 Volume 1, Section 12 of the Life of Charlotte Bronte. Wraith hard, ready to die in harness. She went back to her work, and made no complaint, hoping to subdue the weakness that was gaining ground upon her. About this time, she would turn sick and trembling at any sudden noise, and could hardly repress her screams when startled. This showed a fearful degree of physical weakness in one who was generally so self-controlled, and the medical man, whom at length, through Miss W's entreaty, she was led to consult, insisted on her return to the Parsonage. She had led two sedentary life, he said, and the soft summer air blowing round her home, the sweet company of those she loved, the release, the freedom of life in her own family, were needed to save either reason or life. Wraith, who was one higher than she had overruled, that for a time she might relax her strain, she returned to howers, and after a season of utter quiet, her father sought for her the enlivening society of her two friends, Mary and Martha T. At the conclusion of the following letter, written to the then absent E, there is, I think, as frittier glimpse of a merry group of young people as need be, and like all descriptions of doing, as distinct from thinking or feeling, in letters it saddens one in proportion to the vivacity of the picture of what was once and is now utterly swept away. Howers, June 9th, 1838 I received your packet of dispatches on Wednesday. It was brought me by Mary and Martha, who have been staying at Howers for a few days. They leave us to-day. You will be surprised at the date of this letter. I ought to be at Howers very more, you know, but I stayed as long as I was able, and at length I neither could nor dare stay any longer. My health and spirits had utterly failed me, and the medical man whom I consulted, enjoined me, as I valued my life, to go home. So home I went, and the change as at once roused and soothed me, and I am now, I trust, fairly in the way, to be myself again. A calm and even mind like yours, cannot conceive the feelings of the shattered wretch who is now writing to you, when after weeks of mental and bodily anguish not to be described, something like peace began to dawn again. Mary is far from well. She breathes short, has a pain in her chest, and frequent flushings of fever. I cannot tell you what agony these symptoms give me. They remind me too strongly of my two sisters, whom no power of medicine could save. Martha is now very well. She has kept in a continual flow of good humour during his stay here, and has consequently been very fascinating. They are making such a noise about me, I cannot write any more. Mary is playing on the piano, Martha is chattering as fast as a little tongue can run, and Branwell is standing before her, laughing at her vivacity. Charlotte grew much stronger in this quiet happy period at home. She paid occasional visits to her two great friends, and they in return came to Howarth. At one of their houses, I suspect, she met with a person to whom the following letter refers, someone having a slight resemblance to the character of St John, and the last volume of Jane Eyre, and like him, in holy orders. March 12th, 1839. I had kindly leaning towards him, because he is an amiable and well-disposed man, yet I had not, and could not have, that intense attachment which would make me willing to die for him, and if I ever marry, it must be in that light of adoration that I will regard my husband. Turn to one, I shall never have the chance again, but ne'erbacht. Moreover, I was aware that he knew so little of me he could hardly be conscious to whom he was writing. Why, it would startle him to see me in my natural home character. He would think I was a wild, romantic enthusiast, indeed. I could not sit all day long making a gray face before my husband. I would laugh, and set her eyes, and say whatever came into my head first, and if he were a clever man, and loved me, the whole world waiting the balance against a smallest wish should be light as air. Though that, her first proposal of marriage is quietly declined, and put on one side. Matrimony did not enter into the scheme of her life, but good sound Ernest Labour did. The question, however, was as yet undecided in what direction she should employ her forces. She had been discouraged in literature. Her eyes failed her in the minute kind of drawing which she practised when she wanted to express an idea. Teaching seemed to her at this time, as it does to most women at all times, the only way of earning an independent livelihood. But neither she nor his sisters were naturally fond of children. The hieroglyphics of childhood ran unknown language to them, for they had never been much with those younger than themselves. I am inclined to think, too, that they had not the happy knack of imparting information, which seems to be a separate gift from the faculty of acquiring it, a kind of sympathetic tact which instinctively perceives the difficulties that impede comprehension in a child's mind, and that yet are too vague and uninformed for it, with its half-developed powers of expression to explain by words. Consequently, teaching very young children was anything but a delightful task to the three Bronte sisters. With all the girls verging on womanhood they might have done better, especially if these had any desire for improvement. But the education which the village clergyman's daughters had received, did not as yet qualify them to undertake the charge of advanced pupils. They knew but lesser French, and were not proficient in music. I doubt whether Charlotte could play at all, but they were all strong again, and at any rate, Charlotte and Dan must put their shoulders to the wheel. One daughter was needed at home to stay with Mr. Bronte and Miss Branwell, to be the young and active member in a household of four, whereof three, the father, the aunt, and faithful tabby, were past middle-age. And Emily, who suffered and drew to more than her sisters when away from Harris, was the one appointed to remain. Anne was the first to meet with the situation. April 15th, 1839 I could not write to you in the week you requested, at about that time we were very busy in preparing for Anne's departure. For a child, she left us last Monday. No one went with her. It was her own wish that she might be allowed to go alone, as she thought she could manage better, and summon more courage if thrown entirely upon her own resources. We have had one letter from her since she went. She expresses herself very well satisfied, and says that Mrs. Blank is extremely kind. The two eldest children alone are under her care. The rest are confined to the nursery, with which, and its occupants, she has nothing to do. I hope she'll do. You would be astonished what a sensible clever letter she writes, it is only the talking part that I fear, but I do seriously apprehend that Mrs. Blank will sometimes conclude that she has a natural impediment in her speech. On my own part I am as yet wanting a situation, like a house made out of place. By the way, I have lately discovered I have quite the talent for cleaning, sweeping up haths, dusting rooms, making beds, etc. So if everything else fails, I can turn my hand to that, if anybody will give me good wages for little labour. I won't be cook, I hate soothing, I won't be nursery-maid, or a ladies-maid, far less a ladies-companion, or a mantya-maker, or a straw-bunnot-maker, or a taker-en of plain work. I won't be anything but a house-maid. With regard to my visit to G., I have as yet received no invitation, but if I should be asked, though I should feel it a great act of self-denial to refuse, yet I have almost made up my mind to do so, though the society of the T's is one of the most rousing pleasures I have ever known. Good-bye, my darling E., etc. P.S. Strike out that word darling, it is humbug, where's the use of protestations, we've known each other, and liked each other a good while, that's enough. Not many weeks after this was written, Charlotte also became engaged as a governess. I intend carefully to abstain from introducing the names of any living people, respecting whom I may have to tell unpleasant truths, or to quote severe remarks from his frontage-letters, but it is necessary that the difficulties she had to encounter in her various phases of life should be fairly and frankly made known, before the force of what was resisted can be at all understood. I was once speaking to her about Agnes Gray, the novel in which her sister Anne pretty literally describes her own experience as a governess, and alluding more particularly to the account of the stoning of the little nestlings in the presence of the parent birds. She said that none but those who had been in the position of a governess could ever realize the dark side of respectable human nature, and a no-gray temptation to crime, but daily giving way to selfishness and ill temper, till its conduct towards those dependent on it sometimes amounts to a tyranny of which one would rather be the victim than the inflictor. We can only trust in such cases that the employees are rather from a density of perception and an absence of sympathy than from any natural cruelty of disposition. Among several things of the same kind, which I well remember, she told me what had once occurred to herself. She had been entrusted with the care of a little boy, three or four years old, during the absence of his parents on a day's excursion, and particularly enjoined to keep him out of the stable-yard. His elder brother, a lad of eight or nine, and not a pupil of Miss Rontes, tempted the little fellow into the forbidden place. He followed, and tried in use him to come away, but instigated by his brother, he began throwing stones at her, and one of them hit her so severe a blow on the temple that the lads were alarmed into obedience. The next day, in full family conclave, the mother asked Miss Rontes what occasioned the mark on her forehead. She simply replied, an accident man, and no further inquiry was made, but the children both brothers and sisters had been present and honoured her for not telling tales. From that time she began to obtain influence over all, more or less, according to their different characters, and as she insensibly gained their affection, her own interest symptom was increasing. But one day, at the children's dinner, the small parent of the stable-yard, in a little demonstrative gush, said, putting his hand in hers, I love whom, Miss Rontes. Whereupon the mother exclaimed before all the children, Love the governor's, my