 Volume 1, Section 18 of the Life of Charlotte Bronte. The grande vacance began soon after the date of this letter, when she was left in the great deserted pensiona with only one teacher for a companion. This teacher, a French woman, had always been uncongenial to her, but left to each other's sole companionship, Charlotte soon discovered that her associate was more profligate, more steeped in a kind of cold, systematic sensuality than she had before imagined it possible for a human being to be, and her whole nature revolted from this woman's society. A low, nervous fever was gaining upon Miss Bronte. She had never been a good sleeper, but now she could not sleep at all. Whatever had been disagreeable or obnoxious to her during the day was presented when it was over with exaggerated vividness to her disordered fancy. There were causes for distress and anxiety in the news from home, particularly as regarded Branwell. In the dead of the night, lying awake at the end of the long-deserted dormitory in the vast and silent house, every fear respecting those whom she loved and who were so far off in another country became a terrible reality, oppressing her and choking up the very life blood in her heart. These nights were times of sick, dreary, wakeful misery, precursors of many such in after-years. In the daytime driven abroad by loathing of her companion and by the weak restlessness of fever she tried to walk herself into such a state of bodily fatigue as would induce sleep. So she went out and with weary steps would traverse the boulevards and the streets sometimes for hours together, faltering and resting occasionally on some of the many benches placed for the repose of happy groups or for solitary wanderers like herself. Then up again anywhere but to the pensionnay, out to the cemetery where Martha lay, out beyond it, to the hills, whence there is nothing to be seen but fields as far as a horizon. The shades of evening made her retrace her footsteps, sick for want of food, but not hungry, fatigued with long-continued exercise, yet restless still, and doomed to another weary haunted night of sleeplessness. She would thread the streets in the neighborhood of the Rue de Zabel and yet avoid it and its occupant till as late an hour as she dared to be out. At last she was compelled to keep her bed for some days, and this compulsory rest did her good. She was weak but less depressed in spirits than she had been when the school reopened, and her positive practical duties recommenced. She writes thus October 13, 1843 Mary is getting on well as she deserves to do, I often hear from her, her letters and yours are one of my few pleasures. She urges me very much to leave Brussels and to go to her, but at present, however tempted to take such a step, I should not feel justified in doing so. To leave a certainty for a complete uncertainty would be to the last degree imprudent. Notwithstanding that, Brussels is indeed desolate to me now. Since the D's left I have had no friend. I had indeed some very kind acquaintances in the family of a Dr. Blank. But they too are gone now. They left in the latter part of August, and I am completely alone. I cannot count the Belgians anything. It is a curious position to be so utterly solitary in the midst of numbers. Sometimes the solitude oppresses me to an excess. One day lately I felt as if I could bear it no longer, and I went to Madame Ajay and gave her notice. If it had depended on her, I should certainly have soon been at liberty, but Monsieur Ajay, having heard of what was in agitation, sent for me the day after and pronounced with vehemence his decision that I should not leave. I could not at that time have persevered in my intention without exciting him to anger, so I promised to stay a little while longer. How long that will be, I do not know. I should not like to return to England to do nothing, I am too old for that now. But if I could hear of a favourable opportunity for commencing a school, I think I should embrace it. We have as yet no fires here, and I suffer much from cold, otherwise I am well in health. Mr. Blank will take this letter to England. He is a pretty-looking and pretty-behaved young man, apparently constructed without a backbone by which I don't allude to his corporal spine, which is all right enough, but to his character. I get on here after a fashion, but now that Mary Dee has left Brussels I have nobody to speak to, for I count the Belgians as nothing. Sometimes I ask myself how long shall I stay here, but as yet I have only asked the question I have not answered it. However, when I have acquired as much German as I think fit, I think I shall pack up bag and baggage and depart. Twinges of homesickness cut me to the heart every now and then. Today the weather is glaring and I am stupefied with a bad cold and headache. I have nothing to tell you. One day is like another in this place. I know you, living in the country, can hardly believe it is possible life can be monotonous in the centre of a brilliant capital like Brussels, but so it is. I feel it most on holidays when all the girls and teachers go out to visit, and it sometimes happens that I am left during several hours quite alone, with four great desolate schoolrooms at my disposition. I try to read, I try to write, but in vain. I then wander about from room to room, but the silence and loneliness of all the house weighs down one's spirits like lead. You will hardly believe that Madame Eugée, good and kind as I have described her, never comes near me on these occasions. I own, I was astonished the first time I was left alone thus, when everybody else was enjoying the pleasures of a fete day with their friends, and she knew I was quite by myself and never took the least notice of me. Yet I understand she praises me very much to everybody, and says what excellent lessons I give. She is not colder to me than she is to the other teachers, but they are less dependent on her than I am. They have relations and acquaintances in Brussels. You remember the letter she wrote me when I was in England, how kind and affectionate that was? Is it not odd? In the meantime the complaints I make at present are a sort of relief which I permit myself. In all other respects I am well satisfied with my position, and you may say so to people who inquire after me, if any one does. Write to me, dear, whenever you can, you do a good deed when you send me a letter for you comfort a very desolate heart. One of the reasons for the silent estrangement between Madame Eugée and Miss Bronte in the second year of her residence at Brussels is to be found in the fact that the English Protestants dislike a Romanism increased with her knowledge of it, and its effects upon those who professed it. And when occasion called for an expression of opinion from Charlotte Bronte, she was uncompromising truth. Madame Eugée on the opposite side was not merely a Roman Catholic, she was devote. Out of a warm or impulsive temperament she was naturally governed by her conscience rather than by her affections, and her conscience was in the hands of her religious guides. She considered any slight thrown upon her church as blasphemy against the holy truth, and though she was not given to open expression of her thoughts and feelings, yet her increasing coolness of behaviour showed how much her most cherished opinions had been wounded. Thus, although there was never any explanation of Madame Eugée's change of manner, this may be given as one great reason why about this time Charlotte was made painfully conscious of a silent estrangement between them, an estrangement of which perhaps the former was hardly aware. I have before alluded to intelligence from home calculated to distress Charlotte exceedingly with fears respecting Branwell, which I shall speak of more at large when the realisation of her worst apprehensions came to effect the daily life of herself and her sisters. I allude to the subject again here in order that the reader may remember the gnawing private cares which she had to bury in her own heart, and the pain of which could only be smothered for a time under the diligent fulfilment of present duty. Rather dim sorrow was faintly perceived at this time, her father's eyesight began to fail, it was not unlikely that he might shortly become blind, more of his duty must devolve on a curate, and Mr. Bronte, always liberal, would have to pay at a higher rate than he had here to foredone for this assistance. She wrote thus to Emily, December 1st, 1843 This is Sunday morning. They are at their idolatrous mess, and I am here, that is, in the refectoire. I should like uncommonly to be in the dining-room at home, or in the kitchen, or in the back kitchen. I should like even to be cutting up the hash with the clerk and some register-people at the other table, and you standing by, watching that I put enough flour, not too much pepper, and, above all, that I save the best pieces of the leg of mutton for tiger and keeper, the first of which personages would be jumping about