupported by religion were condemned to bear them alone. I have caused to be most thankful for the strength that has hitherto been vowed to save both to my father and to myself. God, I think, is especially merciful to old age, and for my own part, trials which in perspective would have seemed to me quite intolerable, when they actually came, I endured without prostration. Yet I must confess, that in the time which has elapsed since Emily's death, there have been moments of solitary, deep, inert affliction, far harder to bear than those which immediately followed our laws. The crisis of bereavement has an acute pang which goes to exertion. The desolate after-feeling sometimes paralyzes. I have learned that we are not to find solace in our own strength. We must seek it in God's omnipotence. Fortitude is good, but fortitude itself must be shaken under us to teach us how weak we are. All through the zillness of Anne's, Charlotte had the comfort of being able to talk to her about her state. A comfort rendered inexpressibly great by the contrast which had presented to the recollection of Emily's rejection of all sympathy. If a proposal for Anne's benefit was made, Charlotte could speak to her about it, and the nursing and dying sister could consult with each other as to its desirability. I have seen but one of Anne's letters. It is the only time we seem to be brought into direct personal contact with this gentle-patient girl. In order to give the requisite preliminary explanation, I must state that family friends to which he belonged proposed that Anne should come to them, in order to try what change of air and diet, and the company of kindly people could do, towards restoring her to health. In answer to this proposal, Charlotte writes, March 24th. I read your kind note to Anne, and she wishes me to thank you sincerely for your friendly proposal. She feels, of course, that it would not do to take advantage of it, by quartering an invalid upon the inhabitants of Blanc. But she intimates, there is another way in which you might serve her, perhaps with some benefit to yourself as well as to her. Should it, a month or two hence, be deemed advisable that she should go either to the seaside, or to some inland watering-place, and should papa be disinclined to move, and I consequently obliged to remain at home? She asks, could you be her companion? Of course, I need not add, that in the event of such an arrangement being made, you would be put to no expense. This, dear E, is Anne's proposal. I make you to comply with her wish, but for my own part I must add, that I see serious objections to your accepting it—objections I cannot name to her. She continues to vary, is sometimes worse, and sometimes better, as weather changes. But on the whole I fear she loses strength. Papa says her state is most precarious. She may be spared for some time, or a sudden alteration might remove her before we are aware. We're such an alteration to take place, while she was far from home, and alone with you it would be terrible. The idea of it distresses me inexpressibly, and I tremble whenever she alludes to the project of a journey. In short, I wish we could gain time, and see how she gets on. If she leaves home it certainly should not be in the capricious month of May, which is proverbially trying to the week. June would be a safer month. If we could reach June, I should have good hopes of her getting through the summer. Write such an answer to this note as I can show Anne. You can write any additional remarks to me on a separate piece of paper. Do not consider yourself as confined to discussing only our said affairs. I am interested in all that interests you. From Anne Ronte. April 5th, 1849 My dear Miss Blank, I thank you greatly for your kind letter, and your ready compliance with my proposal, as far as the will can go at least. I see, however, that your friends are unwilling that you should undertake the responsibility of accompanying me under present circumstances. But I do not think there would be any great responsibility in the matter. I know, and everybody knows, that you would be as kind and helpful as any one could possibly be, and I hope I should not be very troublesome. It would be as a companion, not as a nurse, that I should wish for your company. Otherwise I should not venture to ask it. As for your kind and often repeated invitation to Blank, pray give my sincere thanks to your mother and sisters, but tell them I could not think of inflicting my presence upon them as I now am. It is very kind of them to make so light of the trouble, but still there must be more or less, and certainly no pleasure, from the society of a silent, invalid stranger. I hope, however, that Charlotte will by some means make it possible to accompany me, after all. She is certainly very delicate, and greatly needs a change of air and scene to renovate her constitution. And then your going with me before the end of May is apparently out of the question, unless you are disappointed in your visitors, but I should be reluctant to wait till then, if there were to which at all permit an earlier departure. You say May is a trying month, and so say others. The earlier part is often called enough, I acknowledge, but according to my experience, we are almost certain of some fine warm days in the latter half, when the labyrinems and lilacs are in bloom, whereas June is often called, and July generally wet. But I have a more serious reason than this for my impatience of delay. The doctors say that change of air, or removal