dear! The family into which she first entered was, I believe, set of a wealthy Yorkshire manufacturer. The following extracts from her correspondence at this time will show how painfully the restraint of a new mode of life rest upon her. The first is from a letter to Emily, beginning with one of the tenderer expressions in which, in spite of humbug, she indulged herself. My dear Love, my bonnie Love, are her terms of address to this beloved sister. June 8th, 1839. I have striven hard to be pleased with my new situation. The country, the house, and the grounds are, as I have said, divine, but a lackaday there is such a thing as seeing all beautiful around you, pleasant woods, wide paths, green lawns and blue sun-shiny sky, and not having a free moment or a free thought left to enjoy them. The children are constantly with me, as for correcting them, I quickly found that was out of the question. They are to do as they like, a complaint to the mother only brings black looks on myself, and unjust partial excuses to scream the children. I have tried that plan once, and succeeded so notably as shall try no more. I set in my last letter that Mrs. Blank did not know me. I now begin to find she does not intend to know me, that she cares nothing about me, except to contrive how the greatest possibly quantity of labour may be caught out of me. And if that and she overwhelms me with oceans of need-a-work, yards of cambridge to hem, muslin night-caps to make, and above all things, dolls to dress. I do not think she likes me at all, because I can't help being shy in such an entirely novel scene, surrounded, as I have hitherto been, by strange and constantly changing faces. I used to think I should like to be in the stair of Grand Fork Society, but I have had enough of it. It is dreary work to look on and listen. I see more clearly, than I have ever done before, that a private governess has no existence, is not considered as a living rational being, except as connected with a rare or some duty she has to fulfil. One of the pleasantest afternoons I have spent here, indeed, the only one at all pleasant, was when Mr. Blank walked out with his children, and I had orders to follow a little behind. As he strolled on through his fields, with his magnificent newfound land-dog as his side, he looked very like what a frank, wealthy, conservative gentleman ought to be. He spoke freely and unaffected to the people he met, and though he indulged his children, and allowed them to tease himself far too much, he would not suffer them grossly to insult others. Written in pencil to a friend. July 1839. I cannot procure ink without going to the drawing-room, where I do not wish to go. I should have written to you long since, and told you every detail of the utterly new scene into which I have lately been cast, had I not been daily expecting a letter from yourself, and wandering, and lamenting, that you did not write, for you will remember it was your turn. I must not bother you too much with my sorrows, for which I fear you have heard an exaggerated account. If you were near me, perhaps I might be tempted to tell you all, to grow egotistical and poor out the long history of a private governess's trials and crosses in her first situation. As it is, I will only ask you to imagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like me, thrown at once into the midst of a large family, at a time when they were particularly gay, and the house was filled with company, all strangers, people whose faces I had never seen before. In this state I had charged given me of a set of pampered, spoiled, turbulent children, whom I was expected constantly to amuse, as well as to instruct. I soon found that a constant demand on my stock of animal spirits reduced them to the lowest states of exhaustion. At times I felt, and I suppose, seemed depressed. To my astonishment I was taken to task on the subject by Mrs. Blank, Mrs. Sternes of manner and a harshness of language, scarcely credible. Like a fool I cried most bitterly. I could not help it. My spirits quiet filled me at first, I thought I had done my best, strained every nerve to please her, and to be treated in that way, merely because I was shy and sometimes melancholy was too bad. At first I was forgiving all up and going home, but after a little reflection I determined to summon water energy I had, and to weather the storm. I said to myself, I have never yet quitted a place without gaining a friend, adversity is a good school, the poor are born to labour, and the dependent to endure. I resolved to be patient, to command my feelings, and to take what came, the ordeal I reflected, would not last many weeks, and I trusted it would do me good. I recollected the fable of the willow and the oak, I bent quietly, and now I trust the storm is blowing over me. Mrs. Blank is generally considered an agreeable woman, so she is, I doubt, not in general society. She behaves somewhat more civilly to me now that she did at first, and the children are a little more manageable, but she does not know my character, and she does not wish to know it. I have never had five minutes' conversation with her since I came, except whilst you were scolding me. I have no wish to be pitted, except by yourself, if I were talking to you, I could tell you much more. To Emily about this time. Mine bunny-love, I was as glad of your letter as tongue can express. It is a real, genuine pleasure to hear from home, a thing to be safe till bedtime, and one has a moment quiet unrest to enjoy it thoroughly. Right whenever you can, I could like to be at home, I could like to work in a mill, I could like to feel some mental liberty. I could like this weight of restraint to be taken off, but the holidays will come. Couragio! Her temporary engagement and this uncongenial family ended in the July of this year, not before the constant strain upon her spirit and strength, had again affected her health. But when this delicacy became apparent in palpitations and shortness of breathing, it was treated as affectation, as a phase of imaginary indisposition which could be dissipated by good scolding. She had been brought up rather in a school of spartan endurance than in one of mordland self-indulgence, and could bear many a pain and relinquish many a hope and silence. After she had been at home about a week, her friend proposed that she should accompany her in some little excursion, having pleasure alone for its object. She caught at the idea most eagerly at first, but her hopes stood still, waned, and had almost disappeared before, after many delays, it was realized. In its fulfilment at last, it was a favourable specimen of many a similar air-bubble dancing before her eyes in her brief career, in which stern realities, rather than pleasure, formed the leading incidents. July 26, 1839. Your proposal has almost driven me clean daft. If you don't understand that ladylike expression, you must ask me what it means when I see you. The fact is, an excursion with you anywhere, whether to Cleatherb or Canada, just by ourselves, would feature me most delightful. I should indeed like to go, but I can't get leave of absence for longer than a week, and I'm afraid that would not suit you. As I then give it up entirely, I feel as if I could not. I never had such a chance of enjoyment before. I do want to see you, and talk to you, and be with you. Weren't you wished to go? Could I meet you at Leeds? To take a gig from Howarth to B would be to me a very serious increase of expense, and I happen to be very low in cash. O rich people seem to have many pleasures at their command, which we are debaught from, however, no repining. Say when you go, and I shall be able in my answer to say decidedly whether I can accompany you or not. I must, I will, I'm set upon it, I'll be obstinate and bear down all opposition. P.S., since writing the above, I find that Aunt and Papa have determined to go to Liverpool for a fortnight, and take us all with them. It is depulated, however, that I should give up the Clethobe scheme, I yield reluctantly. I fancy that, about this time, Mr. Bronte found it necessary, either from bailing health, or the increased populace of the parish, to engage the assistance of a curate. At least it is in a letter, written this summer, that I find mention of the first of a succession of curates, who henceforward revolved round Howe's Parsonage, and made an impression on the mind of one of its inmates, which she has conveyed pretty distinctly to the world. The Howe's Curate brought his clerical friends and neighbours about the place, and for a time the incursions of these, near the Parsonage tea-time, formed occurrences by which the quietness of the life there was varied, sometimes pleasantly, sometimes desegreably. The little adventure, recorded at the end of the following letter, is uncommon in the lot of most women, and is a testimony in this case, to the unusual power of attraction, though so plain a feature, which Charlotte possessed, when she let herself go in the happiness and freedom of home. First Fourths, 1839 The liveable journey is yet a matter of talk, a sort of castle in the air, but between you and me, I fancy, it is very doubtful, whether it will ever assume a more solid shape. Aunt, like many other elderly people, likes to talk of such things, but when it comes to putting them into actual execution, she rather falls off. Such being the case, I think you and I had better adhere to our first plan of going somewhere together independently of other people. I have got leaf, to accompany you for a week, at the utmost of fortnight, but no more. Where do you wish to go? Burlington, I should think, from what Am says, would be as eligible a place as any, when do you set off? Arrange all these things according to your convenience, I shall start on no objections. The idea of seeing the sea, of being near it, watching its changes by sunrise, sunset, moonlight and noonday, in calm, perhaps in storm, fills and satisfies my mind. I shall be discontented at nothing, and then I am not to be with a set of people with whom I have nothing in common, who would be nuisances and bores, but with you whom I like and know, and who knows me. I have not circumstance to relay to you, prepare for a hearty laugh. The of the day, Mr. Blank, of Vicar, came to spend the day with us, bringing with him his own curate. Salazar, gentlemen, by name Mr. B., is a young Irish clergyman, fresh from Dublin University. It was the first time we had any of us seen him, but, however, after the manner of his countrymen, he soon made himself