to the dish and carving-knife, and the latter standing like a devouring flame on the kitchen floor. To complete the picture, Tabby blowing the fire in order to boil the potatoes to a sort of vegetable glue. How divine are these recollections to me at this moment! Yet I have no thought of coming home just now. I lack a real pretext for doing so. It is true this place is dismal to me, but I cannot go home without a fixed prospect when I get there, and this prospect must not be a situation that would be jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. You call yourself idle? Absurd, absurd. Is Papa well? Are you well, and Tabby? You ask about Queen Victoria's visit to Brussels. I saw her, for an instant, flashing through the Rue Royale in a carriage and six, surrounded by soldiers. She was laughing and talking very gaily. She looked a little stout, vivacious lady, very plainly dressed, not much dignity or pretension about her. The Belgians liked her very well on the whole. They said she enlivened the somber court of King Leopold, which is usually as gloomy as a conventical. Right to me again soon. Tell me whether Papa really wants me very much to come home, and whether you do, likewise. I have an idea that I should be of no use there, a sort of ageate person upon the parish. I pray with heart and soul that all may continue well at Haworth, above all in our gray, half-inhabited house. God bless the walls thereof. Tabby, health, happiness and prosperity to you, Papa, and Tabby. Amen. C.B. Towards the end of this year, 1843, various reasons conspired with the causes of anxiety which have been mentioned, to make her feel that her presence was absolutely and imperatively required at home. While she had acquired all that she proposed to herself in coming to Brussels the second time, and was, moreover, no longer regarded with the former kindliness of feeling by Madame Eger. In consequence of the state of things, working down with a sharp edge into a sensitive mind, she suddenly announced to that lady her immediate intention of returning to England. Both M. and M. Eger agreed that it would be for the best when they learned only that part of the case which she could reveal to them, namely Mr. Bronte's increasing blindness. But as the inevitable moment of separation from people and places among which she had spent so many happy hours drew near, her spirits gave way. She had the natural presentiment that she saw them all for the last time, and she received but a dead kind of comfort from being reminded by her friends that Brussels and Haworth were not so very far apart. That access from one place to the other was not so difficult or impracticable as her tears would seem to predicate. Nay, there was some talk of one of Madame Eger's daughters being sent to her as a pupil, if she fulfilled her intention of trying to begin a school. To facilitate her success in this plan, should she ever engage in it, M. Eger gave her a kind of diploma, dated from and sealed with the seal of the Athenei Oyal de Bruxelles, certifying that she was perfectly capable of teaching the French language, having well studied the grammar and composition thereof, and moreover, having prepared herself for teaching by studying and practicing the best methods of instruction. This certificate is dated December 29, 1843, and on the 2nd of January, 1844, she arrived at Haworth. On the 23rd of the month, she writes as follows. One asks me what I am going to do now that I am returned home, and everyone seems to expect that I should immediately commence a school. In truth it is what I should wish to do, I desire it above all things. I have sufficient money for the undertaking, and I hope now sufficient qualifications to give me a fair chance of success. Yet I cannot yet permit myself to enter upon life, to touch the object which seems now within my reach, and which I have been so long straining to attain. You will ask me why. It is on Papa's account. He is now, as you know, getting old, and it greaves me to tell you that he is losing his sight. I have felt for some months that I ought not to be away from him, and I feel now that it would be too selfish to leave him, at least as long as Branwell and Anne are absent, in order to pursue selfish interests of my own. With the help of God I will try to deny myself in this matter and to wait. I suffered much before I left Brussels. I think however long I live I shall not forget what the parting with Monsieur Eger cost me. It grieved me so much to grieve him, who has been so true, kind, and disinterested a friend. At parting he gave me a kind of diploma certifying my abilities as a teacher, sealed with the seal of the Athene Royal, of which he is Professor. I was surprised also at the degree of regret expressed by my Belgian pupils when they knew I was going to leave. I did not think it had been in their phlegmatic nature. I do not know whether you feel as I do, but there are times now when it appears to me as if all my ideas and feelings, except a few friendships and affections, are changed from what they used to be. Something in me which used to be enthusiasm is tamed down and broken. I have fewer illusions. What I wish for now is active exertion, a stake in life. Haworth seems such a lonely, quiet spot, buried away from the world. I no longer regard myself as young. Indeed I shall soon be twenty-eight, and it seems as if I ought to be working and braving the rough realities of the world as other people do. It is, however, my duty to restrain this feeling at present, and I will endeavour to do so. Of course her absent sister and brother obtained a holiday to welcome her return home, and in a few weeks she was spared to pay a visit to her friend at B., but she was far from well or strong, and the short journey of fourteen miles seems to have fatigued her greatly. Even after she came back to Haworth, in a letter to one of the household in which she had been staying, there occurs this passage. Our poor little cat has been ill two days and is just dead. It is piteous to see even an animal lying lifeless. Emily is sorry. These few words relate to points in the characters of the two sisters which I must dwell upon a little. But it was more than commonly tender in her treatment of all dumb creatures, and they, with that fine instinct so often noticed, were invariably attracted towards her. The deep and exaggerated consciousness of her personal defects, the constitutional absence of hope, which made her slow to trust in human affection and consequently slow to respond to any manifestation of it, made her manner shy and constrained to men and women and even to children. We have seen something of this trembling distrust of her own capability of inspiring affection in the grateful surprise she expresses at the regret felt by her Belgian pupils at her departure. But not merely were her actions kind, her words and tones were ever gentle and caressing towards animals, and she quickly noticed the least want of care or tenderness on the part of others towards any poor, brute creature. The readers of Shirley may remember that it is one of the tests which the heroine applies to her lover. Do you know what soothsayers I would consult? The little Irish beggar that comes barefoot to my door, the mouse that steals out of the cranny in my wane's cot, the bird in frost and snow that pecks at my window for a crumb, the dog that licks my hand and sits beside my knee. I know somebody to whose knee the black cat loves to climb, against whose shoulder and cheek it likes to purr. The old dog always comes out of his kennel and wags his tail and whines affectionately when somebody passes. For somebody and he read Charlotte Bronte and she. He quietly strokes the cat and lets her sit while he conveniently and when he must disturb her by rising he puts her softly down and never flings her from him roughly. He always whistles to the dog and gives him a caress. The feeling which in Charlotte partook of something of the nature of an affection was, with Emily, more of a passion. Someone speaking of her to me in a careless kind of strength of expression said, she never showed regard to any human creature, all her love was reserved for animals. The helplessness of an animal was its passport to Charlotte's heart. The fierce, wild intractability of its nature was what often recommended it to Emily. Speaking of her dead sister, the former told me that from her many traits in Shirley's character were taken, her way as sitting on the rug reading with her arm round her rough bulldog's neck, her calling to a strange dog running past with hanging head and lolling tongue to give it a merciful draft of water. Its maddened snap at her, her nobly stern presence of mind going right into the kitchen and taking up one of Tabby's red hot Italian irons to sear the bit in place and telling no one till the danger was well nigh over for fear of the terrors that might be set their weaker minds. All this, looked upon as a well invented fiction in Shirley, was written down by