to a better climate, would hardly ever fail of success in conceptive cases, if the remedy were taken in time. But the reason why there are so many disappointments, is that it is generally deferred till it is too late. Now I would not commit this error, and to save the truth. Though I suffer much less from pain and fever, than I did when you were with us, I am decidedly weaker and very much thinner. My cough still troubles me good deal, especially in the night, and what seems worse than all, I am subject to great shortness of breath on going upstairs, or any slight exertion. Under these circumstances, I think there is no time to be lost. I have no horror of death. If I thought it inevitable, I think I could quietly resign myself to the prospect, and the hope that you, dear Miss Blank, would give as much of your company as you possibly could to Charlotte, and be assisted to her in my stead. But I wish it would please God to spare me, not only for papa's and Charlotte's sakes, but because I long to do some good in the world before I leave it. I have many schemes in my head, for future practice, humble and limited indeed, but still I should not like them all to come to nothing, and myself to have lived to so little purpose, that God's will be done. Remember me respectfully to your mother and sisters, and believe me, dear Miss Blank, yours most affectionately, and ronty. It must have been about this time that Anne composed her last verses, before the desk was closed, and the pen lay decide for ever. One. I hoped, that with a brave and strong, my portion task might lie, to toil amid the busy throng with purpose pure and high. Two. But God has fixed another part, and He has fixed it well. I said so with my bleeding heart, when first the anguish fell. Three. Thou God has taken our delight, our treasured hope away, Thou bits does now weep through the night, and sorrow through the day. Four. These weary hours will not be lost, these days of misery, these nights of darkness anguish tossed, can I but turn to thee. Five. With a secret labour to sustain, in the humble patience, every blow, together fortitude from pain, and hope and holiness from woe. Six. Thus let me serve thee from my heart, would ever may be my written fate, whether thus early to depart, or yet a while to wait. Seven. If thou should bring me back to life, more humbled I should be, more wise, more strengthened falls this drive, more ref to lean on thee. Eight. Should death be standing at the gate, thus should I keep my vow, but Lord, whatever be my fate, oh let me serve thee now. End of Section 5. Volume 2, Section 6 of the Life of Janet Bronte. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Shaleefa Malikim. The Life of Janet Bronte by Elizabeth Glacken-Geskel. Volume 2, Section 6. I take Janet's own words as the best record of her thoughts and feelings during all this terrible time. April 12. I read Anne's letter to you. It was touching enough, as you say. If there were no hope beyond this world, no eternity, no life to come, Emily's fate, and that which threatens Anne, would be heartbreaking. I cannot forget Emily's death day. It becomes a more fixed, a darker, a more frequently recurring idea in my mind than ever. It was very terrible. She was torn, conscious, panting, reluctant, their resolute, out of a happy life. But it will not do to dwell on these things. I am glad your friends object to your going with Anne. It would never do. To speak truth, even if your mother and sisters had consented, I never could. It is not that there is any labourer's attention to pay her. She requires and will accept but little nursing. But there would be hazard and anxiety of mind beyond what you ought to be subject to. If a month or six weeks hence she continues to wish for a change as much as she does now, I shall, dear Valenti, go with her myself. It will certainly be my paramount duty. Other cares must be made subservient to that. I have consulted Mr. T., he does not object, and recommend Scarborough, which was Anne's own choice. I trust affairs may be so ordered that he may be able to be with us at least a part of the time. Whether in lodgings or not, I should wish to be bordered, providing oneself is, I think, an insupportable nuisance. I don't like keeping provisions in a cupboard, knocking up, being pillaged, and all that. It is a petty bearing annoyance. The brogues of Anne's illness were slower than that of Amelie's had been, and she was too unselfish to refuse trying means, from which, if she herself had less a hope of benefit, her friends might hereafter derive a mournful satisfaction. I began to flatter myself, she was getting strength, but the changed frost has talled upon her. She suffers more of late. Still, her illness has none of the fearful rapid symptoms which uphold in Amelie's case. Could she only get over the spring? I hope summer may do much for her. And then early removal to a warmer locality for the winter might at least prolong her life. Could we only reckon upon another year I should be thankful that can we do this for the healthy? A few days ago I wrote to have Dr. Forbes' opinion. He warned us against entertaining sanguine hopes of recovery. The cod liver oil he considers a peculiarly efficacious medicine. He too disapproved of change of residence for the present. There is some feeble consolation in thinking. We are doing the very best that can be done. The agony of Forbes' total neglect is not now felt as during Amelie's illness. Never may we be doomed to feel such agony again. It was terrible. I