at home. His character quickly appeared in his conversation, witty, lively, ardent, clever too, but deficient in the dignity and discretion of an Englishman. At home, you know, I talk with ease, and I'm never shy, never weighed down and repressed by that miserable mauveur's haunt, which torment and constrain me elsewhere. So I conversed with his Irishman, and laughed at his jests, and though I saw faults in his character, excused them because of the amusement his originality afforded. I called a little indeed, and drew in towards the letter part of the evening, because he began to see in his conversation with something of hibernian flattery, which I did not quite relish. However, they went away, and no more was thought about them. A few days after, I got a letter, the direction of which puzzled me, it being in hand I was not accustomed to see. Evidently it was neither from you nor Mary, my only correspondence. Having opened and read it, it proved to be a declaration of attachment and proposal of matrimony expressed in the ardent language of the sapient young Irishman. I hope you are laughing heartily. This is not like one of my adventures, is it? It more nearly resembles Martha's. I'm certainly doomed to be an old maid. Never mind. I made up my mind to that fate ever since I was twelve years old. Well, thought I, I have heard of love at first sight, but this beats all. I leave you to guess what my answer would be, convinced that you will not do me the injustice of guessing wrong. On the fourteenth of August she still rides from Howarth. I have in vain packed my box, and prepared everything for our anticipated journey. It so happens that I can get no conveyance this week or the next. The only gig led out to hire in Howarth is at Harrogate, and likely to remain there for all I can hear. I decidedly object to my going by the coach, and walking to be, though I am sure I could manage it. Aren't acclaimed against the weather, and the roads, and the four winds of heaven. So I am in a fix, and what is worse, so are you. On reading over for the second or third time your last letter, which by the by, was written in such hieroglyphics, that at the first hasty perusal I could hardly make out two consecutive words, I find you intimate, that I leave this journey till Thursday, I shall be too late. I grieve that I should have so inconvenienced you, but I need not talk of either Friday or Saturday now, for I rather imagine there is small chance of my ever going at all. The elders of the house have never quarterly inquised in the measure, and now that impediments seem to start up at every step opposition grows more open. Papa indeed would willingly indulge me, but this very kindness of his makes me doubt whether I ought to draw upon it, so though I could battle out Aren't's discontent, I yield to Papa's indulgence. He does not say so, but I know, he would rather I stayed at home, and Aren't meant well too, I dare say, but I am provoked that you reserved the expression of her decided disapproval till all was settled between you and myself. Reckon on me no more, leave me out in your calculations. Perhaps I ought in the beginning to have had prudence sufficient to shut my eyes against such a prospect of pleasure, so as to deny myself the hope of it. Be as angry as you please with me for disappointing you, I did not intend it, and I have only one thing more to say. If you do not go immediately to the sea, will you come to see us at Howarth? This invitation is not mine only, but Papa's and Aren't's. However, a little more patience, a little more delay, and she enjoyed the pleasure she had wished for so much. She and her friend went to Eastern for a fortnight in the latter part of September. It was here that she received her first impressions of the sea. October twenty-fourth. Have you forgotten the sea-bive this time, E? It had grown dim in your mind, or can you still see it, dark, blue and green, and firm white, and hear it roaring roughly when the wind is high, or rushing softly when it is calm? I am as well as need be, and very fad. I think of Eastern very often, and of worthy Mr. H., and his kind hearted helpmate, and of our pleasant walks to H. Wood, and to Boynton, our merry evenings, our romps with Litterhenshin, et cetera, et cetera. If we both live, this period of our lives will long be seen for pleasant recollection. Did you chance in your letter to Mr. H. to mention my spectacles? I am sadly inconvenienced by the want of them. I can neither read, write nor draw with comfort in their absence. I hope Madame Wernher refused to give them up. Excuse the brevity of this letter, for I have been drawing all day, and my eyes are so tired, it is quite a labour to write. But as the vivid remembrance of this pleasure died away, an accident occurred to make the actual duties of life press somewhat heavily for a time. December 21st, 1839. We are at present, and have been during the last month rather busy, as for that space of time we have been without a servant except a little girl to run errands. Poor Tabby became so lame that she was at length obliged to leave us. She is residing with her sister in a little house of her own which she bought with her savings a year or two since. She is very comfortable and wants nothing, as she is in near we see her very often. In the meantime Emily and I are sufficiently busy, as you may suppose. I manage the ironing and keep the rooms clean. Emily does the baking and attempts to the kitchen. We are such odd, animals, that we prefer this mode of contrivance to having a new phase amongst us. Besides, we do not despair of Tabby's return, and she shall not be supplanted by a stranger in her absence. I excited Aunt Ruth, very much by burning the clothes, the first time I attempted to iron, but I do better now. Human feelings are queer things. I am much happier, black leading the stows, making the beds and sweeping the floors at home, than I should be living like a fine lady anywhere else. I must indeed drop my subscription to his juice, because I have no money to keep it up. I ought to have announced this intention to you before, but I quite forgot I was a subscriber. I intend to force myself to take another situation when I get one, so I hate and uphold the very thought of governorship, but I must do it, and therefore I heartily wish I could hear of a family where they need such a commodity as a governess. CHAPTER IX The year 1840 founds all the Brontes living at home, except Anne. As I have already intimated, for some reason with which I am unacquainted, the plan of sending Branwell to study at the Royal Academy had been relinquished. Probably it was found, on inquiry, that the expenses of such a life were greater than his father's slender finances could afford, even with the help which Charlotte's labors at Miss W's gave by providing for Anne's board in education. I gather from what I have heard that Branwell must have been severely disappointed when the plan fell through. His talents were certainly very brilliant, and of this he was fully conscious, and fervently desired by their use, either in writing or drawing, to make himself a name. At the same time he would probably have found his strong love of pleasure and of regular habits a great impediment in his path to fame. What these blemishes in his character were only additional reasons why he yearned after a London life, in which he imagined he could obtain every stimulant to his already vigorous intellect, while at the same time he would have a license of action to be found only in crowded cities. Thus his own nature was attracted towards the metropolis, and many an hour must he have spent pouring over the maps of London to judge from an anecdote which has been told me. Some traveller for a London house of business came to Howarth for a night, and according to the unfortunate habit of the place, the brilliant Patrick was sent forward to the inn to beguile the evening by his intellectual conversation and his flashes of wit. They began to talk of London, of the habits and ways of life there, of the places of amusement, and Branwell informed the Londoner of one or two shortcuts from point to point, up narrow lanes or back streets, and it was only towards the end of the evening that the traveller discovered from his companion's voluntary confession that he had never set foot in London at all. At this time the young man seemed to have his fate in his own hands. He was full of noble impulses as well as of extraordinary gifts, not accustomed to resist temptation and his true from any higher motive than strong family affection, but showing so much power of attachment to all about him that they took pleasure in believing that after a time he would write himself, and that they should have pride and delight in the use he would then make of his splendid talents. His aunt especially made him her great-favorite. There are always peculiar trials in the life of an only boy in a family of girls. He is expected to act a part in life, to do while they are only to be, and the necessity of their giving way to him in some things is too often exaggerated into their giving way to him in all, and thus rendering him utterly selfish. In the family about whom I am writing, while the rest were almost ascetic in their habits, Branwell was allowed to grow up self-indulgent, but in an only youth his power of attracting and attaching people was so great that few came in contact with him who were not so much dazzled by him as to be desirous of gratifying whatever wishes he expressed. Of course he was careful enough not to reveal anything before his father and sisters of the pleasures he indulged in, but his turn of thought and conversation became gradually coarser, and for a time his sisters tried to persuade themselves that such coarseness was a part of manliness, and to blind themselves by love to the fact that Branwell was worse than other young men. At present, though he had, they were aware, fallen into some errors, the exact nature of which they avoided knowing, still he was their hope and their darling, their pride, who should sometime bring great glory to the name of Bronte. He and his sister Charlotte were both slight and small of stature, while the other two were of taller and larger make. I have seen Branwell's profile. It is what would be generally esteemed, very handsome. The forehead is massive, the eyes well-sets, and the expression of it fine and intellectual. The nose too is good, but there are some coarse lines about the mouth, and the lips, though of handsome shape, are loose and thick, indicating