Charlotte with streaming eyes. It was the literal true account of what Emily had done. The same tawny bulldog with his strangled whistle, called Tartar in Shirley, was Keeper in Haworth Parsonage, a gift to Emily. With the gift came a warning. Keeper was faithful to the depths of his nature as long as he was with friends, but he who struck him with a stick or whip roused the relentless nature of the brute, who flew at his throat forthwith and held him there till one or the other was at the point of death. Now Keeper's household fault was this. He loved to steal upstairs and stretch his square tawny limbs on the comfortable beds, covered over with delicate white counterpains. But the cleanliness of the Parsonage arrangements was perfect, and this habit of Keeper's was so objectionable, that Emily, in reply to Tabby's remonstrances, declared that if he was found again transgressing she herself, in defiance of warning in his well-known ferocity of nature, would beat him so severely that he would never offend again. In the gathering dusk of an autumn evening Tabby came, half triumphantly, half tremblingly, but in great wrath, to tell Emily that Keeper was lying on the best bed in drowsy voluptuousness. Charlotte saw Emily's whitening face and set mouth, but dared not speak to interfere. No one dared when Emily's eyes glowed in that manner out of the paleness of her face and when her lips were so compressed into stone. She went upstairs, and Tabby and Charlotte stood in the gloomy passage below, full of the dark shadows of coming night. Downstairs came Emily, dragging after her the unwilling Keeper, his hind legs set in a heavy attitude of resistance, held by the scuffed of his neck, but growling low and savagely all the time. The watchers would feign have spoken but durst not for fear of taking off Emily's attention and causing her to avert her head for a moment from the enraged brute. She let him go, planted in a dark corner at the bottom of the stairs. No time was there to fetch stick or rod for fear of the strangling clutch at her throat. Her bare, clenched fist struck against his red fierce eyes, before he had time to make his spring, and in the language of the turf she punished him till his eyes were swelled up, and the half-blind stupefied beast was led to his accustomed lair to have his swollen head fomented and cared for by the very Emily herself. The generous dog owed her no grudge. He loved her dearly ever after. He walked first among the mourners to her funeral. He slept moaning for nights at the door of her empty room, and never, so to speak, rejoiced dog-fashion after her death. He in his turn was mourned over by the surviving sister. Let us somehow hope in half-red Indian creed that he follows Emily now, and when he rests, sleeps on some soft white bed of dreams unpunished when he awakens to the life of the land of shadows. Now we can understand the force of the words. Our poor little cat is dead. Emily is sorry. Volume 1, Section 19 of the Life of Charlotte Bronte. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Life of Charlotte Bronte by Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell. Volume 1, Section 19. CHAPTER XIII. The Moors were a great resource this spring. Emily and Charlotte walked out on them perpetually to the great damage of our shoes, but I hope to the benefit of our health. The old plan of schoolkeeping was often discussed in these rambles, but indoors they set with vigor to shirt-making for the absent Branwell, and pondered in silence over their past and future life. At last they came to a determination. I have seriously entered into the enterprise of keeping a school, or rather taking a limited number of pupils at home, that is, I have begun in good earnest to seek for pupils. I wrote to Mrs. Blank, the lady with whom she had lived as governess just before going to Brussels. Not asking her for her daughter I cannot do that, but informing her of my intention. I received an answer from Mr. Blank, expressive of, I believe, sincere regret that I had not informed them a month sooner, in which case he said they would gladly have sent me their own daughter and also Colonel Esses. But that now both were promised to Miss C. I was partly disappointed by this answer and partly gratified. Indeed, I derived quite an impulse of encouragement from the warm assurance that if I had but applied a little sooner they would certainly have sent me their daughter. I own I had misgivings that nobody would be willing to send a child for education to Haworth. These misgivings are partly done away with. I have written also to Mrs. B. and have enclosed the diploma which Mr. Esses gave me before I left Brussels. I have not yet received her answer, but I wait for it with some anxiety. I do not expect that she will send me any of her children, but if she would I dare say she could recommend me other pupils. Unfortunately she knows us only very slightly. As soon as I can get an assurance of only one pupil I will have cards of terms printed and will commence the repairs necessary in the house. I wish all that to be done before winter. I think of fixing the board and English education at twenty-five pounds per annum. Again, at a later date, July 24th in the same year, she writes, I am driving on with my small matter as well as I can. I have written to all the friends on whom I have the slightest claim and to some on whom I have no claim, Mrs. B., for example. On her also I have actually made bold to call. She was exceedingly polite, regretted that her children were already at school in Liverpool, thought the undertaking a most praiseworthy one, but feared I should have some difficulty in making it succeed on account of the situation. Such is the answer I receive from almost everyone. I tell them the retired situation is, in some points of view, an advantage. That were it in the midst of a large town I could not pretend to take pupils on terms so moderate. Mrs. B. remarked that she thought the terms very moderate. But that, as it is, not having house rent to pay, we can offer the same privileges of education that are to be had in expensive seminaries at little more than half their price. And as our number must be limited, we can devote a large share of time and pains to each pupil. Thank you for the very pretty little purse you have sent me. I make to you a curious return in the shape of half a dozen cards of terms. Make such use of them as your judgment shall dictate. You will see that I have fixed the sum at thirty-five pounds, which I think is the just medium, considering advantages and disadvantages. This was written in July, August, September, and October, passed away, and no pupils were to be heard of. Day after day there was a little hope felt by the sisters until the post came in. But Hallworth Village was wild and lonely, and the Brontes but little known owing to their want of connections. Charlotte writes on the subject in the early winter months to this effect. I, Emily, and Anne are truly obliged to you for the efforts you have made on our behalf, and if you have not been successful you are only like ourselves. One wishes us well, but there are no pupils to be had. We have no present intention, however, of breaking our hearts on the subject still less of feeling mortified at defeat. The effort must be beneficial whatever the result may be, because it teaches us experience and an additional knowledge of this world. I send you two more circulars. A month later she says, We have made no alterations yet in our house. It would be folly to do so while there is so little likelihood of our ever-getting pupils. I fear you are giving yourself too much trouble on our account. Depend upon it, if you were to persuade a mama to bring her child to Hallworth, the aspect of the place would frighten her, and she would probably take the dear girl back with her instant her. We are glad that we have made the attempt, and we will not be cast down because it has not succeeded. There were probably, growing up in each sister's heart, secret unacknowledged feelings of relief that their plan had not succeeded. Yes, a dull sense of relief that their cherished project had been tried and had failed. For that house, which was to be regarded as an occasional home for their brother, could hardly be a fitting residence for the children of strangers. They had, in all likelihood, become silently aware that his habits were such as to render his society at times most undesirable. In 1842 they had, by this time, heard distressing rumours concerning the cause of that remorse and agony of mind which, at times, made him restless and unnaturally merry, at times rendered him moody and irritable. In January 1845, Charlotte says, Branwell has been quieter and less irritable on the whole this time than he was in summer. Branwell is, as usual, always good, mild and patient. The deep-seated pain which he was to occasion to his relations had now taken a decided form and pressed heavily on Charlotte's health and spirits. Early in this year she went