have felt much less of the disagreeable pains in my chest lately, and much less also of the sawness and hoarseness. I tried an application of hot vinegar, which seemed to do good. May 1st I was glad to hear that when we go to Scarborough you will be at liberty to go with us. But a journey and its consequences still continue a source of great anxiety to me. I must try to put it off two or three weeks longer if I can. Perhaps, by that time the milder season may have given Anne more strength. Perhaps it will be otherwise. I cannot tell. The change to fine weather has not proved beneficial to her so far. She has sometimes been so weak and suffered so much from pain in the side during the last few days that I have not know what to think. She may rally again and be much better, but there must be some improvement before I can feel justified in taking her away from home. Yet a delay is painful. For as is always the case, I believe under her circumstances she seems herself not half conscious of the necessity for such a delay. She wonders, I believe, why I do not talk more about the journey. It greets me to think she may even be heard by my seeming tardiness. She is very much emaciated, far more than when you were with us. Her arms are no thicker than the little child's. The least exertion brings a shortness of breath. She goes out a little every day, but a creep rather than walk. Papa continues pretty well. I hope I shall be able to bear up. So far I have reasoned for thankfulness to God. May had come and brought the milder weather longed for, but Anne was worse for the very change. A little later on it became colder and she rallied, and poor Charlotte began to hope that if May were once over she might last for a long time. Miss Bronte rode to engage the lodgings at Scarborough, a place which Anne had formally visited with the family to whom she was governess. They took a good-sized sitting-room and an airy double-bed room, both commanding a seaview, in one of the best situations of the town. Money was as nothing in comparison with life. Besides, Anne had a small legacy left to her by her godmother, and they felt that she could not better employ this than in obtaining what might prolong life if not restore health. On May 16th, Charlotte writes, It is with the heavy heart I prepare, and earnestly do I wish the fatigue of the journey were well over. It may be born better than I expect, for temporary stimulus often does much, but when I see the daily increasing weakness, I know not what to think. I fear you will be shocked when you see Anne, but be on your guard, dearie, not to express your feelings. Indeed, I can trust both your self-possession and your kindness. I wish my judgment sanctioned the step of going to Scarborough, more fully than it does. You ask how I have arranged about leaving Papa. I could make no special arrangement. He wishes me to go with Anne, and would not hear of Miss Anne's coming or anything of that kind. So I do what I believe is for the best, and leave the result to Providence. They planned to rest and spend the night at York, and, at Anne's desire, arranged to make some purchases there. Charlotte's aunt of the letter to her friend, in which she tells her all this with May 23rd. I wish it seemed less like a dreary mockery in us to talk of buying bonnets, etc. Anne was very ill yesterday. She had difficulty of breathing all day, even when sitting perfectly still. Today she seems better again. I long for the moment to come when the experiment of the sea air will be tried. Will it do her good? I cannot tell. I can only wish. Oh, if it would please God to strengthen and revive Anne, how happy we might be together. This will, however, be done. The two sisters left Howarth on Thursday May 24th. They were to have done so the day before, and had made an appointment with their friend to meet them at the elite station in order that they might all proceed together. But on Wednesday morning Anne was so ill that it was impossible for the sisters to set out. Yet they had no means of letting their friend know of this, and she consequently arrived at Leeds station at the time specified. There she set waiting for several hours. It struck her, as strange at the time, and it almost seems ominous to her fancy now, that twice over, from two separate arrivals on the line by which she was expecting her friends, coffins were carried forth, and place in her which were waiting for their dead, as she was waiting for one and four days to become so. The next day she could bear suspense no longer, and set out for Howarth, reaching there just in time to carry the feeble, fainting invalid into the chairs which stood at the gate to take them down to Keely. The servant stood at the parsonage gates, saw death written on her face, and spoke of it. Charlotte saw it, and did not speak of it. It would have been giving the dread too distinct a form, and if this last darling yearned for the change to Scarborough, go she should, however Charlotte's heart might be wrung by impanning fear. The lady who accompanied them, Charlotte's beloved friend of more than twenty years, has kindly written out for me the following account of the journey and of the end. She left her home May 24th, 1849, died May 28th. Her life was calm, quiet spiritual, such was her end. Through the trials and fatiques of the journey she evinced the pious courage and fortitude of a martyr. Dependence and helplessness were ever with her a far-sorrow trial than a hard-wracking pain. The first stage of our journey was to