self-indulgence, while the slightly retreating chin conveys an idea of weakness of will. His hair and complexion were sandy. He had enough of Irish blood in him to make his manners frank and genial, with a kind of natural gallantry about them. In a fragment of one of his manuscripts which I have read, there is a justness and felicity of expression which is very striking. It is the beginning of a tale, and the actors in it are drawn with much of the grace of characteristic portrait painting, and perfectly pure and simple language which distinguishes so many of Addison's papers in the spectator. The fragment is too short to afford the means of judging whether he had much dramatic talent, as the persons of the story are not turned into conversation. But altogether the elegance and composure of style are such as one would not have expected from this vehement and ill-fated young man. He had a stronger desire for literary fame burning in his hearts, than even that which occasionally flashed up in his sisters. He tried various outlets for his talents. He wrote and sent poems to Wordsworth and Coleridge, who both expressed kind and laudatory opinions, and he frequently contributed verses to the lead's mercury. In 1840 he was living at home, employing himself in occasional composition of various kinds. And waiting till some occupation, for which he might be fitted without any expensive course of preliminary training, should turn up. Waiting not impatiently, for he saw society of one kind, probably what he called life, at the black bowl. And at home he was yet the cherished favorite. Miss Branwell was unaware of the fermentation of unoccupied talent going on around her. She was not her niece's confidante. Perhaps no one so much older could have been. But their father, from whom they derived not a little of their adventurous spirit, was silently cognizant of much of which she took no note. Next to her nephew the docile, pensive Anne was her favorite. Of her she had taken charge from her infancy. She was always patient and tractable, and would submit quietly to occasional oppression, even when she felt it keenly. Not so her two elder sisters. They made their opinions known, when roused by any injustice. At such times Emily would express herself as strongly as Charlotte, although perhaps less frequently. But in general notwithstanding that Miss Branwell might be occasionally unreasonable, she and her niece's went on smoothly enough. And though they might now and then be annoyed by petty tyranny, she still inspired them with sincere respect, and not a little affection. They were moreover, grateful to her, for many habits she hadn't forced upon them, and which in time had become second nature, order, method, neatness in everything, a perfect knowledge of all kinds of household work, and exact punctuality, and obedience to the laws of time and place, of which no one but themselves, I have heard Charlotte say, could sell the value in after life. With their impulsive natures it was positively reposed to have learned implicit obedience to external laws. People in Howarth have assured me that, according to the hour of the day, nay the very minutes, could they have told what the inhabitants of the Parsonage were about. At certain times the girls would be sewing in their Anne's bedroom, the chamber which, in former days, before they had outstripped her in their learning, had served them as a schoolroom. At certain, early hours, they had their meals. From six to eight, Miss Branwell had allowed to Mr. Bronte. At punctual eight, the household assembled to evening prayers in his study. And by nine, he, the Anne's, and Tabby were all in bed. The girls free to pace up and down, like restless wild animals, in the parlor, talking over plans and projects, and thoughts of what was to be their future life. At the time of which I write, the favorite idea was that of keeping a school. They thought that, by a little contrivance, and a very little additional building, a small number of pupils, four or six, might be accommodated in the Parsonage. As teaching seemed, the only profession opened to them, and as it appeared that Emily at least could not live away from home, while the others also suffered much from the same cause, this plan of schoolkeeping presented itself as most desirable. But it involved some outlay, and to this their aunt was averse. Yet there was no one to whom they could apply for a loan of the requisite means, except Miss Branwell, who had made a small store out of her savings, which she intended for her nephew and nieces eventually, but which she did not like to risk. Still this plan of schoolkeeping remained uppermost, and in the evenings of this winter of 1839 to 40, the alterations that would be necessary in the house, and the best way of convincing their aunts of the wisdom of their project, formed a principal subject of their conversation. This anxiety weighed upon their minds rather heavily, during the months of dark and dreary weather, nor were external events among the circle of their friends of a cheerful character. In January 1840, Charlotte heard of the death of a young girl who had been a pupil of hers and a school-fellow of Anne's, at the time when the sisters were together at Rowhead, and had attached herself very strongly to the latter, who, in return, bestowed upon her much quiet affection. It was a sad day when the intelligence of this young creature's death arrives. It wrote thus on January 12th, 1840. Your letter, which I received this morning, was one of painful interest. Anne, see, it seems, is dead. When I saw her last, she was a young, beautiful, and happy girl, and now life's fitful fever is over with her, and she sleeps well. I shall never see her again. It is a sorrowful thought, for she was a warm-hearted, affectionate being, and I cared for her. Whenever I seek for her now in this world she cannot be found, no more than a flower or a leaf which withered twenty years ago. A bereavement of this kind gives one a glimpse of the feeling those must have, who have seen all drop around them, friend after friend, and are left to end their pilgrimage alone. The tears are fruitless, and I try not to repine. During this winter, Charlotte employed her leisure hours in writing a story. Some fragments of the manuscript yet remain, but it is in too small a hand to be read without great fatigue to the eyes, and one cares the less to read it, as she herself condemned it in the preface to the professor, by saying that in this story she had got over such taste as she might once have had for the ornamental and redundant in composition. The beginning, too, as she acknowledges, was on a scale commensurate with one of Richardson's novels of seven or eight volumes. I gather some of these particulars from a copy of a letter, apparently in reply to one from Wordsworth, to whom she had sent the commencement of the story sometime in the summer of 1840. Others are generally very tenacious of their productions, but I am not so much attached to this, but that I can give it up without much distress. No doubt, if I had gone on, I should have made quite a Richardsonian concern of it. I have materials in my head for half a dozen volumes. Of course, it is with considerable regret I relinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched. It is very edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants, who are so many Melchizedex, and have no father nor mother but your own imagination. I am sorry I did not exist fifty or sixty years ago when the ladies' magazine was flourishing like a green bay tree. In that case, I make no doubt my aspirations after literary fame would have met with due encouragement, and I should have had the pleasure of introducing Mr. Percy and West into the very best society and recording all their sayings and doings in double-columned clothes-printed pages. I recollect when I was a child, giving hold of some antiquated volumes and reading them by stealth with the most exquisite pleasure. You give a correct description of the patient grizzles of those days. My aunt was one of them, and to this day she thinks the tales of the ladies' magazine infinitely superior to any trash of modern literature. So do I, for I read them in childhood, and childhood has a very strong faculty of admiration, but a very weak one of criticism. I am pleased that you cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney's clerk or a novel-reading dressmaker. I will not help you at all in the discovery, and as to my handwriting or the lady-like touches in my style and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion from that. I may employ an Emanuensis. Seriously, sir, I am very much obliged to you for your kind and candid letter. I almost wonder you took the trouble to read and notice the novelettes of an anonymous scribe, who had not even the manners to tell you whether he was a man or a woman, or whether his C.T. meant Charles Timms or Charlotte Tompkins. There are two or three things noticeable in the letter from which these extracts are taken. The first is the initials with which she had evidently signed the former one to which she alludes. About this time, to her more familiar correspondence, she occasionally calls herself Charles Thunder, making a kind of pseudonym for herself out of her Christian name and the meaning of her Greek surname. In the next place, there is a touch of assured smartness, very different from the simple, womanly, dignified letter which she had written to Sothe. Under nearly similar circumstances three years before, I imagine the cause of this difference to be twofold. Sothe, in his reply to her first letter, had appealed to the higher parts of her nature in calling her to consider whether literature was or was not the best course for a woman to pursue. But the person to whom she addressed this one had evidently confined himself to purely literary criticisms, beside which her sense of humor was tickled by the perplexity which her correspondent felt as to whether he was addressing a man or a woman. She rather wished to encourage the former idea, and in consequence, possibly assumed something of the flippancy which very probably existed in her brother's style of conversation, from whom she would derive her notions of young manhood. Not likely as far as refinement was concerned to be improved by the other specimens she had seen, such as the curate whom she afterward represented in Shirley. These curates were full of strong, high church feeling. But by nature it was well for their professional character that they