to H. to bid good-bye to her dear friend Mary, who was leaving England for Australia. Branwell, I have mentioned, had obtained the situation of a private tutor, and was also engaged as a governess in the same family and was thus a miserable witness to her brother's deterioration of character at this period. Of the causes of this deterioration I cannot speak, but the consequences were these. He went home for his holidays reluctantly, stayed there as short a time as possible, perplexing and distressing them all by his extraordinary conduct. At one time in the highest spirits, at another in the deepest depression, accusing himself of blackest guilt and treachery without specifying what they were, and altogether evincing an irritability of disposition bordering on insanity. Charlotte and Emily suffered acutely from his mysterious behaviour. He expressed himself more than satisfied with his situation, he was remaining in it for a longer time than he had ever done in any kind of employment before, so that for some time they could not conjecture that anything there made him so willful and restless and full of both levity and misery, but a sense of something wrong connected with him sickened and oppressed them. They began to lose all hope in his future career. He was no longer the family pride, an indistinct dread caused partly by his own conduct, partly by expressions of agonising suspicion in Anne's letter's home, was creeping over their minds that he might turn out their deep disgrace. But I believe they shrank from any attempt to define their fears and spoke of him to each other as little as possible. They could not help but think and mourn and wonder. February 20, 1845 I spent a week at age, not very pleasantly, headache, sickliness and flatness of spirits made me a poor companion, a sad drag on the vivacious and loquacious gaiety of all the other inmates of the house. I never was fortunate enough to be able to rally, for as much as a single hour, while I was there. I am sure all, with the exception perhaps of Mary, were very glad when I took my departure. I begin to perceive that I have too little life in me nowadays to be fit company for any except very quiet people. Is it age or what else that changes me so? Alas! She hardly needed to have asked this question. How could she be otherwise than flat-spirited a poor companion and a sad drag on the gaiety of those who were light-hearted and happy? Her honest plan for earning her own livelihood had fallen away, crumbled two ashes. After all her preparations, not a pupil had offered herself. And instead of being sorry that this wish of many years could not be realized, she had reason to be glad. Her poor father, nearly sightless, depended upon her cares in his blind helplessness. But this was a sacred pious charge, the duties of which she was blessed in fulfilling. The black gloom hung over what had once been the brightest hope of the family, over Branwell, and the mystery in which his wayward conduct was enveloped. Somehow and some time he would have to turn to his home as a hiding place for shame, such was the sad foreboding of his sisters. Then how could she be cheerful when she was losing her dear and noble Mary for such a length of time and distance of space that her heart might well prophesy that it was for ever? Long before she had written of Mary T. that she was full of feelings noble, warm, generous, devoted, and profound. God bless her. I never hoped to see in this world a character more truly noble. She would die willingly for one she loved. Her intellect and attainments are of the very highest standard. This was the friend whom she was to lose. Hear that friend's account of their final interview. When I last saw Charlotte, January 1845, she told me she had quite decided to stay at home. She owned she did not like it. Her health was weak. She said she should like any change at first as she had liked Brussels at first, and she thought that there must be some possibility for some people of having a life of more variety and more communion with humankind, but she saw none for her. I told her very warmly that she ought not to stay at home, that to spend the next five years at home in solitude and weak health would ruin her, that she would never recover it. Such a dark shadow came over her face when I said, Think of what you will be five years hence, that I stopped and said don't cry, Charlotte. She did not cry, but went on walking up and down the room and said in a little while, But I intend to stay, Polly. A few weeks after she parted from Mary she gives this account of her days at Haworth. March 24, 1845. I can hardly tell you how time gets on at Haworth. There is no event whatever to mark its progress. One day resembles another, and all have heavy, lifeless physiognomies. Sunday, baking day, and Saturday are the only ones that have any distinctive mark. Meantime, life wears away. I shall soon be thirty and I have done nothing yet. Sometimes I get melancholy at the prospect before and behind me. Yet it is wrong and foolish to repine. Undoubtedly my duty directs me to stay at home for the present. There was a time when Haworth was a very pleasant place to me. It is not so now. I feel as if we were all buried here. I long to travel, to work, to live a life of action. Excuse me, dear, for troubling you with my fruitless wishes. I will put by the rest and not trouble you with them. You must write to me. If you knew how welcome your letters are, you would write very often. Your letters and the French newspapers are the only messengers that come to me from the outer world beyond our moors, and very welcome messengers they are. One of her daily employments was to read to her father, and it required a little gentle diplomacy on her part to effect this duty, for there were times when the offer of another to do what he had been so long accustomed to do for himself only reminded him too painfully of the deprivation under which he was suffering. And in secret she too dreaded a similar loss for herself. Long continued ill health, a deranged condition of the liver, her close application to minute drawing and writing in her younger days, her now habitual sleeplessness at nights, the many bitter noiseless tears she had shed over Branwell's mysterious and distressing conduct, all these causes were telling on her poor eyes. And about this time she thus writes to Monsieur Eger. Il n'y a rien que je crains comme le désœuvrement, l'inertie, la lethargie des facultés. Qu'on le corps et paraissent eux, l'esprit souffre cruellement. Je ne connaîtrai pas cette lethargie si je pouvais écrire. Autrefois je passais des journées, des semaines, des mois entiers à écrire, et pas tout à fait sans fruits, puisque Southie et Coleridge deux de nos meilleurs auteurs à qui j'ai envoyé certains manuscrits en ont bien voulu témoigner leur appropriation. Mais à présent j'ai la vue trop faible, si j'écrivais beaucoup je deviendrai aveugle. Cette faiblesse de vue est pour moi une terrible privation. Sans cela savez-vous ce que je ferai, monsieur ? J'écrierai un livre et je le dédirai à mon maître de littérature, au seul maître que j'ai jamais eu, à vous, monsieur. Je vous ai dit souvent en français combien je vous respecte, combien je suis redevable à votre bonté, à vos conseils. Je voudrais le dire une fois en anglais. Cela ne se peut pas, il ne faut pas y penser. La carrière des lettres m'est fermée. N'oubliez pas de me dire comment vous vous portez, comment madame et les enfants se portent. Je compte bientôt avoir de vos nouvelles. Cette idée me sourit, car le souvenir de vos bontés ne s'effacera jamais de ma mémoire, et tant que ce souvenir durera, le respect que vous m'avez inspiré durera aussi. Agréer, monsieur, etc. It is probable that even her sisters and most intimate friends did not know of this dread of ultimate blindness which beset her at this period. What eyesight she had to spare, she reserved for the use of her father. She did but little plain sewing, not more writing than could be avoided, and employed herself principally in knitting. April 2, 1845. I see plainly it has proved to us that there is scarcely a draft of unmingled happiness to be had in this world. Blank's illness comes with Blank's marriage. Mary T. finds herself free, and on that path to adventure and exertion to which she has so long been seeking admission. Sickness, hardship, danger are her fellow travellers, her inseparable companions. She may have been out of the reach of these south-west, north-west gales before they began to blow, or they may have spent their fury on land and not ruffled the sea much. If it has been otherwise, she has been sorely tossed while we have been sleeping in our beds or lying awake thinking about her. Yet these real material dangers, when once passed, leave in the mind the satisfaction of having struggled with difficulty and overcome it. Strength, courage, and experience are their invariable results. Whereas I doubt whether suffering purely mental has any good result, unless it be to make us