yorg, and here the dear invalid was so revived, so cheerful and so happy, redoed consolation, and trusted that at least temporary improvement was to be derived from the change which she had so longed for, and her friends had so dreaded for her. By her request we went to the minster, and to her it was an overpowering pleasure, not for its own imposing and impressive grandeur only, but because it brought to her sysceptical nature a vital and overwhelming sense of omnipotence. She said, while gazing at the structure, if finite power can do this, what is he? And here Emojin stayed her speech, and she was hastened to a less exciting scene. Her weakness of body was great, but a gratitude for every mercy was greater. After such an exertion as walking to her bedroom, she would clasp her hands and raise her eyes in silent thanks, and she did this not to the exclusion of wanted prayer, for that too was performed on bended knee, ere she accepted the rest of her couch. On the twenty-fifth we arrived at Scarborough, our dear invalid, having during the journey directed to our attention, to every prospect worthy of notice. On the twenty-sixth she drove on the sands for an hour, unless the poor donkey should be urged by its driver to a greater speed than her tender heart thought right, she took the reins and drove herself. When joined by her friend, she was charging the boy-master of the donkey to treat the poor animal well. She was ever fond of dumb things, and would give up her own comfort for them. On Sunday, the twenty-seventh, she wished to go to church, and arrived brightened with the thought of once more worshipping her God amongst her fellow-creatures. We thought it prudent to dissuade her from the attempt, though it was evident her heart was longing to join in the public act of devotion and praise. She walked a little in the afternoon, and meeting with a sheltered and comfortable seat near the beach, she begged we would leave her, and enjoy the various scenes near at hand, which were new to us, but familiar to her. She loft the place, and wished us to share her preference. The evening closed in with the most glorious sons that ever witnessed. The castle on the cliffs stood in proud glory, gilded by the rays of the declining sun. The distant ships glittered like burnished gold. The little boats near the beach heaved on the yabbing tide, inviting occupants. The view was grand beyond description, and was drawn in her easy chair to the window, to enjoy the scene with us. Her face became illumined almost as much as a glorious scene she gazed upon. Little was said, for it was plain that her thoughts were driven by the imposing view before her, to penetrate forwards to the regions of unfading glory. She gained thought of public worship, and wished us to leave her, and joined those who were assembled at the house of God. We declined, gently urging the duty and pleasure of staying with her, who was now so dear and so feeble. On returning to her place near the fire, she conversed with her sister, upon the propriety of returning to their home. She did not wish it for her own sake. She said she was fearing others might suffer more if her disease occurred where she was. She probably thought the task of accompanying her lifeless remains on a long journey was more than her sister could bear, more than the briefed father could bear, where she borne home another, and a third tenant of the family ruled in the short spate of nine months. The night was passed without any apparent accession of illness. She rose at seven o'clock, and performed most of her toil at herself, by her expressed wish. Her sister always yielded such points, believing it was the truest kindness not to press inability when it was not acknowledged. Nothing occurred to excite alarm till about eleven a.m. She then spoke of feeling of change. She believed she had not long to live. Could she reach home alive if we prepared immediately for departure? My physician was sent for. Her address to him was made with perfect composure. She begged him to say how long he thought she might live, not to fear speaking the truth, for she was not afraid to die. The doctor reluctantly admitted that the angel of death was already arrived, and that life was having fast. She thanked him for his truthfulness, and he departed to come again very soon. She still occupied her easy chair, looking so serene, so reliant there was no opening for grievous yet, so all knew the separation was at hand. She clasped her hands, and reverently invoked a blessing from on high. First upon her sister, then upon her friend, to whom she said, Be a sister in my stead. Give charlotte as much of your company as you can. She then thanked each for her kindness and attention. E'er long the restlessness of reproaching death appeared, and she was born to the sofa. On being asked, if she were easier, she looked gratefully at a questioner and said, It is not you who can give me ease, but soon all will be well through the merits of our redeemer. Shortly after this, seeing that her sister could hardly restrain her grief, she said, Take courage, charlotte, take courage! Her faith never failed, and her eye never dimmed, till about two o'clock, when she calmly, and without a sign, passed from the temporal to the eternal. So still, and so hallowed were her last hours and moments. There was no thought of assistance or of dread. The doctor came and went, two or three times. The hostess knew that death was near. Yet so little was the house disturbed by the presence of the dying, and the