had, as clergymen, sufficient scope for the exercise of their war-like propensities. Mr. Bronte, with all his warm regard for church and state, had a great respect for mental freedom, and, though he was the last man in the world to conceal his opinions, he lived in perfect amity with all the respectable part of those who differed from him. Not so the curates. In defunt of Turban Sarcians they entered on a crusade against Methodists in broadcloth, and the consequence was that the Methodists and Baptists refused to pay the church rates. Miss Bronte thus describes the state of the things at this time. Little Howarth has been all in a bustle about church rates since you were here. We had a stirring meeting in the school room. Papa took the chair, and Mr. C. and Mr. W. acted as his supporters, one on each side. There was violent opposition, which set Mr. C.'s Irish blood in effermint, and if Papa had not kept him quiet, partly by persuasion and partly by compulsion, he would have given the dissenters their kale through the reek, a Scottish proverb, which I'll explain to you another time. He and Mr. W. both bottled up their wrath for the time, but it was only to explode with redoubled force at a future period. We had two sermons on dissent, and its consequences preached last Sunday, one in the afternoon by Mr. W., and one in the evening by Mr. C. All the dissenters were invited to come and hear, and they actually shut up their chapels and came in a body. Of course the church was crowded. Mr. W. delivered a noble, eloquent, high-church apostolic succession discourse, in which he banged the dissenters most fearlessly and unflinchingly. I thought they had got enough for one while, but it was nothing to the dose that was thrust down their throats in the evening. A keener, cleverer, bolder, and more heart-stirring harangue than that which Mr. C. delivered from Howard's pulpit last Sunday evening I never heard. He did not rant, he did not can't, he did not whine, he did not sniggle. He just got up and spoke with the boldness of a man who was impressed with the truth of what he was saying, who has no fear of his enemies and no dread of consequences. His sermon lasted an hour, yet I was sorry when it was done. I do not say that I agree either with him or with Mr. W., either in all or in half their opinions. I consider them bigoted, intolerant, and wholly unjustifiable on the ground of common sense. My conscience will not let me be either appusiate or a hookest. Maze, if I were a dissenter, I would have taken the first opportunity of kicking, or of horse-whipping, both the gentleman for their stern, bitter attack on my religion and its teachers. But in spite of all this I admired the noble integrity which could dictate so fearless an opposition against so strong an antagonist. P.S. Mr. W. has given another lecture at the Kiley Mechanics Institution, and Papa has also given a lecture. Both are spoken of very highly in the newspapers, and it is mentioned as a matter of wonder that such displays of intellect should emanate from the village of Howarth, situated among the bogs and mountains, and until very lately supposed to be in a state of semi-barbarism. Such are the words of the newspaper. To fill up the account of this outwardly eventless year, I may add a few more extracts from the letters entrusted to me. May 15, 1840 Do not be over persuaded to marry a man you can never respect. I do not say love, because I think if you can respect a person before marriage, moderate love at least will come after. And as to intense passion, I am convinced that that is no desirable feeling. In the first place, it seldom or never meets with a requital, and in the second place, if it did, the feeling would be only temporary. It would last a honeymoon, and then perhaps give place to disgust, or indifference, worse perhaps than disgust. Certainly this would be the case on the man's parts, and on the woman's, God help her, if she is left to love passionately and alone. I am tolerably well convinced that I shall never marry at all. Reason tells me so, and I am not so utterly the slave of feeling, but that I can occasionally hear her voice. June 2, 1840 M is not yet come to Howard, but she is to come on the condition that I first go and stay a few days there. If I'll be well, I shall go next Wednesday. I may stay at G until Friday or Saturday in the early part of the following week I shall pass with you, if you will have me. Which last sentence indeed is nonsense, for as I shall be glad to see you, so I know you will be glad to see me. This arrangement will not allow much time, but it is the only practical one which, considering all the circumstances I can affect. Do not urge me to stay more than two or three days because I shall be obliged to refuse you. I intend to walk to Kylie, there to take the coach as far as be, then to get someone to carry my box and to walk the rest of the way to G. If I manage this, I think I shall contrive very well. I shall reach B by about five o'clock, and then I shall have the cool of the evening for the walk. I have communicated the whole arrangement to M. I desire exceedingly to see both her and you. Goodbye. CB, CB, CB, CB. If you have any better plan to suggest, I am open to conviction, provided your plan is practicable. August 20th, 1840. Have you seen anything of Miss H lately? I wish they or somebody else would get me a situation. I have answered advertisements without number, but my applications have met with no success. I have got another bail of French books from G containing upwards of 40 volumes. I have read about half. They are like the rest, clever, wicked, sophisticated, and immoral. The best of it is they give one a thorough idea of France and Paris, and are the best substitute for French conversation that I have met with. I positively have nothing more to say to you. That's why I am in a stupid humor. You must excuse this letter not being quite as long as your own. I have written to you soon that you might not look after the postman in vain. Preserve this writing as a curiosity in calligraphy. I think it is exquisite, all brilliant black blots, and utterly illegible letters. Caliban. The wind bloweth where it listeth, thou hears the sound thereof, but hence not tell, once it came, nor whether it goeth. That I believe is scripture, though in what chapter or book, or whether it be correctly quoted, I can't possibly say. However, it behooves me to write a letter to a young woman of the name of E, with whom I was once acquainted, in life's morning march when my spirit was young. This young woman wished me to write to her sometimes since, though I have nothing to say. I even put it off day by day. Until at last, fearing that she will curse me by her gods, I feel constrained to sit down and tack a few lines together, which she may call a letter or not as she pleases. Now, if the young woman expects sense in this production, she will find herself miserably disappointed. I shall dress her a dish of psalma-ginzi. I shall cook a hash, compound a stew, toss up an omelette souffle à la Francia, and send it her with my respects. The wind, which is very high up in our hills of Judea, though I suppose, down in the Philistine flats of B, Parish, it is nothing to speak of, has produced the same effects on the contents of my knowledge box that a quay of Yusquiba does upon those of most other bipeds. I see everything cholera de rose, and am strongly inclined to dance a jig, if I knew how. I think I must partake of the nature of a pig, or an ass, both which animals are strongly affected by a high wind. From what quarter the wind blows I cannot tell, for I never could in my life, but I should very much like to know how the great brewing-tub of Bridlington Bay works, and what sort of yeasty froth rises just now on the waves. A woman of the name of Mrs. B. it seems wants a teacher. I wish she would have me, and I have written Miss W. to tell her so. Verily, it is a delightful thing to live here at home, at full liberty, to do just what one pleases. But I recollect some scrubby old fable about grasshoppers and ants. By a scrubby old nave I clipped Aesop. The grasshoppers sang all the summer, and starved all the winter. A distant relation of mine, one Patrick Branwell, has set off to seek his fortune in the wild, wandering, adventurous, romantic, night-errant-like capacity of clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railroad. Leeds in Manchester. Where are they? Cities in the wilderness? Like Tadmore? Alias Palmyra? Are they not? There is one little trait respecting Mr. W., which lately came to my knowledge, which gives a glimpse of the better side of his character. Last Saturday night he had been sitting an hour in the parlor with Papa, and as he went away I heard Papa say to him, What is the matter with you? You seem in very low spirits tonight. Oh, I don't know. I've been to see a poor young girl who I'm afraid is dying. Indeed, what is her name? Susan Bland, the daughter of John Bland, the superintendent. Now Susan Bland is my oldest and best scholar in the Sunday school, and when I heard that I thought I would go as soon as I could to see her. I did go on Monday afternoon, and found her on her way to that born-when-no-traveler returns. After sitting with her some time I happened to ask her mother if she thought a little port wine would do her good. She replied that the doctor had recommended it, and that when Mr. W. was last there he had brought them a bottle of wine and jar of preserves. She added that he was always good nature to poor folks, and seemed to have a deal of feeling and kind-heartedness about him. No doubt there are defects in his character, but there are also good qualities. God bless him. I wonder who, with his advantages, would be without his faults. I know many of his faulty actions, many of his weaker points, yet, where I am, he shall always find rather a defender than an accuser. To be sure, my opinion will go but a very little way to decide his character. What of that? People should do right as far as their ability extends. You are not to suppose, from all this, that Mr. W. and I are on very amiable terms. We are not at all. We are distant, cold, and reserved. We seldom speak, and when we do, it is only to exchange the most trivial and commonplace remarks. The Mrs. B. alluded to in this letter, as in one of a governess, entered into a correspondence with Miss Bronte, and expressed herself much pleased with the letter she received from her, with the style and candor of the application, in which Charlotte had taken care