by comparison less sensitive to physical suffering. Ten years ago I should have laughed at your account of the blunder you made in mistaking the bachelor doctor for a married man. I should have certainly thought you scrupulous over much and wondered how you could possibly regret being civil to a decent individual merely because he happened to be single instead of double. Now, however, I can perceive that your scruples are founded on common sense. I know that if women wish to escape the stigma of husband-seeking, they must act and look like marble or clay, cold, expressionless, bloodless. For every appearance of feeling, of joy, sorrow, friendliness, antipathy, admiration, disgust, are alike construed by the world into the attempt to hook a husband. Never mind. Well-meaning women have their own consciences to comfort them after all. Do not, therefore, be too much afraid of showing yourself as you are, affectionate and good-hearted. Do not too harshly repress sentiments and feelings excellent in themselves, because you fear that some puppy may fancy that you are letting them come out to fascinate him. Do not condemn yourself to live only by haves, because if you showed too much animation some pragmatical thing in breaches might take it into his fate to imagine that you designed to dedicate your life to his inanity. Still, a composed, decent, equitable department is a capital treasure to a woman and that you possess. Right again soon, for I feel rather fierce and want stroking down. June 13, 1845 As to the Mrs. Blank, who you say is like me, I somehow feel no leaning to her at all. I never do to people who are said to be like me, because I have always a notion that they are only like me in the disagreeable, outside, first acquaintance part of my character, in those points which are obvious to the ordinary run of people and which I know are not pleasing. You say she is clever, a clever person? How I dislike the term. It means rather a shrewd, very ugly meddling, talking woman. I feel reluctant to leave Papa for a single day. His sight diminishes weakly and cannot be wondered at that as he sees the most precious of his faculties leaving him, his spirits sometimes sink. It is so hard to feel that his few and scanty pleasures must all soon go. He has now the greatest difficulty in either reading or writing, and then he dreads the state of dependence to which blindness will inevitably reduce him. He fears that he will be nothing in his parish. I try to cheer him, sometimes I succeed temporarily, but no consolation can restore his sight or atone for the want of it. Still he is never peevish, never impatient, only anxious and dejected. For the reason just given, Charlotte declined an invitation to the only house to which she was now ever asked to come. In answer to her correspondence reply to this letter she says, You thought I refused you coldly, did you? It was a queer sort of coldness, when I would have given my ears to say yes, and was obliged to say no. Matters, however, are now a little changed. Anne is come home, and her presence certainly makes me feel more at liberty. Then, if all be well, I will come and see you. Tell me only when I must come. Mention the week and the day. Have the kindness also to answer the following queries if you can. How far is it from Leeds to Sheffield? Can you give me a notion of the cost? Of course, when I come you will let me enjoy your own company in peace and not drag me out of visiting. I have no desire at all to see your curate. I think he must be like all the other curates I have seen, and they seem to me a self-seeking vain, empty race. At this blessed moment we have no less than three of them in Haworth Parish, and there is not one to mend another. The other day they, all three accompanied by Mr. S., dropped or rather rushed in unexpectedly to tea. It was Monday, baking day, and I was hot and tired. Still, if they had behaved quietly and decently, I would have served them out their tea in peace, but they began glorifying themselves and abusing dissenters in such a manner that my temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a few sentences sharply and rapidly which struck them all dumb. Papa was greatly horrified also, but I don't regret it. On her return from this short visit to her friend, she travelled with a gentleman in the railway carriage, whose features and bearing betrayed him in a moment to be a Frenchman. She ventured to ask him if such was not the case, and on his admitting it she further inquired if he had not passed a considerable time in Germany and was answered that he had. Her quick ear detected something of the thick guttural pronunciation which Frenchmen say they are able to discover even in the grand children of their countrymen who have lived any time beyond the Rhine. Charlotte had retained her skill in the language by the habit of which she thus speaks to Monsieur Eger. And so, her journey back to Haworth after the rare pleasure of this visit to her friend was pleasantly beguiled by conversation with the French general. The gentleman, as she arrived at home, refreshed and happy. What to find there? It was ten o'clock when she reached the parsonage. Branwell was there, unexpectedly, very ill. He had come home a day or two before, apparently for a holiday. In reality I imagine because some discovery had been made which rendered his absence imperatively desirable. The day of Charlotte's return he had received a letter from Mr. Blank, sternly dismissing him, intimating that his proceedings were discovered, characterizing them as bad beyond expression and charging him on painted exposure to break off immediately and forever all communication with every member of the family. Whatever may have been the nature and depth of Branwell's sins, whatever may have been his temptation, whatever his guilt, there is no doubt of the suffering which his conduct entailed upon his poor father and his innocent sisters. The hopes and plans they had cherished long and labored hard to fulfill were cruelly frustrated. Henceforward their days were embittered and the natural rest of their nights destroyed by his paroxysms of remorse. Let us read of the misery caused to his poor sisters in Charlotte's own affecting words. We have had sad work with Branwell. He thought of nothing but stunning or drowning his agony of mind. No one in this house could have rest, and at last we have been obliged to send him from home for a week with someone to look after him. He has written to me this morning expressing some sense of contrition, but as long as he remains at home I scarce dare hope for peace in the house. We must all, I fear, prepare for a season of distress and disquietude. When I left you I was strongly impressed with the feeling that I was going back to sorrow. August 1845 Things here at home are much as usual, not very bright as it regards Branwell, though his health and consequently his temper have been somewhat better this last day or two, because he is now forced to abstain. August 18th, 1845 The late blow to his prospects and feelings has quite made him reckless. It is only absolute want of means that acts as any check to him. One ought indeed to hope to the very last, and I tried to do so, but occasionally hope, in his case, seems so fallacious. November 4th, 1845 I hoped to be able to ask you to come to Haworth. It almost seemed as if Branwell had a chance of getting employment, and I waited to know the result of his efforts in order to say, dear, blank, come and see us. But the place, a secretarieship to a railway committee, is given to another person. Branwell still remains at home, and while he is here you shall not come. I am more confirmed in that resolution the more I see of him. I wish I could say one word to you in his favour, but I cannot. I will hold my tongue. We are all obliged to you for your kind suggestion about Leeds, but I think our school schemes are for the present at rest. December 31st, 1845 You say well, in speaking of blank, that no sufferings are so awful as those brought on by dissipation. Alas! I see the truth of this observation daily proved. Blank and blank must have as weary and burdened some a life of it in waiting upon their unhappy brother. It seems grievous indeed that those who have not sinned should suffer so largely. In fact, all their latter days blighted with the presence of cruel, shameful suffering, the premature deaths of two at least of the sisters, all the great possibilities of their earthly lives snapped short may be dated from Midsummer, 1845. For the last three years of Branwell's life he took opium habitually by way of stunning conscience. He drank moreover whenever he could get the opportunity. The reader may say that I have mentioned his tendency to intemperance long before it is true, but it did not become habitual as far as I can learn until after he was dismissed from his tutorship. He took opium because it made him forget, for a time, more effectually than drink, and besides it was more portable. In procuring it he showed