sorrow of so-so nearly bereaved. The dinner was announced as ready through the half-open door. As a living sister was closing the eyes of the dead one, she could now no more stay the well-dubbed grief of her sister with her emphatic and dying. Take courage! And it burst forth in grief but agonizing strength. Charlotte's affection, however, had another channel, and there returned in thought, in care, and in tenderness. There was bereavement, but there was not solitude. Sympathy was at hand, and it was accepted. With calmness came the consideration of the removal of the dear remains to their home resting place. This melancholy task, however, was never performed, for the afflicted sister decided to lay the flower in the place where it had fallen. She believed that to do so would accord with the wishes of the departed. She had no preference for place. She thought not of the grave, for that is but the body's goal, but of all that is beyond it. Her remains rest with the south's sun-worms, the now dear sod, where the ocean-belows lave and strike this deep and turf-covered rock, and died on the Monday. On the Tuesday Charlotte wrote to her father, but knowing that his presence was required for some annual church solemnity at Howers, she informed him that she had made all necessary arrangement for the interment, and that a funeral would take place so soon that he could hardly arrive in time for it. The surgeon who had visited Anne on the day of her death offered his attendance, but it was respectfully declined. Mr. Bronte wrote to urge Charlotte's longest day at the seaside. Her health and spirits were sorely shaken, and much as he naturally longed to see his only remaining child, he felt it right to persuade her to take with a friend a few more weeks' change of scene, though even that could not bring change of thought. Late in June the friends returned homewards, parting rather suddenly it would seem from each other, when their paths diverged. July 1849 I intended to have written a line to you today, if I had not received yours. We did indeed part suddenly. It made my heart ache that you were severed without the time to exchange a word, and yet perhaps it was better. I got here a little before eight o'clock. All was clean and right waiting for me. Papa and the servant were well, and all received me, with an affection which should have consoled. The dog seemed in strange ecstasy. I am certain they regarded me as a harbinger of others. The dumb creature thought, that as I was returned, those who had been so long absent were not far behind. I left papa soon, and went into his dining-room. I shut the door. I tried to be glad that I was to come home. I have always been glad before, except once, even then I was cheered, but this time joy was not to be the sensation. I felt that the houses all silent, the rooms were all empty. I remembered where the three were laid, and what narrow dark dwellings, never more to reappear on earth. So the sense of desolation and bitterness took possession of me. The agony that was to be undergone, and was not to be avoided, came on. I underwent it, and passed a dreary evening and night, and a mournful morrow. Today I am better. I do not know how life will pass, but I certainly do feel confident in him, who has appalled me hitherto. Solitude may be cheered, and made and durable beyond what I can believe. The great trial that went even in closers and night approaches, at that hour. We used to assemble in the dining-room. We used to talk. Now I sit by myself, necessarily I am silent. I cannot help thinking of their last days, remembering their sufferings, and what they said and did, and how they looked in mortal affliction. Perhaps all this will become less poignant in time. Let me thank you once more, dear E., for your kindness to me, which I do not mean to forget. How did you think of looking at your home? Papa thought me a little stronger. He said my eyes were not so sunken. July 14th, 1849. I do not much like giving an account of myself. I like better to go out of myself and talk of something more cheerful. My court, wherever I got it, by the Red Eastern or elsewhere, is not vanished yet. It began in my head. Then I had a sore throat, and then a sore chest with a cuff. But only a trifling cuff, which I still have at times. The pain between my shoulders likewise amazed me much. See nothing about it. For I confess I am too much disposed to be nervous. This nervousness is a horrid phantom. I dare communicate no ailment to Papa. His anxiety harasses me inexpressibly. My life is what I expected it to be. Sometimes, when I wake in the morning, I know that solitude, remembrance, and longing are to be almost my sole companions all day through. That at night I shall go to bed with them. The day will long keep me sleepless. That next morning I shall wake to them again. Sometimes, now, I have a heavy heart of it. But crushed, I am not yet. Nor robbed of elasticity. Nor of hope. Nor quite of endeavour. I have some strengths to fight the battle of life. I am aware and can acknowledge. I have many comforts, many mercies. Still I again get on. But I do hope and pray that never may you or anyone I love be place as I am. To sit in a lonely room, the clock ticking out through a still house, and have opened before the mind's eye the record of the last year with its shocks, sufferings, losses. It's a trial. I write to you freely, because I believe you will hear me with moderation, that you will not take alarm, or think me in any way worse off than I am. End of section 6