to tell her that if she wanted a showy, elegant, or fashionable person, her correspondent was not fitted for such a situation. But Mrs. B. required her governess to give instructions in music and singing for which Charlotte was not qualified, and, accordingly, the negotiation fell through. But Miss Bronte was not one to sit down and despair after disappointment. Much as she disliked the life of a private governess, it was her duty to relieve her father of the burden of her support, and this was the only way open to her. So she set to advertising and inquiring with fresh vigor. In the meantime, a little occurrence took place described in one of her letters, which I shall give, as it shows her instinctive aversion to a particular class of men, whose vices some have supposed she looked upon with indulgence. The extract tells all that need be known, for the purpose I have in view of the miserable pair to whom it relates. You remember Mr. and Mrs. Blank? Mrs. Blank came here the other day with a most melancholy tale of her wretched husband's drunken, extravagant, profligate habits. She asked Papa's advice. There was nothing she said but ruin before them. They owed debts which they could never pay. She expected Mr. Blank's instant dismissal from his curacy. She knew from bitter experience that his vices were utterly hopeless. He treated her and her child savagely, with much more to the same effect. Papa advised her to leave him for ever, and go home, if she had a home to go to. She said this was what she had long resolved to do, and she would leave him directly, as soon as Mr. B dismissed him. She expressed great disgust and contempt towards him and did not effect to have the shadow of regard in any way. I do not wonder at this, but I do wonder if she would ever marry a man towards whom her feelings must always have been pretty much the same as they are now. I am morally certain no decent woman could experience anything but aversion towards such a man as Mr. Blank. Before I knew or suspected his character, and when I rather wondered at his versatile talents, I felt it in an uncontrollable degree. I hated to talk with him, hated to look at him, though as I was not certain that there was substantial reason for such a dislike and thought it absurd to trust to mere instinct, I both concealed and repressed the feelings as much as I could, and on all occasions treated him with as much civility as I was mistress of. I was struck with Mary's expression of a similar feeling at first sight. She said, when we left him, that is a hideous man, Charlotte. I thought he is indeed. THE LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTY CHAPTER X Early in March, 1841, Miss Bronty obtained her second and last situation as a governess. This time she esteemed herself fortunate in becoming a member of a kind-hearted and friendly household. The master of it, she especially regarded as a valuable friend, whose advice helped to guide her in one very important step of her life. But as her definite acquirements were few, she had to eke them out by employing her leisure time in needlework, and altogether her position was that of bond or nursery governess, liable to repeated and never-ending calls upon her time. This description of uncertain, yet perpetual employment, subject to the exercise of another person's will at all hours of the day, was peculiarly trying to one whose life at home had been full of abundant leisure. Idle she never was in any place, but of the multitude of small talks, plans, duties, pleasures, etc., that make up most people's days, her home life was nearly destitute. This made it possible for her to go through long and deep histories of feeling and imagination for which others' eyes that sounds rarely have time. This made it inevitable that, later on, in her too short career, the intensity of her feeling should wear out her physical health. The habit of making out which had grown with her growth and strengthened with her strength had become a part of her nature, yet all exercise of her strongest and most characteristic faculties was now out of the question. She could not, as while she was at Miss W's, feel amidst the occupations of the day that when evening came she might employ herself in more congenial ways. No doubt all who enter upon the career of a governess have to relinquish much. No doubt it must ever be a life of sacrifice, but to Charlotte Bronte it was a perpetual attempt to force all her faculties into a direction for which the whole of her previous life had unfitted them. Moreover, the little Bronte's had been brought up motherless, and from knowing nothing of the gaiety and sportiveness of childhood, from never having experienced caresses or fond attentions themselves, they were ignorant of the very nature of infancy or how to call out its engaging qualities. Children were to them the troublesome necessities of humanity. They had never been drawn into contact with them in any other way. Years afterwards, when Miss Bronte came to stay with us, she watched our little girls perpetually, and I could not persuade her that they were only average specimens of well brought up children. She was surprised and touched by any sign of thoughtfulness for others, of kindness to animals or of unselfishness on their part, and constantly maintained that she was in the right and died in the wrong when we differed on the points of their unusual excellence. All this must be borne in mind while reading the following letters, and it must likewise be borne in mind by those who, reviving her, looked back upon her life from their amount of observation, how no distaste, no suffering ever made her shrink from any course which she believed it to be her duty to engage in. March 3, 1841 I told some time since that I meant to get a situation, and when I said so my resolution was quite fixed. I felt that however often I was disappointed I had no intention of relinquishing my efforts. After being severely baffled two or three times, after a world of trouble in the way of correspondence and interviews, I have at length succeeded, and am fairly established in my new place. The house is not very large, but exceedingly comfortable and well regulated. The grounds are fine and extensive. In taking the place I have made a large sacrifice in the way of salary, in the hope of securing comfort, by which word I do not mean to express good eating and drinking, or warm fire or a soft bed, but the society of cheerful faces and minds and hearts not dug out of a lead mine, or cut from a marble quarry. My salary is not really more than sixteen pounds per annum, though it is nominally twenty pounds, but the expense of washing will be deducted therefrom. My pupils are two in number, a girl of eight and a boy of six. As to my employers, you will not expect me to say much about their characters when I tell you that I only arrived here yesterday. I have not the faculty of telling an individual's disposition at first sight. Before I can venture to pronounce on a character, I must see it first under various lights and from various points of view. All I can say therefore is, both Mr. and Mrs. Blank seem to me good sort of people. I have as yet had no cause to complain of want of considerateness or civility. My pupils are wild and unbroken, but apparently well-disposed. I wish I may be able to say as much next time I write to you. My earnest wish and endeavor will be to please them. If I can't but feel that I am giving satisfaction, and if at the same time I can keep my health, I shall, I hope, be moderately happy, but no one but myself can tell how hard a governess's work is for me. For no one but myself is aware how utterly averse my whole minds and nature are for the employment. Do not think that I fail to blame myself for this, or that I leave any means unemployed to conquer this feeling. Some of my greatest difficulties lie in things that would appear to you comparatively trivial. I find it is so hard to repel the rude familiarity of children. I find it so difficult to ask either servants or mistress for anything I want, however much I want it. It does less pain for me to endure the greatest inconvenience than to go into the kitchen to request its removal. I am a fool. Heaven knows I cannot help it. Now you can tell me whether it is considered improper for governesses to ask their friends to come and see them. I do not mean, of course, to stay, but just for a call of an hour or two. If it is not absolute treason, I do fervently request that you will contrive, in some way or other, to let me have a sight of your face. Yet I feel, at the same time, that I am making a very foolish and almost impracticable demand. Yet this is only four miles from B. March 21st. You must excuse a very short answer to your most welcome letter, for my time is entirely occupied. Mrs. Blank expected a good deal of sewing for me. I cannot sew much during the day when I count the children who require the utmost attention. I am obliged, therefore, to devote the evenings to this business. Write to me often, very long letters. It will do both of us good. This place is far better than Blank, but God knows I have enough to do to keep a good heart in the matter. What you said has cheered me a little. I wish I could always act according to your advice. Homesickness affects me sorely. I like Mr. Blank extremely. The children are overindulged and consequently hard at times to manage. Do, do, come and see me. If it be a breach of etiquette, never mind. If you can only stop an hour, come. Talk no more about my forsaking you. My darling, I could not afford to do it. I find it is not in my nature to get on in this weary world without sympathy and attachment in some quarter, and seldom indeed do we find it. It is too great a treasure to be ever wantonly thrown away when one's secured. Miss Bronsy had not been many weeks in her new situation before she had a proof of the kind-hearted hospitality of her employers. Mr. Blank wrote to her father and urgently invited him to come and make acquaintance with his daughter's new home. By spending a week with her in it. And Mrs. Blank expressed great regret when one of Miss Bronsy's friends drove up to the house to leave a letter or parcel without entering. So she found that all her friends might freely visit her, and that her father would be received with his special gladness. She thankfully acknowledged this kindness in writing to urge her friends afresh to come and see her, which she accordingly did. 1841 You can hardly fancy it possible, I dare say, that I cannot find a quarter of an