all the cunning of the opium eater. He would steal out while the family were at church, to which he had professed himself too ill to go, and managed to cajole the village-druggist out of a lump, or it might be the carrier had unsuspiciously brought him some in a package from a distance. For some time before his death he had attacks of delirium tremens of the most frightful character. He slept in his father's room and he would sometimes declare that either he or his father should be dead before the morning. The trembling sisters sick with fright would implore their father not to expose himself to this danger, but Mr. Bronte is no timid man, and perhaps he felt that he could possibly influence his son to some self-restraint more by showing trust in him than by showing fear. The sisters often listened for the report of a pistol in the dead of the night, till watchful eye and hearkening ear grew heavy and dull with the perpetual strain upon their nerves. In the morning's young Bronte would saunter out, saying with a drunkard's incontinence of speech, The poor old man and I have had a terrible night of it. He does his best, the poor old man, but it's all over with me. End of Section 19 Volume 1, Section 20 of the Life of Charlotte 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 Bruce Peary The Life of Charlotte Bronte By Elizabeth Clegghorn Gaskell Volume 1, Section 20 Chapter 14 In the course of this sad autumn of 1845 a new interest came up, faint indeed and often lost sight of in the vivid pain and constant pressure of anxiety respecting their brother. In the biographical notice of her sisters, which Charlotte prefixed to the addition of Wuthering Heights and Agnes Gray published in 1850, a piece of writing unique, as far as I know, in its pathos and its power, she says, One day in the autumn of 1845 I accidentally lighted on a manuscript volume of verse in my sister Emily's handwriting. Of course I was not surprised knowing that she could and did write verse. I looked it over and something more than surprise seized me, a deep conviction that these were not common effusions nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, melancholy and elevating. My sister Emily was not a person of demonstrative character, even on the recesses of whose mind and feelings even those nearest and dearest to her could with impunity intrude unlicensed. It took hours to reconcile her to the discovery I had made, and days to persuade her that such poems merited publication. Meantime my younger sister quietly produced some of her own compositions, intimating that since Emily's had given me pleasure I might like to look at hers. I could not but be a partial judge, yet I thought that these verses too had a sweet, sincere pathos of their own. We had very early cherished the dream of one day being authors, we agreed to arrange a small selection of our poems and if possible get them printed. A verse to personal publicity we veiled our own names under those of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell, the ambiguous choice being dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at, assuming Christian names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because, without at the time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called feminine, we had a vague impression that authorises are liable to be looked on with prejudice. We noticed how critics sometimes used for their chastisement the weapon of personality and for their reward a flattery which is not true praise. The bringing out of our little book was hard work, as was to be expected neither we nor our poems were at all wanted, but for this we had been prepared at the outset, though inexperienced ourselves we had read the experience of others. The great puzzle lay in the difficulty of getting answers of any kind from the publishers to whom we applied. Being greatly harassed by this obstacle I ventured to apply to the Messers' chambers of Edinburgh for a word of advice. They may have forgotten the circumstance, but I have not. For from them I received a brief and business-like but civil and sensible reply, on which we acted, and at last made away. I inquired from Mr. Robert Chambers and found, as Miss Bronte conjectured, that he had entirely forgotten the application which had been made to him and his brother for advice, nor had they any copy or memorandum of the correspondence. There is an intelligent man living in Haworth who has given me some interesting particulars relating to the sisters about this period. He says, I have known Miss Bronte as Miss Bronte a long time. Indeed, ever since they came to Haworth in 1819. But I had not much acquaintance with the family till about 1843 when I began to do a little in the stationery line. Nothing of that kind could be had nearer than Keithley before I began. They used to buy a great deal of writing paper and I used to wonder whatever they did with so much. I sometimes thought they contributed to the magazines. When I was out of stock I was always afraid of their coming, they seemed so distressed about it if I had none. I have walked to Halifax a distance of ten miles, many a time, for half a ream of paper, for fear of being without it when they came. I could not buy more at a time for a want of capital. I was always short of that. I did so like them to come when I had anything for them, they were so much different to anybody else, so gentle and kind and so very quiet. They never talked much. Charlotte would sometimes sit and inquire about our circumstances so kindly and feelingly. Though I am a poor working man which I have never felt to be any degradation, I could talk with her with the greatest freedom. I always felt quite at home with her. Though I never had any school education, I never felt the want of it in her company. The publishers to whom she finally made a successful application for the production of Kerr, Ellis and Acton Bell's poems were Messrs. Alott and Jones, Potter Noster Rowe. Mr. Alott has kindly placed the letters which she wrote to them on the subject at my disposal. The first is dated January 28, 1846, and in it she inquires if they will publish one volume octavo of poems, if not at their own risk, on the author's account. It is signed C. Bronte. They must have replied pretty speedily for on January 31 she writes again. Gentlemen, since you agree to undertake the publication of the work respecting which I applied to you, I should wish now to know as soon as possible the cost of paper and printing. I will then send the necessary remittance together with the manuscript. I should like it to be printed in one octavo volume of the same quality of paper and size of type as Moxon's last edition of Wordsworth. The poems will occupy, I should think, from 200 to 250 pages. They are not the production of a clergyman, nor are they exclusively of a religious character, but I presume these circumstances will be immaterial. It will perhaps be necessary that you should see the manuscript in order to calculate accurately the expense of publication, in that case I will send it immediately. I should like, however, previously to have some idea of the probable cost, and if, from what I have said, you can make a rough calculation on the subject, I should be greatly obliged to you. In her next letter, February 6, she says, You will perceive that the poems are the work of three persons, relatives, their separate pieces are distinguished by their respective signatures. She writes again on February 15 and on the 16th she says, I only stipulate for clear type, not too small, and good paper. On February 21 she selects the long primer type for the poems and will remit thirty-one pounds, ten shillings, in a few days. Minute as the details conveyed in these notes are, they are not trivial because they afford such strong indications of character. If the volume was to be published at their own risk, it was necessary that the sister conducting the negotiation should make herself acquainted with the different kinds of type and the different sizes of books. Accordingly she bought a small volume from which to learn all she could on the subject of preparation for the press. No half-knowledge, no trusting to other people for decisions which she could make for herself. And yet a generous and full confidence not misplaced in the thorough probity of Messrs. Eilat and Jones. The caution in ascertaining the risk before embarking in the enterprise and the prompt payment of the money required even before it could be said to have assumed the shape of a debt were both parts of a self-reliant and independent character. Self-contained also was she. During the whole time that the volume of poems was in the course of preparation and publication, no word was written telling anyone out of the household circle what was in progress. I have had some of the letters placed in my hands which she addressed to her old school mistress, Miss W. They begin a little before this time. Acting on the conviction which I have all along entertained