hour to scribble a note in, but it is so, and when a note is written it has to be carried a mile to the post, and that consumes nearly an hour, which is a large portion of the day. Mr. and Mrs. Blank have been gone a week. I heard from them this morning. No time is fixed for their return, but I hope it will not be delayed long, or I shall miss the chance of seeing Anne this vacation. She came home, I understand, last Wednesday, and is only to be allowed three weeks' vacation, because the family she is with are going to Scarborough. I should like to see her, to judge for myself of the state of her health. I dare not trust any other person's report, no one seems minute enough in their observations. I should very much have liked you to have seen her. I have got on very well with the servants and children so far, yet it is dreary, solitary work. You can tell as well as me the lonely feeling of being without a companion. Soon after this was written, Mr. and Mrs. Blank returned, in time to allow Charlotte to go and look after Anne's health, which, as she found to her intense anxiety, was far from strong. What could she do to nurse and cherish up this little sister, the youngest of them all? Apprehension about her brought up once more the idea of keeping a school. If by this means they three could live together and maintain themselves, all might go well. They would have some time of their own in which to try again and yet again at that literary career, which, in spite of all baffling difficulties, was never quite set aside as an ultimate object. But far the strongest motive with Charlotte was the conviction that Anne's health was so delicate that it required a degree of tending which none but her sister could give. Thus she wrote during those mid-summer holidays. HOWEARTH, JOLY 18TH, 1841 We waited long and anxiously for you on the Thursday that you promised to come. I quite wearied my eyes with watching from the window, eyeglass in hand, and sometimes spectacles on nose. However you are not to blame, and as to disappointment, why all must suffer disappointment at some period or other of their lives. But a hundred things I had to say to you will now be forgotten, and never said. There is a project hatching in this house, which both Emily and I anxiously wished to discuss with you. The project is yet in its infancy, hardly peeping from its shell, and whether it will ever become out of fine, full-fledged chicken, or will turn atle and die before it cheaps, is one of those considerations that are but dimly revealed by the oracles of futurity. Now don't be non-plused by all this metaphorical mystery. I talk of a plain and everyday occurrence, though in Delphic style I wrap up the information in figures of speech concerning eggs, chickens, et cetera, et cetera. To come to the point, Papa and Aunt talk by fits and starts of our ed-est, Emily, Anne, and myself, commencing a school. I have often, you know, said how much I wished such a thing, but I never could conceive where the capital was to come from for making such a speculation. I was well aware indeed that Aunt had money, but I always considered that she was the last person who would offer a loan for the purpose in question. Alone, however, she has offered, or rather intimates, that she perhaps will offer in case pupils can be secured, an eligible situation obtained, et cetera. This sounds very fair, but still there are matters to be considered which throw something of a damp upon the scheme. I do not expect that Aunt will think more than 150 pounds in such a venture, and would it be possible to establish a respectable, not by any means a showy, school, and to commence housekeeping with a capital of only that amount? Propound the question to your sister, if you think she can answer it, if not, don't say a word on the subject. As to getting into debt, that is a thing we could none of us reconcile our minds to for a moment. We do not care how modest, how humble our commencement be, so it be made on short grounds and have a safe foundation. In thinking of all possible and impossible places where we could establish a school, I have thought of Burlington, or rather of the neighborhood of Burlington. Do you remember whether there was any other school there besides that of Miss Blanks? This is, of course, a perfectly crude and random idea. There are a hundred reasons why it should be an impracticable one. We have no connections, no acquaintances there, it is far from home, et cetera. Still, I fancy the ground in the East Riding is less fully occupied than in the West. Much inquiry and consideration will be necessary, of course, before any place is decided on. And I fear much time will elapse before any plan is executed. Right as soon as you can, I shall not leave my present situation to my future prospects, assume a more fixed and definite aspect. A fortnight afterwards we see that the seed has been sown which was to grow up into a plan materially influencing her future life. August 7, 1841. This is Saturday evening. I have put the children to bed. Now I am going to sit down and answer your letter. I am again, by myself, housekeeper and governess, for Mr. and Mrs. Blank are staying at Blank. To speak truth, though I am solitary while they are away, it is still by far the happiest part of my time. The children are under decent control. The servants are very observant and attentive to me. And the occasional absence of the master and mistress relieves me from the duty of always endeavouring to seem cheerful and conversable. Martha Blank, it appears, is in the way of enjoying great advantages. So is Mary. For you will be surprised to hear that she is returning immediately to the continent with her brother, not, however, to stay there but to take a month's tour and recreation. I have had a long letter from Mary and a packet containing a present of a very handsome black silk scarf and a pair of beautiful kid gloves, bought at Brussels. Of course, I was in one sense pleased with the gifts, pleased that they should think of me so far off amidst the excitements of one of the most splendid capitals of Europe, and yet it felt irksome to accept it. I should think Mary and Martha have not more than sufficient pocket money to supply themselves. I wish they had testified their regard by a less expensive token. Mary's letters spoke of some of the pictures and cathedrals she had seen, pictures the most exquisite, cathedrals the most venerable. I hardly know what swelled to my throat as I read her letter. Such vehement impatience of restraint and steady work, such a strong wish for wings, wings such as wealth can furnish. Such an urgent thirst to see, to know, to learn. Something internal seemed to expand bodily for a minute. I was tantalized by the consciousness of faculty's unexercised, then all collapsed and I disbared. My dear, I would hardly make that confession to anyone but yourself, and to you, rather in a letter, than vivavos. These rebellious and absurd emotions were only momentary. I quelled them in five minutes. I hope they will not revive, for they were acutely painful. No further steps have been taken about the project I mentioned to you, nor probably will be for the present. But Emily and Anne and I keep it in view. It is our polar star, and we look to it in all circumstances of despondency. I begin to suspect I am writing in a strain which will make you think I am unhappy. This is far from being the case. On the contrary, I know my place is a favourable one, for a governess. What dismayes and haunts me sometimes is a conviction that I have no natural knack for my vocation. If teaching only were requisite, it would be smooth and easy. But it is the living in other people's houses, the estrangement from one's real character, the adoption of a cold, rigid, apathetic exterior that is painful. You will not mention our school project at present. A project not actually commenced is always uncertain. Wait to me often, my dear now. You know your letters are valued. Your loving child, as you choose to call me so, C.B. P.S. I am well in health. Don't fancy I am not. But I have one aching feeling at my heart. I must allude to it, though I had resolved not to. It is about Anne. She has so much to endure. Far, far more than I ever had. When my thoughts turn to her, they always see her as a patient, persecuted stranger. I know what concealed to susceptibility is in her nature, when her feelings are wounded. I wish I could be with her to administer a little balm. She is more lonely, less gifted with the power of making friends even than I am. Drop the subject. She could bear much for herself, but she could not patiently bear the sorrow of others, especially of her sisters. And again, of the two sisters, the idea of the little, gentle, youngest, suffering in lonely patience, was insupportable to her. Something must be done. No matter if the desired end were far away, all time was lost in which she was not making progress, however slow, towards it. To have a school was to have some portion of the daily leisure uncontrolled but by her own sense of duty. It was for the three sisters loving each other was so passionate in affection to be together under one roof, and yet earning their own subsistence. Above all, it was to have the power of watching over these two, whose life and happiness were ever to Charlotte far more than her own. But no trembling impatience should lead her to take an unwise step in haste. She inquired in every direction she could, as to the chances which a new school might have of success. In all, there seemed more establishments, like the one which the sisters wished to set up, than could be supported. What was to be done? Superior advantages must be offered. But how? They themselves abounded in thought, power, and information. But these are qualifications scarcely fit to be inserted in a prospectus. Of French they knew something, enough to read it fluently, but hardly enough to teach it in competition with natives or professional masters. Emily and Anne had some knowledge of music, but here again it was doubtful whether, without more instruction, they could engage to give lessons in it. Just about this time Miss Blank was thinking of relinquishing her school at Dewsbury more, and offered to give it up in favor of her old pupils, the Brontes. A sister of hers had taken the active management since the time when Charlotte was a teacher. But the number of pupils had diminished, and if the Brontes undertook it, they would have to try and work it up to its former state of prosperity. This again would require advantages on their part which they did not at present possess, but which Charlotte caught a glimpse of. She resolved to follow the clue, and never to rest till she had reached a successful issue. With the forced calm of a suppressed eagerness that sends a glow of desire through every word of the following letter, she wrote to her aunt thus. Dear aunt, September 29th, 1841. I have heard nothing of Miss W. yet, since I wrote to her, intimating that I would accept her offer. I cannot conjecture the reason of this long silence unless some unforeseen impediment has occurred in concluding the bargain. Meantime a plan has been suggested and approved by Mr. and Mrs. Blank, the father and mother of her pupils, and others which I wish now to impart to you. My friends recommend me if I desire to secure permanent success to delay commencing the school for six months longer, and by all means to contrive, by hook or by crook, to spend the intervening time in some school in the continent. They say schools in England are so numerous, competition so great, that without some step towards attaining superiority, we shall probably have a very hard struggle and may fail in the ends. They say moreover that the loan of a hundred pounds, which you have been so kind as to offer us, will perhaps not be all required now, as Miss Blank will lend us the furniture. And that if the speculation is intended to be a good and successful one, half the sum at least, ought to be laid out in the manner I have mentioned, thereby ensuring a more speedy repayment, both of interest and principle. I would not go to France or to Paris. I would go to Brussels in Belgium. The cost of the journey there, at the dearest rate of traveling, would be five pounds. Living is there a little more than half as dear as it is in England, and the facilities for education are equal or superior to any other place in Europe. In half a year, I could acquire a thorough familiarity with French. I could improve greatly in Italian, and even get a dash of German, i.e., providing my health continued as good as it is now. Mary is now staying at Brussels at a first rate establishment there. I should not think of going to the Chateau de Cochleburg, where she is resident, as the terms are much too high. But if I wrote to her, she, with the assistance of Mrs. Jenkins, the wife of the British chaplain, would be able to secure me a cheap, decent residence and respectable protection. I should have the opportunity of seeing her frequently. She would make me acquainted with the city, and with the assistance of her cousins. I should probably be introduced to connections far more improving, polished and cultivated than any I have yet known. These are advantages which would turn to real accounts when we actually commenced a school, and if Emily could share them with me, we could take a footing in the world afterwards, which we can never do now. I say Emily instead of Anne, for Anne might take her turn at some future period if our school answered. I feel certain, while I am writing, that you will see the propriety of what I say. You always like to use your money to the best advantage. You are not fond of making shabby purchases. When you do confer a favor, it is often done in style, and depend upon it, 50 pound or 100 pounds, thus laid out, would be well employed. Of course, I know no other friend in the world to whom I could apply on this subject except yourself. I feel an absolute conviction that if this advantage were allowed us, it would be the making of us for life. Papa will perhaps think at a wild and ambitious scheme, but whoever rose in the world without ambition. When he left Ireland to go to Cambridge University, he was as ambitious as I am now. I want us all to get on. I know we have talents and I want them to be turned to account. I look to you, Aunt, to help us. I think you will not refuse. I know, if you consent, it shall not be my fault if you ever repent of your kindness. This letter was written from the house in which she was residing as governess. It was some little time before an answer came. Much had to be talked over between the father and aunt in Howard's Parsonage. At last consent was given. Then, and not till then, she confided her plan to an intimate friend. She was not one to talk over much about any project while it remained uncertain, to speak about her labor in any direction while its result was doubtful. November 2nd, 1841. Now let us begin to quarrel. In the first place, I must consider whether I will commence operations on the defensive or the offensive, the defensive, I think. You say, and I see plainly, that your feelings have been hurt by an apparent want of confidence on my part. You heard from others of Ms. W's overtures before I communicated them to you myself. This is true. I was deliberating on plans important to my future prospects. I never exchanged a letter with you on a subject. True again. This appears strange conduct to a friend near and dear, long known, and never found wanting. Most true. I cannot give you my excuses for this behavior. This word, excuse, implies confession of a fault, and I do not feel that I have been in fault. The plain fact is, I was not, and am not now certain of my destiny. On the contrary, I have been most uncertain, perplexed with contradictory schemes and proposals. My time, as I have often told you, is fully occupied. Yet I had many letters to write, which it was absolutely necessary should be written. I knew it would avail nothing to write to you then to say I was in doubt and uncertainty, hoping this, fearing that, anxious, eagerly desirous to do what seemed impossible to be done. When I thought of you in that busy interval, it was to resolve that you should know all when my way was clear and my grand and attained. If I could, I would always work in silence and obscurity, and that my efforts be known by their results. Ms. W. did most kindly propose that I should come to Duisbury-Moore and attempt to revive the school her sister had relinquished. She offered me the use of her furniture. At first, I received the proposal cordially and prepared to do my utmost to bring about success. But a fire was kindled in my very heart, which I could not quench. I sewed long to increase my attainments, to become something better than I am, a glimpse of what I felt, I showed to you in one of my former letters, only a glimpse, Mary cast oil upon the flames. Encouraged me, and in her own, strong, energetic language, heartened me on. I longed to go to Brussels, but how could I get there? I wished for one, at least, of my sisters to share the advantage with me. I fixed on Emily. She deserved the reward I knew. How could the point be managed? In extreme excitement, I wrote a letter home which carried the day. I made an appeal to Aunt for assistance, which was answered by consent. Things are not settled, yet it is sufficient to say we have a chance of going for half a year. Duisbury-Moore is relinquished. Perhaps, fortunately so. In my secret soul, I believe there is no cause to regret it. My plans for the future are bounded to this intention. If I once get to Brussels, and if my health is spared, I will do my best to make the utmost of every advantage that shall come within my reach. When the half years expired, I will do what I can. Believe me, though I was born in April, the month of cloud and sunshine, I am not changeful. My spirits are unequal, and sometimes I speak vehemently, and sometimes I say nothing at all, but I have a steady regard for you. And if you will let the cloud and shower pass by, be sure the sun is always behind, obscured, but still existing. At Christmas, she left her situation after a parting with her employers, which seems to have affected and touched her greatly. They only made too much of me, was her remark, after leaving this family. I did not deserve it. All four children hoped to meet together at their father's house this December. Branwell expected to have a short leave of absence from his employment as a clerk on the Leeds and Manchester Railway, in which she had been engaged for five months. Anne arrived before Christmas Day. She had rendered herself so valuable in her difficult situation that her employers vehemently urged her to return. Although she had announced her resolution to leave them, partly on account of the harsh treatment she had received, and partly because her stay at home during her sister's absence in Belgium seemed desirable, when the age of the three remaining inhabitants of the Parsonage was taken into consideration. After some correspondence and much talking over plans at home, it seems better, in consequence of letters, which they received from Brussels, giving a discouraging account of the schools there, that Charlotte and Emily should go to an institution at Lily in the north of France, which was highly recommended by Baptist Noelle and other clergymen. Indeed, at the end of January, it was arranged that they were to set off for this place in three weeks, under the escort of a French lady, then visiting in London. The terms were 50 pounds each pupil for board and French alone, but a separate room was to be allowed for this sum. Without this indulgence, it was lower. Charlotte writes, January 20th, 1842. I consider it kind and ant to consent to an extra sum for a separate room. We shall find it a great privilege in many ways. I regret the change from Brussels to Lily on many accounts, chiefly that I shall not see Martha. Mary has been indefatigably kind in providing me with information. She has grudged no labor and scarcely any expense to that ends. Mary's price is above Ruby's. I have, in fact, two friends, you and her, staunch and true, in whose faith and sincerity I have a strong belief as I have in the Bible. I have bothered you both, you especially, but you always get the tongs and heap-colds of fire upon my head. I have had letters to write, lately to Brussels, to Lily, and to London. I have lots of chemises, nightgowns, pocket-hanker-chips, and pockets to make besides clothes to repair. I have been every week since I came home, expecting to see Branwell, and he has never been able to get over yet. We fully expect him, however, next Saturday. Under these circumstances, how can I go visiting? You tantalize me to death with talking of conversations by the fireside. Depend upon it, we are not to have any such for many a long month to come. I get an interesting impression of old age upon my face, and when you see me next, I shall certainly wear caps and spectacles. End of section 14, recording by Katie Riley, March 2009.