that where Charlotte brought his own words could be used no other is out to take their place, I shall make extracts from this series according to their dates. January 30th, 1846 My dear Miss W. I have not yet paid my visit too blank. It is indeed more than a year since I was there, but I frequently hear from E. And she did not fail to tell me that you were gone into Worcestershire. She was unable, however, to give me your exact address. Had I known it I should have written to you long since. I thought you would wonder how we were getting on when you heard of the railway panic, and you may be sure that I am very glad to be able to answer your kind inquiries by the assurance that our small capital is as yet undiminished. The York and Midland is, as you say, a very good line. Yet I confess to you I should wish for my own part to be wise in time. I cannot think that even the very best lines will continue for many years at their present premiums, and I have been most anxious for us to sell our shares ere to be too late, and to secure the proceeds in some safer, if, for the present, less profitable investment. I cannot, however, persuade my sisters to regard the affair precisely from my point of view, and I feel as if I would rather run the risk of loss than hurt Emily's feelings by acting in direct opposition to her opinion. She managed in a most handsome and able manner for me when I was in Brussels and prevented by distance from looking after my own interests. Therefore I will let her manage still and take the consequences. Disinterested and energetic she certainly is, and if she be not quite so tractable or open to conviction as I could wish, I must remember perfection is not the lot of humanity. And as long as we can regard those we love, and to whom we are closely allied, with profound and never shaken esteem, it is a small thing that they should vex us occasionally by what appear to us unreasonable and headstrong notions. You, my dear Miss W., know full as well as I do, the value of sisters' affection to each other. There is nothing like it in this world, I believe, when they are nearly equal in age, and similar in education, tastes, and sentiments. You ask about Branwell. He never thinks of seeking employment, and I begin to fear that he has rendered himself incapable of filling any respectable station in life. Besides, if money were at his disposal he would use it only to his own injury. The faculty of self-government is, I fear, almost destroyed in him. You ask me if I do not think that men are strange beings. I do indeed. I have often thought so. And I think too that the mode of bringing them up is strange. They are not sufficiently guarded from temptation. Girls are protected, as if they were something very frail or silly indeed. While boys are turned loose on the world, as if they, of all beings in existence, were the wisest and least liable to be led astray. I am glad you like Broomsgrove, though I dare say there are few places that you would not like, with Mrs. M., for a companion. I always feel a peculiar satisfaction when I hear of your enjoying yourself, because it proves that there really is such a thing as retributive justice even in this world. You worked hard. You denied yourself all pleasure, almost all relaxation, in your youth and in the prime of life. Now you are free, and that, while you have still, I hope, many years of vigor and health in which you can enjoy freedom. Besides, I have another and very egotistical motive for being pleased. It seems that even a lone woman can be happy, as well as cherished wives and proud mothers. I am glad of that. I speculate much on the existence of unmarried and never-to-be-married women nowadays. And I have already got to the point of considering that there is no more respectable character on this earth than an unmarried woman, who makes her own way through life quietly, perseveringly, without support of husband or brother, and who, having attained to the age of forty-five or upwards, retains in her possession a well-regulated mind, a disposition to enjoy simple pleasures, and fortitude to support inevitably pains, sympathy with the sufferings of others, and willingness to relieve want as far as her means extend. During the time that the negotiation with Messer's allot and company was going on, Charlotte went to visit her old school friend, with whom she was in such habits of confidential intimacy. But neither then nor afterwards did she ever speak to her of the publication of the poems. Nevertheless this young lady suspected that the sisters wrote for magazines, and in this idea she was confirmed when on one of her visits to Haworth she saw Anne with the number of chambers journal, and a gentle smile of pleasure stealing over her placid face as she read. But as the matter asked the friend, why do you smile? Only because I see they have inserted one of my poems, was the quiet reply, and not a word more was said on the subject. To this friend Charlotte addressed the following letters. March 3, 1846 I reached home a little after two o'clock, all safe and right yesterday. I found Papa very well, his sight much the same. Emily and Anne were going to Keithley to meet me. Unfortunately I had returned by the old road while they were gone by the new, and we missed each other. They did not get home till half past four, and we were caught in the heavy shower of rain which fell in the afternoon. I am sorry to say Anne has taken a little cold in consequence, but I hope she will soon be well. Papa was much cheered by my report of Mr. C's opinion, and of old Mrs. E's experience, but I could perceive he caught gladly at the idea of deferring the operation a few months longer. I went into the room where Branwell was to speak to him about an hour after I got home. It was very forced work to address him. I might have spared myself the trouble as he took no notice and made no reply. He was stupefied. My fears were not in vain. I hear that he got a sovereign, while I have been away, under pretense of paying a pressing debt. He went immediately and changed it at a public house, and has employed it as was to be expected. Blank concluded her account by saying he was a hopeless being. It is too true. In his present state it is scarcely possible to stay in the room where he is. What the future has in store, I do not know. March 31st, 1846 Our poor old servant Tabby had a sort of fit a fortnight since, but is nearly recovered now. Martha, the girl they had to assist poor old Tabby, and who remains still the faithful servant at the parsonage, is ill with a swelling in her knee and obliged to go home. I fear it will be long before she is in working condition again. I received the number of the record you sent. I read Dobine's letter. It is clever, and in what he says about Catholicism very good. The evangelical alliance part is not very practicable, yet certainly it is more in accordance with the spirit of the Gospel to preach unity among Christians than to inculcate mutual intolerance and hatred. I am very glad that I went to Blank when I did, for the changed weather has somewhat changed my health and strength since. How do you get on? I long for mild south and west winds. I am thankful Papa continues pretty well, though often made very miserable by Branwell's wretched conduct. There there is no change but for the worse. Meanwhile the printing of the volume of poems was quietly proceeding. After some consultation and deliberation the sisters had determined to correct the proofs themselves. Up to March 28th the publishers had addressed their correspondent as C. Bronte Esquire. But at this time some little mistake occurred and she desired Messrs. Elant and company in future to direct to her real address, Miss Bronte, etc. She had, however, evidently left it to be implied that she was not acting on her own behalf but as agent for the real authors. Since in a note dated April 6th she makes a proposal on behalf of C. E. and A. Bell, which is to the following effect that they are preparing for the press a work of fiction consisting of three distinct and unconnected tales which may be published either together as a work of three volumes of the ordinary novel size or separately as single volumes as may be deemed most advisable. She states in addition that it is not their intention to publish these tales on their own account but that the author's director to ask Messrs. Elant and company whether they should be disposed to undertake the work after having, of course, by due inspection of the manuscript, ascertained that its contents are such as to warrant an expectation of success. To this letter of inquiry the publishers replied speedily and the tenor of their answer may be gathered from Charlottes dated April 11th. I beg to thank you in the name of C. E. and A. Bell for your obliging offer of advice. I will avail myself of it to request information on two or three points. It is evident that unknown authors have great difficulties to contend with before they can succeed in bringing their works before the public. Can you give me any hint as to the way in which these difficulties are best met? For instance, in the present case where a work of fiction is in question, in what form would a publisher be most likely to accept the manuscript? Whether offered as a work of three volumes or as tales which might be published in numbers or as contributions to a periodical? What publishers would be most likely to receive favorably a proposal of this nature? Would it suffice to write to a publisher on the subject or would it be necessary to have recourse to a personal interview? Your opinion and advice on these three points or on any other which your experience may suggest as important would be esteemed by us as a favor. It is evident from the whole tenor of this correspondence that the truthfulness and probity of the firm of publishers with whom she had to deal in this her first literary venture were strongly impressed upon her mind and was followed by the inevitable consequence of reliance on their suggestions. And the progress of the poems was not unreasonably lengthy or long drawn out. On April 20th she writes to desire that three copies may be sent to her and that Messer's allot will advise her as to the reviewers to whom copies ought to be sent. I give the next letter as illustrating the ideas of these girls as to what periodical reviews or notices led public opinion. The poems to be neatly done up in cloth have the goodness to send copies and advertisements as early as possible to each of the under mentioned periodicals. Colburn's New Monthly Magazine Bentley's Magazine Hood's Magazine Gerald's Shulling Magazine Blackwood's Magazine The Edinburgh Review Tate's Edinburgh Magazine The Dublin University Magazine Also to the Daily News and to the Britannia Papers. If there are any other periodicals to which you have been in the habit of sending copies of works, let them be supplied also with copies. I think those I have mentioned will suffice for advertising. In compliance with this latter request, Messer's allot suggested that copies and advertisements of the work should be sent to the Athenium, literary Gazette, Critic, and Times, but in her reply Miss Bronte says that she thinks the periodicals she first mentioned will be sufficient for advertising in at present. As the authors do not wish to lay out a larger sum than two pounds in advertising, esteeming the success of a work dependent more on the notice it receives from periodicals than on the quantity of advertisements. In case of any notice of the poems appearing whether favourably or otherwise, Messer's allot and company are requested to send her the name and number of those periodicals in which such notices appear. As otherwise, since she has not the opportunity of seeing periodicals regularly, she may miss reading the Critique. Should the poems be remarked upon favourably, it is my intention to appropriate a further sum for advertisements. If, on the other hand, they should pass unnoticed or be condemned, I consider it would be quite useless to advertise as there is nothing either in the title of the work or the names of the authors to attract attention from a single individual. I suppose the little volume of poems was published some time about the end of May 1846. It stole into life. Some weeks passed over without the mighty murmuring public discovering that three more voices were uttering their speech. And meanwhile the course of existence moved drearily along from day to day with the anxious sisters who must have forgotten their sense of authorship in the vital care gnawing at their hearts. On June 17th, Charlotte writes, Branwell declares that he neither can nor will do anything for himself. Good situations have been offered him, for which by a fortnight's work he might have qualified himself, but he will do nothing except drink and make us all wretched. In the Athenium of July 4th under the head of Poetry for the Million came a short review of the poems of C, E, and A Bell. The reviewer assigns to Ellis the highest rank of the three brothers, as he supposes them to be. He calls Ellis a fine, quaint spirit and speaks of an evident power of wing that may reach heights not here attempted. Again, with some degree of penetration, the reviewer says that the poems of Ellis convey an impression of originality beyond what his contributions to these volumes embody. Currer is placed midway between Ellis and Acton, but there is little in the review to strain out at this distance of time as worth preserving. Still, we can fancy with what interest it was read at Hallworth Parsonage and how the sisters would endeavour to find out reasons for opinions or hints for the future guidance of their talents. I call particular attention to the following letter of Charlotte's dated July 10th, 1846. To whom it was written matters not, but the wholesome sense of duty in it. The sense of the supremacy of that duty which God, in placing us in families, has laid out for us seems to deserve a special regard in these days. I see you are in a dilemma and one of a peculiar and difficult nature. Two paths lie before you. You conscientiously wish to choose the right one, even though it be the most steep, straight and rugged. But you do not know which is the right one. You cannot decide whether duty and religion command you to go out into the cold and friendless world and there to earn your living by governess drudgery, or whether they enjoin your continued stay with your aged mother, neglecting for the present every prospect of independency for yourself and putting up with daily inconvenience, sometimes even with privations. I can well imagine that it is next to impossible for you to decide for yourself in this matter, so I will decide it for you. At least I will tell you what is my earnest conviction on the subject. I will show you candidly how the question strikes me. The right path is that which necessitates the greatest sacrifice of self-interest, which implies the greatest good to others. And this path steadily followed will lead, I believe, in time to prosperity and to happiness, though it may seem at the outset to tend in quite a contrary direction. Your mother is both old and infirm. Old and infirm people have but few sources of happiness, fewer almost than the comparatively young and healthy can conceive. To deprive them of one of these is cruel. If your mother is more composed when you are with her, stay with her. If she would be unhappy in case you left her, stay with her. It will not, apparently, as far as short-sighted humanity can see, be for your advantage to remain at blank, nor will you be praised and admired for remaining at home to comfort your mother, yet probably your own conscience will approve. And if it does, stay with her. I recommend you to do what I am trying to do myself. The remainder of this letter is only interesting to the reader as it conveys a peremptory disclaimer of the report that the writer was engaged to be married to her father's curate, the very same gentleman to whom eight years afterwards she was united, and who, probably even now, although she was unconscious of the fact, had begun his service to her in the same tender and faithful spirit as that in which Jacob served for Rachel. Others may have noticed this, though she did not. A few more notes remain of her correspondence on behalf of the Messers Bell with Mr. Eilat. On July 15 she says, I suppose as you have not written no other notices have yet appeared, nor has the demand for the work increased. Will you favour me with a line stating whether any or how many copies have yet been sold? But few, I fear, for three days later she wrote the following. The Messers Bell desire me to thank you for your suggestion respecting the advertisements. They agree with you that, since the season is unfavourable, advertising had better be deferred. They are obliged to you for the information respecting the number of copies sold. On July 23 she writes to the Messers Eilat, The Messers Bell would be obliged to you to post the enclosed note in London. It is an answer to the letter you forwarded, which contained an application for their autographs from a person who professed to have read and admired their poems. I think I before intimated that the Messers Bell are desirous for the present of remaining unknown, for which reason they prefer having the note posted in London to sending it direct in order to avoid giving any clue to residence or identity by postmark, etc. Once more in September she writes, As the work has received no further notice from any periodical I presume the demand for it has not greatly increased. In the biographical notice of her sisters she thus speaks of the failure of the modest hopes vested in this publication. The book was printed, it is scarcely known, and all of it that merits to be known are the poems of Alice Bell. The fixed conviction I held and hold of the worth of these poems has not indeed received the confirmation of much favourable criticism, but I must retain it notwithstanding.